nucifera

You dropped your phone on the table as soon as you heard a female voice shouting from the other side of the wall. Ear pressed against the door, taking a breath so as not to make a sound and holding back the little gasps that the words you were hearing were making you let out.

‘’Of course I’m breaking up with you’’, she was kind of yelling at him. You could hear him moaning and asking ’’why’’ ‘’but why’’, over and over again and you wished you had a peephole that could see through walls. You’d never been so nosy before, especially not about your neighbor Jungkook’s relationship.

You felt bad for him, not because you were close to each other, but just because a few weeks ago he might have heard the same thing from you and Minju. Out of nowhere, you started to feel your heart beating faster, maybe because you empathized with Jungkook, or maybe because you hadn’t come to terms with your breakup yet.

‘’I’m just sick of our relationship’’. Your heart stopped completely, you remembered that those were the exact words Minju had said to you, and you stopped listening for your own good.

You were taking a shower when all you could hear from your neighbor’s apartment was silence, you understood exactly how he felt. Would it seem weird if you went over to say hello? or to ask if he needed anything? 

‘’Yeah, it would be weird’’ you said, trying to stop your intrusive thoughts.

As you stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel, and wrapped it around your body to dry off, you began to hear murmurs, as if he were talking on the phone with someone. You tried not to make a big deal out of it but you heard him turn down an offer, and you wished you hadn’t moved into that apartment, because, just as you could hear him, you knew that everyone else could hear you the same way.

Then you grabbed your phone to pause the song that was playing, and an Instagram notification set off your alarm bells, you quickly texted your friend.

‘’Hello?’’ That was all you said. You set your phone down on your bathroom counter while you got comfortable, turned on the speaker, and started your routine after a pleasant shower. 

At first you thought it was a joke, but when the guy on the phone explained how the reality worked, it started to sound more real.

‘’We saw your profile on model Minju’s Instagram, and we’ve been able to confirm from his posts that you two are a couple. We’d like you to be part of our show. If you guys want to.’’

You were speechless.

‘’H-hmm’’ you tried to look up the words. ‘’Yeah, look, it’s just that we’re not a couple anymore…’’. Saying that felt like a stab in the stomach, your voice came out as a whisper, and your throat felt so dry that it was as if you were swallowing thousands of tiny shards of glass.

‘’Oh, I’m sorry to hear that’’. That awkward moment of silence will be yours to keep. ‘’It’s funny because we just talked to another guy, we wanted him to be one of the participants and he just told us the exact same thing you did.’’ 

And you thought of him. Was that even possible?

''Jungk-''' You started saying his name out loud, trying to prove that maybe, and only maybe, you were wrong.

‘’Well, we can’t name names for legal reasons’’ he started talking ‘’but it seems like you two know each other’’.

Once again, he left you speechless.

Was this some kind of joke that fate was playing on you? Was it all just a kind of trance, like the ones you have right before falling asleep? In any case, were you really willing to find out what it was all about?

Short answer: no.

Long answer: ‘’Well, thank you very much for considering me, I’m very grateful to have had the opportunity to speak with you.’’ You said it as politely as you could, declining the offer just as Jungkook had done. ‘’It looks like a really interesting reality tv show, but I'm not in a relationship right now.’’

After hanging up the phone and going straight to your room, you lay down on the bed, mentally exhausted from the whole day. 

Was it really curiosity that killed the cat? You didn't really care when you started looking at the instagram stories from that account.

“Fuck this shit” was what you said after locking your phone and leaving it to charge on the nightstand next to your bed. 

You thought about Minju, had they talked to him? would he have even answered the phone? You couldn’t help but remember how little he cared about his phone and all the times it took him hours to reply to you. 

Your soul was filled with a somber feeling.

You tried to close your eyes and imagine different scenarios where you were still together, you wanted to be with him again, no matter what, even if it meant losing yourself completely. 

And then you thought about Jungkook again, you thought about him, about the very similar situation that had just happened to him, about your friends, your family, and about yourself. You felt lost and wanted to find yourself again.

‘’Why am I thinking about my neighbor?’’ You snorted. ‘’Damn, I’m going crazy’’

And just like that, you fell asleep.

The next morning, you didn’t wake up to birds singing, or soothing music in the background, white noise or even the sound of your alarm. You woke up to the sound of your door being pounded on hard.

BANG! BANG! BANG! 

You looked at your phone screen with your eyes half-closed. Saturday. 10 am. 20 messages. 4 missed calls.

‘’What the fuck is going on?’’ and you heard three loud knocks again. When you opened the door, you saw his eyes blazing with fury, filled with rage. ‘’Jungkook?’’

‘’Was that planned?’’ He asked you directly. He was looking all around, holding his phone in his hand, squeezing it tightly. ‘’Can you answer me?’’ He must have seen something in your face, some kind of expression that made him change his tone. ‘’Please, [Y/N]?’’

‘’I don’t know what you're talking about, I’m so sorry’’. That’s when he held his phone up to your face, showing you the reason behind all your notifications. ‘’No. Fucking. Way.’’

tag list. @rkive994 @bunniiboow @realtalkdiva @lovingkoalaface @timelesslycuriousdeceiver

Jungkook was performing his second concert at that club in downtown Seoul, surrounded by girls his age and a few friends who were there. It wasn't the first time all night that your eyes had met his. 

Silver microphone, matching your earrings. 

Your face looked familiar to him, but he couldn’t figure out where he’d seen you before, were you here last night? the truth is, he didn’t really care, because as the words flowed to the beat of the track playing in the background, one of his most famous songs, your glossy lips moved in perfect sync. That felt so out of place.

When the song ended, Jungkook took a sip of a drink, some kind of mixed cocktail his friends had made for him, that he had left on the DJ’s table.

You watched his every move, and Jungkook liked that. You were mesmerized by his aura and he knew the power he could have over girls.

When the concert ended he decided to stay there, and so did you. He watched you dance with every sip he took from his glass, his third of the night. 

You danced with a friend, sometimes by yourself, and other times you turned down guys you could have easily gone off with just by saying a couple of words. Jungkook laughed at all of them.

He wondered what you would smell like, how soft your skin would be, and what it would be like to grab you by the hair to put you in your place.

Your hips were moving to the beat of the music, and it’s possible that Jungkook’s friends pointed out to him how distant he was that night. What he liked most about you was that, even though you knew he was watching you, you acted as if he didn't exist, the way you were playing innocent was turning him on. He wanted to mess with that attitude of yours.

Jungkook was feeling a little lonely from the VIP, so he told his friends to bring some girls over—especially you.

‘’Yeah, that one.’’ He whispered into his friend's ear, both looking at you.

In a matter of seconds, you found yourself right next to the guy you’d come to see perform, but you kept acting as if nothing had happened, taking selfies here and there.

‘’So’’ he said so he could talk to you ‘’no thanks?’’ You flicked your hair with a slight turn of your head, you knew exactly what you were doing, and you loved this little game.

Tight dress, perfect hair, expensive perfume, everything went exactly as you’d planned. Your skin glowed, not just because the lights brought out its radiance, but also because of the coconut-scented oil all over your body.

‘’Thank you…’’ you said, hoping for the answer you wanted. Your gaze fixed on his, it seemed like a contest.

‘’Jungkook.’’ And there it was—exactly what you were expecting.

‘’Mhmm’’ you sissed ‘’that's a pretty name.’’ You had it exactly where you wanted it.

‘’And how about you tell me your pretty name?’’ He took another sip of his drink, without hesitating for a second, even though you had your own, you snatched it out of his hand and took a sip. 

‘’[Y/N]’’ you said in a whisper, a bit like a hissing snake. The music was so loud, and the leather couch you were sitting on was sticking to your thighs, but you didn’t care.

‘’What I was thinking.’’ You raised your eyebrow, giving him a chance to keep talking. ‘’It's a really pretty name to moan.’’

‘’First, you’ll have to earn it, right?’’ Jungkook wasn’t the first rapper you’d run into at clubs, you knew how to play his own game.

‘’Tell me what you need or what you want and you’ll get it.’’ His lips close to your earlobe, whispering all those words, you felt a warmth spread through your whole body. ‘’I’ve seen you turn down other guys—so why not me?’’

He had hit the nail on the head, but he didn't know it.

‘’Maybe…’’ you said, approaching the very spot where he had been just seconds ago ‘’and just maybe, cause I want to moan and scream that pretty name of yours.’’

You figure those were the words of affirmation Jungkook needed to get you out of that seedy bar where he'd performed and take you to his car. His hand on your wrist, guiding you out of there

‘’Wait.’’ you said in the middle of the crowd ‘’I love this song.’’ You didn’t even know what song it was, you just knew the beat was perfect for taking it to where you wanted it to go.

You approached his body like a black mamba, your eyes dark with the lust of the moment, it felt like stalking defenseless prey.

You danced around him, pressing your hips against his, he tried to keep up with you but got lost in your movements as he ran his hands all over your body. 

‘’Is this what you wanted?’’ you asked, close to his lips.

‘’I had something else in mind.’’ He said as you moved to the beat of the music.

‘’I’ve already told you, Jungkook, that you have to earn it.’’ You said almost in a whisper.

‘‘You talk too much’’ he said as he turned you around, ass pressed against his crotch.

‘’Or you don't talk enough.‘’ You looked back, meeting his eyes, and your hand moved toward his cheek, resting on it. Your ass kept moving back and forth over his crotch, for a few seconds, you could feel something inside him getting bigger.

‘’Cut it out with that attitude of yours if you don’t want me to fuck you.’’ He whispered and you laughed.

‘’That’s exactly what I want Jungkook.’’ A couple of songs later, you could tell that something inside him was on the edge of breaking. He couldn’t take it anymore. ‘‘Yeah, let’s go, this place is boring’’ eyes fixed on him.

That’s when he grabbed your wrist tightly, not like he did before, and dragged you out of that club. It could have been -4 degrees outside, and you wouldn’t have even noticed. 

You could feel your pussy throbbing and he was surely feeling it too when he set you down on his car door and slid his tattooed hand down to your pussy.

His hands were all over your body and his lips on both sides of your neck, planting kisses all over your skin, even as he was trying to find his car keys. 

‘’I-is your studio nearby?’’ you asked, moaning in his ear. He groaned in despair.

‘’So now you want to know where I record?’’ he said mockingly.

‘’Just—’’ a moan escaped your lips when you felt his hand slipping under your dress ‘’just answer the fucking question so we can leave.’’

‘’So needy already?’’ He couldn’t go even a minute without feeling his lips on your skin, and he was the one who asked you if you were needy. ‘’Say it [Y/N], say what you want.’’ He whispered to you, cupping both your cheeks with one hand. ‘’Say you need me, say you want me to fuck you until you drop that attitude you’ve had all night, acting like I didn’t exist.’’

Damn, this game was going way too far.

‘’F-fuck’’ you had just let out a moan at his words. ‘’I want you to fuck me.’’ You confessed in a whisper, your gaze fixed on his dark eyes.

He took his car keys out of his pocket and unlocked the car.

‘’Get in.’’ He commanded. ‘’I think I deserve something first.’’ 

You got into the back seat of the car, which, even though it was parked in an alley, was somewhat visible, luckily, there was no one around. 

He didn’t hesitate for a second to push you back against the seats, with your legs draped over his shoulders, pulling off your thong as fast as he could, you moaned from the pressure of his cold tongue and the contrast it created against your cunt.

‘’Ye-yeah’’ your hands reached for his hair, gripping it tightly, your body felt relaxed for a moment, until he began to pick up the pace of his licks. He was trying to push you to the limit.

‘’Fuck Jungkook’’ moaning his name was something you had always dreamed of. ‘’Please, don’t stop’’ you begged while working on your clit with his tongue.

He poked his head out for a moment to look you straight in the eyes and smile.

‘’I hadn't planned on, baby’’ and he went back to your pussy to continue at a completely different pace. He stuck two fingers right inside you and you flinched at the sensation. ‘’Come on, I know you can take it.’’

He began to move his fingers upward while his tongue kept working on you, nothing but moans escaped you. 

‘’Right there’’ you managed to say. His pace picked up as he felt your pussy tighten around his fingers. Just as you were about to reach orgasm, he stopped.

He stepped back and looked at you victoriously. 

‘’What the fuck?’’ you screamed. Out of nowhere, he came up to you and started kissing you passionately, your tongues desiring each other. 

‘’I don't think you deserve it.’’ He said between kisses. ‘’But since I'm a good person’’ he said as he returned to the spot where he'd left you with your pussy throbbing ‘’and because I want to hear you moan, you're going to get it.’’ 

And he slid his two fingers back inside while looking you in the eyes, and after watching your eyes roll back, he pressed his tongue against your cunt again, nonstop and at a fast pace, which made reaching the climax easier than before.

Screaming his name was another thing you were dying to do, but his hand found your mouth and covered it, muffling all the moans and sounds you were making. Shiny lips with your fluids, and he licked them while he stared at you. He’d just made you cum and was looking at you with desire

‘’I have something planned for you.’’ He said as he pulled your dress down, he got out of the car and sat down in the driver's seat, starting the car to take you to his studio. ‘’You’re lucky the ride only takes 5 minutes, because otherwise you'd be touching yourself in front of me all night long.’’ 

And you cursed because it was only a 5 minute ride.

You didn’t know how it had happened so fast, but there you were in a room where many girls just like you would love to be. A mixing console with two laptops on it, a large screen, and, across from it, another small glass-enclosed room with a microphone. 

Jungkook didn’t wait a second to pull you onto that table, you wrapped your long legs around his hips to pull him closer to you so you could feel him better, passionate, quick kisses.

You were desperate to feel him, so much so that you didn’t hesitate to slide your hand down to the button on his pants, unbuttoning it as you gave him more access to your neck, letting his tongue glide over it. 

When your tongues met again, you moaned, he tasted of alcohol, just like you did.

Your hands slid down his pants, you were eager to find a Jungkook who was more submissive, even more desperate for you.

‘’Look at you, desperate for my dick.’’ His voice was choked up. He had no idea that this was as far as you wanted to go.

‘’I’d like to see what you’d do in my situation.’’ You said, trying to seduce him. You climbed down from that table, pushed him toward the chair behind it, and sat him down in it. ‘’And now you’re going to find out, Jungkook’’

You lay down, unable to tear your eyes away from his, mesmerised by those dark irises. He felt just the same as you. Jungkook was unable to control his feelings for you, he wanted to grab you by the hair, put you in your place, take control of the situation, but your presence and your aura wouldn’t let he do it.

His trousers were down, and with both your hands you caressed his muscular thighs, you licked your own lips at the mere thought of what you were going to do. Jungkook was breathing heavily, trying to fill his lungs with air, a futile effort.

You stroked his cock through his boxers, which still bore a faint trace of what had been his cum from your earlier encounter with his tongue and your pussy. You liked the feeling you’d stirred in him.

You took off his underwear, gently brushing the backs of his thighs with your hands, he drew in a breath at the touch of your fingers with his skin.

You glanced at his cock with such tenderness that you could see Jungkook shudder, you looked at him through your eyelashes, fluttering them slowly, blinking a couple of times. His cock hitting his stomach, spilling a little precum because of your actions.

‘’Fuck, just do something.’’ He whimpered, begging you in a certain way, and you couldn’t resist.

You gently took hold of his cock, and he sighed. You loved seeing him like that, and you didn’t mind that other girls had been in the same situation as you. You moved up and down with one hand, whilst with the other you stroked his thighs, working your way down to his balls. 

‘’[Y/N]’’ he groaned. You loved hearing your name come from his lips, it was like the song of the sirens, and so you picked up the pace. You couldn’t resist it, it was so captivating. 

He threw his head back and you could see Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, he was trying to stifle his moans by biting his lip.

You were in control of the situation, in fact, you’d always been in control.

When he lowered his head again and your eyes met his, you felt your pussy throb, he was challenging you with his gaze. And you didn’t think twice about licking the tip of his cock whilst you kept staring defiantly at him.

‘’F-fuck’’ he just whimpered. ‘’[Y/N]— your mouth—fuck’’

You gathered a little saliva and pooled it on your tongue, making it easier to run your tongue along his entire length, before returning to where you started. You took your time sucking his cock, you loved how salty it was, the way he shuddered, and you loved the way he moaned your name.

You took a deep breath before putting it as far back in your mouth as you could and he cleared his throat, searching for your hair with his hands to guide you.

‘’P-please’’ he said as you picked up the pace ‘’stop please, I don’t want to cum yet.’’ You pulled his cock out of your mouth with a ‘pop’ that made him let out a grunt.

He stood up in a rage and you followed him, he turned you around and pressed your body against the cold table, you could feel his lips against your skin, your shoulders, your neck, he was leaving a trail of saliva wherever he went. 

It didn’t take him long to place a hand on your back so that your stomach would rest on the table, he lifted your dress just enough to reveal your pussy, thong lost somewhere in his car.

‘’God’’ he moaned as he ran his fingers over your heat ‘’you’re soaking.’’ You whimpered at the cold sensation of his rings against your cunt.

He grinded against your ass, he played with his cock, giving your wetness a couple of slaps with it, you could hear the sloppy sounds and it made you shudder.

He pushed it inside you, a gentle thrust that made you exhale all the air from your lungs in a moan.

‘’Fuck Jeon’’ you said his stage name. That was when he realised what was going on, yes, he had seen you before, in fact, you’d been to several concerts, and at every one of them you’d been there with your beautiful eyes, your stunning figure and your immense self-confidence.

Seething with rage as a punishment, he quickened his pace, whilst his thrusts grew ever more forceful. The truth is, he’d been expecting it, you were far too beautiful to be a coincidence. 

‘’Yes—right there.’’ Hearing you moan was a real treat, and he thought of a better way to punish you for lying to him. He gave you a thrust before pulling out of you completely. You looked back, searching for his eyes, bewildered.

You could see him take out his phone and open the voice notes app, leave it on the table and give yourself another strong thrust. You groaned because of the difference in pressure.

‘’Were you that desperate to have me?’’ he asked you, whilst your pussy clenched at the bluntness of his question. Hard thrust, you could hear the background sounds of the fluids. 

He grabbed you by the hair, causing your back to arch. You couldn’t even speak, all that came out of your mouth were the moans he made you let out. 

‘’Asking for my name, when you know it perfectly’’ he groaned, his voice sounded like a sigh ‘’you had moaned about it before, alone in your room, touching that pretty pussy of yours wishing it was me’’ then you smiled triumphantly, he’d realised exactly what you were up to.

‘‘I can tell you’re getting wet just thinking about it’’ he tried to say between sighs. Those were the words that made your breathing quicken, you came all over his cock.

Shaky legs, laboured breathing, dress half-slipped down. You were exactly where you wanted to be.

‘’I want to look at you, please.’’ You managed to say ‘’I want to look into your eyes while you’re inside me.’’

‘’Fuck [Y/N]’’ You turned round slowly and took hold of his cock to gently guide it inside you. You looked at him with desire, you saw how he licked his lips, bit down on that piercing and looked down to see his cock sliding into you, he groaned at the heat of your pussy. ‘’I won't last long.’’

You started moving before he did, they were slow circular movements. You grabbed him by the back of his neck and pressed your lips against his.

At first, he began to thrust gently, but then his pace quickened again. He grabbed you by the waist, your ass was resting on the table and you had to hold on to it, your head thrown back as you moaned.

With his gaze fixed on you, he managed to whisper ‘’feel how fucking deep I am inside of you?’’ 

Your pussy tightened, the atmosphere was thick and the air in the room was hot. He pulled your dress down so he could see your boobs, taking one into his mouth and playing with your nipple with his tongue, applying a bit of pressure that made you shudder whilst he kept thrusting and with his other hand, he was tracing circles with his thumb around your waist.

‘’I’m so close—I’m so fucking close.’’ The two of you pressed your foreheads together ‘’I’m cumming!’’ he shouted as a warning. And you could feel all his cum filling you up completely.

He was trying to catch his breath, you saw him smile, he was reaching for his phone so he could stop that voice memo.

‘’I’ll use it for a song, as I can see that’s what you wanted’’ he said, licking his lips. ‘’So’’ he began to say ‘’you a groupie, huh?’’

taglist. @elodieous

"I swear the iced coffee today tastes like straight-up dish soap," Yeji groans, her face contorting in a way that makes it seem as though she just swallowed battery acid as she holds the plastic cup out towards you. "Try it. Tell me I’m not crazy."

"Yeah, no thanks, I value my digestive tract," you say, side-stepping the biohazard whilst trying to balance your heavy tote bag—which currently contains three overdue library books, an umbrella you forgot to unpack three weeks ago, and a half-eaten granola bar—on one shoulder.

Isla snorts without looking up from her phone, her thumb flying across the screen at lightspeed. "You guys are dramatic. It’s seventy-five-cent coffee from a machine that hasn't been serviced since the Fall of Rome. What did you expect? Single-origin Ethiopian beans stomped on by ethically treated alpacas?"

"I expected it to not taste like Dawn, Isla!" Yeji huffs, adjusting her cardigan as you all trudge down the drafty corridor.

"That's on you for having high expectations for a university that spends its entire budget on lawn care," Isla replies smoothly, slipping her phone into her back pocket before slumping her arm over Yeji's shoulder. "Anyway, who's coming to the bar on Friday? If I have to spend another weekend watching eight hours of home renovation shows, I’m going to actually lose my mind."

"Oooh, count me in, provided I survive this seminar without Jones deciding my draft was a personal insult to his ancestors," you say as you reach Seminar Room 304. You push the heavy oak door open, fully expecting to sail smoothly and claim your throne, but you instantly freeze dead in the doorway.

The abruptness of your stop causes a literal chain-reaction pileup behind you. Yeji slams directly into your back, and Isla stumbles into Yeji, emitting a loud oof that echoes down the hallway like cartoon brakes screeching. Behind you, the two peer over your shoulder, instantly recognising the dark cloud of impending doom hovering over the room. You feel their collective, soul-weary sighs right down the back of your neck.

"Here we go again," Yeji mutters under her breath, grabbing Isla by the strap of her bag and forcibly dragging her towards the safe, neutral ground of the middle row. "Please. I am begging you. Don't start a scene before 9:00 AM. I haven't had any real caffeine yet."

You don't hear them; you can't. It's like static in your mind as your eyes zero in on your seat. Well, focused more on the being currently occupying it.

Jeon Jungkook.

The bane of your academic existence, the perpetual thorn in your side, the human equivalent of a pebble wedged permanently into your shoe. Ever since day one of orientation week, many moons ago—when he had the audacity to counter your very first point on Cartesian Doubt with a lazy smile and an airtight counter-argument—your life has been an escalating, bloodthirsty cold war for dominance. He exists solely to frustrate you: infuriatingly quick-witted, insufferably smug, and entirely dedicated to turning every seminar, every lecture, every presentation, and every debate into your own personal fencing match.

Now, the seat. Calling it just a "seat" is an insult to human engineering. It is a sacred sanctuary, discovered after a full morning of systematically testing every single chair and compiling a mental spreadsheet ranking back support, cushion density, proximity to power outlets, and table wobble. And this chair, this one chair, is the undisputed crown jewel of Room 304. It’s in the third row from the front, by the window—the only chair in the entire room whose foam cushion hasn't been completely flattened into concrete by generations of stressed undergrads. It sits at a precise forty-five-degree angle from the window, catching optimal natural light that doesn't cause screen glare, whilst maintaining a favourable distance from the podium so Professor Jones' morning voice doesn't make you go completely deaf. It is ergonomically superior, emotionally comforting, and above all else, yours.

And he’s sitting in it like he owns the damn thing.

Jungkook is leaning back, his long legs stretched ridiculously far out under the desk, casually taking a bite of a crisp red apple. The second your eyes lock onto his, an entirely deliberate smirk spreads across his face. He chews with painful slowness, just to make sure you digest the full weight of his audacity.

You march down the aisle, stomping up to the desk, and slam your heavy tote onto the wood with a thud loud enough to startle a guy two rows behind.

"Move," you say.

Jungkook swallows his bite of apple, tilting his head back to look up at you with an expression of mild confusion. "Good morning to you too. Lovely weather we're having, isn't it?"

"Jungkook, I’m not doing this today. Get your ass out of my seat."

"Your seat?" He dramatically leans over the armrest, craning his neck to inspect the underside of the desk. "That's weird. Doesn’t seem to have your name on it. Did you write it in invisible ink, or is it engraved on a cellular level?"

"I’ve sat here every single Tuesday since September. You literally always sit right next to the door so you can sprint out the second the clock hits ten."

"Well, I must have had a sudden spiritual awakening," he says smoothly, resting his elbow on the desk and propping his chin in his hand, looking up at you through his eyelashes. "I decided I like the natural lighting over here. It really brings out my eyes, don't you think? You shouldn't hoard it all. Bad for your karma."

"It's bad for my patience, is what it is," you snap, stepping closer into his space and crossing your arms. "You don’t even like sunlight. You wear hoodies in mid-July."

"People change," he chirps, taking another loud, crunching bite of his apple. "Are you going to keep standing there looming over me, or are you going to sit down?"

"I will physically tip this chair over with you in it."

"I'd love to see you try, sweetie—"

Before you can grab him by the collar of his denim jacket and test that theory, the door slams open. Professor Jones sweeps into the room: a tornado of tweed and unread essays, dropping a thick, terrifying stack of handouts onto the front podium with a loud thump.

"Alright, quiet down, everyone! Phones away, open your readings to page fourteen!" Jones barks, not even bothering to look up.

Jungkook gives you a mock-sympathetic little pout, his eyes dripping with fake pity as he raises his hand and makes a subtle, tiny shoo motion with his fingers. Gritting your teeth so hard you practically feel your molars creak, you’re forced to accept defeat in this battle. You haul your bag across the room and sink into the only empty chair left now, tucked right into the dead-zone corner next to the rusted cast-iron radiator.

The second you hit the wooden seat, the radiator awakens like some ancient spirit. It emits a loud, rhythmic CLACK-CLACK-CLACK-HISS, sending a violent blast of dry, boiling heat bursting directly into the right side of your face. Within thirty seconds, the metal pipe is singing, whistling, and radiating enough thermal energy to melt solder, turning your tiny corner of the room into a personal sauna.

You wipe a microscopic bead of sweat from your forehead, feeling your hair instantly begin to frizz, and glare straight across the room.

Through the gap between five students' heads, Jungkook catches your eye. He rests his chin on his palm, tilts his head, and silently mouths: Hydrate, you're gonna sweat.

You hold his gaze with unblinking, murderous intensity. Without breaking eye contact, you slowly raise your left hand, pretending to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear while subtly flipping him a very precise, very emphatic middle finger.

Jungkook’s lips twitch, his eyes sparkling with triumph as he takes another slow bite of his apple.

The library is relatively quiet for a Wednesday afternoon, save for the hum of the fans and the distant, collective despair of students. You're sitting three rows down from Jungkook's self-proclaimed "focus zone" in the back of the library, nursing a far superior vantage point.

You’ve spent the last twenty minutes watching him. More specifically, watching his ridiculously expensive fountain pens. He treats those pens like they’re his newborn children, or artefacts that belong in the Louvre. He polishes the caps on his sleeve; he aligns them perfectly parallel to his notebook; he caps them with intense reverence that makes you want to roll your eyes into the back of your skull. It’s embarrassing.

But when Jungkook stands up, stretching his arms over his head and tosses his phone onto the table with a quiet, "Watch my stuff, I’m grabbing a book," you strike.

You should be taking the moral high ground. You should be revising your notes like a mature, functional adult who cares about her degree. But as you watch him disappear into the dark maze of the library, leaving those ridiculous, absurdly overpriced fountain pens completely unguarded, you think to yourself: You can't let this golden opportunity go.

The second he disappears into the stacks, you casually stroll past his table. Lucky for you, his bodyguards are compromised. Namjoon is so deep in a 600-page book on political philosophy that he has pretty much dissociated from reality, and Taehyung is fast asleep with his cheek pressed so hard against a binder that he's practically becoming one with it.

In one swift, practised motion, you glide past their table, swipe all three fountain pens off the smooth wood, and retreat back to your desk. Within four seconds flat, you twist your hair up into a bun and stick one of his precious pens straight through the centre to lock it in place. The other two drop safely into the abyss of your bag.

Five minutes later, Jungkook returns.

He sits down, plugs in his laptop charger, and reaches out to grab a pen.

His hand hits bare wood.

He stops. He looks down. He frowns.

Then, the frantic shuffling begins. He lifts his notebook. He checks under his laptop. He picks up his pencil case and shakes it like they're going to magically materialise out of thin air.

"What on earth are you doing?" Taehyung groans, waking up with a red crease down the side of his face. "You're shaking the whole table, man."

"My pens," Jungkook mutters, his voice rising as he flips through his entire backpack. "They're gone. Tae, where are my pens?"

Namjoon doesn't even lift his head from his book, flipping a page with excruciating slowness, trying to savour each and every word. "You probably dropped them. Check the floor."

"I didn't drop them!" Jungkook snaps under his breath, practically dropping to his knees and crawling under the table like a madman. His hands sweep across the industrial carpet. "I put them right here! I always put them right here!"

He pops back up, breathing through his nose, scanning the study area like a damn detective. His eyes sweep across the rows of desks—and freeze directly on you.

You are, at this exact moment, the absolute picture of a diligent, saintly student. Highlighters capped and aligned, cheek resting elegantly on your hand, frowning down at your reading as if you're single-handedly solving world hunger through epistemology.

Jungkook narrows his eyes. He pushes off his desk and starts walking over, his heavy footsteps practically burning holes into the carpet. He stops right in front of your desk, shadow falling completely over your open textbook as he leans down into your personal space.

"Where are they?" he whispers sharply.

You slowly look up, blinking with pure, unbothered innocence. You even take a second to tilt your head in quiet concern. "Where are what, Jungkook? Your manners? Because, honestly, you should really stop invading my space; it's getting weird."

"My pens," he says, leaning closer, his dark eyes searching your face for the slightest crack in your mask. "I know you took them. Don't play dumb with me."

"I have literally no idea what you're talking about," you say sweetly, resting your cheek back in your hand. "Did you lose them? Maybe you left them in the Seminar Room yesterday. You were pretty distracted being an absolute pain in my ass."

Jungkook opens his mouth to fire back—and then his eyes track upward.

Right to the top of your head.

Sticking prominently out of your bun, holding its entire structural integrity together, is a sleek, unmistakable pen with a shiny silver clip.

Jungkook stares at it. He blinks once. Twice. The sight takes his breath away. He slowly raises a finger and points right at your scalp. "It's literally in your hair," he says, his voice taking on an accusatory pitch. "You stole my pens and turned them into... hair accessories? What kind of monster are you?"

You don't even flinch. You simply reach up, gently patting the left side of your head—nowhere near the pen—and look him dead in the eye. "I don't know what to tell you, Jungkook. It's just a hair stick."

"It's a fountain pen. My pen.."

"It's a modern, minimalist hair stick," you correct him smoothly, turning a page of your textbook with a crisp snap. "It's trendy. You wouldn't get it."

"It has a metal clip on it!"

"A clip for extra grip," you say flatly. "It's perfect."

Jungkook begins flailing his arms in tiny, muffled gestures of pure frustration, his voice rising into a frantic whisper. "It literally says Kaweco on the side!"

"Wow, what a coincidence." You pick up a yellow highlighter and tap it rhythmically against your notebook. "Now, if you don't mind, some of us actually came here to study. Unless you have any physical evidence that I stole your precious little toys?"

"Physical evidence?!" Jungkook splutters, throwing his hands up. "It’s literally staring me in the face! It is protruding from your skull like an antenna right now!"

You look back at his angry, flushed face and blink with confusion. "I don't know what you mean. Sounds like a hallucination. Are you sleep-deprived? Have you been drinking the canteen coffee again?"

Jungkook lets out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head as he hovers over your desk, his eyes sparkling with a look that promises warfare. "You are going to pay for this," he whispers.

"Whatever you say," you smile, not looking up.

The following morning, revenge arrives in the form of an automated system notification sent straight to your university email at 8:02 AM.

You sit down at a sticky wooden table in the student union café, feeling a deeply satisfying sense of smug accomplishment. You’re nursing a hazelnut latte that you managed to snag a coupon for at the beginning of the year, and thoroughly enjoying the mental image of Jungkook desperately hunting through his room for Kaweco pens—which are currently hidden at the absolute bottom of your sock drawer under a layer of tights.

"I'm telling you, if we don't start drafting the outline today, we’re fucked," Yeji sighs, violently shaking a packet of sugar into her mug until the paper tears and sprays granules across the table. "Hey, did the updated groups drop yet? Check the student portal."

"Oh god, please tell me they didn't change," you beg, pulling out your phone and taking a victorious sip of your coffee. "I’ve had Gable since September. He’s an actual saint. The guy lets us bring tea and cookies class, and I'm pretty sure his criterion for essays is just vibes."

"He really is an angel," Isla agrees through a mouthful of blueberry muffin. "He gave me an A-minus on an essay last year where I quoted a Whitney Houston song in the footnotes."

"Exactly," you smile, tapping open the portal app. "He's the best thing that’s ever happened to my GPA."

You hit refresh. The screen flickers with a soft white flash. You glance at it. You blink.

The bold text listed under Assigned Academic Supervisor & Discussion Group Leader does not say Dr Arthur Gable.

It reads: Dr Clarke Moore.

The coffee in your mouth instantly turns to ash.

Moore. The legendary dragon of the department. A man who looks at undergrads with the deep, abiding disappointment of a father who just found out his child dropped out of high school to pursue mime artistry. He is the human equivalent of a papercut soaked in lemon juice, a professor whose grading rubric ranges from Disgraceful to Barely Acceptable, who views student tears as a vital dietary nutrient, and who routinely assigns sixty pages of original German texts over long weekends just to test your will to live. Transferring into his group isn't an academic reassignment; it is a fast-track passport to a purgatory of crimson red ink, broken dreams, and ruined sleep schedules.

"WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!" you roar.

You slam both palms onto the laminate table so hard that Yeji’s mug jumps two inches to the left, splashing coffee over her sleeve. A nearby table of hungover students flinches in unison, staring at you in horror.

"Jesus Christ on a bicycle!" Yeji gasps, clutching her chest as more sugar from the packet she’s holding spills everywhere. "What happened?! Did the university go bankrupt? Did they revoke our loans? Why are you looking at your phone like it just threatened your bloodline?!"

"Did they cancel the Friday night drink specials?!" Isla asks, dropping her muffin and clutching her heart with genuine panic.

"No," you wheeze, your chest heaving with murderous, incandescent rage as your thumb frantically taps the screen to open the transfer audit history. "Worse. So much worse. Look at this. Look at what some ungodly creature has done to my life."

Yeji leans over the table, squinting through the steam of her coffee. "Professor Moore? Wait... why on earth would you voluntarily swap out of Gable's cosy group for The Guillotine? Are you performing some kind of twisted academic self-flagellation? Oh my god, are you moonlighting as a masochist?"

"I didn't!" you snarl, still scrolling your phone to get to the bottom of this. Your eyes fly to the automated admin audit log stamped at the bottom of the portal page in tiny, cold grey font:

System Audit Log: Discussion Group Transfer Request submitted via Student Self-Service Portal. Location: Humanities Library — Terminal 4 Timestamp: Wednesday, 16:15 PM

Wednesday. 16:15 PM.

Humanities Library.

Directly across from your study table.

The exact ten-minute window when you stepped away to use the printer--actually, it was more like twenty because the library’s prehistoric printer demanded a manual feed, decided to take five minutes per page just to think about its life choices, before giving you warm blank sheets like a pathetic participation trophy, swallowing your last two printing credits.

The blood in your veins instantly turns hot. The audacity. He didn't just counter-attack with a childish prank; he committed actual administrative fraud. He used your unsecured portal session to forge an official tutor transfer request, signing you over to the most brutal professor in the entire building.

"That miserable, conniving, low-life, demonic son of a..." you mutter, your voice dropping into a register that makes Isla slowly pull her muffin away from you.

"Who?" Isla asks, looking back and forth between you and the screen in total bewilderment. "Who forged your portal? Is this an IT glitch?"

You don't answer. You can't. Because at this exact, cosmic second, the heavy glass doors of the student union swing open.

In walks Jeon Jungkook, naturally.

He looks infuriatingly, outrageously handsome in an oversized grey sweater, matching sweats, a half-empty backpack slung lazily over one broad shoulder, holding an iced latte in his hand. He’s chatting with Namjoon, laughing at something, looking entirely unbothered. He looks like he just stepped out of a university recruitment brochure. And you hate it.

You stand up so fast that your chair screeches against the floor, tipping backwards and hitting the ground with a deafening CRASH. Across the crowded, sunlit café, as if feeling the blistering heat of your gaze slicing through the room, Jungkook slowly turns his head.

His eyes lock onto yours.

Yeji and Isla look from your white-knuckled fists over to Jungkook, the sudden silence at your table stretching so thin you could slice it with a butter knife.

"Oh God," Yeji whispers, placing her head directly in her hands. "Not again."

You glare across the room at him with enough concentrated hatred to reanimate an entire graveyard, your jaw clenched so tight your teeth ache, silently mouthing through the air: You are going to burn in hell for this.

Jungkook doesn't laugh. He doesn't pull a childish face. He doesn't panic or look away.

Instead, he stops dead in his tracks. He takes a slow, deliberate sip of his iced coffee through the straw, his eyes never leaving yours. Then, slowly, the right corner of his mouth twitches upward, curling into the subtlest, smallest, most maddeningly smug micro-smile in human history.

He gives you a single, barely perceptible nod of acknowledgement—a silent checkmate—turns back to Namjoon, and casually strolls away, leaving you standing in the middle of the café with an overturned chair, a ruined timetable, and a war that has officially gone nuclear.

Friday morning in Professor Wilde's auditorium is less like an academic lecture and more like a public execution.

The atmosphere in the room is suffocatingly tense as students clutch their notes like holy relics and silently re-evaluate every decision that led them to this moment. Today is the individual presentation day for your jurisprudence class—forty per cent of the grade, delivered directly to a woman who marks down points for improper posture. She would be a great match for Moore.

And naturally, you’ve spent the entire ten minutes before class waiting, waiting to orchestrate a masterpiece of sabotage.

You watch from your desk as Jungkook prepares his materials at the side of the room. True to his insufferable nature, he hasn’t just brought notes; he has crafted a stack of precisely twenty pastel-blue index cards, bound by a neat metal ring, typed in 10-point Times New Roman, and colour-coded just for the fun of it.

When Professor Wilde turns her back to fiddle with the projector screen, and Jungkook steps over a few aisles to answer a question from another terrified classmate, you strike again.

You slip out of your chair, sneak past his desk, and sweep the cards off his table, dropping them straight into your jacket pocket. You retreat so fast and so smooth that Yeji beside you doesn't even notice—until you pat your heavy, bulging pocket and offer her a triumphant wink. Which she returns with confusion.

"Alright," Wilde's dry voice cuts through the room. "First up. Mr Jeon. The floor is yours."

Jungkook turns around, smooths down his tee and steps towards his desk to grab his cards.

He stops. He looks at the clear surface. He checks under his notebook. He checks his back pocket.

Beside you, Yeji looks at your pocket, then at Jungkook, and lets out a tiny, high-pitched squeak of terror. "Tell me you didn't," she whispers, ducking behind her notebook.

You just smile innocently into your lap.

Jungkook takes a slow, deep breath through his nose. A tiny, dangerous muscle twitches in his jaw.

He knows. He knows instantly.

For two seconds, you wait in silence. You think he’s going to call you out in front of Wilde. For a moment, you almost rethink your actions. Instead, Jungkook’s expression hardens into focus. He pulls his hands out of his pockets, turns toward the front of the room, and steps up to the podium completely empty-handed.

"Whenever you're ready, Mr Jeon," The Professor says, pen hovering over her marking sheet.

Slowly, his eyes scan the room, skipping past twenty nervous faces until they lock onto you with absolute, razor-sharp certainty.

Jungkook doesn't look at the screen. He doesn't look at Wilde. He doesn't look at the floor. They don't move.

"John Austin’s Command Theory of Law posits that legal systems are fundamentally nothing more than commands issued by a sovereign, backed by the threat of sanction," Jungkook begins. His voice is smooth, deep, and commanding, carrying effortlessly to the back corners of the room. "A framework that essentially reduces the rule of law to the order of a gunman situation writ large."

He begins to speak. And he doesn't stop. What follows is not a clumsy, stumbling attempt to remember notes. It is a display of nothing but academic brilliance. He quotes passages verbatim. He breaks down three complex counter-arguments off the top of his head. He navigates dense theoretical concepts with the casual grace of a master pianist playing a piece he’s known since childhood.

"However, where Austin's legal positivist stance fails is in assuming that compliance is driven purely by fear of penalty," Jungkook continues. "Hart correctly counter-argues that a functioning legal order requires an internal point of view. An acceptance of primary and secondary rules. Take, for instance, a scenario where an opposing actor attempts to subvert the rules through illicit, unauthorised interference—what Hart might describe as operating recklessly within the penumbra of doubt."

A few students in the front row audibly gasp, leaning forward in their seats.

"Is he... is he reciting entirely off the top of his head?" Isla whispers frantically from two desks over, her jaw practically resting on her wooden table.

And the entire time, he does not break eye contact with you. Not once.

Jungkook doesn't pause. He talks like he’s reading off a teleprompter written on your forehead.

It is utterly terrifying, and in a way (which you swear you will never admit aloud) hypnotic. But despite his smooth cadence, his eyes bleed nothing but promises of absolute retribution. Every emphasised point feels like a personal threat. Every sharp intellectual conclusion is thrown directly into your face like a challenge.

By minute six of his speech, the room is dead silent. Nobody is breathing. Tae has his phone out, secretly filming from behind his pencil case with his mouth hanging wide open. Namjoon is nodding slowly, captivated.

And then there's Professor Wilde. A woman who you're pretty sure hasn't smiled since 1998 has completely stopped writing. She's lowered her pen, pushed her glasses up her nose, leaning forward on both elbows, staring at Jungkook with something bordering on actual respect.

Meanwhile, you are sitting in your chair, slowly incinerating from the inside out.

The stolen index cards in your pocket feel like twenty bricks of pure shame. Your teeth are grinding together so hard your jaw aches. You didn't strip him of his leverage—you gave him a goddamn stage to pull off the most legendary, disgustingly impressive academic flex in the history of the department.

"And so," Jungkook concludes, "we find that attempting a bad-faith challenge against established legal authority, without evaluating the raw capability of your opponent, is not just a tactical error. It is a pathetic, unenforceable failure."

Silence hangs in the air for three excruciating seconds. Then, Professor Wilde slowly begins to clap.

"Incredible," she says, her voice carrying genuine awe. "Twenty-two years I have taught Jurisprudence, Mr Jeon, and that was—without hyperbole—the most masterly, articulate deconstruction I have ever witnessed. No notes. No stumbles. Absolutely stellar work. Grade A."

A wave of hushed, excited whispers bursts out across the room.

"Unbelievable," Yeji mutters, staring at him. "He's actually not human."

Jungkook bows his head slightly towards Wilde. "Thank you, Professor."

Then, he turns to walk back to his seat.

As he passes your desk, the cold intensity vanishes instantly. Instead, a victorious smile crosses his face, eyes sparkling in amusement. He brushes his hair back with one hand but doesn't say a word. His expression, however, spells out: Nice try, sweetheart.

You sit frozen, your hands clenching into fists under the desk, your blood boiling so hot you feel like you're about to spontaneously combust right there on the spot.

You are so unbelievably pissed off.

You glare at the back of his neck as he sits down, silently swearing on your life, your degree, and your ancestors that you will make Jeon Jungkook suffer if it is the last thing you ever do.

The campus café queue moves at a crawl, but your victory makes the wait feel glorious. The mid-term grades dropped around twenty minutes ago, and you beat Jeon Jungkook by a glorious, beautiful, magnificent, life-affirming two whole points.

Now you are standing in the queue, practically glowing. When you reach the front with a skip in your step, you look the exhausted student barista directly in the eyes with the saintly smile of a conqueror.

"Hello, what a lovely day it is today! Could I please get a triple-shot iced oat milk latte, decaf?" you say, reciting the order from memory. "Oh, and one pump of vanilla, but light ice, and could you make sure the shots are pulled over the ice, so it doesn't curdle the milk, thanks."

The barista blinks, her marker hovering over a plastic cup. "Got it. Name?"

"Jeon Jungkook, Defeated by Two Per cent."

"Wait... the whole thing? Or...?" she asks, frowning.

"Just write it down, please. It's a matter of academic integrity."

Five minutes later, Jungkook strolls into the building, looking like a high-fashion advert in his oversized dark coat, clearly in need of his afternoon fix. You're leaning against the pickup counter, casually sipping your tea, which you got as a buy-one-get-one-free deal, as the barista clears her throat and yells.

"Triple-shot iced oat latte for a… Jeon Jungkook, Defeated by Two Per cent?"

The ambient chatter of around forty students dies down slightly. A few people you recognise from your department turn around, snickering. Jungkook freezes mid-step near the napkin station. His jaw tightens, a muscle in his cheek twitching before his gaze fixes onto yours across the room.

You raise your cup in a silent, glowing toast.

With slow steps, as if the guy is being dragged to his demise, Jungkook walks up to the counter and grabs the cup, keeping his eyes on you. "You are deeply, like unhinged-level petty," he mutters, stepping so close into your space that you pick up on the cool scent of autumn air clinging to his jacket.

"I'm a winner," you correct smoothly, walking side-by-side with him out into the courtyard. "How does second place taste, Jeon? Rich? Creamy? A little nutty?"

Jungkook takes a long, aggressive sip. He pauses. His eyebrows knit together, and he pulls the cup away to glare at the pale brown liquid. "Why is this sweet? And why doesn't it taste like espresso?"

"Oh my days," you gasp, putting a hand over your heart in mock horror. "Did I forget to mention? I had them swap the triple shot for decaf."

Jungkook stops dead on the cobblestone path. He stares at the cup in his hand as if it contains active radiation, then looks up at you. "My Metaphysics presentation is in twenty minutes. It is three hours long, and you gave me decaf?!"

"Consider it a lesson in procedural justice," you beam, stepping past him. "Enjoy your nap, 2 per cent."

Jungkook stops dead, staring at the cup in horror before looking back at you, promising swift, merciless retribution. "You are an actual monster."

"I am going to destroy you," he claims, his voice low, raspy, and dangerously quiet behind you. "I'm going to make you rue the day you ever learned how to read."

"Give them back, Jeon."

You’ve backed him into the narrow, dimly lit alcove behind the library archives—a quiet corner hidden between two towering walls of dusty nineteenth-century legal journals.

Jungkook leans his back casually against the bookshelf, tucking his hands into his pockets. He looks down at you, his dark hair falling messily across his forehead.

"Give what back?" he asks smoothly, tilting his head. "My pens? Because I’m pretty sure those are currently taken hostage by you."

"My cards," you hiss, stepping closer until your shoe practically touches his sneaker. "I know you have them. Hand them over."

"Why?" Jungkook chuckles, a low, rumbling sound in his chest. "Planning on eating them to absorb the theory through osmosis? Besides, you took mine; I'm only returning the favour."

"I took them because you're an asshole, and then you committed administrative fraud, signing me up for Professor Moore's execution squad!"

"And I signed you up for Moore because you stole my Kawecos!" he counters, leaning down so his face is suddenly inches from yours, his eyes flashing with sharp, dangerous amusement. "You started this war, sweetheart."

"And I will end it," you snap, poking a sharp finger directly into the centre of his chest.

Jungkook doesn't flinch. Instead, he catches your wrist in one quick, effortless motion, holding your hand flat against his chest. You can feel the solid, steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath his sweater.

"Is that a promise?" he whispers softly.

The quip you had on your tongue dies instantly in your throat.

Neither of you moves. The pettiness evaporates, leaving a heavy silence in its place. The hum of the library fades into background noise.

You look up at him. His eyes drop from yours, trailing down to your mouth before flickering back up, darker now, the smugness vanishing into something thick and molten. He steps forward, his chest brushing yours.

The heat radiating off him is thick. Your breath hitches, your pulse spiking in betrayal against your ribs as the sudden urge to grab his collar and pull him down pulls at your chest.

It’s the exact same look he gave you seven months ago.

It’s almost the end of finals, the weekend before the end of the year, and the entire Philosophy department is operating on seventy-two straight hours of sleep deprivation, cold cans of energy drinks, and spite.

Your brain feels like complete mush by the end of it, but to celebrate the almost-survival of the brutal exams, someone in the year above has organised an off-campus house party in some drafty, Victorian rental ten streets away from campus. The air smells of cheap tequila, stale beer, and collective academic burnout.

You’re leaning against the peeling floral wallpaper of the cramped upstairs hallway, nursing a red plastic cup filled with four fingers of spirits that taste like actual industrial cleaner.

Then, he appears.

Jungkook stumbles out of the overcrowded bathroom, his hair ruffled, strands glued to his forehead from the humidity, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows to reveal his thick forearms, one painted in dark ink, looking just as wrecked and drained as you feel. He stops when he spots you, blinking his heavy eyelids.

"Ah, look who showed up," he mutters, leaning his shoulder against the wall opposite you. "I thought you dropped out halfway through the week."

"In your dreams, Jeon," you slur softly, your voice raspy from exhaustion. "I answered every single prompt. You looked like you were about to faint onto your desk."

"I wasn't fainting," he scoffs, stepping closer, his voice low and heavy with fatigue. "I was contemplating the futility of our degree."

"You were panicking."

"I don't panic."

"You do." You take a step toward him, pointing a shaky finger at his face. "Your jaw twitches when you get stressed. It’s twitching right now."

Jungkook lets out a soft, breathy laugh, taking a step directly into your space. He’s standing close. Too close. So close that you can practically smell the alcohol on his breath, mixed with the earthy scent of his cologne.

"Someone's been spending too much time gazing at my jaw; want a closer look?" he whispers, his eyes darkening as he tilts his head down.

"Please, you wish; I spend time evaluating my target," you counter, but the sentence lacks all its usual venom.

Jungkook notices the slight slur in your voice. "Evaluating your target, huh?" he echoes softly, taking another half-step forward until his chest is practically brushing against yours, trapping you against the peeling wallpaper. "And what's the evaluation? Am I passing?"

Jungkook stares down at you, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.

"You're failing," you lie, but your breath catches in your throat as his gaze drops down to your lips. "Abysmally."

"That's funny," he whispers, leaning down until his lips brush the shell of your ear, his warm breath sending a violent shudder straight down your spine. "Because I don’t see you stepping away."

"God, I hate you," you breathe. You look straight up into his heavy-lidded eyes, plastic cup slipping from your fingers and hitting the floor with a dull thud as your hands shoot out to grab the collar of his thin sweater, fingers twisting tightly into the thick cotton.

What comes next, you blame entirely on the toxic waste currently sloshing around in your system: the three back-to-back tequila shots Yeji forcefully poured down your throat the second you walked through the front door, the mysterious red cup Isla handed you straight out of a questionable punch bowl sitting in the corner of the kitchen, and the sketchy homemade brownies where you can feel the THC starting to kick in, turning your brain into warm, sluggish cotton, making your limbs feel like lead.

The second the words leave you, you pull him down and crash your mouth onto his.

It isn't gentle. It isn't sweet. It is a messy, desperate, explosive collision of years of built-up frustration, endless library glares, and raw attraction.

Jungkook lets out a surprised gasp against your lips, but all hesitation evaporates instantly. With a low groan, one arm wraps around your waist, hauling you completely off your feet and slamming your back against the wall; the scratchiness of the wallpaper grazes your shoulders, but you don't even notice it.

You kiss him with reckless desperation, taking complete control as you force his mouth open to tangle your tongue with his, tasting nothing but sharp citrus and heat. He kisses you back like he’s trying to strip you apart—relentless, heavy, and possessive. You bite his lower lip, tasting the sharp alcohol on his tongue, and he reacts by sliding his knee directly between your thighs. The firm pressure sends a white-hot shockwave straight down your spine.

His hands slide up your back, long fingers knotting deeply into your hair to tilt your head back to deepen the angle. He groans into your mouth, his body now pressing flush against yours, trapping you firmly between him and the wall. Every touch is electric. Every shift of his hips against yours sends more sparks straight to your core.

"You're out of your mind," Jungkook mutters against your lips, his voice wrecked and completely lacking its usual composure.

His bare palm then sneaks beneath the hem of your shirt, warm and slightly rough with callouses against the sensitive skin of your waist. You arch into his touch with a quiet gasp, your fingers dragging across his chest to grip his shoulders, pulling him impossibly closer until you can't tell where you end and he begins. Jungkook lets out a ragged hum at the movement, his mouth abandoning your bruised lips to trace a line of open-mouthed kisses down the side of your jaw. The kisses are soft yet deliberate, almost searching. They're devoting excruciating attention to every inch of exposed skin until his lips graze that precise spot right beneath your jawline. An involuntary whine slips from the back of your throat, which you immediately bite your lip hard to muffle. Jungkook pauses for a second, and you feel the victorious smirk against your skin.

"Found it," he murmurs against your flesh before latching back onto that exact spot, kissing it harder, nipping with just enough pressure to make your head tilt back for better access. Your knees going completely weak under his weight.

He continues to nip at your pulse point—just hard enough to force a sharp, helpless gasp hitch from your throat—before laving his tongue over the sting, making your entire body go completely rigid with a wave of pleasure.

"Jungkook—" you breathe out, the sound weak. It's embarrassing.

"What?" he rasps against your neck, his hot, heavy breath fanning over your skin. "C’mon, use your words for me," he mutters.

But you can’t. Your mind—usually so quick, so precise, always armed with a sharp rebuttal or an airtight counterargument—has completely short-circuited. Everything disappears, and all you can feel is him.

One of your hands shifts, fingers finding the hair at the nape of his neck before tugging hard, just hard enough to keep from sinking straight to the floor as another wave washes down your spine. You open your mouth to try again, desperate to summon even a fraction of your usual composure, but all that escapes is a trembling, helpless gasp that fans over his cheek. Your knees almost buckle, completely useless, saved only by the heavy line of his thigh between yours to lock you in place.

He feels the exact moment your last defence crumbles. He feels the way your chest heaves against his, the way your grip in his hair turns frantic, and a hum of satisfaction vibrates deep in his chest.

Slowly, he drags his lips up the sensitive column of your throat, stopping just beneath the turn of your jawline. He doesn't pull away—he stays impossibly close, pressing warm kisses. His hand tightens around your waist, fingers tracing hypnotic circles which leave goosebumps in their path along your skin, hauling you so flush against his chest that there isn't a single inch of space left between you.

"Where'd you go, hm?" he rumbles. His eyes gleam in the dim hall, watching the heavy-lidded daze in your eyes and the way your lips part, completely unable to form a coherent response. "Usually got an answer for everything."

He lifts his head slightly, teeth now lightly grazing the soft skin right behind your ear, his warm breath fanning across your temple before his voice drops into a low whisper.

"Going dumb for me, baby?"

His words hit you, sending liquid heat straight down to your core, and you can’t help the whimper that escapes your throat before you can catch it, letting him hear just how ruined you are. His other hand remains buried deep in the back of your hair, keeping you held exactly where he wants you as his knee pushes higher, firmer between your thighs. Every shift of his weight sends a wave of friction straight across your core, forcing your thighs to clamp around his leg in between them.

Your hands then move to scramble over his back, clutching tightly at the heavy cotton, dragging the fabric up so your fingers can press directly into the hot muscle of his lower back. He shudders against you, a groan vibrating against your skin.

His eyes are now completely pitch-black in the dim, yellowish haze of the flickering overhead light, pupils blown so wide there is barely any dark brown left. He looks utterly undone—ruined, stripped of all that unbearable academic arrogance that usually drives you up the wall.

"Tell me to stop," Jungkook mutters directly against your lips as his thumb hooks under the waistband of your jeans. "Tell me right now, sweetheart," he breathes, the words slurred and heavy against your mouth as he refuses to break the kiss, "because if you don't…"

He doesn't finish the threat. He doesn't need to. Instead, he just deepens the kiss, his teeth grazing your lower lip with urgency as his chest heaves against yours.

You answer him by reaching your hands up to frame his jaw with both hands, and drag him even closer into the filthy blur of it all.

Jungkook snaps. He lets out an almost frantic noise against your mouth, a helpless groan of total surrender.

He reaches down, his fingers giving the flesh of your upper thigh a firm squeeze before he hooks your leg up, hitching it tightly around his hip. The sudden shift in position presses his now-evident bulge flush against your core through the thick denim of his jeans, and the friction sends more sparks down your spine.

Then, the sudden, heavy roll of his hips against yours knocks the remaining breath straight out of your lungs. A gasp hitches in your throat as he does it again: slow, deliberate, and firm, grinding his weight against your core with a precision that makes your eyes roll back into yesterday.

The thickness of him pressing against you creates an unbearable friction. Every movement of his hips sends shockwave after shockwave. You can feel the slick heat building between your thighs, the embarrassing wetness soaking through your panties with every brutal roll of his hips, even more so as you move your own hips to match him. Your fingers dig frantically into the broad expanse of his shoulders, clinging to him like a lifeline as your hips continue to instinctively tilt up to meet his, desperate for more.

He feels the shift in your rhythm, feels the slick, undeniable evidence of how he’s affecting you through your clothes, and it drives him completely insane. A filthy groan tears from his throat and the grip of his hand on your upper thigh turns brutal, long fingers bruising into your skin to lock you flush against him, leaving zero space for escape.

"That's it," he rasps into your skin, his pace picking up into a steady, relentless roll that has you whimpering out loud. "Look at you... completely undone for me."

The movement is hypnotic. He drags his hips back just an inch before rolling forward again, pressing deeper into your warmth, making your toes curl inside your shoes as a tight, unbearable coil begins to twist tightly in your stomach. Your head falls back against the cool wall behind you, exposing the long, flushed line of your neck, and Jungkook immediately leans down to take full advantage—his mouth latching onto your pulse point, biting down softly before laving his tongue over the sting.

"Jungkook, please—" you sob out, the word torn from you in a broken, breathy plea.

"Please what?" he rumbles, as he hooks your leg higher, rolling his hips into you with a sharp, heavy snap that makes your entire body go rigid. "Tell me what you want. Use your words."

But you can't form a sentence. You can only tilt your head into his touch, your body arching helplessly off the wall, completely surrendered to the rhythm of his body against yours.

He backs you up so hard against the wall that a framed picture further down rattles loudly against its nail. His bare palm slips further up beneath your shirt, fingers sprawling flat across your ribcage as one of your hands traces restless circles around his back. Your other hand moves upward, tangling deeply into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. You tug firmly at the roots, and the movement draws a low, shuddering moan from deep in his chest, vibrating directly into your mouth.

Your head spins, utterly consumed by the alcohol, the THC, months of crushing academic stress, and pure desire.

His fingers finally move down to reach the button of your jeans, nudging the metal tab. His fingers pop the metal button with ease, but when his knuckles slide down to the zipper, his pace slows to an excruciating crawl. The metal teeth rasp against each other, grain by grain, as he pulls the tab down millimetre by millimetre, letting his warm knuckles graze the bare skin of your lower stomach with every fraction of an inch.

God, just get on with it, your mind screams, every single nerve ending in your body coiled so tight you’re five seconds away from a full physical shutdown. His deliberate restraint is no longer sweet—it is torture. He is unzipping your jeans with the pace of a museum curator handling a three-thousand-year-old scroll, and you are about to lose your entire mind. You don't need him to peer-review your denim. You don't want his slow perfection, nor do you need a three-stage evaluation before he makes a move. You want his hands on you. You want him fast, you want him now. You want the unbearable, throbbing ache between your thighs addressed today, preferably before you die of old age right here against the wall.

You let out a breath against his jaw, your fingers knotting tighter in his dark hair, tugging his head back just enough to silently demand he hurry the fuck up.

Jungkook’s lips twitch against your throat, fully aware of the quiet havoc he's wreaking, and he finally yields to your frustration. He pulls the zipper down the rest of the way, and without missing a beat, his hand slips beneath the undone denim, his fingers glide against the lace edge of your panties, feeling the fabric between his fingers before he sneaks past them, under the lace to meet the dampness.

You can feel the heat radiating off his digits as they make way straight for the slick, feverish wetness waiting for him. You can feel his long fingers about to press firmly against your hypersensitive core—

CREAK.

The sound of a heavy, unsteady boot stepping onto the top creaky stair shatters the hazy bubble.

"Bro... ugh... where the fuck is the bathroom?"

A slurred, loudly intrusive voice echoes down the narrow corridor. A thoroughly wasted student stumbles out from the stairwell, blinking blearily through the gloom whilst clutching a red plastic cup.

Jungkook freezes instantly. His mouth halts against yours, his entire body going rigid.

Before the guy can even process the two shapes pressed together in the shadows, you panic, shoving wildly against Jungkook's broad chest. Surprised by the sudden force, he stumbles back two full steps, his hands instinctively dropping from your waist and pants.

"Hey," the drunk guy mutters, swaying slightly as he points a lazy finger toward the end of the hall. "Is someone in there? I'm gonna throw up."

"Second door on the left," Jungkook snaps, his voice remarkably sharp despite the fact that he is breathing like he just ran a five-mile sprint, his hair completely dishevelled and his lower lip swollen and red.

"Thanks, man... appreciate it..." the guy mutters, stumbling past the two of you, completely oblivious to the radioactive levels of sexual tension vibrating in the air, and slams the bathroom door shut behind him.

Silence drops back over the hallway.

You stand there, pressed back against the peeling wallpaper, frantically tugging the hem of your shirt down, zipping up your jeans, smoothing it with trembling hands.

Across the narrow aisle, Jungkook is standing with his feet shoulder-width apart, his chest rising and falling in heavy gulps. He runs a shaky hand through his hair, pushing it off his forehead, his eyes slowly swinging back to meet yours.

The air between you is thick and loud. The memory of his hands under your shirt and his mouth hot against your neck burns on your skin like a physical mark.

You stare at each other for three endless seconds—flushed, breathless, and utterly horrified by how close you both just came to completely burning your entire dynamic to the ground.

Monday morning arrives with all the mercy of a sledgehammer to the skull.

You’re sitting in the back row of the hall, clutching an ice-cold bottle of water, trying to ignore the dull, lingering ache behind your eyes and the maddening throb of your lips from Friday night.

The heavy doors at the front of the hall swing open.

In walks Jungkook.

He looks infuriatingly put-together, his backpack slung over his broad shoulder. But as he steps into the aisle, his eyes sweep up the rising rows of seating—and lock squarely onto yours.

For three seconds, the entire room drops away.

The memory of his hands beneath your shirt, his weight pressing you against the wall, the hard ridge of his bulge against your core, and his hot fingers hovering over your core hangs suffocatingly in the air between you.

Neither of you says a word. Neither of you so much as blinks.

Slowly, carefully, Jungkook takes a sip of the coffee in his hand, his eyes never breaking yours. Then, right before he shifts his weight, he gives you a tiny, barely perceptible, solemn nod—a silent, non-verbal treaty forged in mutual, absolute panic.

This never happened.

We bury this.

We take this to our graves.

He breaks the eye contact, casually walks up the stairs, and slides into his usual seat. He leans back, stretches his long legs under the desk, and turns to glance back at you over his shoulder—flashing that familiar, infuriatingly smug smirk as if nothing had ever happened.

"Co-captains."

The man doesn't even bother looking up from his heavy oak desk. His fountain pen, which no doubt costs more money than you make in a week, scratches against a stack of administrative appeals, the scent of bitter black coffee and aged paper hanging thick in the stuffy office air.

"What?!" The word explodes out of both your mouths in perfectly synchronised outrage. You snap your heads around simultaneously to glare at each other, the temperature in the small room instantly skyrocketing.

"Professor, with all due respect," you begin, your voice dangerously tight, your knuckles turning white as you grip the edge of the armrest of your chair, "Jungkook is entirely too unreliable for a leadership position. And all his arguments rely on theatrical intimidation, aggressive posture, and ninety per cent unearned arrogance!"

"And she’s a tyrannical micromanager who will turn this into a rigid, soul-crushing dictatorship," Jungkook counters smoothly, but equally as outraged, calloused palms flat on the wood of the table. "I’d rather swallow broken glass than share a podium with someone who colour-codes her index cards by philosophical eras and hyperventilates if someone uses a split infinitive."

"First of all," you snap, swinging around to face him so fast your hair whips across your shoulder, "colour-coding index cards by era reduces retrieval time during cross-examination by a full forty per cent! It is structural efficiency—something your sad pile of scribbled-on scrap paper couldn't even dream of achieving!"

You tilt your chin up, glaring straight into his dark, stupidly smug eyes.

"And split infinitives are a lazy, uncultured blight on formal rhetoric! Just because you lack the basic discipline to avoid shoving an adverb into the middle of a perfectly good verb phrase doesn't mean the rest of us should lower our standards to accommodate you!"

"It’s modern usage," Jungkook counters without breaking a sweat, leaning down until his face is infuriatingly close to yours, his voice dripping with provocative amusement. "Language evolves. Unlike your archaic, rigid little mind."

"It's not evolution, it's laziness!"

"It's emphasis, sweetheart—"

"Enough!" The man's voice cracks across the room.

The Department Head finally caps his pen with a sharp, echoing click. He pushes his wire-rimmed reading glasses down the bridge of his nose, eyeing the two of you over the frames with the deadpan gaze of a senior academic who earns far too little to deal with your perpetual, bloodthirsty rivalry.

"I did not open this door to host its own debate," he says with nothing but apathy. "You two hold the highest advanced scores in the history of this faculty. Your individual debate records are completely unblemished, and the lower years need someone to look up to. I do not care about your personal vendettas, and I certainly do not care about infinitives," he says dryly. "The society needs structure; the lower years need mentors who actually know what they're doing. You will run the workshops together. And if I hear so much as one formal grievance, one petty noise, or one whisper of sabotage from either of you, I will personally pull you both from the roster and make you clean out the archives. Now get out."

You shiver at his words, actually shiver. Then look to Jungkook, only to find him already looking at you.

Well great.

Twenty minutes later, the heavy double doors of the lecture hall swing shut, echoing throughout the room.

You are standing behind the small wooden lectern at the front, preparing for your very first development workshop. Sitting in the first ten rows are dozens of wide-eyed lower-year students, holding their pristine spiral notebooks like shields, staring up at the two of you with a mix of intimidation and curiosity.

Besides you, Jungkook leans one long arm against the edge of the desk, completely unbothered as he flips through his printed sheets. He looks irritatingly put-together—dark sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair pushed back off his forehead, shoulders wide. It doesn't take long to notice where half of the front row's attention is actually focused.

A small cluster of lower-year girls are barely even looking at the presentation slides on the screen. They're whispering behind raised notebooks, tracking the line of his jaw every time he tilts his head, nudging each other with not-so-subtle smirks whenever he steps an inch closer to adjust the microphone. One of them twirls a strand of hair around her finger, leaning forward on her desk to ensure she stays firmly in his line of sight.

A tightness coils right in the centre of your chest. It’s an annoying and rather pathetic sensation, which is swiftly followed by the petty urge to step slightly to the left to block their view entirely.

You choose to ignore why you are feeling this way. You will not elaborate further, certainly not. No one can make you.

Jungkook, completely oblivious to their subtle performance, doesn't glance their way once. Instead, he shifts his weight, turning his head towards you as his eyes soften instantly. "Ready when you are," he murmurs softly, stepping just a fraction closer to your side.

The lectern was clearly designed for a single speaker. Because neither you nor Jungkook is willing to yield an inch of physical territory or take a single step to the side, you are forced to stand pressed flush against each other, shoulder-to-shoulder. His broad frame completely dominates your left side, the heavy heat of his body radiating right through the dark knit fabric of his sweater, filling your senses with the sharp, familiar scent of his earthy cologne.

"Move your elbow," you whisper strongly out of the corner of your mouth, plastering a saintly smile onto your face for the benefit of the watching freshmen. "Your bicep is taking up roughly seventy per cent of the available space."

"I have wide shoulders, sweetheart—and considering how hard you're pressed against my side, I'm starting to think that you don't mind the lack of space at all," Jungkook mutters back under his breath. A little curve tugs at his lips as he stares straight ahead, his arm shifting deliberately to press even firmer against yours, radiating even more heat straight through his clothes.

Then with extreme slowness, his long fingers reach across the wooden ledge, casually nudging your neatly stacked, colour-coded index cards two inches into the dark shadow of the microphone base. "And stop clicking your pen. The spring is giving me a headache."

"I haven't clicked it once," you hiss through gritted teeth.

"You're thinking about clicking it. It's the intent that offends me."

You bring the heel of your worn-out leather boot down sharply, stomping directly on the toe of his pristine sneaker beneath the protective shadow of the lectern. Jungkook doesn't so much as flinch, but his right hand shoots out beneath the wooden ledge, and his fingers wrap firmly around your waist, pinching the sensitive skin at your hip through the fabric of your shirt.

Your breath hitches in your throat, a wave of sparks shooting down your spine.

"Do that again," he rasps under his breath, his dark eyes fixed on the back wall as if he's merely pondering some abstract philosophical truth, "and I will intentionally ruin our demonstration."

"Try it, Jeon," you whisper back, your fingers digging into the edge of the lectern so hard your nails turn pale. "I will dismantle your credibility before we even reach the Q&A, and I'll do it using your own scribbled notes."

"Is... everything okay up there, captains?" one of the first-year debaters asks nervously from the front row, his pen hovering uncertainly over his pad. "Should we... start the mock debate prompt?"

"Everything is wonderful, Mark," you beam smoothly, casting a sweet look toward the freshmen whilst your hand sneaks under the lectern ledge to slap Jungkook's wrist away from your hip. "Whenever you're ready."

"Whenever you're ready," Jungkook echoes softly, his voice dropping an octave, all raspy, dark, and dangerously low right against the shell of your ear as his thumb drags one last, slow, deliberate circle against your waist before finally releasing you.

One of the freshmen nervously stands up and reads a pre-prepared, somewhat shaky opening statement on act-utilitarianism and social policy, sitting back down with a relieved sigh; you remember the feeling.

However, the very second she sits down, the petty, childish sabotage between you and Jungkook vanishes in a single instant.

It is mesmerising and completely, utterly awe-inspiring to watch.

Without exchanging a single glance or a word of pre-session coordination, your dynamic shifts from low-level personal warfare into what can only be described as a hive-mind machine of pure intellect. Jungkook steps smoothly up to the central microphone, his deep, resonant voice cutting through the quiet room. He doesn't glance at a single note. He dissects the prompt's core premise with surgical precision, laying out three distinct logical fallacies and restructuring the entire debate framework in less than forty seconds flat.

He speaks with absolute authority, his posture commanding, his voice rich and steady. Then, he pauses. Not to check his outline, not because he ran out of breath, but because he knows, down to the exact millisecond, the moment you are going to strike.

"And as my co-captain so brilliantly demonstrated," you project effortlessly across the room, your voice carrying with absolute clarity, "their reliance on this completely collapses the very moment you introduce structural systemic biases, which naturally opens the door to Kant's categorical imperative.”

Jungkook cuts back in without any hesitation. He leans down into the microphone right beside your cheek, his voice layering over yours so closely you can feel the rumble of his chest vibrating directly through your shoulder.

The entire group of lower years sits completely frozen, their pens hanging mid-air, their jaws literally dropping.

You pass the floor back and forth like an intricate, light-speed duel. You anticipate his logic three steps before he speaks it aloud; he builds the exact, devastating structural setup for your punchlines before you've even flipped your index card. You finish each other's counterpoints seamlessly, weaving an airtight, impenetrable wall of rhetoric that leaves the entire room floating in a stunned, breathless reverie of total awe.

You hate him. He infuriates you to the very core of your being. But standing beside him, feeling the high of someone who can match your brain step for step, makes your blood sing with a wild heat that has nothing to do with academic instruction.

For a fraction of a second, you catch his eyes, which are burning down into yours, pupils blown wide with an adrenaline-fueled hunger that makes your stomach do a violent flip. He is just as thrilled as you are. He is just as breathless, pulse hammering against his throat where the collar of his sweater sits open.

When the timer rings, signalling the end of the demonstration block, the synchronicity vanishes as fast as it appeared. The freshmen erupt into frantic, admiring murmurs, leaning over to whisper to each other about how insane the two of you are together. Jungkook steps back immediately, gathering his scattered papers off the lectern, dropping his voice so low that only you can hear it beneath the rustle of the students taking frantic notes.

"Your transition into the Kantian framework was sloppy," he mutters, his breath warm against your temple. "You rushed the secondary premise."

"Your setup took five seconds too long," you whisper right back, leaning directly into his personal space to glare up at his smug, infuriatingly perfect stupid face. "We would have stunned them thirty seconds faster if you didn't love the sound of your own voice so much."

Jungkook leans down, his lips practically grazing the shell of your ear as he reaches past your waist to grab his pen from the ledge.

"Admit it, sweetheart," he rasps softly, his dark voice thick with a dangerous warmth that feels entirely too familiar, one that makes your knees feel entirely too soft. "You love the sound of it too."

Amidst the squabbles, the sabotages, and the relentless pettiness, there are rare, fragile hours when an unspoken truce settles over the two of you.

It usually happens around 2:00 AM in the library halls, when the rain beats a relentless rhythm against the panes and the rest of the university is asleep. The insults, the quips, all of it dissolves under the weight of mutual exhaustion. The childish pranks fade into the background, replaced by a quiet that neither of you dares to speak about.

In these hours, you don't swap his triple-shot espresso for decaf. He doesn't mock your citation formatting or scribble condescending red ink over your outlines.

Instead, when the bitter draft from the god-knows-how-old library windows seeps through your clothes and makes your shoulders hunch, Jungkook notices immediately. Without looking up from his screen or pausing his furious typing, he reaches into his backpack, pulls out his thick oveersized hoodie, and blindly tosses it directly into your lap. You don't argue or accuse him of treating you like a charity case. You just quietly slip your arms into the ridiculously long sleeves, wrapping it tight around your shoulders and burying your nose in the soft collar—breathing in the quiet, intoxicating mix of wood and earth that clings to it. You also pretend not to see the tiny curve that tugs at the corner of his lips when you pull it close.

And when his posture finally slumps from typing six thousand words on epistemology, he lets out a long, weighted sigh. Slowly, he leans sideways until his head rests heavily against the curve of your shoulder. His dark hair—unruly from the number of times he runs his fingers through it when proofreading—tickles the sensitive skin of your neck, his warm breath fanning against your collarbone in a slow rhythm as he closes his eyes for a momentary rest. You don't shove him away or make a comment about personal space. You simply tilt your head just enough to let him settle comfortably, shifting your weight to bear his load whilst continuing to type out your footnotes with one hand, your arm pressed flush and warm against his.

Or when you reach for your empty mug, your fingers grasping air as he takes it from the desk before your hand can even drop back down. He doesn't say a word when he walks down two flights of dark stairs to fetch fresh boiling water, returning to set it back on your desk alongside a fresh tea bag—the exact blend he knows you prefer—and a bar of dark chocolate, carefully snapped in two with the noticeably larger half nudged toward your keyboard. You split your remaining pastel highlighters down the middle, sharing the wooden desk in a perfectly orchestrated dance of turning pages, soft mechanical key clicks, and warmth.

There are no arrogant smirks. No dangerous, heavy-lidded glares that threaten to burn down the room. Just two stubborn people who understand the exact weight of each other’s ambition, sharing the quiet darkness of the night.

But every so often, when he thinks you're too absorbed in your notes to notice, his eyes linger on your face, a soft warmth breaking through his usual guarded expression.

So, for the unlit hours, the perpetual nuclear war cools. You exist in a fragile pocket—right up until the first pale pink rays of dawn hit the glass, the morning library rush begins, and he rubs his eyes, looks at your screen, and dryly asks if you wrote your conclusion with your eyes closed, reigniting the fire all over again.

The light above the kitchen doorway hums with a sickly flicker, casting tired shadows across the diner floor. Lucas unties his grease-stained apron, tossing it onto the counter with a heavy sigh. "That's me done," he says, checking the clock on the wall—3:45 AM. "You got the last half hour, right? Just wipe down the back tables, lock the register, and pull the blinds."

"Yeah, yeah, I've got it," you say, forcing your voice to sound steady despite the hollow ache in your lower back. "Get some sleep, Lucas."

"You too. You look like a ghost." He waves a hand over his shoulder and pushes through the back door into the cool night, leaving you alone in the silent diner.

Thirty minutes. Just thirty more minutes until you can close up and collapse.

You hate the night shifts. Nights should be fun; they should be relaxing; they should be soft and forgiving. They should belong to low laughter in warm rooms and heavy, restful sleep under thick blankets, wrapping around you after a long day. But it appears the universe is actively working against you, and the desperate need to pick up extra shifts means you don't get a choice in sacrificing the dark just to stay afloat.

The diner at this time in the morning is a lonely, neon-lit graveyard of grease and faded laminate. The air hangs thick with the burnt tang of stale coffee, old fryer oil, and diluted bleach. Overhead, the long fluorescent tubes above the pastry display hum a relentless buzz that vibrates straight into your temples, flickering every few seconds like a failing pulse. Faded red vinyl booths, cracked along the seams to expose yellowing foam, line the fogged front windows, whilst the floor bears dull, scuffed scars.

You wring out your rag over a plastic bucket, the lukewarm water turning a murky grey, before sweeping it in circles across the sticky counter.

The brassy chime cuts through the quiet as the door swings open, bringing with it a violent gust of freezing night air that smells of wet asphalt and regret. The icy draft sweeps across the floor, whipping around your bare ankles and making you shiver straight through your thin tee and damp apron.

Then come the footsteps.

Heavy, wet squeaks of rubber soles drag across the tiles as the customer moves toward the register with a slowness that feels extremely targeted, taking an eternity just to cover the ten feet between the door and the counter.

"I want the pancake special," the guy says, staring blankly at the illuminated board above your head.

"We stop serving hot items at three in the morning, sir," you explain flatly, keeping your hands clasped tightly over your damp rag. "I can get you cold sandwiches, pastries, or coffee."

He blinks slowly, digesting the information like a dial-up modem trying to load a basic web page.

"Okay, but I want the pancakes with bacon."

You take a deep, shaky breath, pressing your thumbs into the sides of your fingers. "Sir, the griddle is off for the night. The kitchen staff left. I cannot cook pancakes and bacon."

He frowns, his forehead crinkling in condescending confusion. He looks at you with pity, as if you're the uneducated idiot in this transaction.

"So... just turn it back on?" he asks, leaning over the counter and tapping a thick, dirty finger against the glass display case. "It’s a stove, isn't it? You turn the knob, flame goes on, batter goes down. And it takes like two minutes to fry an egg, right? Just give me the pancake special with extra syrup. I'm not asking for much."

"I am not authorised to use it. The staff have left. The kitchen is closed," you say, voice dropping an octave as your jaw locks tight.

"Look, sweetheart, it really isn't that complicated," he snorts, letting out a wet, raspy laugh that smells faintly of stale malt liquor. "I'm the customer. You're the worker. The sign right up there says Pancake Special. It doesn't say Pancake Special Except If the Girl Working Doesn't Feel Like Turning On The Stove. If you don't know how to make them, I can come behind the counter and show you. It's just flour and eggs."

A dull, throbbing pulse pounds behind your temples, radiating straight down into your neck.

You are a philosophy student at the top of your year. You spent four hours yesterday dissecting complex epistemological frameworks and Kantian ethics, and right now, you are being patronised by a man who looks like he would lose a battle of wits against a loaf of bread. Internally, you want to grab the heavy stainless-steel napkin holder and bash your forehead repeatedly against the edge until you pass out cold.

He points up at the glowing menu board again, puffing out his chest. "See? It's right there. Seven ninety-nine. Are you telling me you're refusing to take my money?"

"The. Kitchen. Is. Closed," you say, each word enunciated with the restraint of a saint holding back a nuclear strike. "Coffee. Or cold sandwich."

He stares at you for three excruciatingly long seconds before squinting back up at the board.

"Fine," he sighs loudly, rolling his eyes as if he's making a heroic compromise. He scoffs, grumbling about terrible customer service before buying a stale blueberry muffin, and finally stumbling back out into the night.

You drop your head, closing your eyes for five glorious seconds—until your phone vibrates violently against your thigh.

Your mother.

You step into the narrow hallway near the restrooms to take it, your heart instantly plummeting into your stomach.

"He did it again," her voice comes through the speaker—fragile, breathless, and weeping softly. "Your father took the rent money to the parlour last night. He swore he’d double it, but... the landlord gave us forty-eight hours, sweetheart. The gas is already off. Your sister is sleeping in her winter coat."

"Mom, shh. How much?" you whisper, leaning your forehead against the damp brick wall, your chest tightening so hard you can barely draw air into your lungs.

"I swear to you, this is it. This is the absolute last time I let him do this to us," she stammers, her voice rattling through the phone speaker, breathlessly. "I mean it this time. I told him right to his face when he walked back in—I said, if you dare touch that rent money— I'm leaving you. I'm packing up the kids, I'm calling my sister, I'm done. I can't keep living like this, I told him—"

"Mom."

"—and he just sat there, acting like he didn't care, but I'm serious this time! I'm not going to let him ruin us anymore. I'm going to put my foot down, I swear to God I—"

"Mom," you cut in, your voice dropping into a flat line that completely cuts her off mid-sentence.

Silence stretches over the line. You know she’s lying. She knows she’s lying. You’ve heard this exact, tearful speech fifty times before—the empty courage, the theatrical outrage that dissolves the very second your father brings home a cheap bottle of wine or a half-hearted apology. She will never leave him. She doesn't have the guts. She’d rather watch her eldest drown under the weight of two jobs and a degree than face the terrifying reality of standing on her own two feet. It’s something that still hurts, but something you accepted long ago.

"How much?" you ask again, the words scraping out of your throat. "How much does he owe?"

She stammers out a number that makes the world turn completely grey. She apologises over and over, and over, her cowardice bleeding through every single word—too afraid to leave him, too weak to stop him, constantly leaning on her oldest child to pull the family out of the fire.

"I'll transfer what I made from tonight," your voice lacks all its usual signs of life. "And I'll send the rest of my savings. Just... buy groceries for the kids, and blankets. Please."

The second the line cuts, you open your banking app with trembling hands and wipe it out on the spot, leaving yourself with less than fifty to survive the rest of the month.

When you walk back out front, the bell chimes again.

Three men in their late thirties walk in, smelling heavily of stale bourbon, wet leather, and cheap cologne, taking over the back booth. You walk towards their table carrying a heavy glass coffee pot, your back still throbbing, but now accompanied by a sting behind your eyes.

"Hey, coffee girl," the guy on the outside of the booth drawls, his heavy-lidded gaze dragging slowly down the front of your apron. "Another refill over here. And put a little pep in your step this time, would you? You're looking real sullen."

"Right away, sir," you say, your voice completely flat as you lean over to pour the dark liquid into his mug.

As you lift the pot, his fingers shoot out, brushing deliberately across the sensitive skin of your wrist. He doesn't just touch you—he lets his fingertips trail up the inside of your forearm with a slow pressure that makes your skin itch.

A wave of nausea twists your stomach. Every single instinct you have screams at you to wrench your arm away, to slam the heavy pot down and spit in his face. But your muscles lock up, paralysed in the humiliating reality of your own helplessness.

Don't react, the other half of your mind screams, a high-pitched alarm echoing in your temples. If he complains, you lose the shift. If you lose the shift, there's no money left for rent, no heat for your siblings, nothing.

So, you swallow the bile, keep your posture rigid and expression blank as his thumb presses just a fraction too hard against your pulse point. He treats your body like public property, wrapped in the disgusting comfort of knowing he can get away with it—because he knows, and you know, that you are completely trapped.

"You know," he murmurs, leaning out into the aisle until his face is uncomfortably close to your waist, "a pretty girl like you shouldn't be slaving away in a dump like this at four in the morning. What's a sweet thing doin' working nights? Could be making way better money if you hung out with us instead."

His two buddies snicker into their paper napkins, one of them blowing a cloud of sweet-smelling vape smoke directly into your face.

In a lecture hall, you would dissect his intelligence, humiliate his lineage, and reduce him to ash in under thirty seconds flat. But as your hand trembles around the handle of the pot, you force yourself to stare at the sticky vinyl table, swallowing the lump rising in your throat.

Less than fifty.

You pull your wrist back with icy restraint. "Is there anything else I can get you, or are you ready for the check?"

"Ooh, feisty," the second guy laughs. He reaches his arm across the table, his elbow sweeping a tall glass of iced water right off the edge, intentionally, of course.

It shatters against the tile floor with a loud, violent CRASH, splashing freezing water, melting ice, and sharp glass shards all over your sneakers.

"Oops," the creep smirks, leaning over the side of the booth to look down at your feet. "Clean up on aisle four, love. Better get down on your knees and get to it; don't want anyone slippin', right?"

Your breath hitches, hot tears burning behind your eyes as your knuckles turn ghostly white around the coffee pot. You can't get fired. You can't lose this job.

You repeat those words as you bend down, picking up shards of glass. One of them nicks your finger; you don’t feel it. You don’t feel anything.

The desk between you is a bloodbath of red ink.

You slide Jungkook’s draft back to him, the paper so thoroughly covered in harsh marginal notes, circled syntax errors, and giant question marks that the original black text is barely visible.

"Did you write the third paragraph in a fever dream," you ask, leaning back in your chair, arms crossed, "or does your brain just naturally bypass all logic when you write?"

Jungkook picks up his paper with two fingers, dramatic disbelief written across his face as he scans the red sea of your corrections. "What the hell? This shit could pass as modern art now.”

"You used twenty-four adjectives in one sentence and spelt ‘existentialism’ wrong. Twice!” You move back to your laptop. “I fixed it, but try using a comma next time—it won’t hurt your ego."

Jungkook doesn't look angry. No, instead, his eyes trace slow lines across your detailed critiques; he can practically hear the thoughts behind every aggressive question mark. He leans across the table, sliding his elbows over his paper until his face is only inches from yours.

"Just admit it, you spent three hours picking apart my essay," he whispers, his heavy-lidded gaze locking onto yours, "just because you like staring at my handwriting."

"I spent three hours picking it apart because it was trash," you whisper back without flinching, though your heart betrays you.

You swallow hard, fighting the sudden heat creeping up your neck as his eyes lock onto yours. You need to keep talking. If you keep talking, he won't notice how unnaturally fast you're breathing, or how the proximity is messing with you on so many levels.

"It was—it was shit, actually," you trip over the first few syllables before forcing your rhythm back. "A total train wreck. I’ve seen better analyses scribbled on the back of a wet coaster. Your entire second argument was just... it was wrong. Horrible. Flimsy, poorly researched, completely derivative—a literal disaster. I didn't even want to read it, okay? I only read it to prove how fundamentally broken your logic was. So don't flatter yourself."

Jungkook doesn't back off. If anything, he lets the quiet linger just long enough to let your breathy rant hang humiliatingly in the air between you.

You want to rip off the smirk that spreads across his face, dimpling his cheek in a way that makes you want to launch yourself off a cliff. He doesn't look insulted—the complete opposite, actually. He looks thoroughly pleased. Like you’re in some twisted world where he apparently gets off on you demeaning him.

"A literal disaster," he repeats softly, eyes tracing the trajectory of the flush now burning bright red all the way down your throat. "A total train wreck."

He tilts his head, eyes sparkling. Oh no. You know that look. That’s the ‘I win, and we both know it’ look.

"You stammered, by the way. Right around 'it was.' And your pulse is practically jumping out of your neck."

"It's from rage," you snap, your chest heaving as you try—and fail—to glare through the suffocating heat in your face. "Because you're insufferable."

"Right. Rage," Jungkook murmurs. His gaze drops briefly to your mouth before locking back onto your eyes, completely unbothered. He raises a hand, knuckles brushing the edge of your sweater sleeve as he shifts his weight. "Which is why you catalogued every single mistake. Which is why you spent three hours of your night staring at my name on a page instead of sleeping."

He pulls back just a fraction to give you air, though the triumph radiating off him is thick enough to choke on.

"Admit it," he whispers, leaning back against the heavy oak chair and crossing his broad arms with unbearable self-assurance. "You loved every single second of it."

It's almost midnight, and the words on the page are blurring into an unreadable smear of black ink.

You sit cross-legged on the carpeted floor of the empty student lounge, surrounded by open philosophy textbooks, annotated outlines, and highlighted notes. Your eyelids feel like lead. Every ten seconds, your head lurches downward in a sudden micro-sleep, jerking you awake with a sharp pulse of adrenaline. You rub your knuckles hard against your eyes, trying to force your brain to process a single sentence on moral duty, but your body has reached its absolute limit.

You sigh heavily, closing the book with a soft thud. "That's it," you whisper to the quiet room. "I'm calling it a night."

You push yourself up to gather your binder, but the moment your feet hit the floor, the whole world tilts.

A high-pitched static fills your ears. Cold sweat breaks out across your forehead, and your vision tunnels into pitch-black spots. Your head spins, and your knees completely buckle beneath you. You brace for the impact of the hard carpet—

Strong arms catch you mid-fall.

Before your knees can hit the floor, you feel someone haul you up against their chest, wrapping their arms firmly around your waist and back to support your dead weight. Then you smell it. Clean. Warm. Earth and wood.

Jungkook.

He lowers you gently onto the carpet, keeping his solid frame locked around yours.

"Hey—hey!" he murmurs, his typical arrogance completely vanishing. "Look at me. What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Breathe, come on."

You try to pull away, try to pull up walls and retreat. But the dam breaks completely. The pressure behind your ribs snaps, and hot tears spill over, blurring the world completely. And before you can force a breath back into your lungs, a raw sob tears out of your throat.

Your entire body shakes, all the fight draining out of you. And without a thought, you bury your face straight into the warm crook of his neck, your hands knotting into the fabric at his shoulders. It’s involuntary; it just happens. And you hate it. You hate all of it. You hate how helpless you feel, hate the desperate way you’re clinging to him, but the relief of letting go is too overwhelming; it hurts.

Jungkook doesn't pull away. He doesn't flinch, doesn't hesitate, and doesn't offer hollow words. Instead, his arms lock around you, lifting you and pulling you securely onto his lap until there isn't a single millimetre between you.

One hand glides up to cradle the back of your head; his long fingers sift through your hair, tangling the strands to press your face comfortably into the heat of his skin, just holding you. He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t need to, he knows he doesn’t need to. He simply exists; he’s there, absorbing every shuddering breath, every ragged gasp, every tear that races down your cheek.

He tucks his chin lightly against the top of your head, his other hand rubbing slow circles in the centre of your back. He doesn't ask you to stop. He doesn't tell you you're okay when you're clearly not. He simply lets you shatter against him, taking the full weight of your grief and rage without shifting an inch. For years, you’ve built your entire existence on being unbreakable, on standing tall and biting your tongue until your mouth tasted like copper—but right here, wrapped in his warmth, the exhaustion of holding yourself together catches up to you all at once.

And for the first time, you just let yourself fall apart.

You don’t know how long you stay like that; time doesn’t even feel real. Seconds bleed into minutes until the quiet hum of the room settles back over you

Eventually, the violent shudders and cracks in your throat taper off into small, hitching breaths which still burn the back of your throat.

But through it all, Jungkook doesn’t move. The hand cupping the back of your head never loosens; his fingers never stop tracing shapes across your back. He simply rocks you back and forth until you feel the static in your mind slowly start to subside.

Every instinct in your body screams at you to shut your mouth—to pull away, wipe your eyes, and run out the door, never looking back. You swallow hard, jaw clenching as you try desperately to force the truth back down your throat. He’s the last person on earth who should hear this. You shouldn't be saying any of it.

"I—" Your voice breaks on the very first syllable, raw and small. You freeze. Stop talking, you tell yourself. Shut up. Don't do this.

But you can't stop. The floodgates are broken, and the exhaustion running through your veins is stronger than your pride.

The words spill out in a jagged, hesitant whisper against his skin, trembling with a shame you can't hide. You try to filter yourself, try to salvage a single shred of dignity, but it all comes tumbling out anyway. You spill the double shifts, the constant, grinding humiliation of barely keeping your head above water. Your fingers grip his shirt so tightly your knuckles turn white as you confess about your father—about him gambling away the rent money all over again—and your voice drops into an ashamed murmur as you mention your mother's hopeless cowardice.

You swallow past a fresh wave of tears, admitting everything in a broken breath. Every single word peels your skin off your own skin, but as you cling to him, you are completely powerless to hold it in any longer.

Jungkook listens in silence. He doesn't interrupt, doesn't mock you, and doesn't make a single sound.

When you finally run out of breath, he shucks off his jacket. Gently, carefully, he wraps the heavy fabric around your shoulders, pulling your arms through the sleeves and zipping it all the way up to your chin.

"Stay right here," he whispers softly, pressing a quick touch to the top of your head before stepping toward the small kitchen down the hall.

Seven minutes later, he returns carrying a ceramic mug. He crouches back down, sliding close, and gently places it into your shaking hands—spearmint and chamomile tea, a generous spoonful of honey, and a splash of almond milk, prepared exactly the way you drink it.

He sits down right beside you on the floor, pulling his knees up and pressing his shoulder flush against yours.

"Look at me," Jungkook says softly, waiting until you turn your tear-stained face toward his. There's no smugness in his gaze, only sincerity. "You are the smartest, toughest person in this entire building," he whispers, his voice thick and entirely earnest. "I mean it. I watch you in those lecture halls, and I see how your mind works, how you fight for every inch, how you refuse to back down even when the whole world is pushing against you. You're carrying an impossible weight on your shoulders, and you're doing it all to protect your family without a single complaint. You’re brave as hell, sweetheart, and you can get through anything."

You take a small, warming sip of the tea, letting the honey coat your dry throat. His words settle deep in your chest, cutting through the fog. Slowly, your breathing evens out, the warmth of his jacket wrapping around you.

You glance sideways at him through your wet eyelashes. A tiny, faint curve tugs at the corner of your mouth as you lean your head slightly toward his shoulder.

"Oh," you whisper, your voice still raspy from crying, but laced with a sudden flick of life. "So you think I'm smart? Smartest person in the building, was it?"

Jungkook freezes for a split second. A faint flush creeps up the back of his neck, and he immediately snaps his head straight ahead, staring at the blank wall as his jaw tightens.

"I said you were annoying," he mutters, pulling his shoulder back half an inch, though he doesn't actually move away from you. "You misheard because your ears are full of tears."

"No, no, I heard it clearly," you say, taking another sip of tea and letting out a satisfied sigh. "You said I was smart. And tough. And... what was the other word? Brave as hell? Should I write that down? Should I get it framed?"

"Don't let it get to your head," Jungkook grumbles, rolling his eyes so hard it's a miracle they don't roll out of his head entirely. "It was a motivational speech. I read it off a poster in the gym. I say it to myself in the mirror every morning."

"You say 'sweetheart, you're brave as hell' to yourself in the mirror every morning?"

"Shut up."

"I knew it," you murmur, a breathless little chuckle finally escaping your lips—the first real sound of relief you've made all night. "Jeon Jungkook, closet softie."

He turns his head, eyes narrowing down at you with a mock glare, though the corner of his mouth twitches violently as he tries—and completely fails—to suppress a flustered smirk. "I am not soft. I am cold-blooded and ruthless, and I happen to be stuck babysitting a stubborn philosophy major."

"A stubborn philosophy major who is currently wearing your favourite jacket." You pull the sleeves up over your knuckles, fluttering your fingers at him. "And who you just made perfect tea for."

"I made the tea out of pity so you'd stop hyperventilating into my sweater," he counters, nudging his shoulder heavily into yours. "Drink it before I take it back and drink it myself."

"You hate almond milk; you say it tastes like wet chalk and crushed dreams."

"I'll suffer through it out of pure spite."

"Admit it," you whisper, resting your temple lightly against the sturdy, warm side of his arm. "You care."

Jungkook looks down at you for a long second. The lingering flush on his cheeks softens, his heavy-lidded eyes dark and quiet in the lounge's dim light. He lets out a defeated breath, his arm shifting until it wraps comfortably back around your shoulders, anchoring you flush against his side.

"I think you're a massive pain in my ass," he whispers softly, his thumb tracing a slow circle over your shoulder through the heavy fabric. "Besides, I need you functional. Who am I supposed to gloat to about final grades if you're out here collapsing on me? So, finish your tea and put your head back on my shoulder before I revoke your hoodie privileges."

"This is mine now," you mutter, closing your eyes as the warmth finally lulls your exhausted body into safety. "You're never getting it back."

"Over my dead body," Jungkook hums, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling purr right beside your ear.

The university coffee shop is less of an establishment and more of a sound experiment in how much acoustic violence a single espresso machine can inflict, but your table in the back corner is its own disaster zone.

Isla is currently attempting to balance three dry-erase markers on her upper lip, Yeji is sneaking sweet potato fries straight off of your plate, and the table itself is buried under a landmine of half-empty paper cups, tangled charger cords, and heavy textbooks. A complete barricade against the rest of the world.

"I’m just saying," Isla muffles around the markers, her face frozen in a terrifying display of concentration, "if the university expects me to actually comprehend Heidegger at eight in the morning, they should at least hand out free espresso shots at the door. It’s basic human decency."

"You haven't even read a single page of Heidegger," Yeji says flatly, dipping a stolen fry into mayonnaise and pointing it accusingly. "You’ve been staring at Wordle for forty minutes."

"It’s about structural linguistics! It counts as revision!" Isla’s lip twitches, sending the markers tumbling into her lap with a plastic clatter. She huffs, dramatically throwing her head back. "Besides, today’s word is an absolute war crime. What five-letter word has three vowels and feels like a direct personal attack on my character? It’s rigged." She crosses her arms, sulking heavily into her chair. "And anyways, look at Y/N. She actually read the material, and she looks like she was just brought back to life by an unlicensed doctor."

"Hey!" you mutter defensively from behind your mug, though you can't really argue the point. You are buried up to your chin in an oversized, dark hoodie—one that smells so distinctly of earth and wood.

Look, it’s not like you stole it. Technically. He was the one who wrapped it around you, okay? He practically forced you into it. The fact that you walked out wearing Jeon Jungkook’s actual clothes—and haven't taken them off for twenty-four hours because the fleece feels like a warm hug—was an administrative oversight. If you admit out loud to anyone why you're really wearing it, Isla will literally broadcast your execution on social media. It’s thermal utility. Pure post-crisis survival. You are merely utilising his resources against him. It's strategy. Nothing else.

"I'm fine," you add aloud, taking a long sip to hide the sudden heat on your face. "Just tired."

"You're always tired," Yeji sighs, taking in the dark smudges beneath your eyes. "You need a miracle, sweetie. Or a massive bag of unmarked cash."

"Speaking of massive bags of cash," Isla suddenly gasps. Her eyes go wide as saucers as she taps her phone screen furiously, managing to knock over an entire container of wooden stirrers in the process and ignoring the mess completely. "Holy shit. You guys. Look at this."

"If it’s another video of a cat playing the piano—" Yeji starts.

"No, shut up, look!" Isla slams her phone straight onto the middle of your open textbook, nearly drowning your carefully highlighted notes in the melted ice from her coffee.

You lean forward, squinting at the bright digital poster pinned to the student portal. Bold, dark lettering screams across the top of the screen:

ANNUAL INTERCOLLEGIATE NATIONAL DEBATE CHAMPIONSHIP

Individual Entry. Open to all.

FIRST PLACE PRIZE: $10,000.

"Ten thousand dollars," Isla breathes. "Ten. Thousand. Dollars. Do you realise what that means? That’s like... eight hundred iced lattes. That’s those exact platform Doc Martens I’ve been staring at for six months, a vintage vinyl collection, three concert tickets, and enough takeout to never see a kitchen again. I could literally buy a small island."

Your breath hitches in your throat.

Your eyes lock onto those four digits—10,000—and the coffee shop around you instantly fades into a distant buzz. For Isla, it’s a fantasy shopping spree. For you? Ten thousand dollars isn't just an academic prize. It’s four months of rent paid before the landlord can even send a notice. It’s the electric bill cleared. It’s real food in the pantry, and your mother never having to stand in a dark hallway quietly crying into her hands whilst she works out the numbers. It’s breathing room. And it's enough to give you a little left over by the end of it.

"Individual entry," Yeji reads over your shoulder, letting out a low whistle. "Anyone can enter. But honestly, who even goes into these things? You'd have to go solo against all those insufferable debate psychos who treat public speaking like gladiatorial combat."

Isla’s eyes slowly slide from her phone screen over to you, a terrifying smirk spreading across her face. "Yeah. Total psychos... like a certain guy you’re always fighting with in the library stacks."

Your heart does continuous flips against your ribs, no respect for your attempt to remain nonchalant.

"Y/N," Isla leans clear across the table, her knuckles digging into the sticky wood. "You are hands-down the most articulate speaker in this whole useless faculty. If anyone can march into a solo tournament and snatch ten grand, it's you. Plus, imagine the look on Jungkook's face when you take the trophy right out of his hands. He'd probably cry. You have to do it."

The wager is signed at precisely nine-fifteen in the morning on a greasy paper napkin. The terms are scrawled: LOSER = SERVANT FOR THE DAY.

And for twenty glorious minutes, you actually think you have him. Your critique is solid, your arguments flow perfectly, you throw in a few passages verbatim that have half the lecture hall sitting in held silence. But your head isn't held in the clouds for long.

As you sit down, folding your arms and extremely prepared to accept your rightful crown, Jungkook steps up to the podium.

He doesn't bring a notepad, show-off. He simply rests his hands on the wood, adjusts his glasses, which you're ninety per cent sure he doesn't need and just uses to look smarter, though you believe he looks sexy stupid. And with a composure that makes you want to stab yourself with the Kaweco that rests in your hand (don't ask how, but they've rubbed off on you). He doesn't just systematically dismantle your entire thesis in eight minutes flat, no, of course not. That would be too easy. Too simple. No, of course, he has to do it in the most infuriating way possible. By citing three of Professor Jones' own published papers—from memory. It isn't just a presentation; it's a kiss-ass. A shameless display of brown-nosing.

So, it's no surprise that when Jones hands back the scores, you meet your demise.

Y/N: 93/100.

Jungkook: 97/100.

As the auditorium stands to gather their belongings, you hear a low whistle from behind you, followed by a grating voice that is full of nothing but arrogance. "Ninety-seven to ninety-three," Jungkook hums, leaning over your shoulder, insufferably smug. He twirls his pen (ones that he invoiced you for, yes, invoiced. And you sent the email to junk without a second thought. Actually no, you did think. You thought about the utter audacity of the man) across his fingers, sliding the napkin across your desk, along with the marking sheet he received with the red ink circling the clear '97'. "Take a good long look at that. Frame it. Bask in all its glory, the glory of a master at work."

"You pandered to Jones' ego!" you snap, packing your notebook so hard the zipper of your bag nearly rips. "You cited his 2018 paper just to make him blush; you basically bribed him."

"It’s called strategy, sweetheart; you're only calling it a bribe because your brain wasn't smart enough to think of it first," he corrects, and you hate how he's right, not that you'll ever admit that. "Face it: I outplayed you, I out-argued you, and now I own you until midnight. So, be a good servant, and carry my bag. Oh, and fetch me my iced coffee, but try not to lag behind your superior."

Twelve hours. You can do this. Just twelve hours.

Ten minutes later, your right shoulder is actively dislocating under the weight of his bag. You don't know what he keeps in there, but judging by the bone-crushing weight, you guess he's hauling a set of anvils. You silently pray to let one of them drop onto your head. And to make matters worse, the strap keeps sliding off the hoodie that you're zipped up in, one that smells faintly of wood and earth, which you will also not discuss why.

Jungkook, a few steps ahead of you, struts into the cafeteria like a king inspecting his domain, leading you straight towards a large circular table where a few of his friends are mid-argument over lunch.

"—if the bread covers it on three sides, it's a taco!" Taehyung is practically yelling, waving a soggy fry like a weapon.

"It’s a hot dog, you absolute barbarian!" Jimin argues back, his spoon suspended mid-air in disgust. He cuts himself off the second he spots you two approaching,

"Bow down, boys," Jungkook announces loudly, dropping onto a seat and pulling you down right beside him. "Meet my personal servant for the day."

Taehyung’s hand is still frozen as his eyes flicker between you and Jungkook, before dropping down to your outfit. He freezes. "Wait. Hold on. Why is your servant wearing your grey hoodie?"

"Wait, what—" Jimin gasps, slamming his hands onto the table so hard his apple juice wobbles. "She is! The off-limits one!"

"Ah! The sacred fleece," Hoseok glares at Jungkook in utter outrage. "The one you almost dislocated my shoulder over when I asked to borrow it for laundry day last Tuesday?!" His eyes swim with delight.

A comical wave of crimson rushes up the back of Jungkook’s neck, burning straight to the tips of his ears. "Shut up!" he snaps, snatching a fry off Taehyung's plate and chucking it straight at Hoseok's forehead. "Autumn’s a bitch this year, mind your own business!"

"And to clarify, I was academically sabotaged, not defeated," you interject smoothly, dropping Jungkook's oversized latte onto the table with a sharp clack. "Here's your coffee, master. I hope the ice gives you a severe brain freeze.

"That is no way to talk to me, servant. Don't be a sore loser now."

"You won by four points because you sucked up to Jones!"

"A win is a win. You're my slave."

"I will literally throw your heavy-ass bag into the campus pond."

"I mean, a win is a win," Jimin agrees. "Though if you're his slave for the day, Y/N, feel free to drop a heavy book on his toe. He’s been insufferable all week."

"Can you blame him?" Namjoon chuckles, setting down his book. "He spent three hours last night pacing our place, practising his opening arguments for that tournament."

You freeze. The fry halfway to your mouth stops in mid-air.

"Tournament?" you repeat slowly, turning your head to glare at Jungkook. You obviously expected him to enter, but you didn't expect him to not tell you about it. "As in... the ten-thousand-dollar national debate championship next month?"

Taehyung snorts into his napkin. "Yeah, he signed up the exact second the portal opened. He’s been obsessed. He literally—"

CLACK.

Jungkook kicks Taehyung under the table, and the guy lets out a high-pitched yelp of agony, clutching his shin whilst muttering a string of curses.

"You're entering?" you whisper, eyes narrowing into slit-thin daggers. "You didn't tell me you were entering!"

"Why would I?" Jungkook smirks, entirely unfazed, his arm casually resting over the back of your seat. "Give my opponent a head start to prepare? C'mon, we all know I'm gonna win, but feel free to keep up."

"Keep up? Keep up? I will dismantle your entire case point by point and dig you into the ground until the judges feel pity for you!"

"I'd love to see you try, sweetheart. You couldn't even beat me on a basic informal presentation today!"

As the two of you gnaw at each other's heads, a small gap between you, noses practically touching, you completely tune out the rest of the world.

Across the table, the boys lean back in their seats, entirely ignored, and begin whispering among themselves.

"Look at them," Jin murmurs under his breath, crossing his arms and leaning his chin towards Namjoon whilst watching you two bicker. "Is this a cafeteria or an audition for a tragic romance drama? I am genuinely five seconds away from throwing my soup at them."

"He’s practically breathing her air," Taehyung whispers back, leaning in close, holding his bruised shin. "I mean look at his left arm! He doesn't even realise he's doing it! He looks at her like she hung the damn moon, but he's yelling at her about Kant!"

"It’s psychological warfare," Yoongi deadpans, not even pausing his laptop typing, though his eyes dart over the top of the screen. "They have almost two collective degrees in philosophy yet zero brain cells for basic human self-awareness. It’s embarrassing to watch."

"Try living with him, Yoongi; you don't even know," Namjoon sighs, rubbing his temples at the thought of it. "Last night he literally said, 'She's going to use epistemological foundationalism against me, Namjoon, I saw it, right there, in her sneaky little eyes,' with the most smitten, pathetic smile I have ever seen on a human face. He's down so bad it's a medical anomaly."

"If they don't kiss by finals, I'm filing a formal harassment report with the university," Jin states flatly, taking a calm bite of his sandwich.

"Fifty bucks to whoever shoves their heads together right now," Hoseok adds.

"Don't do it," Yoongi warns softly. "They'd stop arguing with each other and team up to destroy your life. Have you seen them? They're lethal."

"I just don't understand how two people can be so unbelievably stupid," Taehyung whines quietly, resting his chin on his fists as he watches you aggressively poke Jungkook’s chest to emphasise your rebuttal, whilst Jungkook just stares down at your lips with a thoroughly besotted grin. "They've been doing this foreplay-by-debate routine since freshman year! Just shut up and make out already!"

"They won't, you know they won't," Namjoon mutters, shaking his head in pity. "Admitting they like each other requires acknowledging a vulnerability, and according to their mental illness, vulnerability is a concession of defeat."

"Idiots," Jimin synthesises neatly. "Absolute, intellectual idiots."

Meanwhile, back in your private war zone, you are completely oblivious to their commentary.

"I am going to obliterate you," you whisper flatly. "I’m spending the rest of my day as your slave, meticulously planning your public humiliation."

Jungkook’s smirk widens, his dark eyes sparkling with dangerous affection.

"I'd like to see you try, sweetheart," he rumbles softly, his voice dropping into that deep register that completely cuts right through your anger. "Now hush. Your master wants another drink."

By three in the afternoon, Jungkook’s interpretation of having a "servant for the day" descends into petty tyranny. You can't wait for this day to be over.

He sits regally at the centre oak table like some ancient emperor, leaning back in his wooden chair with his arms crossed over his chest, as you lug six massive, dust-covered volumes across the aisle.

"Set them down gently, servant; these are precious," he whispers loudly, pointing a single finger at the wood. "Volume four on the left. And adjust my laptop screen two degrees to the right; the lighting is offending my eyes."

"I am actively planning to slip poison into your next coffee," you hiss under your breath, dropping the heavy books onto the desk with an intentionally loud thud.

The librarian, who looks around ninety and probably gets off to the Dewey Decimal System, three rows over, shoots you a glare sharp enough to kill, but Jungkook doesn't even flinch.

"Refusal to serve with a cheerful attitude will add a further two hours to your sentence," he hums smoothly, twirling his pen between his fingers. He leans in close, lowering his voice until his lips are hovering inches from your ear. "Now open chapter twelve and find me every reference to territorial waters. Go."

You roll your eyes so hard you nearly see your own brain, but you drag a chair up beside him anyway. And for thirty long minutes, you furiously flick through dense, tiny-print pages, scribbling bullet points into the margin of his pad whilst he sits there, casually analysing the water stains on the ceiling.

Eventually, however, the weight of endless footnotes and note-taking catches up with you. Your hand cramps, your shoulders drop, and you let out a heavy, dramatic sigh before collapsing forward, resting your forehead flat against the open textbook with a muffled groan of absolute defeat.

Jungkook stops twirling his pen.

He looks sideways at you, his eyes sweeping over your slumped frame, the oversized sleeves of his fleece hoodie swallowing your hands completely. He takes in the faint smudge of ink near your cheekbone from the leaking pen, the way your hair spills in waves across the pages, and how the heavy fabric leaves you looking ridiculously small, completely stripped of all your typical academic defences. The playful arrogance vanishes from his face, replaced by a rare moment of unguarded attention.

Without saying a single word, he reaches down into his gym bag, pulls out a warm, bakery-fresh chocolatine wrapped neatly in wax paper, and slides it directly under your nose, gently nudging your cheek with the edge of the pastry.

You lift your head slowly, squinting at the package suspiciously through a mess of fallen hair. "What's this? Did you lace it with cyanide?"

"Call it an official royal decree," Jungkook mutters, turning his head to look straight at his laptop screen as a faint, telltale pink tint creeps up the back of his neck. "My servant isn't allowed to collapse from exhaustion as she is creating my research notes. It reflects poorly on my management style."

You unwrap the buttery pastry, the rich scent of warm chocolate filling the air between you. "You bought this for me at the campus café before class even started, didn't you?" A small smile tugs at your lips as you take a bite, but Jungkook just scoffs softly.

"Just shut up and eat it," he grumbles, reaching over to pull the hood of his fleece up over your head, before gently tugging the drawstrings until it frames your face like a ridiculous cocoon. "Master's orders."

By five o'clock, Jungkook's theatrical reign of terror reaches its peak in the busiest, most crowded corridor of the humanities building. He isn't just treating you like a servant—he is playing the role of a spoiled, Victorian aristocrat who has never opened a door for himself in his entire life.

"Servant," he announces loudly, stopping dead in the middle of the crowded hallway, causing three rushing freshmen to swerve aggressively to avoid crashing into his back. He gestures dramatically toward his unbuttoned coat. "My hands are full of crucial academic thoughts. Fasten my coat. The draft in this corridor is threatening my vocal cords."

"You are wearing a scarf and a thermal shirt," you whisper through gritted teeth, your face burning as several students turn to stare at you. "Button your own coat, Jeon."

"Refusal to obey," he gasps, placing a hand flat over his chest. "I am faint from the insubordination. Do I need to remind you of the napkin? The legally binding contract?"

You let out a long, suffering exhale through your nose, stepping forward to grab the edges of his coat. Because he is absurdly tall—what did his parents feed him?—you have to lean in close, your fingers brushing against his chest as you align the buttons.

Jungkook immediately leans down, resting his chin on the top of your head as you work. "You're taking too long," he murmurs right into your hair, his voice vibrating through his chest against your hands. "An efficiency rating of three out of ten. Also, grab my water bottle. The insulated one. And don't make me ask twice; my throat is absolutely parched from carrying the entire philosophy department on my back."

"I am actively calculating the legal consequences of tripping you into a recycling bin," you mutter under your breath, fishing the heavy metal flask out of his bag and shoving it into his waiting palm.

Jungkook takes a slow, dramatic sip, capping it with a sigh before handing it right back to you without breaking his stride. "Your attitude is severely lacking today. A proper servant anticipates their master's hydration needs."

"A proper master doesn't make his servant haul forty pounds of shit through a crowded corridor," you snap, shifting the crushing strap on your sore shoulder. You're still completely swaddled in his giant hoodie, sleeves pushed up to your forearms now, no doubt looking disgruntled.

Half the department is openly watching the spectacle. People are nudging each other, hiding giggles, and whispering as they recognise the campus's two most notorious rivals—specifically taking note of the fact that you are wearing his notoriously off-limits clothes whilst glaring daggers at the back of his head.

"Now take my phone, sweetheart; need you to take dictation."

"Take dictation?" you repeat, astounded. "For what?"

"My brilliant thoughts, of course," he says smoothly, pulling out his phone and tapping the voice-notes app before shoving it into your hand. "Hold this at a forty-five-degree angle toward my mouth as we walk. I'm having a sudden wave of genius."

For god-knows-how-long, you are forced to walk backwards through the crowded hallway, holding his phone up like a disgraced news reporter as Jungkook walks slowly behind you, his hands tucked casually in his pockets.

"Note for the memoirs," Jungkook dictates into the phone, his voice echoing loudly off the lockers. "Five-fifteen p.m. My servant is walking backwards with great discipline, though her glare suggests she is planning my assassination. Addendum: remind her that assassinating your master is a violation of the contract."

"I am going to throw him off the library roof," you say directly into the microphone.

"Edit that out," Jungkook tells the phone smoothly. He steps forward, closing the distance between you in one long stride, reaching out to snag the hood of his oversized hoodie and gently pulling you forwards so you stop walking backwards before you trip over a trash can.

He keeps a light grip on the back of your hoodie, his eyes sparkling with mischief; you choose to ignore the flush across your skin. "Easy there. Now, servant... bring my belongings to my car, or I'll make you tie my shoelaces in front of the entire faculty."

By seven in the evening, your shoulders are actively plotting against you, and you are currently sifting through the quickest way to meet your demise. Any rational human being would have surrendered by now, would've thrown in the white flag and performed a walk of shame away from the man in front of you. But you can't. You physically can't. There's this throbbing nerve in your brain that is reminding you, no, telling you that under no circumstances can you ever surrender to Jeon Jungkook, his ego is too big, it'd probably explode if you feed it any more satisfaction. Which is why you tell your body to suck it up and to just endure a few more hours, and by endure you mean suffer a fate worse than death.

So now, you are following him into the university centre, swallowing your pride, and throwing away all reasonable thoughts to just turn around and quit. He guides you over to the free weights section, and you drop his bag next to a bench. At the exact moment you lean back up to stand up straight, of course the bastard is shrugging off his thermals, lifting them over his head to reveal a stupidly tight white tank top. The thing looks vacuum-sealed to his body. It clings mercilessly to every single contour of his torso, accentuating every muscle and every line. It follows his shape, cinching into a waist so narrow it's clear to you that God has favourites.

Then there are his arms. ‘Stupidly large’ doesn't even begin to do them justice. His shoulders are capped with dense muscle, his biceps flexing with every minor shift of his hands. Dark ink crawls all the way from the back of his right hand, winding in a thick, continuous sleeve up his forearm, over his shoulder, and spilling across the right side of his chest, peeking out from beneath the thin strap of the tank. And to make matters infinitely worse, he is already warm, a light sheen of sweat glinting across his collarbones and throat, with patches of his tank turning translucent to expose the golden skin beneath.

Before you even have the chance to wheel it back in and have word with your mind, it already flashes back to that night—to the blur of his mouth pressed against yours. You can practically feel the ache in your palms as you remember how it caressed that exact golden skin, fingers digging helplessly into his shoulders, clinging to his back as he pulled you flush against his chest. It's infuriating, really. The absolute betrayal of your mind, and of course how your body remembers the exact weight and heat of him, something you've been trying your hardest to burn out of your mind.

It's a war crime. A hate crime. All the crimes.

But Jungkook just casually tosses the folded fabric onto the bench right beside your hand, either completely unaware—or, far more likely, completely aware—of the chaos he is causing to your blood pressure.

He turns to you, adjusting his posture into something more regal as he gestures toward the heavy dumbbell rack. "Servant," he commands, raising his voice just enough to carry over the gym's speakers. "Be a dear, and hand me my 70-pound dumbbells. Oh, and present me my water bottle between every set with a bow."

The audacity of this man. Who does he think he is?

He wants a servant? You think. Fine. You’ll give him an Oscar-winning performance.

So instead of sulking, you step up to the rack, clasping your hands dramatically over your heart.

"AS YOU WISH, MY NOBLE MASTER!" you yell at the top of your lungs, your voice echoing loudly off the concrete walls.

Four heavy-lifting guys near the hack squats instantly freeze mid-rep, their heads snapping towards you in a mixture of confusion and amusement. Two guys on the treadmills nearby actually stumble mid-stride.

Is it petty? One hundred per cent. Is that going to make you stop? After seeing the clear red crawling up his neck? No fucking way.

"What are you doing?" Jungkook whispers furiously, stepping into your space to block you from the staring crowd. "Stop shouting!"

"I am merely serving my lord with the devotion he requested!" you announce in a rather loud but monotone voice, mimicking a mindless droid. This is too good. He looks like he wants the Smith machine to fall on top of him. But no, you're not finished, not even close. You grab his bottle with two hands before sinking into a deep, absurdly theatrical curtsey right there in the middle of the gym. "Is the temperature of your water satisfactory, Sire? Shall I fan you with a towel whilst you lift, my lord? I am forever indebted to you and only you; whatever my master requires, he shall receive!" Your voice doesn't waver or falter, not one bit. If anything, it increases in volume but maintains that monotony.

"Y/N, I swear to God, shut up, or I'm gonna have you committed!" he grumbles, his face burning bright red as a pair of powerlifters snicker into their towels. He snatches the bottle out of your hand, completely abandoning his composure. "You're doing this on purpose!"

"I am merely executing my contractual duties," you say sweetly, crossing your hands inside his oversized hoodie sleeves. He sighs, clearly not wanting to admit defeat as well.

"Get over here and spot me then," he snaps, stepping over to the incline bench and grabbing a pair of heavy dumbbells. "And don't yell."

You step behind the head of the bench, placing your hands just beneath his elbows. You remind yourself that you are a scholar, an academic, a woman of cold, rational logic. But as you look down from this angle—at the sharp contour of his jawline, the veins pulsing in his neck, the ones wrapping around his forearms, the bulge of his biceps, and the absolute, burning focus in his dark eyes—your traitorous pulse jumps a beat.

It’s just biology, you think, trying to suppress the heat rising in your face. An involuntary physiological reaction to a ridiculously well-built bastard.

Stop. You're embarrassing us both here. Where's the self-control?

"I mean this so seriously, please drop these on your face," you whisper, leaning down until your mouth is right beside his ear.

Jungkook pauses mid-rep, the ridiculously heavy dumbbells hovering steadily above his chest. His forearms are straining to the point where you can make out his veins crawling down them. But your attention shifts back to his eyes, which are locked straight onto yours, entirely unfazed by the weight and your wishful thinking. Then that insufferable look on his face appears, one that slightly makes you wish you never opened your mouth in the first place because now you have to deal with whatever remark he comes up with. The dense muscles in his chest and shoulders flex beneath the damp white tank as he drives the weights back up.

"Nice try, sweetheart," he rumbles before bringing them back down, setting them on the floor. He sits up on the edge of the leather bench, leaning back to gaze up at you.

"You think I have amateur grip strength?" he hums, running a long-fingered, calloused hand through his messy dark hair to push it back from his face. "I've never dropped a weight in my life, and honestly? If one of these did manage to slip, it'd apologise to my jawline on the way down."

"You are too full of yourself."

"I'm just realistic." The glint in his eyes instantly makes your pulse betray you. "Besides, if I messed up this face, who would you spend all evening staring at during our research sessions?"

"I stare at my laptop screen," you snap, trying desperately to ignore the way your heart has suddenly picked up the pace.

"Liar," Jungkook hums softly, his hand coming up to lightly tap the tip of your nose with his thumb. "You were admiring the view two minutes ago. Now, be a good servant, go re-rack these and grab the eighty-pound ones. I've got two more sets, and you're going to stand right there and watch every single one."

Fuck life. Fuck Jones. Fuck everything.

And apparently, you pissed off God in more ways than you can imagine because, as if this day couldn't get any worse, as you reach the rack in the corner, a guy in a cut-off stringer in the colour of what you can only describe as a crime against humanity steps directly into your path, blocking you off from the rest of the room.

He leans one thick arm against the rack above your head, invading your space with absolutely no decorum or subtlety.

"Hey, sweetheart," he says, eyes lingering uncomfortably over your body. A visceral shudder ripples down your spine. The word sweetheart settles over your skin like a layer of oily slime. You can already see where this is headed. "What's a pretty girl like you drowning in a hoodie like that? Why don't you take it off so we can see what you're hiding under there?"

The more you think men can’t possibly get worse, the more they find new ways to surprise you. The sheer audacity of this man.

As if this fleece-lined fortress of a hoodie was some interactive mystery box he was personally invited to unwrap. As if you put it on today simply just to tease the general public, and not because you were shivering in the lecture hall this morning because your jacket ripped a day or weeks ago.

Your patience tank isn't just empty—it was drained, bleached, and set on fire hours ago. You’ve spent the day tirelessly working, dealing with insufferable classmates, and enduring fluorescent light torture, and now you’re expected to play nice with a guy whose entire personality clearly relies on unearned confidence, protein powder, and cheap body spray?

You want to turn around and ask him, with genuine scientific curiosity, if he practised that line in a mirror before deciding today was the day to test his luck with a woman who looks ready to commit a felony. You want to inform him that the only thing you are ‘hiding’ under this hoodie is a complete lack of interest and enough suppressed rage to power a small village. But mostly, you just want him to instantly vaporise so you can go back to existing in peace.

But before you can even speak, the guy reaches out and aggressively snatches the heavy fabric of Jungkook's hoodie sleeve, tugging it downwards to pull you closer to him. "Come on, lose the sweater, baby. Let me show you how to actually use the equipment."

You yank your arm out of his grip, stepping straight into his face instead of backing away. "Do not touch me,” you say, voice dropping flat, forcing his smirk to falter. “If you put your hand on me again, I will make sure that you have a very long night in the ER," you continue. "Learn to keep your hands and your words to yourself. Now. Back off and go finish your quarter-squats before you make yourself look even stupider in front of the whole gym.”

He sputters, his chest puffing up as he tries to salvage his shattered ego. "Who the hell do you think you're talking to? I was giving you a compliment, you psycho—"

"A compliment?" you interrupt, taking another sharp step into his space so he’s the one forced to take a hesitant half-step back. "You grabbed my arm and made a sleazy comment about my body in a public gym. That’s not a compliment, that’s harassment. And everyone can see your shit form, and even shittier personality.”

He glances over his shoulder, realising two guys on the lat pulldown are staring right at him with unsubtle, amused grins. Desperate to save a crumb of dignity, he scoffs, "I hit full depth on my squats, for your information."

"Your legs didn't even break forty-five degrees," you reply with deadpan precision. "My grandmother hits better depth picking up her mail."

The guy's face flushes a deeply satisfying, blotchy red. Humiliated, his demeanour instantly shifts from sleazy to aggressive. "Listen here, you little bitch—" he sneers, stepping up and raising his hand.

He doesn't get to finish the sentence.

You feel someone step up beside you, closing the distance in two strides.

Jungkook.

He doesn't grab the guy or tackle him; instead, he simply plants himself shoulder-to-shoulder with you, a silent confirmation. He's with you.

"I'd take her advice if I were you," Jungkook rumbles, his voice calm and laced with certainty. "She wasn't lying about your squats, by the way—your knees barely buckled. It’s embarrassing. And trust me, she doesn't make empty threats." He doesn't bother raising his hands or puffing out his chest; the stillness in his posture does all the heavy lifting. He just towers beside you, adjusting the hem of his shirt, looking down at the guy like a mild inconvenience he’s debating whether to flick off his shoe.

The man's gaze flickers between your pissed-off expression and Jungkook's sharp gaze, before shooting down to his broad-shouldered, tattooed glory. You can practically see the thoughts as they form in his puny little mind.

Girl angry. Guy giant. Guy covered in tattoos. Guy scary.

Oh.

Bad maths. Very bad maths.

Abort. Run.

He manages to stammer out some pathetic, garbled excuse under his breath, one that you don't even fully hear before he backs away with his hands raised and vanishes towards the locker rooms.

"A long night in the ER?" you hear Jungkook say softly. "A bit barbaric for an ethics student, don't you think?"

"I was being merciful," you snort. "I was going to critique his entire lineage next, plus his form was really shit. Astronomically fucked. What injury is he training for?"

"Oh, one hundred per cent,” he chuckles. "I almost felt bad for the guy."

"Almost?"

"Not even a little bit," he hums, leaning down until his lips are hovering inches from yours, his tone dropping back into that quiet, dangerous, flirty register that makes your breath hitch. "Now, where's my dumbbells? You're slacking. Someone's not getting a good recommendation from me."

The concrete hallway outside your apartment door is frigid, an evident sign of the approaching winter. The hall is illuminated only by the faint hum of a single flickering overhead bulb.

Jungkook is leaning against the wall beside your door, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dark jacket, rain dripping steadily from the ends of his hair onto his shoulders. Even drenched in rain, he looks good. It’s infuriating, unfair even. Like he just walked off the set of a damn movie. His damp curls plaster against his forehead, and the harsh shadows from the singular bulb carve out the precise angles of his jaw. It is deeply unjust that someone shivering in a drafty, flickering corridor can still look that devastating, taking up space like he owns every inch of it. You hate him for it a little bit.

"You know," he says, voice a lazy drawl that echoes in the quiet corridor, "normal people usually offer a coffee—or at least offer a proper thank you—when someone walks them eight blocks through a torrential downpour. But I guess basic manners weren't included in your syllabus."

He’s baiting you. You can see it in the tilt of his chin and the gleam in his eyes, waiting for a sharp roll of your eyes or a biting retort.

Instead, you just turn the key in the lock, push the door open, and step aside. "Get inside, Jeon."

Jungkook freezes, his mouth staying slightly open. He blinks, obviously caught entirely off guard. "What?"

"You're soaked, it’s cold, and you look like you’re about to catch pneumonia on my welcome mat," you say softly, pulling the door wider. "Come in. I’m making ramen."

He hesitates for a split second—a rare beat of genuine uncertainty—before stepping past you into the small entryway. He kicks off his boots, looking slightly too broad and entirely out of place for your modest living space. You move to toss him a dry towel from the bathroom, which he uses to aggressively dry his hair, leaving it pleasantly messy and sticking up in every direction. Still looks good.

It’s ten minutes later, and you’re both sitting cross-legged on the floor around the low coffee table, a single pot of piping hot spicy ramen steaming between you, and a distant movie playing quietly in the background.

There’s no bickering. No intellectual sparring match, no defensive walls, and no performance. Both clearly too exhausted for that.

"I actually didn't think you knew how to boil water," Jungkook murmurs, blowing gently on a mouthful of the noodles.

"I’m a culinary mastermind," you reply, completely offended, but lacking all the bite, as you nudge the soft-boiled egg over to his side of the pot. “If you don’t want it, more for me then.”

"I’m not complaining; I’m just assessing if I need to get 911 ready on my phone," he says, taking a bite anyway with a quiet, appreciative hum. “Oh shit, you get the extra spicy ones?" he asks as he begins chewing, eyes widening from realisation into those little galaxies you rarely get to witness—his pupils are blown wide in the dim lamplight until the dark irises practically disappear, reflecting the warm glow of the room. He looks unfairly soft. Too soft, forcing you to look away before you can risk giving him something to no doubt tease you about.

"They were on sale," you reply. "Don't judge."

“No judgment here. You know, the guy at that 24-hour place down the street gave me two free hash browns yesterday because he thought I looked dead on my feet."

You snort softly, taking a sip of water. "Did you take them?"

"Of course I took them. I ate one standing right outside the door in the cold. It was delicious, actually."

"What happened to the second one?"

"Eaten on the walk back," he says, twirling his chopsticks lazily between his fingers. "A rogue pigeon looked at me like it was planning a mugging, so I had to assert dominance and finish it on the spot."

"You asserted dominance over a bird at two in the morning over a hash brown?"

"It was a greasy, glorious hash brown. Survival of the fittest." He takes another mouthful of noodles, immediately wincing as the spice catches the back of his throat. "Though I think this ramen might actually finish the job the cold started."

"Weak," you scoff mildly, taking a deliberate bite of your own noodles to prove a point, even as the chilli hits your tongue like a tiny, aggressive firecracker. You force your face to stay entirely stone-still. Asserting dominance, naturally.

Jungkook tracks your reaction, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah? Not burning at all?"

"It's practically sweet," you lie cleanly, reaching for your water glass with zero urgency and taking a slow, steady sip. "You just have a weak palate, Jeon."

He lets out a low, huffed laugh, shaking his head as he reaches for his own glass. "Right. Your eyes are watering, but it's sweet."

"It's called passion."

“Yeah, yeah.”

A quiet settles over the room. No one jumps to fill it; no one shifts to ease it. Outside, the rain simply continues its torrential pour against the glass whilst the hum of the television in the corner flickers low blue shadows across the coffee table. You slowly rest your elbows on your knees, watching the steam dance above the pot. Its lazy curls dissipating into nothing. You notice how Jungkook also appears to be in the same world of comfort. He doesn't check his phone. He doesn't make a move to get up, doesn't glance toward his wet boots in the hall, and doesn't offer a single comment to break the calm. He just lets his head rest heavily against the base of the armchair behind him, his long legs stretched out into the small space beside the rug, breathing slow and steady.

You lean your head back against the sofa, taking a slow sip of water, your eyes idly drifting over to the screen. You catch a woman flinging a glass of water straight into a man's face before turning on her heel and storming out into the rain, much like the one outside currently.

Jungkook swallows his mouthful of noodles, watching the scene play out for a second before a faint, disbelieving huff escapes his nose. "Oh my god," he murmurs softly, pointing the tip of his chopstick toward the screen. "That is the exact face Tyler made outside the math building last… Tuesday, was it?"

You look from the screen back to Jungkook, then back at the screen, trying for the love of god to remember what on earth he was talking about. Until it hits you, and a sudden grin pulls at your mouth at the realisation. "Oh god. When Somin threw her iced tea at him?"

"She didn't just throw it; she dumped it over his head like a damn christening," Jungkook corrects, his voice light. "The entire lacrosse team was standing right behind them. Dead silent. Just Tyler dripping orange onto his white sneakers."

"Wait, but I thought they broke up three weeks ago?" you ask, leaning forwards, thoroughly invested. "Didn't he bring his guitar to her building to sing an apology?"

"He did," Jungkook chuckles as he tilts his head back. "And she called security on him for a noise complaint before he even finished the first verse. This other guy had to drag him away by his hoodie; I think Taehyung got the whole thing on camera."

"No way," you laugh softly, the warm sound settling easily between you. "Why were they fighting on Tuesday, then?"

"I think he accidentally liked his ex's post from 2021 whilst scrolling," Jungkook says, picking up his glass. "He tried to claim his thumb slipped because his phone screen was cracked, but Somin wasn't having any of it."

"A 2021 post? Yeah, he’s cooked. There's no coming back from a three-year scroll."

"That’s what I said!" Jungkook says, and you notice his eyes crinkling at the corners, dimple peeking through slightly. "Honestly, the guy should just cut his losses and change his major, but I think he’s planning another grand gesture."

"He needs to be stopped."

"Oh, absolutely," he agrees, letting out a soft sigh as he settles deeper into the rug, legs a few millimetres away from brushing yours.

You watch his profile in the warm yellow glow of your floor lamp—the relaxed line of his jaw, the dark curls messy over his forehead, and the complete absence of any competitive edge. It’s strange, and disarmingly nice, just existing with him like this.

"It's weird seeing you so quiet," you say, swirling the water in your glass. "Usually you're just... intense. Like you're always trying to win something."

Jungkook lets out a faint huff of a laugh, his eyes fixed on the remaining steam above the pot. "Yeah, well. Force of habit." He shrugs lazily, picking at the skin of his thumb. "It’s just easier to take up the space first before someone else forces you into a corner; always gotta be switched on, you know.”

You watch him, taking in the faint dark circles under his eyes. It’s jarring, seeing him like this. You’re so used to the armoured version of Jeon Jungkook—the retorts, the smug expressions, the insufferable need to one-up everything and everyone around him. You’ve spent over a year learning how to brace yourself against him, learning how to match him. But sitting here, in front of him in the quiet of the night, still damp from the rain, his posture completely sunken in. Without his sharp edge, he just looks tired. Human, in every way.

"You don't have to be 'on' around me, you know. You don't have to do all that."

Jungkook turns his head against the base of the armchair, looking over at you. He doesn't answer right away. The room stays quiet for a beat, just the steady, muffled hum of the rain against the windowpane, and voices mumbling from the TV.

"Yeah," he says softly, rubbing a hand tiredly over his face. "I know."

The admission lands softly between you. Hanging in the quiet space of liminality. You’re still half-unsure whether you should’ve said that, and he’s half-unsure whether he should have replied. It feels like stepping across a boundary drawn in the dark. The distance between the two of you has been governed by clear, comfortable rules. You spar in drafty corridors, trade sharp glares over coffee cups, match each other’s remarks beat for beat. You keep each other at arm’s length because arm’s length is safe; it’s predictable; it’s easy to measure.

But here, now, those rules have dissolved, and neither of you seems bothered by that.

You rest your chin in the palm of your hand, studying him, the shy demeanour that he’s currently adopted, a rare one. One that plants a wicked thought in your head, and it quickly takes root.

"You know, Jeon..." you murmur, keeping your voice smooth and entirely even. "You're actually really cute when you're too exhausted to be an asshole."

Jungkook chokes on his own breath so hard it sounds like his soul is attempting a quick exit. Every single defensive instinct he possesses—carefully cultivated over a year of intellectual posturing—instantly short-circuits. His eyes snap wide, his entire body jerking upright as if hit by a live wire. His typically cool demeanour completely vanishes into thin air as he scrambles for footing on your rug, his long limbs flailing just enough to send his water glass rattling precariously against the coffee table.

"I—what?" he stammers. His voice drops an octave, then betrays him entirely by cracking right down the middle. Great, he thinks. Thanks for that one.

"I'm just saying," you continue innocently, propping your chin back on your palm with a sweet smile. "You walked eight blocks through a freezing downpour, dried your hair with my fluffy yellow towel, ate my ramen, and now you’re sitting on my floor looking like a sleepy golden retriever. It’s adorable."

If human spontaneous combustion were possible, Jeon Jungkook would be a pile of ash on your carpet.

A furious shade of crimson blooms across his chest, rushing straight up his throat like a tidal wave and painting his cheekbones and the tips of his ears a burning, undeniable red. It’s almost comical. His brain goes completely offline. Golden retriever? Yellow towel? Adorable? His pride is screaming in agony, but his body is operating purely on blind survival. He lunges for his water, practically draining the entire thing in one desperate, gulping shot to buy his frantic synapses enough time to assemble a response.

"I am not... I don't look like a retriever," he grumbles, jaw clenching so tight you can see the muscle tick. He stares aggressively down at the ramen pot as if it has personally betrayed him. "The ramen is too spicy. It's hot in here."

"Right," you purr softly, leaning in just a fraction closer. "Your ears are bright red, Jeon."

Jungkook immediately claps his palm over his left ear to hide it—an impulse so transparent, so disastrously uncool, that you burst out laughing. He shoots you a glare that is clearly meant to strike terror into your very soul, but with his hair sticking up in messy, damp spikes and his cheeks burning hot crimson, he carries all the intimidation factor of an angry, dishevelled kitten.

"Shut up," he mutters under his breath, though there isn't a single drop of venom left in him. Utterly defeated, he yanks his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and burying his face deep into his sleeves to hide the flustered grin he is fighting with every remaining fibre of his being to suppress. "Just... finish your noodles."

The day has barely begun, and you’re convinced that the library has it out for you.

Earlier today, on your way to your preferred study spot, your sacred, squeaky desk on the third floor was, unfortunately, completely hijacked by a flock of freshmen students holding a full-volume debrief whilst violently shaking iced coffees and throwing paper aeroplanes. When you gave them the death stare, nudging them to flee the scene so serious work could be done, one simply asked if you needed help finding the elevator. You’ll admit, your eye did twitch ever so slightly, but alas, you moved on to your second favourite spot: a small conference room tucked away in the fifth-floor sports education section which barely sees signs of life—mainly because the elevator broke weeks ago and no student in their right mind would walk up five flights of stairs voluntarily (except for you but that is not important). It’s perfect. Secluded enough that people often forget it’s there to book. But of course, the one day you needed it, you found it occupied by six professors old enough to have been there to sign the Magna Carta, holding an emergency meeting on ‘departmental morale’. That left you with spot number three, which was literally cordoned off with police tape because a chunk of the nineteenth-century ceiling had given up on life and collapsed directly onto the rows of desks.

The entire thing feels like an orchestrated attack.

So now you're stranded in the library's new extension. It’s a blinding, sterile void of operating-theatre white paint, fluorescent lights that hum at a frequency only dogs can hear, and plastic chairs clearly designed by someone who detests the human spine. There is no dark mahogany, no brass lamps, nothing. It’s the epitome of soulless. Just you, a sterile white desk, and a blank screen aggressively mocking your lack of options.

An hour later, you're struggling with a citation format, muttering under your breath as you type and delete the same footnote four times, debating throwing the laptop down the glass balcony beside you. Before you can see that idea into fruition, a shadow looms over your shoulder, and you see the bane of your existence peer down to gaze at your screen.

His chest almost brushes your back, and you stiffen at the scent of his woody cologne that wraps around you instantly. He reaches past your shoulder, his arm brushing yours as his fingers take over your keyboard. The heat radiating off his chest is near-suffocating, turning your skin electric as he types out the correct formatting with infuriating ease. Ease that makes you want to bend back all of his fingers and rip them off. You look down at them typing and—

Oh no. That was a mistake. Why did you do that? What on God’s green Earth compelled you to do such a thing? This is bad.

Because now, playing in high-definition horror across your brain, is the exact memory of those exact fingers sliding down the front of your unzipped jeans months ago.

Your mind—which should be strictly focused on this essay—immediately betrays you, looping the image of his knuckles grazing your bare stomach before slipping under the damp lace, previewing the absolute, life-altering ecstasy you were mere milliseconds away from receiving before that bumbling, drunk bastard stumbled down the hall and ruined it all. Talk about cock-block of the century.

You stare at his hands on your keyboard.

Stop looking at his knuckles; your brain screams at full volume. Look away. Look at the wall. Look at the hideous lights. Look, one of them has a trapped spider in it. And that one’s got a cockroach. No, don’t think about cock. Okay, look literally anywhere else.

Instead, your traitorous eyes, which you will be having words with soon, trace the faint blue veins running across the back of his hand, down to the neat trim of his nails, remembering how those fingers had come so close to driving you completely insane. You can practically feel the heat of them.

Here you are, currently sitting in a library that looks like a high-security dental clinic, bathed in fluorescent lighting bright enough to see from space, having the most filthy, unholy thoughts about your enemy’s index finger. It is an absolute crime against higher education.

A flush flares up your neck, burning hot enough to rival the sun, and your breath hitches in your throat.

Pull yourself together.

Jungkook finishes the citation with a final, decisive hit to the Enter key. But instead of pulling back, he lingers. His chest presses a fraction closer to your back, his scent completely drowning out the room's smell of cheap floor sanitiser. He rests his right hand on the white laminate desk, right beside yours, clearly not interested in the idea of personal space, and even less interested in the idea of moving.

"You left out the volume number," he whispers, his hot breath grazing the shell of your ear. "For someone who beat me by two per cent, your citation skills are remarkably embarrassing."

Your heart does a traitorous flip in your chest—have to have a word with that too. Without thinking, you swat his hand away from your keyboard with your pen. "Get off my back, Jeon. Nobody asked you."

"Your suffering was making too much noise," he replies, finally stepping back with his hands in his pockets.

But he doesn’t leave; of course he doesn’t. He skips a seat and settles next to you on the white table, taking out his own laptop.

By 8:00 PM, you’re slowly regretting life.

The room is almost completely deserted, save for you, Jungkook, and a few other people three rows down. It’s nearing the evening now, exhaustion settling deep into your bones as you lean back in your chair, stretching your arms over your head with a soft groan. Whilst you’re enjoying your little, much-needed stretch, head all tilted back, massaging your eyes with the backs of your hands, you almost don’t notice Jungkook quietly reaching over—until he snatches your printed essay outline from under your nose and uncaps a red pen.

"Hey!" you snap, sitting up instantly. "Give that back!"

"Your second premise is built on absolute sand," he says smoothly, ignoring your reaching hands as he rapidly scribbles three brutal red lines across your carefully structured paragraph. "You're relying on a flawed interpretation of act versus rule utilitarianism. If you hand this in to Wilde, she’s going to dissect you alive."

"I don't need your help, Jeon!" You snatch the paper back, glaring at the red ink taking over your margins. "My premise is solid!"

"It's weak, and you know it," he counters calmly, turning back to his laptop to keep clicking away. "Fix it, or don't. I'd love to watch Wilde shred you in front of the whole class. Just remind me to bring some popcorn."

As he turns back, you quickly pull a neon-pink sticky note from your bag, scribble two fast lines in thick black marker, and slap it flat onto the centre of his keyboard.

Jungkook looks down, squinting at the note like it’s asking for a ransom.

Your conclusion in Chapter 3 lacks basic logical validity. Also, your handwriting looks like a toddler having a seizure. - Y/N (The Superior Student)

Jungkook stares at the note for two long seconds. Then, a low laugh escapes his throat. The laugh does something to you, and no, you will not elaborate any further. He peels the sticky note off his laptop, but instead of throwing it away, he carefully folds it in half and slips it straight into his front jacket pocket.

By 10:00 PM, your research hits a dead end.

You need this obscure 1884 translation of a text you don’t even want to try to pronounce, and the only physical copy in the university's possession is missing from the philosophy stacks. You've been searching the online portal for an hour, groaning aloud.

But before you can admit defeat, Jungkook stands up, gathers his laptop, and walks towards the exit without saying a word. But as he passes your desk, he drops a tiny, folded scrap of yellow lined paper directly onto your keyboard.

You unfold it.

Written in his sharp, stupid, slanted handwriting is:

Where high theory returns to clay. Look by the texts on topsoil and hay. Row 4, Shelf C. Don't say I never gave you anything, 2%.

You stare at the paper, eyes narrowing. Dramatic.

Ten minutes later, you are standing in what can only be described as a subterranean dungeon. The contrast is insulting. Upstairs is a blinding operating room, but down here, the Agriculture and Soil Science section looks like the set of an indie horror film with the budget cut before they could get proper lighting. The air is five degrees colder, thick with dry rot and misery. Not to mention, it is an absolute ghost town. The fluorescent tube overhead hums and flickers in a dying rhythm, casting erratic shadows over the towering metal shelves that haven't been dusted since the Middle Ages.

You creep down the flickering aisle, eyes squinting and darting between the yellowing textbooks when it hits you: Jeon might actually be a psychopath. Zero call service? No surveillance cameras? No witnesses? You’re half expecting Jungkook to emerge behind the volumes on soil acidity wearing a plastic poncho, and these dusty cinderblock walls are going to be the last thing you ever see.

Killed over a riddle about soil. What a way to go.

You reach Row 4 and continue down it in search of what? Who knows at this point? Agriculture in World History, Stable Isotope Ecology, Guide to Bovine Respiratory Health.

It’s a graveyard of livestock care and soil density reports, and you’re ninety per cent sure that if you pass out down here from inhaling 1970s crop dust, your body won't be discovered until the next departmental accreditation audit in 2035. But just before you’re about to turn around and most likely hunt down Jungkook and his family, you see it. Right there, tucked neatly between Principles of Dairy Farming and Soil Phosphorus Insights, is the pristine, leather-bound 1884 translation. The exact one you need.

He had likely hunted it down earlier, hid it in the most obscure section of the library so no one else could check it out, and gave you the key. You clutch the book to your chest, your lips twitching with a reluctant, helpless smile that you aggressively force back down before it can solidify.

"Categorical imperative," you snap across the small round table at the coffee shop, pointing a spoon at his face. "Go."

"An unconditional moral obligation that is binding in all circumstances and is not dependent on a person's inclination or purpose," Jungkook rattles off without missing a single beat. He doesn't even look up from his phone, casually reaching across the small table and picking a fresh strawberry straight off your slice of cheesecake.

"Hey! That was mine!" you protest.

"You lost the round, sweetheart," he smirks, popping the fruit into his mouth and chewing with obnoxious satisfaction. "Rules are rules. Wrong answer or slow answer loses a bite."

"I didn't lose; I was testing your speed," you grumble, pulling your plate closer. "Fine. Hit me."

Jungkook looks up from his phone, eyes sparkling with challenge that always seems to exist between the two of you. “Veil of Ignorance.”

“Rawls’ thought experiment designed to construct a fair society by making decision-makers oblivious to their own status, talents, and wealth.”

“Deterrence theory.”

“Legal philosophy holding that punishment prevents future crime through individual and general intimidation. Everyone knows that one; is that seriously all you have?”

“Okay, fine. You asked for this. Aristotelian virtue ethics.”

"Morality based on building character and achieving eudaimonia rather than following strict rules or weighing outcomes," you blurt out on complete autopilot, your brain entirely locked.

Jungkook sets his phone down, resting his chin in his hand. He lets the rapid-fire momentum linger for half a second, lulling you into answering on pure instinct before striking, clearly trying to catch you out.

 "My biggest pet peeve?"

“Those people who click their four-colour BIC pens during exams,” you blurt out without missing a single beat, the momentum carrying your tongue straight over the trap. “You glare at the back of their heads; you’re practically burning holes in their spinal cords.”

The words leave your mouth before your brain can hit the emergency brake.

You freeze.

Brain, you weren’t meant to do that. You weren’t meant to know that. Thanks a lot.

Jungkook doesn't say a word. He just stays there, leaning on his hand, a slow, victorious expression spreading across his face until that infuriating dimple makes an appearance. You want to kiss and carve it off his face.

"Correct," he hums smoothly, voice dropping an octave with satisfaction. "And how, exactly, do you know that?"

"I—because you're so loud about it!" you scramble, your cheeks suddenly bursting into a humiliating heat. You grab your fork like a weapon, pointing it accusingly at his nose. "You literally radiate hostility across the entire third row. A blind bat would notice it. It’s not like I’m watching you."

"Right. You're not watching me," Jungkook repeats, leaning forward until the small round coffee table feels half its size. The room feels hot, stupidly hot. The suffocating kind of heat that makes you hyper aware of every movement, every sound, and every time you think about the heat, you swear it gets hotter. "You just happen to know the exact brand of pen, the exact moment, and my exact physiological response to it."

"It's basic spatial awareness!" you snap, pulling your cheesecake even closer into your chest, guarding it. "You're a nuisance, Jeon, and nuisances are hard to ignore."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart," he chuckles softly, a low sound that makes your chest tighten. Before you can react, his long fingers dart out with lightning speed, snagging another massive piece of strawberry directly off your fork before you can get it to your mouth.

 "Jungkook!" you gasp, outrage snapping you out of your fluster.

"You lost the bonus round," he says innocently, popping the strawberry into his mouth and looking down at you. "You took too long to justify how much you pay attention to me."

You’re going to kill him.

The grand auditorium stretches upwards in towering arcs of dark wood and polished brass, blinding overhead spotlights cutting through the warm haze of the murmuring crowd. Over eight hundred students, faculty members, and a distinguished panel of guest judges sit packed into the steep, velvet-lined tiers. This isn't just a university showcase—it’s the National Intercollegiate Debate Championship, an open-bracket battleground where any student from any discipline can take the floor. On the line are eternal bragging rights and $10,000.

$10,000.

To the university, it’s just a slick press release—having two of their own manage to claw their way to the grand finals. To Jeon Jungkook, it’s a shiny trophy to stack atop an already ridiculously gleaming resume. But to you? It’s security, breathing room.

Backstage, your hands are ice-cold, which is absurd because you aren't even scared. You know you are fully capable of wiping the floor with anyone out there, let alone Jeon Jungkook. Your brain is an engine ready for blood. Your body, however, apparently missed the memo, deciding to launch a full adrenaline mutiny. Your heart is pounding in your ears like a broken subwoofer, and your fingers are trembling as if you're about to fight a bear instead of delivering a fifteen-minute opening statement.

You pull your shoulders back and try to smooth down your blazer, attempting to order your rogue hands to stop acting like damn leaves, when a rustle of paper catches your eye. Slapped across the front cover of your binder is a bright yellow sticky note in Jungkook's slanted handwriting:

Try not to cry when I demolish your entire argument, sweetheart.

You snap your head up to find him leaning against the steel equipment rack a few feet away. And god, it pisses you off how unfair it is. He is tailored in a dark charcoal suit that hugs his shoulders entirely too well, his crisp shirt unbuttoned just enough at the collar to make you want to throw a heavy book at his head. For one dangerous second, your brain flashes back—to that humid, stupid, house party, the dark hallway, the taste of cheap drink, and the searing heat of his mouth pressed against yours before—

Nope. You yank your mind back by the throat, slamming the door on that memory before it can ruin your focus.

You look back to his eyes, which promise nothing but a clean battle between equals. You crush the sticky note into a tight ball in your fist, drawing blood from your glare, but your chest betrays you anyway- not cool.

You divert your gaze, but before you step out onto the stage, you peek through the slit in the heavy curtain towards the front row.

Jungkook’s parents are already seated near the centre aisle. His mother sits with her hands folded neatly over a soft cream cashmere cardigan—the kind of quiet luxury that probably costs more than your entire semester's rent—whilst his father beside her beams with a proud, effortless smile, adjusting a camera lens. They look so warm. So stable. Safe.

Your eyes shift to the empty reserved seats four rows back. Velvet upholstery and empty air. Standard. Your dad is probably passed out on a cracked armchair right now, or feeding his last twenty bucks into a slot machine down at the local pub. No safety net, no proud parent with a camera lens, no one coming to rescue you if you mess this up. It just is what it is.

Don't go there, you tell yourself sternly, forcing down the tight, hot lump in your throat. Not today. Not now.

Then, four rows back, a sudden movement breaks your spiral. You find Yeji waving frantically with both hands as Isla sits beside her, holding up a tiny cardboard sign that reads: CRUSH HIM, Y/N!

A quiet breath escapes your lips. You don't have a family sitting out in those seats, but you have them. Swallowing the sting in your throat, you square your shoulders, lock your jaw, and wait, wait for the curtains to part.

The first forty minutes can only be described as war.

"To claim that individual ethics can exist in a vacuum, completely detached from social structure, is an intellectual fairy tale," Jungkook argues, leaning low into his microphone. His voice fills every corner of the hall, radiating the kind of calm authority that makes you want to throw the podium at his head. "Without a rigid, universal framework, 'morality' becomes whatever anyone wants it to be. Order isn't an option—it is the prerequisite for any functional society."

You grip the edges of your podium so hard your knuckles turn white. Look at him. Standing there looking like a damn CEO, pretending he didn't almost choke to death on spicy ramen on your living room a few weeks ago.

In the third row, the spectator section is already buzzing.

"God, this Jeon guy is on fire today," some guy from another university whispers to his friend. "His structure is literally airtight."

A few seats down, Taehyung leans over to whisper to Jimin and Hoseok. "He’s in his element. Look at him."

"Yeah, but watch her," Hoseok whispers back, eyes glued to the stage, like he cannot turn away no matter how hard he tries to. "She’s not giving him a single inch."

When you step up to your mic, your heart is hammering, frantic. But your voice gives nothing away.

"Order built on suppressing human context isn't morality—it’s just forced compliance," you counter, keeping your tone smooth, steady, sharp. "My opponent begs you to evaluate this issue inside a neat little vacuum because he knows—and he knows full well—that the second you introduce real-world inequality, his entire universal thesis completely crumbles."

Dismantle that, sweetheart.

Four rows back, Isla clutches Yeji’s, shaking it with every word. "She’s turning his own words against him!" she squeaks softly.

"She’s pinning him," Yeji breathes, a proud, slightly terrifying grin breaking across her face. "Look at his jaw."

Then comes the open rebuttal round—and you lay the trap.

Drawing on an obscure, overlooked paper on structural ethics, you box Jungkook into a fatal logical nightmare. It’s glorious. You force him into a corner where every single available exit requires him to either betray his own core premise or admit, in front of eight hundred people, that you are entirely right.

You stand tall at your podium, tilting your head just enough to catch his eye. You watch his jaw clench, the tiniest fraction of a twitch hitting his eyebrow as his brain frantically calculates the math and realises that he's completely trapped.

You see the exact moment something in him snaps.

His eyes flicker for a fraction of a second towards the front rows—catching his father’s hovering camera lens and the expectant, proud smile of his mother—before snapping back to you with a cold panic. Right now, in this moment, he's a boy who doesn't know how to survive a fall."

You can see the gears turning in his mind, the prospect of losing in front of eight hundred people, of losing the championship. He doesn’t know how to fail. He’s never learned how to lose, not like this.

You also see the exact moment a spark ignites in his mind. And how you wish you were more prepared for this.

He steps up for his final ninety-second closing rebuttal. He doesn't even look at his notes; they’re useless. They’re not going to save him now. Instead, he looks directly at you.

"It is undeniably moving to hear the opponent construct such a passionate, emotionally charged argument," Jungkook begins, his voice unusually detached, a hum that cuts through the hall.

Silence stretches over the audience. A judge stops tapping her pen against the sheet. Students lean forward in anticipation. You yourself brace the edge of your podium

The auditorium falls into an eerie, suffocating silence.

"However," he continues, turning his body to face the judges, his eyes unblinking, "this panel must distinguish between objective ethical philosophy and arguments born from an acute, personal volatility."

Your breath hitches in your throat.

“The opposing side demands that we abandon objective framework in favour of ‘human context’,” Jungkook says, every single word enunciated with sickening precision. “In doing so, this asks the panel to mistake personal hardship for universal principle. But when an argument and perspective is constructed not through disciplined objective reasoning, but through the mercenary lens of chronic socio-economic desperation to justify dismantling order, it ceases to be a critique. It becomes a projection—an attempt to bend objective rules simply to compensate for an unstable life.”

The blow lands brutally—a physical force—knocking the air right out of your lungs.

It’s surgical. On the surface, he’s simply countering your point, claiming emotional bias. But beneath the academic rigidity of his words, the subtext is sharp. It’s toxic.

He doesn't name your father. He doesn't explicitly bring up the debts, the late shifts, or your empty bank account. He doesn’t spell out the jagged pieces of your life. He doesn’t have to do that for you to realise what he’s done. He’s taking every quiet vulnerability, every small confession, every scar, every ounce of shame, and has weaponised it on a national stage to brand you as an unstable, desperate fraud.

A few rows down the auditorium, Taehyung’s jaw drops. "Did he... did he just say that?"

"What the hell is he doing?!" Hoseok hisses, staring at Jungkook as though he’s looking at a complete stranger.

"What the fuck," Yeji gasps, her hands flying over her mouth, eyes wide with shock.

Around them, the crowd breaks into a chaotic, muttering storm.

"Jesus, that was dirty," a girl amongst the back rows whispers loudly. "That wasn't even a rebuttal, that was just a straight-up attack."

"I don't know," a guy next to her counters under his breath, shaking his head. "It's ten grand and a national title. Jeon saw a crack in her perspective and just drove a wedge into it. Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do to win."

"Brutal, though. He completely gutted her."

The judges sit in stunned, uncomfortable silence. It’s abstract enough that it doesn't explicitly break tournament rules for disqualification, but the malice radiating off of it is still blinding.

You stand at your podium. You don't yell. You don't object.

Jungkook finishes his sentence, his breathing heavy. But as his gaze swings back to catch yours, the high he feels instantly turns to ash, and the sight of your hollow expression finally hits him.

Every single drop of warmth drains from your face, leaving your cold skin sticky and translucent. Your heart doesn't race as you expect it to. It can’t. It can barely even beat. You simply stare across the narrow gap at him, your mind ringing with an empty, deafening silence.

The muffled murmur of eight hundred people in the audience, the harsh glare of the stage lights, the distant hum of the microphones—it all fades into a low, underwater buzz. The world shrinks until there is only the few feet of dark wood separating your podium from his.

Just a few weeks ago he had been the soft boy sitting on your living room floor, damp-haired and wide-eyed. You thought you were building something real. You thought the quiet revealed a type of truce, something real built in between all the rivalry.

Now the horrifying truth of it all settles in; it wasn’t a truce, just ammunition.

He didn’t just defeat you, outsmart you, or best you. He took quiet moments, painful moments, moments you trusted him with and laid them out on a silver platter under a glass dome and sharp lighting for a room full of strangers to dissect. He traded your safety for ten thousand dollars, deciding the most bruised parts of you were worth stepping on to win.

All you feel is numb. Stupid as well. But mostly numb. There’s no fiery anger here to warm you, no sharp dignity to keep you standing tall. There’s nothing left.

You don’t scream. You don’t object. You just stand there, hollowed out, watching the man who made you feel safe become the person who hurt you worse than anyone ever has.

DING.

The timer sounds, breaking the silence.

You don't wait for the panel to speak. You don't wait for the final scores, and you don't look up at the judges.

With quiet hands, you slide your notes back into your binder. You zip your bag shut in one swift motion, keeping your jaw locked, refusing to let a single tear spill in front of him, his proud parents, or the eight hundred people packed into those seats.

Without giving Jungkook so much as a glance, you turn away from the podium. You walk down the steps of the stage and stride down the side of the stage, disappearing into the wings until the heavy double doors swing shut behind you before they can even declare him the winner.

The second the heavy doors slam shut behind you, Jungkook's entire world goes mute.

"...and the winner of the National Intercollegiate Debate Championship, receiving the ten-thousand-dollar cash prize, is Jeon Jungkook!"

A roar of applause breaks out across the auditorium. People stand and clap and whistle and gaze up with glee. His father stands with a proud flash of his camera, and his mother beams. clapping her hands together softly muttering sweet words. On the side of the stage, the panel of judges stand to offer him a formal handshake, holding out a sleek glass trophy which flickers under the harsh lights pointed straight at him.

But Jungkook doesn't move. He can't. To Jungkook, none of it exists. The claps and cheers drop into the background like static, all muffled and maddening. It's like he's listening to the world from underwater. The bright stage lights burn against his eyes, exposing exactly what he's done, leaving him completely raw. And what is supposed to be the sweet taste of victory turns thick and smoky, like ash on his tongue.

He won. He won the competition. He had just proved in front of hundreds of people, thousands, maybe, if people bothered to tune in at home, that he was undisputedly the best. The judges’ scorecards confirmed it in glowing, undeniable numbers. His name was being echoed through the auditorium speakers, cementing this moment.

It's not like last year's finals where he beat you by one per cent, not like the rush he felt during his first ever high school competition, not like the pride he feels receiving his essays with near-perfect scores, not like just a few weeks ago where he beat you by two points in the informal presentations.

Those victories had felt like pure oxygen. They had tasted like honest sweat and hard-earned glory.

No, this victory isn't sweet. It doesn't even feel like a victory.

He stands there, frozen behind his podium, shoulders still, gaze blank as it remains locked on the vacant wooden stand where you just stood seconds ago.

What did I just do? Is all he can think.

The question all but rattles through his mind, followed by a wave of nausea that has his head feeling so light and his legs like jelly that his knees almost buckle. His own voice replays, each word forcing his stomach into a sickening knot. It feels as though an invisible hand has bound him, forcing every cruel word down his throat until he chokes on them. He's powerless to escape, unable to stop it, and condemned to endure his own malice.

“Mercenary lens of chronic socio-economic desperation… compensate for an unstable life.”

God, he had said those words out loud. He had articulated them with such calculated precision, such posh cadence, with no hesitation, and no regrets in the moment. He had leaned into the microphone, let his voice project through the speaker system as if this were a casual Wednesday and let the words flow out perfectly. He didn't hesitate; he didn't stumble over a single syllable; he didn't flinch. And the worst part? He didn't falter. It's like his heart didn't catch up to his brain until you weren't standing across from him anymore. He had seen the shift in your face, seen the exact second colour drained from your cheeks, the way your posture broke, and the light in your eyes dimmed. And he felt nothing. Fuelled by nothing but fear and adrenaline, he held his head high, ready to claim his crown. He used his words to make sure every single person in this room understood exactly what he meant. He used them to win.

No, not win. This isn't winning. He didn't out-think you. He didn't logically dismantle your words with better logic, more relevant clauses, or a stronger framework. This wasn't deserved or earned. He didn't win because he was smarter. No. He won from his own petty arrogance and own stupidity. The moment he felt cornered, the second his pathetic, fragile ego felt the trophy slip from his fingers, he reached for the dirt and clung on for dear life. He didn't just pull a last resort; he had taken your darkest secrets, ones you had whispered to him in a moment of defeat behind closed doors and used them against you. He had used every admission of fear, of unbelonging, of helplessness, and thrown them into your face in front of eight hundred people.

She trusted me, his brain screams, the realisation tearing him apart. She let me in, and I used it to gut her.

You had given him the one thing you kept guarded from almost the rest of the world: your own private scars, and the painful truth of how badly you needed this. You had looked at him for years, in seminar rooms, in lecture halls, across library desks, in crowded coffee shops, in late-night planning, and early-morning revision sessions, in the dim hallway of that party months ago, and that night a few weeks ago on the floor of the lounge, and decided that he was safe. You had believed, even if only for a fleeting second, that he saw you as an equal. That despite how much you infuriate each other, you believed that under all of that, under all the rivalry, he was one of the few places in your life where there was no judgment, no snark, nothing for your drowning life.

And what did he do with that?

He didn't protect it. He didn't hold it gently between you. He had dragged it out into the glare of a packed auditorium, laid it across a stage, and slaughtered it with a polite smile on his face. A cheap rhetorical trick. A cruel punchline.

I did that, he thinks, the thought suffocating him, crushing his chest until he can barely force air into his lungs.

The ten-thousand-dollar grant isn't a victory; it’s blood money. The mere thought of receiving it revolts him; he feels disgusted by his own skin, sickened by the reflection of the cowardly, insecure monster who had traded your heart for a title and a piece of glass, which was no doubt just glorified plastic. There was no pride in using the blade he had stolen from your chest. There was no glory in standing victorious over a ruined battlefield he had created by tearing open your deepest, most private wounds in front of a stadium full of strangers.

Jungkook doesn't touch the trophy. He doesn't shake the judge's hand. He ignores the confusion on his parents' faces and the icy stares from Taehyung and Hoseok in the second row. Instead, he turns on his heel, vaults down the stage steps and shoves through the crowd of students, abandoning his leather binder on the podium. He throws his shoulders against the heavy doors, bursting out into the lobby.

"Y/N!" his voice cracks, booming uselessly off the soaring stone walls. "Y/N, please!"

Nothing. The foyer is empty, cold, quiet. Outside the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, the night air is slick with heavy rain, the wet sidewalk reflecting the harsh yellow glow of the streetlamps. The warmth of the light mocks him.

Your shadow is gone. You have completely vanished into the dark.

"Shit!"

Jungkook grabs a handful of his hair, his fingers clawing at the strands, dissecting them, yanking them so hard the style falls apart, the gel practically melting away altogether. His scalp sings as a groan rips from his chest. He paces the floor, breathing ragged and wild, heart hammering against his ribs.

He slams his fist hard against a nearby marble pillar; the skin almost splits, and a sharp pain radiates up his arm. But he barely registers it. It's nothing compared to what he feels inside. The suffocation in his chest.

What have I done?

The thought takes root in his mind, weaving around his brain, planting itself dead in the centre as if nothing else matters. He knows he fucked up. He knows what he's done. He had crossed a line. An unforgivable one. He had broken the one thing that mattered more to him than any grant, or title, or win ever could. But he refuses to accept that this is where it ends. He refuses to let you walk away thinking he didn't care, or that he was truly this heartless.

He pulls out his phone from his pants pocket, the thing shaking violently in his hand. It takes him three tries to unlock his phone before he dials your number, over and over again. But each time it just sends straight to voicemail. He pockets the damn thing, pushing through the heavy glass doors into the rain.

He is going to make this right. He will search every street, every library, every obnoxious coffee shop, every flickering bus stop, and every forgotten study nook. But he will. He will tear himself apart if he has to, but he's going to make this right.

He has to.

part 2 will be posted soon!

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“baby, it's 7... why are you getting up?” you groan as jungkook tries to shuffle away from the bed. you try to grab his arms and hug it tightly, he smiles at you, “sorry, baby. i have work to do. emergency meeting,” he says while showing you the email on his phone.

“it's our vacation...” you pout, still hugging his arm. ”i'll try to finish it as soon as possible, honey. we just have an emergency thing to talk about,” he kisses your forehead and stands up, puts on sweatpants and moves away to the desk of the hotel room.

“fine, i'll make you some coffee, baby...” you shuffle up, wrapping the blanket around your body as you try to pick up your clothing on the floor, putting on his shirt. afterwards, you go to the kitchen, and prepare him his favorite coffee. two shots of espresso, with cream and no sugar.

this week is your and your husband's vacation as an early celebration for your 4th wedding anniversary. you booked a hotel in baguio city in the philippines, the summer capital of said country. you pout at the thought, it was your vacation, a time to enjoy each other's company. living together provides that, but a time with zero work is what you were supposed to have.

you try to understand, you really try, he was going to be promoted soon after all. but somehow, it makes you upset. you grab the mug, and placed it on his desk, slowly wrapping your arms around his neck from behind. “thank you, sweet cheeks.”

“no worries, hon,” you kiss the side of his neck, he groans a response. “no video call?” you ask as he is only wearing his black tank. “yeah, thank god. don't wanna shower yet. too cold here,” you chuckle, and he faces you, kissing your lips delicately. you kiss back, kissing a little rougher, even slowly moving to sit on his lap and play with his hair, grinding slowly on his lap. “baby...” he groans, hands gripping your hips. “need you, jeon,” you moan against his ear.

his grip on your hip tightens, but he pulls back.

“i love you, i'll make it up to you later. okay, honey?” he strokes your fallen strands on your cheek, moving them away and kissing your temple. you nod, kissing his cheek. “of course you will,” you wink and went to the bathroom, showering.

whilst showering, you could hear his skype’s ringtone going off, then them talking. “yes, good morning, everyone. thank you for your time,” jungkook says, his tone is so professional, and it makes you wet imagining the serious look on his face, the one he wears during work. you hurry up on showering, an idea popping up on your mind.

you left the bathroom, naked. you walked towards jungkook, and he’s focused on his meeting. you gently touch his jaw, making him look at you before moving away just slightly, so he can see the way you look.

and fuck, your body. your neck and tits marked up with his kisses from the past few nights, you waist, and damn, your fucking pussy. he can feel his cock hardening at the sight. “sorry, everyone. i need to be excused for a moment,”

“baby, what the fuck? why are you naked?” he asks, but he cannot keep his hands from reaching to you, grabbing your waist and settling you down on his lap. “missed you, couldn’t help but get wet at your seriousness,”

“i promise, i’ll hurry with this thing. alright, honey?” he gently says, stroking your hair with his fingers. “i’m so fucking hard right now, sweet cheeks. but i gotta finish this.”

you nod, diligently following him, and he continues the call once you get off his lap. you, however, would still do your idea.

you get down, crawl beneath the desk until your face is pressed against his boner on his sweatpants. you could see him gulp, looking at you with nervous eyes, words stuttering as he tries horribly to proceed. he shakes his head to try and tell you no, but you just smirk and pull his sweatpants down.

“mmh… so fucking hard for me” you press his cock against your face, stroking a bit, enough to make him crazy. jungkook’s train of thought was now cut off, eyes tilting back at the feeling of you touching him. his hands travel to the back of your head, tugging at your hair.

he continues on with his meeting, trying so hard to finish it immediately. hands still on your head, he tries to push you away just a bit, but his hips immediately follow, involuntarily wanting your touch.

you lick him a bit, kisses on the base of his cock before sucking on his head, his words stuttering so bad. breathing ragged. you continue on sucking, hands stroking on his balls, keeping your eyes on him, his eyes, his lips, his dick. you just bob on it, loving the feeling of his cock twitching at your mouth helplessly.

your hands roam higher up, letting go of his balls and letting them roam on his chest, just above his tank. your husband's a workaholic, but he keeps his gym schedule on-track. his arms are wrapped by his sleeve tattoo, your silly nickname etched just above his abs.

you can feel his body heating up, your eyes closing at the feeling. his hand grabs further up your head, almost fucking your mouth while on a call with his bosses.

you didn’t even realize how many minutes have gone by when he suddenly shuts his laptop, sliding it across the desk. gripping your hair harshly, he yanks you up from beneath the table.

“you couldn’t even wait until i was done, can you? can’t even wait for me to finish up before you choke on my cock? hmm, sweetheart?” he shoves you and bends you over the desk, hands already by your hips, pressing his thick and wet cock on your ass. “fucking feel that. feel how hard you made me sucking my cock during my meeting?” he spanks your ass, the sharp sting making you even wetter. he’s pinned you against the desk now, laptop nowhere to be seen. you press your ass closer to his dick, grinding sluttily.

“need you,” you look up back at him, tilting your head just enough, which he takes advantage of and wraps his hand around your neck. kissing your lips harshly, both of your tounges battling for dominance. he lets you go, pinning your head gently against the desk, a string of saliva connecting your lips.

“you wan’ me to fuck you raw, baby? wanna feel my cock rutting in you?” you nod. helplessly. he spanks you. “use your words, hon. need to hear you.”

“yes! fuck, need your dick in me” you grind your ass against him desperately, hands clawing the desk, back sweaty. he grabs your hips, spits on his hand and wraps it around his head. he aligns himself, and with one swift motion, his cock ravages your insides.

“fuck, baby. look at how wet you are, taking my dick so easily.”

“aaah! yes, yes, jungkook… right there, baby,” you scream, his pace so steady and hard you feel like choking on your own spit. eyes rolling back, he fucks you from behind as his hands wrap around your neck as you bend over for him.

“mmmh, jungkook..!” you continue to scream, moaning harshly and he suddenly flips you over, facing you as he lets you sit on the table, legs spread wide and his fingers latching on your clit immediately.

he leans over, licks his fingers before his lips. he kisses your lips before kneeling down, spreading your wet folds before murmuring, “need to taste this sweet pussy,”

his tongue touches your folds gently, fingers teasing on the skin just beside your core. you moan, wrapping your hands around his hair and tugging just a little.

jungkook doesn’t waste any second, latching his perfectly wet tongue against your folds, sucking harshly on your clit, making your mind go blank. he even puts a finger in, immediately curling it and looks at you. you can feel the smirk on his lips.

you grind your hips against his tongue, desperately seeking more of his wet and hot mouth. he continues to lick, smirking a little as he feels your anticipation.

jungkook has always loved eating your pussy, whether you’re in the shower, in the bed after a long day at work, or even when you’re casually making dinner. all he needed to do was lift your thighs a little and you’re all ready for him. you were his horny girl after all.

he now adds a second finger, groaning at how tightly your wrapping around his tattoed fingers, coating the letters with your juices. he fucks you with his fingers, hitting your spot so deliciously while licking your clit. your mind goes crazy.

“f-fuck! baby… gonna come soon… aaah! don’t stop, mhmm… just like that” you groan helplessly as your head tilts back, back arched towards him. “just like that, sweet girl. show me how you take my fingers. you’re doing so fucking good, hun.” he whispers against your clit, the vibrations making you shiver. he rises up, and puts all his focus on the way he’s fucking your pussy with his fingers.

you grind helplessly against them. “go ahead, sweetheart. fucking grind on them,” he nods while whispering on your ears, encouraging you to keep going.

you can feel the knot in your stomach growing, and you tighten around his fingers, moaning hard and spit drooling against your jaw.

just as you feel yourself cumming, he pulls out. you groan, eyes teary at the rejected orgasm. “jungkook…” you pout as he smiles.

“need you to come around my cock, wife.” he turns you around once again, slapping your ass as he spits on his hand before stroking his cockhead slightly. “ass up,” you follow, sluttily arching your back to show him how ready you are.

he slaps it once again before sliding in. you were so wet he didn’t really need to line it in. groaning at the feeling, jungkook thrusts almost immediately, fucking your pussy roughly while grabbing your face, kissing your lips romantically, his other hand gripping your hips.

“love you,” he whispers just beside your ears, planting kisses on your shoulders while he pounds on you. “love you, koo..!” you scream at him, that familiar knot appearing once again.

“gonna cum,” you warn him, and he nods, “go ahead, wife. come around me, yeah? need you to choke my cock.” he doesn’t stop fucking you, hitting your spot everytime, rubbing your clit to stimulate your climax. “cummingggg..!” you scream as you feel your walls tighten impossibly, him groaning behind you as your juices flow out, creaming his cock.

his lips never leave your neck, planting kisses all over them as he loves the smell of sex and sweat all around you. kisses so gentle its the complete opposite of how he pistons his cock inside you roughly. “so fucking tight, honey, gonna follow you soon. a little more, yeah? you can take it, right?” you nod at his words. “yes… yes! need your come in me!” you scream as a response.

you’ve always loved how his cum feels inside you, the warmness making you full and almost ecstatic. after marriage, you’ve never made love without him finishing in your womb. “i’m gonna cum, sweetheart. come on, face me.” he tilts your head with his free hand, kissing you once again as he spills inside of you. the warmness making you moan as he groans against your mouth.

he slows down and pants behind you, his chest pressed against your back as he tries to gather himself up. pulling out, he hisses as he sees his come leak out of you. before they drip, he gently fucks them inside you again. “you need them. right, baby? need my warm come in your pussy like a good wife…” you nod at him, thighs shaking a little bit. he pecks your lips.

“come on, let’s clean you up and i’ll make you breakfast, hmm? love you, babe.” you hum a response, leaning your body against him. “only if you promise you’ll never touch that damn laptop again.” you pout at him and he chuckles. “of course, baby. i’m sorry, okay?” he pecks your lips and cuddles you down on the bed.

You’d only planned on having a casual Thursday night catch-up with Namjoon. You’d known him since you were in your early twenties, back when you were both living in a tiny apartment, and his biggest problem was trying to finish writing lyrics before sunrise. Somehow, all these years later, your friendship had stayed the same.

When the door chimed and a tall figure stepped closer to your table, shaking off a wet umbrella, you barely looked up from your whiskey sour.

"You're late, Joon," you murmured, wiping the condensation off of your glass. "Traffic again?"

"Worse," a deep voice replied, but it wasn’t the one you were expecting.

You blinked and looked up, only to see Namjoon stepping aside. Standing behind him was Jeon Jungkook. Even dressed casually in a hoodie and a black beanie pulled low over his forehead, he somehow managed to draw attention without trying. His eyes caught the warm glow of the lounge as they met yours, studying you with curiosity.

"Y/N, this is Jungkook," Namjoon said, dropping his keys onto the table. "Jungkook, this is Y/N. The friend I told you about who refuses to let me live down my 2016 hairstyles."

Jungkook’s lips slowly curled into a knowing smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He slid into the booth beside Namjoon, the leather seat shifting under his weight, but his eyes never left yours.

"Ah," Jungkook said. "The legendary Y/N. I feel like I already know so much about you."

"And I feel like Namjoon talks about me way too much," you teased, though a sudden warmth spread through your chest under the weight of Jungkook’s attention.

What was supposed to be a quiet dinner between old friends slowly turned into something else, with the night changing in a way that was hard to ignore. Namjoon, worn out after a sixteen-hour studio session, offered occasional nods and hums as he listened.

You talked about everything and nothing at the same time. You debated about what the best video games of the year were, playfully argued over the best street food, and laughed at ridiculous tour stories Jungkook told.

As midnight came and went, the lounge around you seemed to fade into the background. Every time Jungkook laughed, you couldn’t help but notice how he resembled a bunny. He leaned closer whenever he spoke, completely comfortable in a way that made you aware of just how close he was.

You found yourself noticing the little things. The faint scar along his left cheek, the subtle scent of clean fabric from his hoodie whenever he moved, and the way his eyes would briefly drop to your lips when you laughed before quickly returning to meet your gaze.

By the time Namjoon finally checked the time, blinking sleepily as he admitted he needed to get some rest before his morning meetings, the bill had already been taken care of. Jungkook had quietly handled it while you were in the restroom ten minutes earlier.

Outside, the rain had faded into a mist. Namjoon pulled you into a tired hug, mumbled a goodbye, and climbed into the waiting black van parked along the curb.

You turned back toward the lounge entrance, expecting to give Jungkook a quick wave before leaving. Instead, he was standing right there on the sidewalk, his hands tucked deep into his pockets, the warm glow of the streetlights highlighting the sharp line of his jaw.

"You're not heading back with him?" you asked, your voice barely rising above the quiet hum of the city.

Jungkook shook his head slowly and took a small step closer. The space between you grew noticeably smaller. Up close, his presence felt more intense. There was something about the way he carried himself that was impossible to ignore.

"I wanted to make sure you got a cab safely," he said, his voice lower now. The playful teasing from inside the lounge was gone, replaced by something more sincere and focused. "Or... I was hoping we could keep talking somewhere else."

You stood there for a moment, completely caught off guard, your heart beating faster than you expected. You had only met him a few hours ago. He was a global star, someone whose face was everywhere, from billboards to magazine covers, and yet standing there with you in the night, he didn’t seem like that person at all. He just seemed like someone who wanted to keep talking.

Instead of answering, a breathless laugh escaped you. Jungkook’s expression shifted, a slow smile spreading across his face as if he found your reaction unexpectedly amusing.

"Give me your phone," he murmured, stepping a little closer until you could feel the warmth of his presence.

Without looking away, you unlocked your screen and handed it to him. His fingers brushed against yours, warm and steady. He quickly typed in his number, then he handed your phone back with an easy smile, never breaking eye contact.

"Save it," he said softly, stepping back just enough to give you some space, though his gaze still lingered on you. "Text me when you get home, Y/N."

The cab ride home passed in a blur of lights sliding across the windows. By the time you unlocked your apartment door, dropped your keys onto the tray, and slipped off your jacket, your heart was still beating faster than it should have.

The quiet of your apartment felt too loud, leaving you alone with every detail from the past few hours replaying in your mind.

You kicked off your heels and made your way into the kitchen to pour yourself a glass of ice water, but the drink did little to calm the warmth spreading through you. Eventually, you wandered into your bedroom, where the lights cast long shadows across your duvet.

You sat on the edge of the mattress, pulling your knees close to your chest, but your mind refused to settle. Jungkook’s voice lingered in your thoughts, low and unforgettable even when he wasn’t there. You replayed the way he looked at you across the booth, the quiet intensity behind his attention, and the way his shoulder brushed against yours when he leaned in to make some sarcastic comment about the bartender.

With a breath that rattled in your chest, your fingers fumbled with the button and zipper of your pants. You hooked your thumbs into the waistband, sliding the fabric down your hips and kicking them off entirely, letting the air wash over your skin.

You shifted, letting your bare legs slide open on the mattress. Your hands trembled down your stomach before pressing directly against the heat between your thighs. You were already soaked; a shuddering breath broke past your lips. Your fingers curled, sliding through your wetness to apply a steady pace against your clit. "Shit," you whispered into the quiet room.

In your mind, the bedroom warped until he was right there, shifting between your thighs. First, you imagined him slowly kissing every inch of your body, until all you could feel was the warmth that came from them. Then, you imagined him lying down, flipping you around so you could lie on him as you sucked his cock, your legs parting wider as his face hovered inches from your cunt. His hair brushes against your inner thighs before his tongue presses firmly against you.

His strong hands gripped your hips, pulling you down over him as you tasted him in return, while his tongue relentlessly sucked and licked your clit. Afterwards, when he turned you into a shaking, soaked mess, he flipped you onto your back, pushing your knees high against your chest. He used his soft tip to glide between your folds, slowly pushing into you, his voice groaning filthy words against your skin as he pounded into you stroke after stroke.

“Yeah, fuck. You look so good taking my cock. This pussy is mine to use, right?”

You could feel the intensity of him moving inside you until the pressure became blinding. And then, you felt him pull out at the very last second, his chest heaving as he hovered over you, groaning a curse before spilling hot and heavy across your stomach and breasts.

At the thought of his cum painting your body, your body began twitching, your walls convulsing. Collapsing back onto the pillows, skin slick with sweat, you stared blankly up at the ceiling fan overhead, breathless. Right on cue, your phone lit up on the nightstand, casting a bright glow across the dark room. 

You reached over with your free hand and picked it up.

Unknown: Hey, did you make it home okay?

The seven days that followed that rainy Thursday night felt mundane.

Your phone became your favourite distraction, pulling you into something that felt both exciting and impossible to ignore. Jungkook’s messages arrived at all hours, which made you worry slightly if you’d have any chance of actually talking to him.

At 2:14 AM, a text had buzzed against your nightstand: 

Jungkook: Just finished choreography practice. The whole time, all I could think about was the way you looked at me. You have no idea what kind of control it takes not to show up at your door right now.

You: And what exactly would you do if you did show up at my door at two in the morning, Jungkook?

Jungkook: Unlock it and find out. Though I promise you wouldn't be doing much sleeping.

By next Thursday afternoon, the teasing between you had only gotten more intense, filled with the excitement of what was building between you. He sent a voice note of himself humming a melody, his voice dropping as he quietly whispered: Miss you, Y/N. Can't wait to taste you again—wait. Pretend you didn't hear that.

You had laughed out loud in the middle of a cafe, your cheeks burning hot as you replied: 

You: Freudian slip? 

Jungkook: Not a slip if it's the only thing on my mind.

Still, your schedules kept getting in the way. He was caught up in studio sessions, final recordings, and choreography changes, while you were drowning in deadlines and client work. The week passed by with rushed messages and that constant spark of adrenaline every time your phone lit up with his name.

By Friday evening, you were exhausted, but there was no way you could sit still. You stood in front of your open closet when your phone buzzed on the dresser. A little too desperately, you snatched the phone.

Jungkook: Clear your schedule for tonight.

You blinked, a smile pulling at the corner of your mouth as your thumbs flew across the glass.

You: Is that a demand or an invitation?

A grey bubble flickered for several seconds, disappearing and reappearing as if he were rewriting the message before finally sending it.

Jungkook: A demand. I’ve spent a week staring at your name on my phone like an idiot, and if I don't get to look at you across a table tonight, I'm going to lose my mind.

Jungkook: Pick you up at eight. Wear something that makes it very difficult for me to keep my hands to myself.

You dropped your phone onto the bed, staring at it for a second as your hands still tingled with excitement. After a whole week of late-night calls and trying to find time between his schedule and yours, it finally felt like the waiting was almost over.

You turned back toward the wardrobe, your eyes moving over the clothes in front of you until they landed on the black silk dress. You pulled it from the hanger, running your fingers over the fabric. It was the kind of dress that could work for an upscale dinner while still feeling casual.

You quickly change out of your loungewear and into the black silk dress, the soft fabric making you feel more put together. After slipping on your heels, you pause in front of the mirror to take it all in. You fix your hair, let a few pieces fall around your face, and finish with lipgloss.

You look at yourself in the mirror and let out a quiet, nervous laugh. You look composed, like you have everything under control, but your racing heart says otherwise.

At 7:55 PM, your phone lights up again.

Jungkook: Downstairs.

Jungkook: Black van, tinted windows. I can’t wait to see your pretty face again.

You grab your coat and pull it over your shoulders, hiding the dress underneath before locking the door behind you. The elevator ride down feels painfully slow, each floor number lighting up one by one like it’s counting down to something you’ve been waiting for all week.

The moment the building doors open, the night air hits your skin. A sleek black van sits waiting at the curb, its tinted windows blending into the darkness around it. Before you can even walk over, the sliding door opens with a quiet mechanical sound.

The interior light spills across the leather seats, revealing Jungkook waiting inside. He isn’t dressed like he was the first time you met, hidden beneath an oversized hoodie and an attempt at staying unnoticed. Tonight, he looks completely different. He’s wearing a tailored black blazer over a silk shirt, the top buttons left undone, showing the sharp line of his collarbone.

His eyes meet yours the second you step into the light, taking in your outfit from the heels to your face. His gaze makes you want to tug his pants down and suck—

Damn, you needed to calm down.

"You're right on time," he says, his voice low in the quiet of the van. He reaches out and takes your wrist, his firm grip guiding you up and into the van.

The door slides shut behind you with a heavy thud, cutting off the noise and leaving you alone with him and his driver. You stumble slightly against the seat, but Jungkook still has hold of your wrist. Instead of letting go, he pulls you closer, his thumb slowly brushing over your pulse.

"Let me look at you," he whispers, leaning closer until his warm breath brushes against your cheek.

With his free hand, he reaches up and slowly slides his fingers along your coat, easing the heavy fabric from your shoulders until it falls onto the seat behind you. His eyes immediately drop to the neckline of your silk dress, lingering on your chest. You were glad to have that effect on him, even if he didn't know that you noticed.

"Damn, Y/N," he murmurs, sounding captivated. "If I knew you were planning to distract me like this, I wouldn’t have wasted time making dinner reservations."

You manage a smile, your heart pounding as you find your voice. "And here I thought you brought me out for dinner."

Jungkook lets out a laugh, the sound filling the small space of the van as his thumb continues its absentminded movement over your wrist. Instead of closing the distance between you, he pauses, his expression shifting into something more playful and teasing. 

With his free hand, he reaches up and gently traces the line of your jaw before tipping your chin upward. His eyes meet yours, making it impossible to look away.

"Food can wait," he murmurs, his voice carrying a meaning that sends a shiver through you. "I've spent a week wanting to see you like this, without a screen between us. We have the whole night."

He holds your gaze for a moment longer, letting the silence between you stretch before finally lowering his hand. He settles back into his seat and gives the driver a quiet signal through the partition. A moment later, the van moves smoothly into the streets.

The walk back to your apartment after dinner is slow and quiet, the two of you taking your time through the neighborhood. The brick buildings and iron gates cast long shadows across the pavement beneath the soft glow of the streetlights. For a few blocks, neither of you says a word, comfortable in the silence as your footsteps echo against the empty streets.

"So," Jungkook finally breaks the silence, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. He looks over at you, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Are we going to talk about how you almost choked on your food when I told you I missed you?"

You let out an offended little sound, stumbling slightly in your heels before catching yourself. "I did not choke. I just happened to have a slight breathing problem because your timing was ridiculous!"

"My timing was perfect," he laughs. "You turned completely red. And don't worry, I have the image saved in my head forever."

"If you ever tell Namjoon about this, I swear I'll make sure your next comeback has you wearing spandex and roller skates," you shoot back, narrowing your eyes at him.

Jungkook throws his head back, laughing again. The sound is deeper and freer than anything you've heard from him in public, like for once he isn't carrying the weight of everything around him.

"Oh, is that a threat?" he teases. "Because I think I could be convinced if the roller skates are part of the deal."

"You're impossible."

"I'm persistent," he corrects softly.

As you turn the last corner toward your building, the teasing between you slowly fades, replaced by that familiar tension neither of you can quite ignore. You naturally drift a little closer until your shoulders brush with every few steps. His familiar scent of cedarwood and cologne mixes with the cool night air around you.

When you finally stop outside the glass doors of your apartment building, the mood shifts. The late hour suddenly feels real, along with the fact that the night is coming to an end far sooner than either of you wants.

You turn to face him, reluctantly letting go of his hand. You reach up to unlock the heavy front door with your fob, doing your best to keep your expression calm.

"Well," you murmur, looking up at him beneath the porch light. “I had a really great night, Jungkook. Thank you.”

He nodded, a sweet smile resting on his lips. He shoved his hands in his coat pockets, even though you secretly regretted letting go. His eyes darted down to your lips, then back up to your lips. Your mouth was dry as you noticed him doing that.

“Of course, Y/N. This is the least I can do for you.”

The quiet sound of traffic feels far away as you stand there beneath the porch light, the space between you filled with everything neither of you has said. The polite goodbye feels wrong, you knew this night didn’t have to end, and you also didn’t know when you could see him after this.

“I don’t know about you,” you started, taking a small step towards him, his height towering over yours. “...but I’m really not ready for this night to end. Do you want to come up with me?”

"Are you… sure?" His eyes search your face, looking for any hint of hesitation. His hand leaves his pocket to grab yours again, waiting for your answer without pushing you.

"I'm sure," you whisper, a nervous smile tugging at your lips.

Jungkook lets out a relaxed breath before leaning down and pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. He rests his forehead against yours for a moment, smiling.

"Then lead the way, Y/N."

You turn around, reaching for the handle as you tap your security fob against the reader. The door clicks open, and you step into the lobby. Jungkook follows behind, the sound of his boots echoing across the polished marble floor.

The elevator ride to the fifth floor feels painfully slow. You lean against the cool wall, watching him from under your lashes. He stands just a few feet away, his eyes fixed on you. He doesn’t touch you, not yet, but the way he looks at you is enough to make the space feel even smaller. Neither of you says a word as the seconds pass, each one making the anticipation harder to ignore.

When the elevator chimes and the doors open, you lead him down the carpeted hallway to your apartment. Your fingers fumble with the keys for a second before it finally clicks open. You push the door open and step inside, but before you can even reach for the light switch, Jungkook catches you gently by the waist.

He kicks the door shut behind him with a thud that leaves the two of you alone in the apartment. The hallway is almost dark, lit only by the sun rising down. Jungkook gently backs you against the wall, his hands moving from your waist to your face. His thumbs brush over your cheekbones before he lightly lifts your chin.

When his mouth finally touches yours, all the nerves from the evening seem to disappear.

This kiss is different from the hesitant one outside your building. There’s nothing uncertain about it now. He kisses you with a confidence that makes your heart race, one hand resting against your cheek as he pulls you closer. A soft moan escapes you as you lean into him.

His hands drop from your face, one reaching into the hair at the nape of your neck to hold your head steady while the other grips your hip, hauling you up so you can wrap your legs around his waist. You hook your heels tightly against the small of his back, your fingers tangling in the silk of his shirt, tearing at the fabric as you pull him impossibly closer.

"God, Y/N," he murmurs, as he pulls back just enough to look at you. "I've been thinking about this every single day."

He doesn't wait for you to answer. Carrying you with your legs still locked around his waist, he navigates the dark corridor, his boots thudding softly against the floorboards until you reach your bedroom, falling together onto your bed. Jungkook looms over you, his hands bracing on either side of your head before sliding down to grip the straps of your black silk dress. He rips the fabric down, exposing your breasts to him.

His eyes drop down, tracking your collarbone and the plunging neckline of the dress with a predatory, starving hunger. "Baby, look at you. You look like you've been waiting for me to touch you all week, haven't you?"

"I have," you breathe out. "I thought about you. I touched myself, thinking about how it would feel to have your hands on me. I…I even thought about what it would be like if I sucked you off while you were eating me out.”

Your cheeks blushed the brightest red they ever had in your life. For a second, you almost regretted saying those words, until you saw his reaction. His pupils had practically doubled in size, and his breathing was faster than before. “God, you’re perfect,” was all he muttered before he attached his lips to yours, kissing you eagerly.

He rips the remaining silk of your dress entirely out of the way, tossing it onto the floor. His hands slide down your thighs, parting them wide as he positions himself between your knees, stripping your underwear as well. He takes off his shirt, revealing the broadness of his shoulders, along with his contoured abs. He was like a wet dream that turned human. Your wet dream.

“Get on me.”

Before you can even fully process what he said, he moves you over to the side so he could lay down, before manhandling you on top of him. Your hips rest over his shoulders, your soaked core hovering inches away from his face.

"Let's see if you can handle what you were daydreaming about," he taunts before attaching his lips to your clit, right as you undo the button to his pants, taking his cock out.

The taste of him is musky and sweet, and as you swirl your tongue over his sensitive tip, his mouth clamps down on your cunt with a suction that draws a muffled cry. His tongue traces every sensitive fold and flicking over your clit just as you swallow hard around him, bobbing your head up and down.

"Fuck, Y/N—your mouth feels so good," he groans against your thighs, his hands gripping your ass to spread you wider. "Suck it. Choke on my cock while I get you all wet."

You tighten your lips around him, milking every twitch of his cock as a wave of pleasure begins to build. Jungkook feels you come against his mouth, a moan escaping his throat as his own orgasm hits him. 

He thrusts his hips upward into your mouth, his body trembling as he shoots his cum down your throat, just as you convulse around his tongue.

For a moment, you take a deep breath in as you try to calm yourself. Gently, he untangles your legs from his shoulders, flipping you around so you could lie down and face him. Then, he positions himself between your legs, running the back of his hand over his mouth.

"Stay right there for me," he mutters, pressing a kiss to your collarbone before pulling back. "Let me see how ready you actually are."

He reaches over, sliding open the top drawer of the nightstand to search for a condom. But as his fingers push past a stack of charging cables and various items, they brush against a fuzzy texture buried at the very back of the drawer. 

Jungkook pauses, his hand freezing inside the drawer. He pulls his fingers back out, holding up a pair of bright pink, fluffy handcuffs. “Well, what is this?”

Heat rushes violently to your face, as you instantly reach out to snatch them away, mortified. "Give those back! That was a gag gift from a party years ago—"

"A gag gift?" Jungkook interrupts, dodging your reach with a laugh as he holds the cuffs out of your grasp, his eyes scanning your blushing face. "I don't think so. A good girl doesn't stash fluffy handcuffs in her bedside drawer unless she secretly wants to be tied up. Admit it."

"Jungkook, I swear to God, put them down—"

"Quiet down, sweetheart," he commands softly, the authority returning to his tone with speed. He tosses a foil packet onto the bed, sliding up your body until he cages you in again. "You've been asking for it all night with that smart mouth of yours.”

Before you can form another response, he grabs your wrists with one hand, pinning both of them above your head against the pillows. With his free hand, he snaps the cuffs around your wrists before securing it to the headboard rail just above your head.

You let out a noise, your arms stretched upward, leaving you completely exposed in your own bedroom. The restraint sends a jolt of arousal straight to your cunt, your thighs aching as you clenched them.

"Look at you," he whispers, leaning down so his lips brush against your ear. "Completely tied up for me. Do you like this, Y/N? Do you like being my toy?"

"Jungkook...please fuck me—"

"Be patient, baby," he taunts softly, tearing the foil packet open with his teeth. He rolls the latex down, positioning himself right at your entrance. He teases you before pushing in, his tip rubbing against your clit to give you some more stimulation. Finally, he slides it into your wet heat.

Jungkook pauses, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his shoulders trembling as he listens to your broken gasps. "Fuck, you're so tight. You feel unbelievable wrapped around my dick, like you were built to take me."

He begins to move his hips, slowly sliding his cock in and out to punish you. All he can do is listen to the wet squelches coming from your pussy, his jaw dropping as he lets out a groan. “Shiiitt, take it, baby. You’re taking every inch like a good girl, aren’t you? Tell me how much you love my cock.”

Your hands are basically asleep at this point, but you don’t even have half a thought to care. Rolling your head back to close your eyes, you nod frantically. “Shit— God, I love your cock. I love it so much, it’s all I've been thinking about.”

"That's it, baby," he praises, his pace doubling in speed, continuing to punish you with every stroke. "Such a beautiful girl. Take my cock, take it all."

Your whole body tightens as you feel his hips moving faster, the ache in your lower abdomen slowly disappearing as you were getting closer. Your cunt clenched around him in pulses, a loud moan escaping from your lips. You were sure that your neighbours were going to hate you tomorrow morning.

Hearing your moans, Jungkook drives into you with more deep thrusts, heavy pants coming from his lips. The noises coming from his mouth were only turning you on more, your wetness dripping down onto the sheets. He pulls out of you, tearing the condom off of his length to jerk himself over you, his cum spurting all over your body. He somehow managed to get it onto your face, your eyes instinctively closing as you felt it.

Jungkook collapses, hovering over your messy body as he calms himself down. Gently, he shifted his weight to lay on his side, reaching over to the nightstand to grab the box of tissues. He wipes the cum from your face, then moves on to the rest of your body, leaving kisses along the way.

When the both of you have cleaned up, you get under the blanket, looking at him with a wicked smile. “I think, next time, those pink fluffy handcuffs are going on you.”

He props his head up on his elbow, looking down at you with an expression of utter fascination. “Is that right? You think you can tie me down, sweetheart?”

“Try me,” you challenge softly, a sleepy smirk playing on your own lips as you reach out, your fingers tracing his jaw and sliding down the muscle of his chest. “I think I could manage.”

Jungkook captures your wrist in his hand, pressing a kiss to your pulse point without breaking eye contact. “Honestly, I would let you. But only if you promise to keep talking dirty like that.”

“It’s a deal.”

taglist: @lovejeonn @kingsqueensandvagabonds

it had been 4 days since you last met up with jungkook. his apartment after a mutual friend’s party, both of you slightly tipsy and stumbling everywhere, and his hot mouth working on your skin like it was his final meal - your favourite combo.

you two had been hooking up for a while now, it was a mutual agreement that benefited you both perfectly. you were too preoccupied with your university studies to even think about bearing the weight of a committed relationship. and jungkook, well, jungkook was just gaming his way through university, not concerned with getting a successful degree as a position in his uncle’s company was promised to him as soon as he graduated. the idea of casual sex whenever you felt like it made him more than happy - no emotional thoughts or feelings to over complicate things.

he’d proposed the idea at a party one night after you’d stupidly drank too much and randomly blurted out to him how sexually frustrated you had been. he didn’t laugh or make fun, just shrugged and said he was up for it if you were. you weren’t strangers, jungkook always saw you around campus with your head in a book or at events where his friends frequently hung out with yours. you were cute, determined, and just seemed in need of some relief - which jungkook could definitely help with.

you always noticed him too, it was almost impossible not to. he was definitely your type - hot, confident, built with tattoos. jungkook gave major fuckboy vibes though, and you weren’t sure whether you’d be walking headfirst into an std nest. however, he quickly assured you he got tested regularly and would send you his results, which was weirdly responsible of him.

you were still hesitant to agree at first, it almost sounded too good to be true. but jungkook offered you one night with him to decide if you wanted to continue - no strings, just both of you harmlessly indulging in each other - and thank god you agreed.

because jungkook was ridiculously good in bed. you’d assumed he was experienced, as were you, but not on this level. he knew exactly where to touch, tease, and focus on to satisfy you. he was just the right level of caring and attentive, which at least showed you weren’t being completely used. he knew and gave you exactly what you needed, what you had been craving for months - you’d be a fool not to go through with it, anyone could see that.

throughout the past few months, you and jungkook met up countless times whenever either of you texted or called. you’d mostly meet at each other’s apartments, but on busier days, jungkook was perfectly happy taking you quickly in his back seats before letting you resume your daily routine or sneaking out of parties with friends just to meet you.

ground rules and boundaries between you were obviously established (mostly on your part): you two were free to hook up with anyone else as long as you got regularly tested, arrangement could be stopped at anytime, no distracting you from your studies, protection was to be used at all times, no feelings or personal life involved, etc.

it seemed both of you were actually good at the whole no feelings to complicate anything thing. jungkook liked that about you - you didn’t beg for more attention from him or expect him to act like a doting boyfriend like some other women did. sleeping over at each other’s places was frequent, but that was only because you’d both be too tired out to move and jungkook didn’t want you collapsing in the elevator on your way back. it was easy, private, and honestly exhilarating.

so, here you were, hunched over your desk on a friday night studying, no - trying to, when you should’ve been at a house party with all your friends instead. they’d begged you to come, but you kept refusing, insisting that your grades were more important (which they were). though it was impossible to study now, it felt like your brain had stopped functioning properly and the words on the textbook were just as jumbled up as your mind.

you would’ve already texted jungkook if only there weren’t two problems. 1. you weren’t sure if he was at said house party, drinking and preoccupied by other things 2. you were at the peak of your period, with a dangerously heavy flow cramps obliterating your lower half. sex was obviously a no-go right now, no matter how much you wanted it or how much better it would make you feel.

you finally huffed and closed the textbook, there was no amount of information right now that could enter your brain and stay there, it was just pointless. your phone remained on the desk as you got up to get another glass of water, the ice cold liquid soothing your dry lips.

your phone suddenly buzzed - you expected it to be another reminder from a study app or a discount for a subscription, but no. jungkook’s name popped up on your screen: 1 new message you were confused, so he wasn’t at the party then? nonetheless, you quickly opened the chat.

jungkook: are u busy tonight?

three dots, then:

jungkook: i can see u read it

another message pops up, it’s a photo of his empty bed - dark, your favourite sheets, the blanket tossed off.

jungkook: come over? ;)

you groaned mentally, why tonight? your thumb hovers over the keyboard, but another message comes before you can even type a reply.

jungkook: i've been thinking about u all day

jungkook: can't focus

jungkook: this is your fault

another photo, this time it’s lower. sweatpants sitting dangerously low on his hips, tattooed hand resting on his lower stomach, the waistband of his boxers visible.

fuck. you can tell he’s probably extra horny from the amount of messages he sends at once, it’s hard to tell him no - but you finally reply.

you: i can’t do anything right now, i’m on my period :(

his reply comes fast, almost annoyed, but then:

jungkook: does that mean you don't wanna come over?

the tone of his messages changes slightly - not angry, but wanting. almost whining.

jungkook: cuz i really need u

jungkook: not gonna lie i’ve been doing it myself all day

oh lord.

you: doing what?

his reply is instant. blunt, a little embarrassed - jungkook backspaces once before sending. your breath hitches as soon as it comes through. why is he doing this to you now?

jungkook: touching myself thinking about you

he sends another photo. the angle shows the bulge straining at the front of his sweats, fingertips just barely grazing the fabric. heat already pulses low in your stomach.

jungkook: it's not enough though

jungkook: waiting for you to say you’ll come over.

you send an eye rolling emoji then type out another message.

you: i just told you I’m on my period.

he reads it immediately. you watch the three dots pop up, disappear, pop up again.

jungkook: i know

his reply comes instantly, shameless.

jungkook: i am aware you’re on your period

jungkook: i literally do not care

another photo follows - his hand is pushed fully down his sweatpants. fucking hell. you know jungkook is completely serious right now, and you can’t help but be a little nervous. the thought of him fucking you whilst you’re on your period does excite you a little, but you’re not sure whether he’ll end up being uncomfortable or weirded out.

you: it’s blood haven right now

three dots, a long pause, then:

jungkook: y/n

jungkook: i will put a towel down

jungkook: we will shower after

jungkook: i really do not care if you don’t.

you bite your lip, then another message.

jungkook: or i can come there

jungkook: i just need u

you think about it for a moment - fuck it. there’s a first time for everything, right?

you: you come here then.

he reads it but doesn't reply. eight minutes later, there's a knock at your door. it’s impatient, two quick raps. when you open it, jungkook's breathless, like he just ran up the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. he murmurs a ‘hey’ then shoves a plastic bag into your hands.

inside the bag is a dark towel, your favorite chocolate, painkillers, and a heating pad. you blink and realise he’s genuinely prepared and serious about this, and you don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

but jungkook doesn't waste any more time, he shoves you back against the door the second it's closed - lips crushing yours, hands already hiking up your shirt. you pull back breathless, your hands pressing against his chest to steady yourself. “jungkook, I feel a little disgusting, honestly, and I’ve never done anything sexual on my period..” your words are quiet, maybe even a little embarrassed.

he frowns, hands freezing on your hips instantly. the aggressive energy drops away, replaced by something soft. he leans his forehead against yours. "it's not disgusting." he dips his head down to kiss your jaw then pulls back to look you in the eye, dead serious. “it's literally biology. everyone bleeds." his thumbs rub your waist. "and if you've never done it, then tonight we will.."

you nod. “it’ll be messy, though.”

he nods back seriously. "i brought a towel, remember? i don't care about messy if you don’t.”

his lips quickly find yours again, his warm tongue enveloping yours as he leads you to your bedroom. he kicks the door shut behind you, walking you backward until your knees hit the mattress. the bag with the supplies hits your nightstand. he pulls your shirt off effortlessly, and doesn't hesitate to reach for your sweatpants, tugging them down along with your underwear.

he spreads the dark towel over the sheets with practiced efficiency, then pauses and looks at you. "we can stop." his voice is quieter now, thumb stroking your hip as he looks at you. "but I want you to know i don't care about any of it." he kisses your stomach. slow, deliberate, moving lower.

"just tell me if it's too much." jungkook murmurs against your skin. he pulls his hoodie off, then the shirt underneath. his body is already warm as he shifts, settling comfortably between your legs. his thumbs press gently into your inner thighs, coaxing them open.

you subconsciously resist a little, but he leans down, pressing a kiss right above your pelvic bone. "relax." he whispers. "trust me." jungkook gently hooks your legs over his shoulders, lowering his face with no hesitation. his mouth is on you instantly. soft, wet, and unbothered by anything other than making you feel good. “you’re so fucking beautiful, y/n.”

you tense automatically, instinctively trying to close your legs. his hands immediately clamp down on your thighs, holding them open, keeping you pinned. "stop moving, it’s alright." he mumbles against you, then licks a slow stripe up your center, the cold press of his lip piercing making you shiver.

“ah” you moan, hand flying to his hair - gripping, pulling. he groans against you, the vibration makes your back arch off the mattress. jungkook works you slowly and patiently. his tongue circling, his lips pulling. he reads every twitch, every gasp, adjusting for your comfort.

his eyes flick up to meet yours. dark, hungry, chin wet - he doesn't care. your eyes are already rolling back, mouth wide open as a string of breathy moans escape you. you're absolutely soaked. the blood mixes with your arousal, dripping onto the dark towel beneath you. jungkook doesn't slow. his tongue flicks harder, faster. one hand slips up your body to pinch your nipple through your lacy bra.

your back arches again, a choked sob escaping. "jungkook-" the pleasure he’s giving you is becoming unbearable. he just hums, appreciative as feels you already getting close. “so good….” your thighs shake against his ears, he tightens his grip on them, pulling you closer to his mouth. two fingers suddenly slide inside you - easy, wet. he curls them upward - hitting that spot that makes your vision blur.

jungkook pulls back just enough to breathe, thumbs rubbing the inside of your thigh. "cum on my face, beautiful.” he tells you, but his mouth is back on you before you can respond. sucking as your orgasm hits hard, violent. your thighs clench around his face, your hips bucking hard into his mouth. a loud, undignified sound escapes you, one you've never made before.

he doesn't stop, doesn't even slow. jungkook swallows every drop of your release - blood and arousal mixing on his chin, dripping down his throat. once youve come down from your high, he presses a kiss to your glistening core then comes back up. when he comes back up, his mouth and chin are all bloody. you open your eyes and gasp, mortified by the vision. “oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

he sits back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. he’s breathless and hard, pupils blown wide. he looks down at the mess between your legs - blood and cum and saliva mixed together on the dark towel.

jungkook lunges forward again, covering your body with his. his mouth meets yours - bloody, salty, still tasting of you. “don’t be. you’re the best thing i’ve ever tasted.” he whispers against your lips, breath hot. he grinds against you, hard and desperate. his cock is straining in his sweats, pressing against your wet thighs. you taste yourself on his tongue, you taste the iron of your blood - he doesn't care.

his tongue swipes over your bottom lip once more, then he pushes you back down and settles between your thighs once again - hot mouth finding your centre. “be so good again for me, beautiful.”

jungkook doesn't stop eating you out, he doesn't even pause apart from checking you’re okay every few minutes. each time you peak again, each time his mouth and chin are covered more thoroughly in the mixture of your blood and your climax. the towel is soaking.

by the third time, your thighs are trembling uncontrollably. overstimulated, tears streaming down your cheeks. your fingers tangled in his hair so tight it must hurt. jungkook’s relentless, he could eat you out like this all night if you wanted him to. he finally pulls back. face a mess, chest heaving, his lips swollen and red. he wipes his mouth with his forearm then stares down at you - wrecked, ruined, gorgeous.

"you're so fucking hot."

you whimper at his words, your fingers reaching out to tug at the waistband of his sweatpants - you need him, now. jungkook doesn't hesitate, he shoves them down along with his boxers in one rough motion, kicking them off the end of the bed. his cock springs free. thick, heavy, angry red and leaking pre-cum against his stomach. he's agonizingly hard. he strokes himself once, his thumb spreading the bead of moisture over the head. "still okay?"

you just watch him, eyes fixed on his thick length. then your eyes move back up, you nod once and bite your lip. jungkook watches you bite your lip, his eyes darkening. "don't do that." he reaches up, thumb pressing against your lower lip, freeing it from your teeth. "i want to hear you."

you know you’re already soaking again , you can feel your core pulsing for him. jungkook reaches over to your nightstand drawer where you keep the condoms, but you grab his forearm to stop him. “wait..”

jungkook raises his eyebrows, one hand still rubbing your thigh as he waits for you to continue. you take a deep breath then speak again. “we don’t have to use one this time, i want to feel you properly.”

his brain stops working properly for a second. you want him to fuck you raw? it’s not like it wouldn’t be fucking amazing, but jungkook doesn’t want to overwhelm you or make you feel pressured after always having used protection.

you study his face then continue. “it’s fine if you don’t want to. you know I’m on the pill. i know you’re clean, you know I’m clean. i just - think it would be nice.”

jungkook shakes his head so fast you think he might have whiplash, his tongue plays with his lip ring before he replies. “no - fuck, y/n. i really want to, too. i just don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable or anything.” after studying your face and realising you’re serious, he moves closer and reaches out to brush a strand of hair away from your face, his voice low and sultry. “you want to, then?”

he leans down to pepper kisses all down your throat, then he sucks the sweet spot on your collarbone. “are you sure you can handle it?”

your pulse starts going erratic again, it feels like you’ve somehow forgotten to breathe. you whimper quietly at the thought. “Yes, please, jungkook, i can take it.”

the sound of your voice makes jungkook groan and just press his forehead against your neck. you sound so sweet, so needy and ready for him - he doesn’t waste anymore time.

he positions himself between your legs, hovering over you. his cock brushes against your thigh - hot and heavy. "it shouldn’t, but, tell me if it hurts." he whispers.

jungkook lines himself up. slow, careful, pushing forward. the burn is immediate. you're soaked, but the blood makes the friction different - slicker, warmer. he watches your face intently, freezing when you gasp, waiting for you to adjust. he pushes all the way in, bottoming out. you whine at the stretch. “jungkook…”

he groans. "fuck, princess. fuck, baby.." he stills above you for a moment, his forehead dropping against yours, his breathing ragged. his arms are shaking, holding himself back. "you feel so fucking good." his voice cracks as he pulls back slowly then slides back in - deep, deliberate, setting a rhythm that makes your toes curl.

the wet sounds between you are obscene, slick, messy. “Yes! oh. oh god, jungkook…” every thrust drags a sound out of you - high, broken, shameless - you can't control it. the wet slide of him inside you is amplified, the sensation sharper, deeper.

jungkook loves it. "there we go, babe, let me hear you." he groans into your neck, picking up the pace, the slap of skin against skin is deafening. he wants to make you feel even more - he grips your thighs, pushing them higher toward your chest. the angle changes, he hits deeper, harder. “you like that, princess? fuck.”

you're so loud - no filter, too full of him to even register his words. the coil tightening in your stomach almost violently. jungkook looks down between your bodies where you're connected. it's messy, red, slick. "look at it." he pants. "look how pretty you are."

you both come apart at the same time - him thrusting deep, you clamping down. he's growling your name into your shoulder, you're almost sobbing into his hair. jungkook’s release is violent, hot ropes hitting your cervix over and over. your walls clench around him like a vice, milking every drop out of him. the towel underneath is ruined, completely soaked through. he falls forward, chest heaving, your names both stuck in each other’s throat.

jungkook stays buried inside you for a moment, both of you recovering from what just happened. he presses soft kisses to your shoulder and neck then looks back up at you. “that was beyond fucking amazing.” he watches your face - you’re completely fucked out, cheeks flushed and chest heaving as you try to catch your breath again.

he waits another moment before sitting up suddenly, grabbing your hips and pulling you onto his face without warning. his tongue immediately finds your clit, licking through the mess of both your releases. you yelp and gasp, hands flying to his hair as he begins to eat you out aggressively. "ride my face, beautiful, come on."

“oh my god, jungkook-“ you’ve never been in this position before. you’d fantasised about it a lot but never actually imagined you’d ever be sitting on his face - your face reddens again.

but jungkook doesn't let up. one hand tightens in your hair, gently pulling your head back. the other grips your ass, lifting you higher. "grind on it, baby." he commands against your wetness, and you do. you're overstimulated, you're shaking, but you move your hips anyway - rubbing against his mouth. "that's it, babe. fuck, i could die in this pussy.”

a sudden rush of boldness runs through your body. you lean forward, bracing one hand on the headboard while you grind on his mouth. the other hand slips down his stomach, wrapping around his still-hard cock. you start to stroke him fast - tight, rough, desperate. "let me taste you." you whisper.

jungkook’s back arches. he moans loud against your core, vibrations shaking through you. you lean down now, wrapping your lips around the swollen head of his cock. he chokes out a groan against your cunt, the vibration making your hips jerk. you take him deep. hollowing your cheeks, stroking the base. his hips buck up off the mattress, fucking into your mouth automatically. meanwhile his tongue works you harder, faster.

you stroke him faster. the contrast makes you both delirious - him eating you out while you take him in your mouth. your mouth is so full, you can only make muffled sounds of pleasure. jungkook groans loudly, pushing his hips up into your face, forcing himself deeper. “fuck, y/n. take all of it."

you choke on his dick, your jaw stretching uncomfortably as he pushes. his hands grip the sheets, his voice drops to something like a growl. "take all of it." His tongue is also relentless, slapping across your clit with the same aggression. the vibrations make your walls clench, your cheeks hollow deeply.

something snaps, it breaks simultaneously. your orgasm hits you violently - your hips grinding down onto his tongue, screaming around his cock. you shake uncontrollably. jungkook snaps a second later, thick ropes shooting down your throat. you swallow immediately, humming through your nose, milking him perfectly.

you are both an absolute wreck. the only sound is your ragged breathing, the wet slap of sweat and slick hitting the mattress, the ticking clock across the room. jungkook stays there, your mouth still wrapped around him, your body still twitching. your thighs continue to shake uncontrollably against his shoulders.

finally, he shifts. slowly, gently slipping out. he pulls away, his cock leaving your lips with a wet pop. thick strings connect your lips to the tip before breaking. his face is coated, your centre is coated, it looks almost like a warzone.

jungkook looks at you. eyes dark, lips swollen, panting like he just ran a marathon. "jesus christ." you both look down - the sheets, the towel, his face, your thighs, his cock, his stomach. everything is smeared a little red.

he looks at you, you look at him. you both start laughing. exhausted, maybe slightly delirious. he pulls you closer into another kiss, whilst his hand travels up to the back of your neck - it feels so good, so rewarding. “do you feel okay?” jungkook asks, hoping that wasn’t too much for you.

and it wasn’t. that was most definitely the best sex of your life. you dwell on it for a moment, how could anything else compare to this? No, y/n, you think - don’t even go there.

jungkook - sexy, attentive, strictly casual-hookup-only jungkook who just respectfully broke you in half - pulls you in for another kiss, then chuckles against your lips. "i think we need a shower." he murmurs.

and, well, the cold water from the shower was definitely not the only awakening you’d be having that night.

──────────────────────

I’m ovulating if you couldn’t tell

thank you for reading I <3 you

main m.list • headcanons m.list • my archive

“Please, please, please!” you whispered to yourself, fingers crossed tightly as you stared at the three screens in front of you.

Your laptop. Your phone. Your tablet.

Your eyes were glossy with hope and adrenaline, your feet thumping uncontrollably beneath your chair, a thin layer of sweat forming despite the air-conditioned room wrapping around you in cold comfort.

This was your first time buying concert tickets. Despite being a long-time fan, this was your only chance—because you had finally gathered enough money to secure one.

You had prepared three Weverse accounts under your name and your parents’ names, carefully reserving each slot so you could slip into the presale the moment it opened. You had already studied how fast tickets sold out in other countries...the quickest being around ten minutes. Ten minutes of chaos, of people like you refreshing, praying, losing.

You bit your lip hard enough to feel it sting. You were still in the queue when the screen suddenly shifted, dragging you into a loading page that refused to move. Thirty minutes had already passed, and all three accounts were still stuck.

“Fuck!”

Your eyes widened when two of your accounts abruptly showed session timeout.

With shaky hands, you tried to navigate through it, but everything lagged—hesitating, freezing, slipping away from your control. You cursed under your breath, glancing at your laptop—the only one still holding on, still alive.

Your vision started to blur at the edges. The chances of getting a ticket were thinning by the second, dissolving right in front of you.

“Please, just this one…” you whispered to yourself, eyes locked on the screen with fragile, breaking hope.

Your eyes widened when the screen finally moved.

No Tickets Available.

Just like that, your hopes were crushed.

You slowly looked up at the posters on your walls, the albums stacked neatly on your shelves, the plushies scattered across your bed, and the ARMY Bomb you had recently bought, displayed beside your BTS McDonald’s figurines.

Tears began falling uncontrollably from your eyes, like a flood breaking through something you could no longer hold together. The realization settled in—heavy, final....that you wouldn’t get to see them.

Your lips quivered as you quickly sank onto your bed, pulling your favorite pink cooky plushie close to your chest. You cried into it, letting everything spill out with an aching, exhausted heart.

Your parents tried to comfort you. They knew how much this meant. They had witnessed your journey growing up—how you stayed up all night waiting for comebacks, how you saved every bit of money just to buy new albums, how you would drop everything the moment a Weverse Live started, how you bought multiple happy meals just to complete all the toys, how you binge-watched their content and replayed Run BTS episodes whenever you had free time.

They had seen it all.

How deeply you adored and loved your bias…

Jungkook.

You appreciated how your parents tried to look for tickets online for you, but the number of scams you’d heard about from resellers made you hesitate. Prices were tripled—far beyond your budget. You didn’t want to burden them, even when they insisted they were willing to cover the extra cost.

You were still a student, after all. You told them it was okay—that they should just save the money for your college instead.

“What if you just check in to the hotel they’re staying at? Girl, imagine!” your best friend Mina suggested.

The hot coffee you ordered had already gone cold. The concert was next month, and Mina was now throwing ridiculous ideas at you on how you could possibly see BTS. The supposed study session in the coffee shop had long been forgotten the moment you mentioned the upcoming concert.

“I doubt it. There’s usually no news about it because of their privacy… sometimes I only find out once they’ve already checked in or when they do a Weverse live.”

Mina rolled her eyes. “I’m sure there’s at least some news if you really dig into it. How many days is the concert?”

“Two days. And even if I wanted to stalk their hotel, I’m sure a lot of fans would do that too—and the next thing you know, the hotel is fully booked.” you pouted.

You were being realistic. The chances of seeing them at their hotel—or even getting a room there—were slim. With the number of fans camping out and others researching nonstop, you had almost zero chance.

“Do you want to see them or not? Come on, I’ll book a room with you!” she nudged your shoulders, wiggling her brows as she sipped her caramel macchiato.

You chuckled softly. “Of course I do, but I swear, Mina, it’s harder than you think…”

Mina groaned, stomping her feet. “Ugh, fine! But watching the concert online is really fucking boring when you know they’re literally in the same country as you.”

You sighed. Mina wasn’t really a fan, but she knew how much you loved BTS. When she found out you hadn’t secured a ticket, she had been the first to suggest the most ridiculous ideas—stalking their hotel, camping outside the arena, chasing anything that even remotely felt possible.

After a few months since the presale, it had been a hard pill to swallow—but you had finally accepted it. You wouldn’t get to see them. Even if Mina’s ideas lingered at the back of your mind, you knew better. The chances were too low. You’d rather stay at home, wear your cooky pajamas, and stream the concert online in peace.

Still… there were the sleepless nights.

The what-ifs that refused to leave you alone.

What if you had attended the concert? What if you had somehow booked the same hotel? What if you caught a glimpse of their van outside the arena?

Being a fan for almost a decade, you knew those kinds of scenarios only happened in fictional stories. Seeing Jungkook on a random day was like finding a bag of cash in a public restroom stall—completely impossible.

Though… still, a small part of you never fully stopped hoping.

“Also, isn’t our country their last stop?” Mina said, already searching for dates and details on her phone.

“Yeah… that’s why I actually had enough money and time… but I guess luck just wasn’t on my side,” you murmured bitterly, glancing around the busy coffee shop as if the noise could somehow quiet the ache settling in your chest.

Mina suddenly froze, her eyes widening. “Wait—since it’s the last stop… don’t you think they’ll stay longer? Maybe for a few more days, like… I don’t know, rest?”

You had already thought about it—but how on earth would you ever know their whereabouts? You’d only find out once they were already there, or when they went live. And since it would be after the concert, you were certain they’d want to rest, to disappear into privacy for a while.

“Mina… it’s okay. I swear, I’ll be fine.” you assured her, her ideas now more amusing than anything else.

Until your lunch break ended, Mina kept babbling—throwing out unrealistic scenarios straight out of books and fanfics. You laughed at her what-ifs, at the corny places her imagination kept taking you.

You knew she wasn’t doing it to be silly.

She was doing it because she knew you. Knew how badly you wanted to see them. Knew how quiet you’d become once the concert actually started.

So, as your best friend, Mina had decided something else entirely.

A short out-of-town trip. While BTS was in the country. A way for you both to disappear for a while, to breathe, to rest from studies, from expectations, from everything—including the concert you couldn’t attend.

“Mina! Why didn’t you tell me?” Your eyes widened in shock when you saw the cottage number and the dates.

Mina had booked a five-day beach trip, complete with daily activities that made your head spin just reading them.

“Don’t worry, you can bring your laptop so you can still stream the concert.” she snickered, handing you the itinerary.

“Mina! That’s not what I meant—this is too much,” you groaned.

She giggled, already sitting comfortably on your bed while you scanned through the list she had prepared. “Oh, come on. It’ll be fun! Besides, it’s been a while since we’ve had a girls’ trip.”

You pouted at her, still in disbelief—but the resistance didn’t last. A smile slipped through as you pulled her into a hug anyway. “You and your ideas,” you chuckled.

“Bring cute clothes! Let’s take lots of pics—I want to update my IG!” she said excitedly.

You grinned. “Let’s go shopping tomorrow. My treat.”

Mina shrieked. “God, yes! Let’s go!”

The upcoming concert was still on your mind, but you were also busy preparing for the trip with Mina. You were excited—the small distraction keeping you from spiraling into a full breakdown over not being able to see BTS.

Wearing a cute sundress and brown sandals, you and Mina finally checked in. It was Day 1 of the concert. You had already set an alarm for the online stream later, a quiet kind of excitement settling in at the thought that, at the very least, you had the privilege of watching it while sipping fresh coconut by the sea breeze.

“Why the fuck are you reapplying your lip gloss?” Mina asked when she caught you touching up your makeup right before the concert started.

“To look cute while watching Jungkook,” you giggled, turning your ARMY Bomb on.

After dinner, you and Mina sat on a bench by the sand, your pocket Wi-Fi, laptop, and earphones already set up beside you.

Mina rolled her eyes. “That’s crazier than my ideas.”

You chuckled softly, eyes already fixed on the screen as the countdown began. Your heart raced like you were inside the stadium with them—like the distance didn’t exist at all.

When the concert finally started, Mina had to walk away because you were screaming too loudly, jumping from your seat and almost knocking over the coconut shake on the table.

“Girl, let me walk around and find a cute guy. Your shrieks are lowkey scaring me.” Mina laughed when she came back and saw you on the verge of tears, fanning yourself like you might actually pass out.

“Okay, oka—oh my gosh! They’re performing Dimple! Oh my gosh!” you shouted, already lost in it again.

For two days, you were completely gone in it—fangirling nonstop, fully absorbed in every moment. It was only on Day 3, when Mina had planned actual activities, that you finally stepped away from the screen. Until then, you had spent your time watching, rewatching, and reposting edits like the world outside didn’t exist.

“He’s so hot—I can’t believe he wore that gray shirt. It looked so good on him,” you babbled, telling Mina everything about the concert details and the surprise songs they performed.

The two-night concert had ended like a whirlwind, yet you were still floating on cloud nine. While Mina had been busy taking pictures and scouting for cute guys, you had been replaying everything in your head—taking screenshots, saving edits, and reliving every moment in real time like you couldn’t let it go.

Mina was just happy you enjoyed it. She even swore she almost thought you were going to have a heart attack when you shrieked so loudly after Jungkook lifted his shirt and revealed his abs. Your gallery probably had ten copies of that exact moment.

“And! Guess what!” you said, munching on your breakfast as you wiggled your eyebrows at her.

“Hmm… Jungkook showed his dick?”

“Mina!” Your cheeks burned as you nearly choked on the waffles you were eating.

Mina laughed, casually pointing her fork at you. “That would be good though.”

You shook your head quickly, your face still hot. “I mean—would want that—but guess what! He sang the chorus of Still With You in acapella!” you babbled again, as if Mina would fully grasp the weight of it.

For your third day, you and Mina were supposed to ride a yacht. You were already getting dressed when Mina suddenly squealed behind you, hurriedly tying the strap of her sandal.

“He replied! Oh my gosh, he’s treating me to dinner!” Mina said excitedly, quickly glancing at the mirror you were using to fix your hair.

“Huh? Who?”

“This guy I met while you were watching the concert! He wants to see me again!” She showed you her phone.

Your brows furrowed. “He’s inviting you to his cottage later?” you said, reading the message.

Mina’s eyes widened as she looked back at her phone. “Fuck! What should I do?”

“Wait… so you’re not going on the yacht with me?” you concluded.

Mina smiled cheekily, biting her lip. “Well… he’s cute and… hot…”

You raised a brow. “Make sure he’s really hot,” you chuckled, fixing your hair again in front of the mirror—when Mina suddenly squealed and hugged you from behind.

“Promise I’ll make it up to you! You’re the best!” she grinned, already moving back to the bed to grab her bag.

Mina had booked this trip for you, and you wanted her to enjoy it too. Even though she originally planned it as a girls’ trip, you had spent most of it absorbed in the concert. She had always supported your whims without hesitation...and now it was your turn to support hers.

“Why are you bringing that duffel bag?” you asked, amused at the amount of clothes she was packing.

Mina wiggled her brows. “Gotta be prepared, y’know.”

She walked towards the door, fixing her neckline one last time.

You grinned. “Text me when you’re heading back!”

“Yes, ma’am!” she giggled, throwing you a flying kiss before hurrying out.

The sheer amount of clothes Mina brought made it obvious—she probably wouldn’t be back tonight. You sighed softly, glancing down at your short pink floral dress, your hair tied in a half ponytail.

You still had two days left of the trip, but today was the first time it truly settled in. For the past two days, you had been completely immersed in the concert—no time to walk along the shore, no quiet moments to watch the sunset.

Now, it was finally your time to unwind.

Although you were tempted to doom-scroll edits again, you forced yourself up instead, deciding to follow the planned activity for the day and step outside.

-

“Number 9! Calling for all passengers on Yacht 9!”

You hurried over to the line, double-checking the receipt number Mina had reserved for you.

There were only a few people waiting—some couples and a small group of friends. You didn’t really mind being alone. If anything, you needed this time to unwind, to breathe, to exist without noise pressing in on you.

“Ticket, please!” the man in a white uniform said.

You handed it over, offering a polite smile before stepping onto the yacht.

A few groups had already settled in—holding bottles of champagne, chatting softly, taking pictures against the open sea. You made your way towards the main deck, where a small group of friends sat around a table filled with snacks and laughter.

Based on the crowd, you felt relieved it wasn’t too packed—maybe around twenty-thirty people scattered across the space, enough to feel lively but not overwhelming.

Soft music drifted through the air as the yacht moved gently along the waves. The salt of the sea lingered in every breath you took, calming something in you without you even realizing it needed calming.

You wandered towards a long table filled with food, your short dress and hair swaying slightly with the breeze.

There were different kinds of pastries, a large charcuterie board, bottles of wine and champagne catching the light, stacks of beer lined neatly at one end, and a few bags of chips scattered casually beside them.

Mina had definitely booked a nice yacht. You smiled to yourself, genuinely happy that you could finally relax and enjoy this moment—with good food, fresh air, and a quiet kind of peace you hadn’t realized you needed.

You grabbed a bag of potato chips and a bottle of wine, scanning the area for a place to sit until you spotted a vacant lounger on the sun deck.

“Perfect!” you mumbled excitedly when you noticed no one else had claimed that area.

Carefully placing your bag, chips, and wine down, you quickly took a photo to update Mina.

“Let’s sit here!”

You were still busy snapping pictures when a small group—maybe four or five people—settled in beside you.

You weren’t really paying attention at first, but in your peripheral vision, you noticed they had brought an impressive amount of snacks with them.

You opened your chips and leaned back on the sun lounger. When you heard the sharp crack of a beer can opening, curiosity tugged at you, and you glanced over briefly.

It was a group of Korean men, older than you—probably in their mid-30s to 40s. Some wore black shades, already laughing as they settled into their drinks, their voices easy and relaxed.

They must be on vacation. This beach was a tourist spot, after all.

You turned your attention back to your chips, letting the sun warm your skin as you sank into the view. The group beside you wasn’t loud—they mostly talked about the scenery and the food, occasionally breaking into laughter over the activities they had tried earlier.

The world felt slow again, almost suspended in that gentle rhythm of waves and wind.

You were busy sipping your wine when you suddenly felt it—an unmistakable stare.

The group beside you was still laughing, their voices blending into the soft noise of the sea, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was looking at you.

These men were older, and for a brief moment, unease crept in.

You sneaked a glance over your shoulder and noticed the broad-built man in sunglasses staring straight ahead—past you.

Does he want potato chips or—

With a slight frown, you followed his line of sight properly this time.

He wasn’t looking at you.

He was looking at your bag on the table.

My bag?

When he realized you were looking back at him, he quickly turned away, though the shift in his posture told you he was still thinking.

Confused, you glanced down at your bag again.

It was just a simple beige tote bag...nothing special and nothing worth staring at.

You shrugged it off. It must’ve been a mistake. Besides, he was wearing sunglasses—maybe he was just spacing out, looking into nothing.

Munching on your chips again, you noticed him typing on his phone, suddenly more focused, as if he had detached himself from the conversation entirely.

You almost laughed to yourself, thinking he might actually be searching something about your bag online.

A strange thought—but harmless.

With a deep, content sigh, you leaned back again, the warmth of the sun and the rhythm of the waves slowly pulling you under.

And somewhere between the breeze and the quiet, you didn’t notice when your eyes finally closed.

By the time you woke up, it was already sunset.

The bottle of wine beside you was empty, and the small group that had been next to you earlier was gone. The sea breeze had turned cooler now—soft and comforting...while the sound of waves blended with the distant chatter of guests still enjoying the evening.

You stretched lightly and sat up.

Some people were still dancing, some chatting, others taking pictures against the fading orange sky. You still had a few hours left before the yacht returned to shore.

Grabbing your leftover chips and the empty bottle of wine, you frowned when something small caught your attention beside your bag.

A paper.

Leaning in slightly, you picked it up—and realized it was a calling card.

Song Hobeom +82 873 489 **** [email protected]

“Who the fuck is this?”

Looking around, you didn’t see the group of Koreans anymore. You assumed the calling card must’ve come from them, especially given the Korean name and number printed on it.

Still… you were confused. Why would he leave his calling card?

Walking slowly along the yacht, you felt a slight dizziness from the wine lingering in your system. You tossed the empty chip bag and bottle aside, your eyes still scanning the space for any sign of the group you had seen earlier. The air had turned colder now, your short dress offering little protection against the breeze brushing against your skin.

Curiosity got the better of you—and maybe the alcohol gave you just enough courage.

You decided to dial the number.

“Yoboseyo?” a deep voice answered.

You swallowed. “Hello? I-Is this Song Hobeom?”

A brief sigh came through the line. “Yes?”

Confusion crept in when he didn’t immediately recognize you as the person from the sun lounger. You hesitated for a moment. Did he really hand out his calling card just like that?

“Uh, I was the one sitting on the sun lounger by the main deck. I think you left your calling card at my table?” you said, biting your lip as nerves slowly settled in.

You had no idea what he wanted—and yet here you were, calling him back.

“Oh, right. Thank you for calling back, ma’am. May I know when you are free? I would like to discuss something with you.” he said in a formal tone.

Huh?

Confusion was written all over your face.

You walked towards the bow of the yacht, trying to escape the soft music and distant chatter, holding the phone closer to your ear.

“Uhm… may I know what for? This is a bit confusing.” You looked around again, but there was still no trace of the group from earlier. They must’ve already left.

“It is a bit confidential, ma’am. But don’t worry, I will give you a short background once we meet.”

You groaned under your breath. “I’m sorry, but can’t you just tell me this over the phone?”

You didn’t want to sound rude, but you didn’t know this man. It was already strange enough that he wanted to meet in person to “discuss something.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we may need to discuss this face-to-face to ensure the call is not being recorded. If you prefer, you may set the time and place.” he said formally.

What the actual fuck.

You rolled your eyes. This was bullshit—it sounded like a scam. Some foreign guy trying to trick people before disappearing back to his country.

“Sorry, but I’m not interested. Thank you.”

You ended the call immediately.

You weren’t stupid enough to meet a stranger like that. You had only been curious, nothing more—but the moment he refused to explain anything over the phone, something in you clicked.

Suspicion.

And you weren’t taking that chance.

You were about to walk back to the main deck when your phone beeped with a new message. You thought it was Mina, but the moment you recognized the country code, you immediately rolled your eyes.

What does he want?

You instantly regret calling his number. Opening the message, you saw that he had sent a file.

“I swear if this has a virus,” you mumbled.

You were about to tap it when another message came in.

Song Hobeom: The file can only be viewed once. Any form of screenshot or screen recording will be detected and notified. Please contact me again if you wish to proceed after reading the contract.

Song Hobeom: Please do not share this file or inform anyone about this matter. This is strictly confidential. Thank you.

Fucking hell?

You snorted softly, finding his messages almost ridiculous. It sounded like a joke—like he genuinely believed you’d get “in trouble” for forwarding whatever this was.

With a small smirk, you already decided you’d tell Mina about it later. You were definitely not falling for some scam. You’d open it, see whatever nonsense it was, and then block him right after.

With a sheepish grin, you tapped the file anyway… your heart giving a small, restless thump as the screen began to load.

What if it’s a jump scare?

Your brows slowly furrowed when the title finally appeared in bold capital letters:

NON-DISCLOSURE AGREEMENT

What?

You quickly scanned the document, reading faster and faster—until your eyes landed on a name that made your heart jolt.

“W-What the actual fuck?!” you gasped in shock. A few people turned to look at you, but you didn’t care. Your attention was completely locked on your phone.

You were starting to hyperventilate. You wanted to close it, to breathe, to think—but it was a view-once file. Your hands trembled as the alcohol from earlier wore off almost instantly, replaced by something sharper.

“This is not real… no freaking way,” you whispered weakly, quickly texting him back with shaking fingers.

No second thoughts—you typed immediately, afraid he might block you or change his mind.

You: I am free tomorrow at around 1 PM. Let’s meet by the coast area near the bar.

Song Hobeom: Noted, ma’am. Thank you for cooperating.

-

You never thought you would find yourself in a situation like this.

You chose a spot with very few people around. It was a nice sunny day, but your face already felt warm—nervous, alert, almost buzzing with anticipation.

Wearing a white floral dress, brown strappy sandals, and sunglasses, you called Mina beforehand and told her you’d be skipping the snorkeling activity for the day. You wanted to tell her the truth, but she didn’t question it when you said you just wanted to swim and relax by the ocean instead.

She told you she wouldn’t be back for tonight, giggling about the cute guy she had met. She kept talking, but your mind was elsewhere the entire time.

Honestly, you were relieved she wouldn’t be back soon. Given the terms written in the file, you needed time alone.

Or this opportunity—whatever it really was—might slip right through your fingers.

“Are you listening to me? You’re like… spacing out, girl!” Mina chuckled.

Your face immediately heated up. “Oh! A-Am I? I was just thinking about buying this merch, and it’s a bit expensive, so I was wondering if I should buy the whole set or just Jungkook’s edition.” you rambled quickly.

Mina laughed, shaking her head. “Just buy it all! Gosh! Anyways, so I went to this island…”

You bit your lip, she believed it.

She continued ranting, and you did your best to follow along, nodding at the right moments, forcing yourself to stay present. You had to hide this—or you’d be screwed.

“Do you want to order, ma’am?”

You looked up at the waiter and nearly froze when, for a split second, you thought it was Song Hobeom standing in front of you.

You were thirty minutes early.

Last night, you hadn’t slept at all...spending hours searching for the man behind the calling card. And what you found had hit you like a truck.

He wasn’t just some random foreign stranger.

He was BTS’s manager.

The weight of the NDA had settled in slowly at first… then all at once.

The same Song Hobeom you had seen on the yacht… was the same man now appearing across articles and videos all over the internet.

“No, thank you. I’ll order later,” you politely declined. You didn’t think you could eat or drink anything at this point.

The waiter nodded and left you alone.

You let out a quiet sigh, glancing at your phone to check the time. Closing your eyes for a moment, you tried to steady your breathing—you couldn’t afford to panic right now.

“Good afternoon, ma’am.”

The familiar deep voice made your eyes snap open.

He was finally here.

He approached in a composed, almost professional manner, as if this were a business meeting rather than something that had your entire morning spiraling. Black shirt, gray board shorts and black shades.

Your gaze narrowed slightly when you noticed the large iPad and brown envelope in his hands.

You immediately stood up, quickly straightening your dress before offering your hand.

“G-Good day, uh… h-have a seat, please.” you gestured, waiting until he sat down before you did.

“Have you eaten, Ms…?” he asked, pausing as if waiting for your full name.

“Oh, it’s Y/N L/N. I a-already had lunch,” you stammered, your heart racing as you finally introduced yourself.

He smiled and nodded. “That’s good to hear. I’m Song Hobeom, the manager of Bangtan Sonyeondan.”

He opened the brown envelope and showed you its contents. Like a startled kitten, you carefully took the papers.

“Have you read the file I sent you?” he asked casually, while opening his iPad.

You immediately nodded. “Y-Yes, uh… but I only scanned it quickly.”

It was true—you had replied almost instantly because you were scared he might unsend it or take it back.

He nodded. “Alright. Let me explain this to you thoroughly. Before proceeding, we require a Non-Disclosure Agreement to protect the privacy and safety of our artist. This agreement simply means that any information you may see, hear, or experience during your time with us—such as the artist’s location, conversations, or personal details—must remain confidential and cannot be shared with others, posted online, or discussed publicly,” he said in a formal, business-like tone.

You nodded quickly. “Y-Yes, I didn’t tell anyone!” you replied immediately.

He gave another nod, turning the iPad towards you to display the contract details. Then he began walking you through each section, one by one, in calm, structured explanations.

“Ms. Y/N, the NDA does not take away your rights or force you to do anything. It only ensures mutual privacy,” he stated, and you found yourself listening closely, agreeing more than questioning. The moment you had texted back was already a sign—you had chosen to proceed.

“Once signed, the confidentiality rules will remain in effect for the period stated in the document, and breaking the agreement could result in legal consequences.”

“I understand! I-I have researched how NDAs work as well.”

You bit your lip the moment you said it, suddenly realizing how desperate you sounded. You wanted to ask so many questions—why you, of all people, why this situation had landed in your lap—but you were too focused, too eager to get to the part that mattered most now.

Signing that damn contract. That was your priority.

“Good. If you have any questions or concerns, I want you to feel comfortable asking before signing—”

“No questions! I’ll s-sign,” you blurted out, cheeks warming as excitement slipped through your tone.

Mr. Song chuckled lightly and nodded before handing you an expensive-looking pen.

“Alright, please double-check the terms and conditions. Take your time, Ms. Y/N.”

But you didn’t.

Before you even properly reread the contract, you signed it...like your life depended on it. A shy, almost embarrassed smile formed on your lips as you finished.

He looked amused, like this wasn’t his first time seeing this reaction. As if he was already familiar with how quickly people surrendered to these documents.

Then he handed you the iPad for another copy.

Scrolling quickly, you signed again without hesitation.

Your eyes flickered over your own name—and then, for a brief second, your heart stuttered when you saw the name of the artist involved.

Jeon Jungkook.

Mr. Song explained the terms and conditions again. You listened eagerly, a little calmer now that you had finally secured the contract.

“Thank you for signing, Ms. Y/N. Please remember to keep everything discussed and experienced confidential as agreed,” he said with a polite smile, handing you another calling card. “Mr. Jeon will be the one to contact you directly after this for any further coordination.”

You stared at the calling card—Jungkook’s name and number printed on it—your eyes widening in shock.

This cannot be real.

-

“Ugh! I want to cry!”

You stared at yourself in the mirror, now back in your cottage, pacing in front of it like a maniac.

You had one night. One fucking night with him.

The date stated in the contract was after your vacation ended. You were already stressing about what to tell Mina for extending your stay, what to say to your professors, your parents—because you had clearly told them your trip only lasted until next week.

Jungkook hadn’t contacted you yet. It was still too early. You had no idea if he was even on the island already. The only thing you knew was that you were supposed to meet him in Executive Cottage 3 at 8 PM next week.

You still couldn’t believe it.

You had always thought NDAs were just myths—fantasies spun by fans who imagined idols risking everything for a single private encounter.

Sure, you had heard rumors that things like this might actually happen… but you never thought you would experience it yourself—with your own bias, Jeon Jungkook.

It felt unreal. Worse—or better—than a concert. One-on-one and up close.

Your cheeks warmed at the memory of the agreement, your heart picking up speed at the thought. It almost scared you how much you didn’t want to wake up in case this was all just a dream.

Sometimes you found yourself lightly slapping your cheek, as if reality still refused to fully sink in.

For months, you had been depressed over missing the ticket, and now—out of nowhere...you had the opportunity, the privilege, to meet your bias in private.

Now it made sense.

It was their last concert. Their managers were staying here to rest… and for what? To arrange potential NDAs?

Last night, after Mina’s call, you had spent hours deep in research—so deep it felt less like curiosity and more like you were preparing a thesis you somehow needed to defend. You searched everything: how NDAs worked, how participants were chosen, what would happen if you told someone, and a dozen other questions that only made your head spin the longer you read.

There was no hesitation anymore.

The moment you confirmed that Song Hobeom was actually their legitimate manager, something in you fully locked in. Any lingering doubt that the contract might be fake...or some elaborate prank—disappeared instantly.

It was real, and you had already signed it.

Your excitement had gone through the roof.

Even though you wanted to tell Mina so badly, your eagerness to meet Jungkook was far stronger. You couldn’t risk it.

“Huh? Why?” Mina questioned when she returned the next day and you immediately told her about extending your stay.

“I just want to relax more, you know… I didn’t realize the sea was this calming,” you smiled, trying to sound convincing.

You and Mina were now getting ready for the snorkeling activity. After dinner, you had decided you would break the news properly.

“Are you lying to me?” Mina raised a brow.

You went pale. “N-No, I j-just really wanted to sta—”

“You met a cute guy, didn’t you?” Mina accused, squinting at you.

You blinked, caught completely off guard by her conclusion. She knew you weren’t the type to extend a trip like this—especially with school starting next week—unless, of course, it was for BTS.

Or a cute guy.

“W-Well…”

Mina giggled. “Ha! That’s why we’re besties!”

Maybe a little white lie wasn’t so bad.

Mina told you she couldn’t extend her stay anyway since she had a presentation due next week. Even though she wanted to stay longer, you reassured her you’d be fine—and that you just wanted some alone time with your “cute guy.”

Yeah...cute guy.

-

The following days felt like a whirlwind. You enjoyed your last activities with Mina, all while quietly trying to keep it together every time the agreement flashed back into your mind and sent your thoughts spiraling.

When the last day came, you practically rushed Mina into the van just to get a proper goodbye out before she left.

Tomorrow was finally the day.

And yet, Jungkook still hadn’t contacted you.

The day before, you had already gone through a medical examination—another requirement of the NDA. You were honestly surprised at how professional it all was, how organized everything felt despite how unreal the situation still seemed in your head.

It was almost ridiculous how seriously you had started taking everything.

You shaved your entire body. Scrubbed yourself religiously every night. Applied lotion more than usual. Even started doing small morning workouts after meals, as if preparation alone could somehow calm your nerves.

“Hi, Jungkookie!” you practiced in front of the mirror, batting your eyelashes.

“Fuck! Why did I do that?” you immediately cringed, shaking your head.

You tried again, this time forcing a different tone.

“So… how was the concert?”

“I’m honored to be chosen.”

“Do I just lay here?”

“I love you. You’re my everything.”

You groaned and covered your face completely.

You had no idea what to expect. The thought of meeting Jungkook was overwhelming in every possible way—like your brain couldn’t decide whether to freeze, panic, or completely shut down.

And honestly, you were starting to worry you might faint… or embarrass yourself beyond recovery the moment it actually happened.

The contract stated “private meeting,” and you weren’t exactly Sherlock, so it wasn’t hard to conclude that it involves fucking. Especially considering they required a medical examination—surely not for a simple chat.

You almost screamed when your phone beeped with a message.

Jungkook: Hi Y/N, see you tomorrow at 8!

“Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh!” you jumped onto your bed, staring at the text like it wasn’t real.

His message was so casual, completely different from the formal, business-like tone Song Hobeom used. It almost made it feel even more surreal.

“What should I reply… oh my gosh.”

You bit your lip, carefully choosing your words so you wouldn’t mess anything up.

You: See you, Kookie!

-

The cottage was larger than yours...an executive unit reserved for upper-class guests—with soft ambient lighting, a private veranda, a small plunge pool, a carefully kept garden, a few hammocks swaying gently in the breeze, and direct access to the beach.

This area felt different, tucked away from the other cottages scattered across the busy island.

You had expected to be guided by bodyguards, but there was no one. No visible security, no presence at all. It felt intentional—like the meeting was meant to be so private that even protection would disrupt it.

Wearing a lilac wrap dress, white glittery doll shoes, and your hair curled neatly at the ends, you slowly made your way towards the cottage.

Your fingers hesitated before pressing the keycard Mr. Song had given you last week. The soft beep that followed made your nerves spike instantly—a quiet confirmation that you had arrived, and that you were allowed inside.

Once the door opened, you stepped in.

You were immediately met with a spacious bedroom featuring a king-sized bed, a lounge area, a large wooden door that likely led to the bathroom, and wide tinted windows with sliding doors that opened directly to a full view of the sea.

You stood there for a moment, taking it all in with wide eyes.

Carefully, you placed your bag beside the bed and began walking around the space, your curiosity slowly building. On the table, you noticed a selection of pastries and a neatly arranged meal set waiting, untouched.

“Hey.”

You gasped, your eyes snapping towards the bathroom door as the man you only saw on screens stepped out.

Jungkook wore nothing but a white towel wrapped around his waist, his hair still damp, droplets of water trailing down his neck and collarbones as he ran a smaller towel through his hair.

Your lips parted slightly. Fuck.

He walked toward the coffee table first, casually lifting the silver cloche to check the prepared dinner as if nothing about this moment carried any weight at all.

But for you, everything had just short-circuited.

Jungkook—right there in front of you...breathing the same fucking air.

You had seen him countless times on screens, in edited clips and fan videos—but none of that had prepared you for this. In person, his presence felt heavier, more grounded. His frame looked broader, more defined. The tattoos you had only ever glimpsed before were now fully visible under the soft lighting, detailed and striking in a way that made your thoughts scatter instantly.

Even his voice—when he spoke...carried a calm, effortless depth that made your mind go blank before it could catch up.

All the lines you had practiced disappeared completely.

You were speechless.

You couldn’t believe he was real.

“Have you eaten?” he asked, turning towards you while still holding the cloche.

Your mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. You stood near the couch like you’d been rooted in place, completely caught off guard.

A quiet chuckle left him as he noticed your reaction. He set the lid back down and began walking towards you.

Your breath hitched when he closed the distance. His fresh scent—clean, minty, just out of the shower—wrapped around you, sharpening your senses in an instant.

“Relax,” Jungkook said softly, his tone calm and steady as he gently placed a hand on your arm.

Warmth spread through your skin immediately, like your body had finally registered his presence all at once.

You nodded too quickly, blinking as if that could reset your brain. Your heart was pounding so hard you were convinced it had to be audible.

Jungkook smiled slightly, looking down at you. “Hmm, look at me.” he said when you kept avoiding eye contact.

You tried—but the moment your eyes lifted, you almost froze again.

Dark doe eyes met yours, steady and unreadable, holding you in place. His right hand lifted your chin just as you instinctively tried to look away again.

“Sit down on the couch for me, mhm?” he said gently, guiding you down with an easy, controlled calm.

You were so nervous, looking up at him like a shy deer. All the conversations you had prepared were completely forgotten—you were mentally blocked.

Jungkook tilted his head at you, still standing as he looked down at your form. “You okay, pretty girl?”

Your cheeks turned crimson at the compliment, and you nodded again like you had lost your voice.

Jungkook chuckled, crouching down to get to your eye level. “Talk to me, baby. Wanna hear you.”

“H-Hi,” you said in a small voice, almost choking on the words.

“Hmm, louder.” Jungkook whispered, raising a brow at you.

You gulped harshly, squeezing your own hands in nervousness. “H-Hi, Jungkook. Nice to meet you.” you said, a little clearer this time.

Jungkook smiled, sitting beside you. “There you go. Good job, baby.” he praised. “So polite.”

You smiled back shyly, your breath hitching when he took your hands—hands you hadn’t even realized you were squeezing so tightly.

“Baby, you’ll hurt yourself doing that…” he said gently, holding your hands and lightly tracing over the faint marks you had left on your skin.

“O-Oh, uhm…”

“Do you want to eat first? What do you want to do?” he asked softly, studying your nervous expression.

He was so calm, so composed, so sweet—it made your stomach twist in a way you couldn’t quite explain. You bit your lip under his attention, suddenly hyper-aware of every small movement you made.

His gaze briefly dropped to your lips. He swallowed subtly, something shifting in his expression for just a moment before he looked back up at you again.

“W-Whatever y-you want to do…”

Jungkook raised a brow at you, tilting his head slightly. “Yeah?”

You nodded quickly. “Yes…”

Jungkook straightened up, his gaze briefly dropping over your short dress, lingering for a moment before he looked back at the table.

“There’s a bunch of pastries you might want to try. Do you like sweets?” he said softly, opening the glass lids of the desserts in front of you.

You smiled shyly, eyes shifting towards the neatly arranged food. “Yes, I like c-cookies.”

Jungkook smiled, reaching for the tray of cookies with different flavors—chocolate chip, walnut, matcha, red velvet, and more you couldn’t even name at a glance.

You kept your eyes fixed on the cookies, forcing yourself not to look at him, especially with how near he was.

“I’ve tried walnut and matcha,” he said, pointing at a few of them.

You pouted and picked the flavor he suggested. He smiled when you chose the matcha, carefully placing the tray back down on the table.

“Do you want milk?” he asked, pointing at the bottle beside the pastries.

You nodded, taking a small bite while he poured a glass for you.

“Thank you…” you said with a shy smile.

He smiled back and stood up to get dressed while you focused on eating the cookies. When he came back, he was wearing a white shirt and black comfy shorts. He sat beside you and took a cookie for himself as well.

Jungkook was patient, sweet, and gentle with you. He occasionally asked about your hobbies, your likes, your favorite food, and small details that only your parents and Mina usually knew.

With a soft, hesitant voice, you slowly opened up—talking about how you became a BTS fan, how long you had followed them, and how much you liked him.

He listened closely, never interrupting, only asking follow-up questions like he was genuinely interested.

His eyes followed your lips whenever you spoke, then shifted to your eyes whenever you looked away. And every time your voice got smaller, he leaned in slightly, as if trying not to miss a single word—especially when you talked about him.

Neither of you mentioned the NDA.

It felt, strangely, like you were simply there to spend time with him.

You honestly thought he wouldn’t talk much, given how shy you were—but Jungkook was unexpectedly patient, giving you space to settle in and feel comfortable around him.

But then

You were giggling about his travel story with Jimin when you noticed his tattooed hands slowly settling around your waist.

“A-And what did he do?” you asked, a little startled.

Jungkook had been talking about some of their personal trips with the members. You were surprised by how open he was with you—the way he spoke during his Weverse lives was exactly the same in person: charming, funny, and easy to talk to.

You hadn’t expected him to answer your small, silly questions, but he was attentive, responding to everything like you had known each other for years. You felt, strangely, at ease.

He pouted slightly, suddenly distracted by the lace ruffles at the hem of your dress, his fingers lightly brushing and playing with them.

“Used all his perfume to spray it on the huge bug.” he chuckled lowly, his eyes still lowered towards your dress.

You giggled, imagining the chaos. “Did the bug get killed?”

Jungkook slowly looked at you, his eyes a little heavy-lidded, his hands still idly playing with the hem of your dress.

“Hmm, no.” he rasped.

Your eyes widened when he pulled you closer, his left arm circling your waist to steady you. His right tattooed hand lifted both your legs across his lap.

“You smell good.” he murmured closely, fingers now toying with the ribbons of your wrap dress.

You gulped harshly, your hands resting awkwardly on his arm for balance. Up close, he could see the details of your makeup—light glitter dusted across your cheeks and eyelids, pink gloss on your lips, a soft blush deepening from warmth, and lashes curled with a hint of mascara.

He lifted a loose strand of your hair, tucking it behind your ear, then let his fingers trail lightly along your cheek.

“You dolled up for me?” he said lightly, tilting his head.

His tone had shifted—less careful now, more playful… almost teasing.

“Y-Yes… do you like it?” you asked shyly. It had taken you hours to finish your makeup, hours to pick a dress and style your hair. You were almost embarrassed when you saw that he looked so fresh and handsome after the shower, while you had taken an eternity to get ready.

Jungkook poked the inside of his cheek. He held your face with one hand, almost squishing both of your cheeks. His touch was gentle, but the way he tilted your head to examine your face made you feel weird.

Made you feel wet.

“I do,” he said lowly. “I like the glitters.”

You smiled, a bit more confident now. “Really?” you said happily, leaning a little closer to him. “Matches my doll shoes right?” You moved your toes up and down.

Jungkook nodded, his lazy eyes staring at you, then down at your dress. His hands traced slow circles on your bare thighs, making you tingly.

“I noticed something though…”

“Hmm, what?” you tilted your head curiously.

He pouted. “Your dress has no glitters, babygirl.” He slightly held the end of your dress, as if examining the texture.

You pouted. “Yeah…” You looked down. “B-But—”

Your thoughts were interrupted when he softly kissed your cheek.

“Hmm…” He slowly held the ribbons of your dress, and with one hand, he untied the knot.

“W-Wait—” you gasped, eyes widening when you saw what he was doing.

“It has no glitters, baby… doesn't match your pretty little shoes and makeup." he said in a mocking tone, removing your dress from your shoulders.

“Jungkook…” you said softly, cheeks growing hot under his gaze.

Licking his lower lip, his gaze dropped to your body.

The soft swell of your breasts was hugged perfectly by the white bra you were wearing, matching the delicate fabric of your panties. The small white ribbon resting between your breasts and the top of your underwear caught his attention—something so simple, yet enough to make his cock tighten.

You looked… soft, so pretty, too cute. Ready to be ruined by him.

His hands slowly moved to the straps of your bra “Oh baby…” he said in a cooing tone. “This doesn’t have glitters as well.” He said it like it was a problem. His fingers hooked onto the straps before pulling them away from your skin—only to let them snap back in place, the sting blooming lightly against you.

You were speechless. The way he talked to you, the way he looked at you, the way he played with you—it made your body heat up, a quiet rush of warmth settling low in your stomach.

Your instinct was to cover yourself, but the way he raised a brow at you made you hesitate, a shiver running through you instead. You blinked slowly, caught between nerves and awareness you couldn’t quite name.

“Jungkook, t-this is embarrassing.” you said in a small voice.

You thought you could be confident—years of reading fanfictions had convinced you of that. You were certain you could fuck him better, that you could show him what you were capable of. Make him feel good. Please him. Make him happy.

You had been so sure of yourself...so full of it, even—thinking you could give him the best night of his life.

But the moment he touched you, your mind went completely blank. All rational thoughts slipped away, leaving you flustered and unsure of yourself, shrinking back into a shy, overwhelmed version of you.

Jungkook chuckled sarcastically. You gasped when he suddenly pulled your hair, his lips reaching under your ear to whisper.

“You signed up for this, didn’t you?” he rasped, his lips grazing your earlobe.

You squealed, his dominance eating you alive. His sweet, teasing tone was gone; the way he pulled your hair closer made you shiver.

“Y-Yes,” you bit your lip. You felt his lips move down your neck, his hot breath tickling you.

“Hmm… do you want me to elaborate on what we’re doing here?” he said in a tone like he was talking to a child. You gasped when he slightly bit your neck.

“Sorry, I was j-just—”

He removed your bra quickly, tossing it somewhere before his fingers grazed near the swell of your breast, teasing you.

“Use your pretty little brain, baby, come on…” he said harshly, suddenly pinching your nipples, making you whimper.

Jungkook raised his head to look at you, his pupils dilated. The way he swallowed harshly when he saw your round breast and pink nipples made him leak.

“Do you know…” he whispered under your ear. “How bad…” He slightly slapped your nipple, soothing it afterward by rolling it gently between his fingers. “I wanted to fuck you?”

“J-Jungkook-”

“Look at you… you’ll let me do whatever I want, right?”

You shut your eyes tightly…followed by a slow nod, stunned by his words and actions.

He raised a brow, eyes dropping to your nipples. Your vision almost slipped when he suddenly spat on them, using his fingers to spread it over your breast.

“Yeah? You’ll let me use you?” he said in a low voice, his hands now trailing down the garters of your underwear. “Like a pretty little, sparkly slut that your are.’’

You knew what he wanted...it had been clear from the very beginning. It had already been hours, and you were still shy and hesitant. You wanted this too, but you were scared to make the first move, scared to say or do something that might turn him off.

He, on the other hand, had been patient from the start—letting you settle in, letting you eat, letting you relax, asking you what you wanted, giving you time without rushing you.

You didn’t realize the way his eyes darkened the moment you entered his room—the way they wandered down the valley of your breasts, the way they roamed over your dress that hugged your curves— showing the swell of your hips, the way his gaze followed the pout of your lips. The way your cute little glitters and doll shoes made you look like a proper little slut for him to use.

It’s been more than a year.

Jungkook had been busy with tour, with the group’s latest comeback. He had been working endlessly—promoting their new songs, filming content for a variety of brands, updating his Instagram and TikTok daily for ARMYs, practicing nonstop to show his best on tour. His schedule had been packed for over a year since their comeback.

Now that the tour had finally come to an end, it was his time to relax and unwind.

Jungkook’s stamina was unreal. Despite his busy schedule, there were times he would ask his manager to arrange private, strictly confidential meetings through NDAs.

Unfortunately, their latest tour had been much bigger, making it harder for his manager to coordinate anything outside of his packed schedule. Because of that, for the past months, Jungkook had been letting all of his sexual frustrations by himself.

It started in 2017. At first, he was the one personally choosing and approving everything himself, but after a few years—once his fame and schedule became even more intense—his manager took over the process. It became less personal and more structured, handled carefully behind the scenes.

With his level of fame, everything had to be treated with strict confidentiality and formal documentation.

For years, all the NDAs Jungkook had been involved with stayed quiet—carefully kept private, out of fear of the consequences, but also lingering with the hope of another night with him.

He was a man, after all. With his busy schedule and global fame, there was no room for commitment or long-term relationships. Everything in his life moved too fast, too publicly, too tightly controlled.

Because of that, he relied on brief, private arrangements...carefully managed and kept out of the public eye—to relieve stress and maintain some sense of personal balance amid his packed schedule.

It was almost like something carefully curated over time. He didn’t have a specific type, but his manager knew him well enough to anticipate what he was comfortable with. Over the years, everything had become more structured—quiet introductions, formal agreements, and strict confidentiality before anything could proceed.

After the tour, Jungkook had been particularly insistent on arranging an NDA soon. The long schedule and constant pressure had built up, and he needed a way to release the pent up sexual frustration.

When the team decided to extend their stay in the country after the final stop, his manager quietly began looking into possible private, strictly confidential arrangements handled under NDAs.

It wasn’t urgent—more of a routine precaution when they had extended time in one location. In most cases, it was beneficial if the person involved was already an ARMY, since familiarity with boundaries and expectations made things easier. Over time, most of the people who signed were fans in one way or another, while others were simply individuals who happened to be in the right place at the right time and agreed to the confidentiality terms.

Jungkook himself rarely interfered with the process. He trusted his manager to handle the details, especially during tours and rare breaks when privacy mattered more than anything else. The goal was simple: rest, recovery, and avoiding unnecessary exposure.

That was why his manager moved discreetly when he saw you—subtly noting your presence, your behavior, and your isolation from the crowd before eventually placing a small calling card on your table.

When Jungkook saw you standing in front of him, frozen like a deer caught in headlights, all his rational thoughts slipped away for a moment. You looked so sweet, ready to be used.

Jungkook was unbearably horny.

He wasn’t the type to extend another night, even with a potential NDA—but he was the type who wouldn’t stop fucking you once you stepped into his space. The kind who fucked hard. The kind who took control and dominated you without hesitation. The kind who would leave marks—bruises that lingered long after the night ended. Whether you were the shy type or the bold type, you would fold once he touches you, once he pulls your hair and manoeuvres your body to his own liking.

He’s mean when he fucks, praising you in a degrading way… though he would always start off sweet, to ease the tension, with his usual kind self and bunny smiles.

But, afterwards?

He would fuck you like a dirty whore, play with you like a little toy, use you like a cum dump.

When he noticed how hesitant and vulnerable you were, he took the lead by making sure you were comfortable at first. But his patience was running thin. Your sweet scent engulfed his senses—your soft voice and small giggles, your shy smile and twinkling eyes—it all made his cock twitch.

It had been months—too long without a proper release. At first, he wanted to take his sweet time with you, but your hesitance and shy demeanor were driving him crazy. Jungkook wanted to bend you over and fuck your unused holes, wanted to wrap his hands around your neck, wanted to fuck your pretty mouth until you were gagging and crying for him, wanted to feel your warm pussy wrapped around him until he could no longer think straight.

He forcefully ripped your underwear, leaving red marks on your thighs. Your body was now fully exposed to him.

“Pretty girl,” he mused, when his gaze dropped at your pussy, you instinctively closed your legs.

He gripped your thighs, forcing them open so he could look at your cunt. “Pretty little pussy.” he whispered, staring at your cunt with a faint shine visible from your wetness. “Acting so shy yet your pussy is soaking.”

“Jungkook, p-please…” you pleaded, slightly moving your legs.

“Aww, a few moments ago you wouldn’t let me see you. Now you’re pleading, hmm?” he cooed.

Your breath hitched when his index finger traced the slit of your cunt, gathering your juices.

“Oh, t-that’s—” you whimpered. 

You were long gone.

He was making you so wet and turned on. Not that you weren’t already—your shyness was already getting the best of you—but the moment he took the lead, whatever composure you had left began to slip away. Your thoughts scattered, your attention narrowing to him alone, your body reacting in a way that made you feel both overwhelmed and helplessly aware of him.

Your eyes widened when he licked the finger that had gathered your wetness, staring at you while his tongue rolled over it.

“Hmm, you taste so good.” his finger, now wet with saliva, went back down your cunt to gather your juices again, bringing it to his mouth to taste it once more.

“Do you taste yourself?” 

“N-No, I haven’t,” you admitted shyly.

He placed his wet finger on your lip. “Open,” he said sharply, like he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

You slowly opened your mouth, his finger immediately sliding in so you could taste yourself. 

“That’s it… twirl your tongue, baby.” You obediently twirled your tongue around his finger, your saliva dripping down his hand messily. His cock twitched at the sight, he pulled his finger from your mouth with a soft pop.

“Get on the bed and spread your legs.” slapping your thigh lightly to urge you up.

You were almost dizzy, his words barely registering in your mind… you stood up, almost stumbling, but Jungkook caught your waist firmly.

“Careful, baby.” he chuckled lowly, your cheeks heating up in response.

Your legs felt weak as you made your way to the bed, Jungkook following behind. When you bent down to remove your doll shoes, he held your arm to stop you.

“Leave them.”

“O-Okay,” your brows furrowed, slowly sitting on the bed with your doll shoes still on.

Jungkook raised a brow at you. “Raise your legs on the bed.”

“But my shoes…” you pouted.

Jungkook chuckled, crouching down to level with your face. “It has glitters, baby. No need to remove it.”

You blinked slowly, the realization settling in as you recalled his earlier comment about your dress and undergarments not having any glitter details.

Raising your feet, you let your doll shoes rest on the mattress. Your legs were folded as you adjusted yourself, your wet cunt fully exposed under his gaze.

Jungkook’s hand moved absently over his shorts as he looked at you with heavy-lidded eyes, his attention fixed on your wet pussy. “Spread wider, baby. Hold your ankles for me.”

You spread your legs wider, holding your ankles, making yourself open for him. Your juices leaked down onto the mattress, giving him a clear view. Your cheeks and neck turned red from what you were doing for him.

“That’s it, wider.” he groaned, removing his shirt and shorts in one go. Your arms almost gave out when you saw him naked in front of you.

He was so huge—his cock red and veiny, precum leaking from the tip, his hand gripping himself, rolling the foreskin, pumping more wetness onto his mushroom head.

Jungkook moved closer, looking down at your cunt while palming himself shamelessly. “Do you like how I touch my cock?’’

You whimpered when his other hand went down to you, his middle finger sliding into your hole easily. The wet squelching sound filled the room.

“Slut,” he whispered. 

Using your wetness, he spread it around his cock like lubricant, mixing it with his precum. “You’re so wet baby, my good little whore.”

You whined, your arms growing tired from the position. When you tried to let go of your ankles, Jungkook slapped your pussy.

“Keep them open,” he said harshly, squeezing his cock tighter, releasing more precum at the tip. 

“Let me see your pretty holes, yeah?” His cheeks hollowed as he gathered saliva and spat onto your exposed cunt, letting it drip inside your wanting hole.

“Jungkook, p-please… I can’t anymore,” you whined, your body clenching around nothing. You wanted him to touch you.

“Shh, be a good doll and stay still, yeah?” he groaned, spitting down on his cock, spreading it along his shaft as he pumped faster while looking at you.

It was so overwhelming—the way he looked at you while touching himself made you so wet.

“P-Please, t-touch me.” you pleaded, your eyes glossy with need, whining when you felt more of your juices spill onto the bed.

Jungkook groaned, “Be a good fucking slut and watch me touch my cock.”

It was obscenely dirty—watching him touch his cock so fast, his gaze locked on your pussy. Every now and then, he’d gather your slick with his fingers, spreading it along his length, making himself even wetter, even more desperate.

And just when it looked like he was about to cum—he stopped.

His hand tightened around the tip, squeezing just enough to hold himself back, dragging the moment out, edging himself with a restraint that only made it worse.

“Fuck!” he quickly kneeled down in front of you, his face now very close to your pussy. When you looked down, your eyes fluttered when you saw him staring closely at your twitching hole.

“You look so tight,” he groaned, his finger tracing your cunt lightly.

“Koo…” you moaned, already shaking from the contact.

He kissed your inner thigh, occasionally biting the soft skin to leave marks. When you were already getting too whiny, he leaned in closer, his tongue pushing inside you.

“Oh, Jungkook—” you moaned loudly, the feeling of his hot tongue inside your hole making you quiver. He was pushing his tongue so deep, like he wanted to collect all your juices.

“Mhm,” he moaned, the vibration giving soft pulses down your clit. He collected all your juices, sucking them as much as possible, going deeper and deeper just to spit it right back up on your swollen clit.

“Oh my gosh—” you whimpered. He was making you as messy as possible. When he wrapped his lips around your clit to suck, you almost saw stars from the pleasure, the sensation pulsating through your whole body making you roll your eyes back.

“You like that?” he murmured while sucking your clit, his tatted finger going inside your hole, releasing more juices from you.

You nodded almost instantly, holding your ankle tighter. When he nipped harshly on your clit, you almost dropped your legs, shaking from how good his lips and tongue felt. He looked up at you, still sucking your clit while inserting another finger inside you, instantly brushing your sensitive spot.

The way his middle and ring finger brushed your g-spot made your clit pulse. With the pressure of his lips around your clit, you were close to cumming.

“Jungkook, I-I’m gonna…”

“Go ahead baby, wanna eat your cum,” he whispered against your cunt, sucking harder, his fingers moving aggressively inside you.

You were shaking. When you felt your high building, you almost pushed him away, letting go of your ankles to grip his hair.

“Jungkook! S-Stop,” you pleaded weakly. The pleasure was too much, too intense. His pace did not falter, his hand pressing your lower stomach down.

When he removed his fingers, you thought he was done, but he immediately rubbed your clit in circles, spitting down on your hood while holding your wriggling body in place.

You moaned loudly… his fingers, his mouth, his spit—all of it pushed you over the edge. You came so hard you almost fainted. 

He still didn’t stop- you were overstimulated, trying to push him away, but he wouldn’t let you, drawing more release out of you. The pressure of his fingers dragged you into another climax, making you squirt messily around him, splashing his face, his neck, his body.

“S-stop, please Koo…” you cried, shaking uncontrollably as you squirted again. His fingers still didn’t stop. His dark eyes stayed fixed on your swollen pussy, amusement etched across his face.

“Messy girl, good job baby.” he cooed, giving your pussy a light slap to coax out the remaining slick.

Your cheeks were wet with tears, your body weak from orgasm. He leaned down, holding your cheeks gently to make you look at him.

“Poor baby, let me wipe your tears, hmm?”

He leaned down, licking your tears slowly, his hot tongue dragging wetly across your cheeks.

You whimpered, your body barely holding itself together. His lips moved down to your nipple, sucking the hard bud softly, while his other hand caressed your other breast, pinching and rolling your nipples.

His throbbing cock grinds against your spent pussy, his swollen tip smearing messily against your slit, spreading his precum all over your cunt.

“Koo…” you said softly, still tired and hazy from your release.

His mouth moved to your other nipple, his teeth tugging slightly, making you gasp. You were certain you would have bruises—the way he sucked your nipple mirrored how he had sucked your clit, lingering just enough to draw a reaction, coating it in spit before taking it fully into his mouth.

“Baby, can you feel how hard I am for you?” he whispered, his cock grinding slowly against your wet pussy, his tip brushing your clit… making you wetter again. “Do you know how long I wanted to fuck a nice warm pussy?” He grabbed your neck, your lips parting instinctively. He took the chance to spit into your mouth, leaning down to slip his tongue in messily, swallowing your moans and protests. His grip tightened each time you whimpered.

“Been touching my hard cock for months baby,” His movements were slow, deliberate—drawing arousal back into your body. “Need your tight pussy so bad.” The way he rolled his hips against you, the way he silenced you with his tongue so no protests could leave your mouth.

“You wanted this?” he groaned against your lips, releasing your neck only to squeeze your breast harshly.

“Ouch, Koo—”

“Answer me,” he said sharply, tapping your right cheek.

“I w-want this,” you said with glossy eyes, small hands gripping his arm tightly.

He tilted his head at you. “Yeah? You wanted to be fucked like a slut don’t you?” he taunted, sitting up to squeeze his cock, teasing himself by twirling his index finger over his tip. “Are you a slut? hmm?”

You nodded weakly. “Would do anything for y-you.’’ you said shyly.

Jungkook raised a brow, standing up at the edge of the bed. “Come here then, crawl to me.”

It was degrading, the way he treats you like a slut for him to use… yet it makes you wetter, makes you hornier. You crawl towards him like a good whore, looking up at him with pleading, sparkly eyes. Your makeup is ruined, your hair disheveled, your doll shoes still intact, making you look like a ruined sex doll.

“Good girl, now wrap your hands around my cock.” he rasped, holding the base out for you. When your small, shaky hands felt his veiny shaft, you almost came again. It twitched in your grip, hard and flushed red at the tip.

He groaned. “Spit on it, baby. Make it nice and wet for me.”

You spat on his cock, spreading it around the base before moving your hands up and down, rolling the foreskin as you worked him. He moaned loudly, head tipping back, jaw clenched, sweat forming across the expanse of his chest.

“That’s it, what a good little whore.” he praised, caressing your hair.

You tried your best to make him feel good. You raised your other hand, spitting into your palm and spreading it together with his precum.

Jungkook groaned at the sight. Using both of your hands, you made a twisting motion along his length, looking up at him like a good girl.

“I w-want you,” you said with a bit of confidence.

Jungkook cursed under his breath. “Suck my cock.” He slapped your hands away, then pulled your hair, forcing you to take his cock into your mouth. His breath hitched when he felt you gag around him, your nose pressed against his pelvis, your eyes turning watery.

“Take it,” he groaned harshly, guiding your head up and down like you were his personal fleshlight. You tried your best to take him, even though he was so big in your mouth, his tip hitting the back of your throat.

It was sloppy and nasty. Your tongue pressed flat against the underside of his cock, tracing the mushroom tip while you hollowed your cheeks and sucked hard. Spit and precum was leaking down your chin, your eyes glossy and red, the way you twirled your tongue to trace the veins of his cock made him groan.

“Hands behind your back,” he panted.

You immediately did what he said, your body fully under his control. When he pushed deeper, your face pressed against his pubic hair. You choked, saliva and precum bubbling at the corners of your mouth, you want to tap his leg, the air in your lungs limited.

“You look so pretty with my cock- fuck! I’m gonna cum.” he grunted, keeping you close until you felt the liquid heat spreading inside your throat. He forced you to swallow, keeping your face snug against his pelvis so not a single drop would spill.

When he released your head, you almost collapsed onto the bed. Your eyes were red, your mouth slightly bruised, and your neck ached from the way he had angled your face. Due to exhaustion, you let him maneuver your body, pushing you down and flipping you over.

“Bend over, baby. I’m not done using you.”

He was still hard, giving his cock a few more pumps before guiding it towards your pussy.

“Open your pussy, baby. Be a useful slut and spread yourself for me.”

With weak hands, you reached back to spread yourself for him, opening your folds. Your wetness leaked down your inner thighs.

“Look at you. You just came, yet your pussy already wants more… dripping all over my sheets like a whore.” he said mockingly.

You whimpered. “P-please, f-fuck me.” You were almost crying, your arms tired and your body aching from the position, but you wanted to please him so badly, wanted him to use you till you could no longer take it anymore.

Jungkook chuckled behind you. You thought he would tease you again, but you gasped when he suddenly pushed his cock inside you. Despite your earlier orgasm, the stretch was still painful, making you scream into the sheets.

“You’re so tight, fuck.” he groaned, looking down at his cock getting swallowed by your tight pussy.

He leaned down, pressing your head down further, his cock pushing deeper and deeper, making you squirm in both pleasure and pain.

“Fucking slut, so tight around daddy.” he whispered, your face buried in the sheets.

You clenched around him, whining against the mattress.

“Oh, you like that?” he taunted, pushing deeper until he reached your g-spot.

You could feel every drag of his cock inside you—his veins, his mushroom tip. The stretch was so good you were close to cumming, clenching around him as he fucked you deeper.

“Stop that, baby, I’m gonna cum.” he almost laughed, pulling your hair up so he could see your face. “Want to fuck you for hours, baby. I’m gonna use your tiny hole till daddy can’t release cum anymore. Do you want that?”

You whimpered, “Yes, d-daddy.”

He groaned harshly; the way you called him made him even hornier. He pulled out and shifted down on his side, pulling your body snug against his chest, your back pressed against him. “Keep your legs up,” he whispered, holding his cock and directing it against your leaking hole.

You didn’t expect to be fucked by Jungkook sideways. He held your waist while driving his hard cock into you, your legs spread wide in the air as his lips nipped harshly at your neck.

“Feels so g-good, daddy.” you moaned, your body bouncing slightly from the force of the way he was fucking you.

Jungkook bit your neck, his hands moving down to rub your clit. “Uhuh, daddy’s gonna fill you with so much cum and you’re gonna hold it like a good girl.’’

You moaned, trying to bite your moans back, but Jungkook slapped your clit harshly. “Moan louder,” he groaned, his balls hitting your ass as he pushes his cock all the way out just to push it harder all the way in.

“J-Jungkook.” you moaned, eyes rolling back.

“Louder.”

“Jungkook!” you moaned louder.

“Good girl,” he chuckled behind you, his fingers coming back down to rub your clit again.

You could feel your cum dripping down your thighs, the loud squelching sound of his cock fucking into your pussy and his deep groans pushing you to the edge. When he gave your clit a good rub, you came all over his cock, your pussy clenching around his girth, releasing so much cum. You held his wrist to stop him, your thighs shaking—you were certain you almost drooled from the deep pulses your cunt was producing.

Jungkook groaned behind you. You gasped weakly when he removed himself inside your twitching pussy, your cum leaking onto the mattress, but he immediately lowered his head to catch your cum, wasting no drop.

“I c-cant, too much!” you cried.

Jungkook held your thighs firmly, slurping all your juices like a starved man. When he raised his head, his chin and nose were wet from your arousal. Using both his index fingers, he opened your hood, exposing your puffy clit. He leaned down to suck it, and you gasped when you felt your cum and his warm saliva spreading.

“Oh daddy,” you moaned, another wave of pleasure rolling through your body.

He looked up at you, his tongue giving kitten licks on your clit. “Are you daddy’s good girl?” he murmured against it, his thumb circling the bud, the dual sensation making you lose your mind. “Do you like how daddy eats your pussy?”

“Yes daddy, it f-feels nice.”

“Nice?” Jungkook chuckled, sucking his thumb before rubbing his spit all over your clit. “Is this nice?” he mocked, looking at your bud as it looked so swollen and pink.

“Describe nice for me,” he growled before standing up, carrying you with him. Your thighs wrapped around his waist as he walked beside the large mirror. Using both of his hands, he held your ass and pushed his cock inside your used hole, using almost no strength to lift your body just to push you up and down around his hard cock.

You could see your reflection in the mirror—the way he used your body to pleasure himself, the way his biceps flexed every time he pushed and pulled you against him. He carried you like a feather, your body like a used, fucked-up sex doll.

“Is this… nice?” he mocked you, his lips parted as he looked at your pleasured face. He could feel your juices dripping down his muscular thighs. He chuckled at you. “Too dumb to answer, baby? Is my cock making you feel so good?”

You squealed, gripping his arms tightly as your body bounced up and down. He was going so fast, his hips snapping against you, pushing up while forcing you down, the tip of his cock hitting your cervix.

“Gonna cum, baby. Would you hold my cum inside like what I taught you?” he panted, his thrusts getting sloppy, his eyes hazy.

“Y-Yes daddy.” 

Jungkook groaned, his hands gripping your ass hard, enough that it hurt. His cock drilled in so deep that you whimpered when he pulled your body close, forcing you down as he spilled all of his warm cum inside you. He groaned beside your ear, biting your neck through his intense orgasm, balls deep and snug against your ass. Your legs were shaking...you felt so full. You tried to move, but his grip was too strong. You could feel all of his cum filling your pussy, and it was so much that you could feel some of it dripping down your legs.

You thought he was done when he removed his cock inside you. Your legs wobbled as he quickly set you down on the bed, his hands palming your pussy as if to keep his cum inside you. Your eyes almost went out of their sockets when you saw that he was still hard.

“Raise your legs,” he rasped, gripping his cock from the base as he spread the cum that was left on his girth.

When you weakly raised your legs, he could see how much cum was inside your pussy, threatening to spill out.

“Touch yourself, push my cum deeper,” he said with serious eyes while staring at your hole.

Your eyes widened. “J-Jungkook, t-thats-”

‘’Come on baby, daddy’s waiting.” 

You gulped harshly. He was slowly rubbing his swollen cock, teasing the tip while waiting for you to move. Your small hand slowly reached down to your hole, pushing his cum deeper, but some of it spilled onto the bed. You tried your best to push it in further, but your past orgasm was still overstimulating you.

“Like this, d-daddy?’’ you said shyly.

Jungkook groaned, staring at his cum in your tight hole. “Good job baby, can you add another finger for me?” 

You added another finger. It was a lot easier to push his cum deeper, but your pussy was getting sensitive. You were whimpering—the fact that he was just staring at you while rubbing his mushroom tip made you chase another high you didn’t even realize was coming. The pad of your fingers brushing against your g-spot with his cum felt so good, forcing you into another mind-blowing orgasm. The fact that you came just from pushing his cum deeper felt so dirty.

“Oh my gosh, I-fuck..” you were convulsing. You removed your fingers, trying to close your thighs shut, but Jungkook held your legs. He quickly inserted his hard cock, you were still pulsating and the feeling of his cock replacing your fingers extended your orgasm, your wet pussy clenching and unclenching around his cock.

“Fuck you feel so good, Daddy didn’t stretch you enough huh? You’re still fucking tight.” he growled, his hips making a rolling motion as his fingers pinched your nipples harshly.

Your tongue was almost out, your pussy still quivering, your clit so sensitive that even the feeling of his pubic hair brushing against it felt incredibly intense.

“Gonna fuck that tight little pussy till your loose, so that everytime you touch yourself your fingers would be too small for your gaping hole.” he grunted, his hands holding both of your wrists above your head, his other hand gripping your throat. He was fucking you so hard that your body was bouncing up. He crouched down to lick your sweaty neck, then moved down to your underarm, licking your sweat messily. You tried to move your arms, but his hold was firm, licking your other underarm and creating a huge wet mess.

“I-I’m close,” you choked, chasing another orgasm, overwhelmed by how many times you had come—you were certain your pussy would be numb after this.

“Hold it, you slut.” he bit the swell of your breast causing you to scream.

He held your body up, then laid down on the bed while holding your waist, placing you on top of him.

“Ride my cock.”

Desperate for release, you positioned your body in front of him, but Jungkook stopped you.

“On your back, babygirl.” he tapped your thighs.

Your cheeks reddened as you positioned your body with your back facing him. When you sank down, you immediately moaned, your ass against his lower stomach. The stretch felt so good, the veins on his cock filling your spongey walls perfectly.

“That’s it, make daddy proud.” he groaned, holding your waist while you moved up and down on him. Your legs were aching, but you didn’t care. When you felt his right tattooed hand slapping your ass, you almost came.

“You look so pretty.” you heard him whisper, his hand caressing your ass, your brows furrowed when his hand went deeper.  “Lower your body for me.”

Confused and a bit dazed, you lowered your body while still riding him. You shrieked loudly when his fingers played with your exposed rim, circling around the hole. You held his thighs, squeezing them hard when he tried to push his thumb in, the stretch making you shiver.

“Would you let me fuck you here, baby?’’ he whispered, pushing this thumb deeper, your tight walls swallowing him.

You haven’t done that before—you can’t even imagine it. He was the first man who touched you there. You were in so deep that you desperately nodded, clenching around his cock as the thought excited you.

He chuckled, “You’re so dirty baby, gonna let me fill all your holes hmm?”

You nodded again. “Yes, only for you J-Jungkook.”

“Yeah? you love me that much huh? I bet you hump your little cooky plushies thinking it’s my hard cock instead.”

He removed his thumb from your ass just to insert his middle and index finger, causing you to scream at the stretch. "Tell me baby, how many times have you masturbated huh?" Your movements slowed down from the sensation.

“Do you fantasize about me? Fantasize about your bias fucking your slutty holes?’’ he taunted, pushing his fingers deeper, his hips pushing up to meet your thrusts.

It was embarrassing; you didn’t answer, afraid to admit the dirty things you did every time you thought of Jungkook—afraid to admit how dirty you were behind your shy demeanor and innocent looks. You liked him so much, idolized him for years, dreamed about meeting him, dreamed about attending his concert, and in your most hidden fantasies… you dreamed about being his girlfriend, what it feels like to be loved by him, to be fucked by him.

“Hmm, baby? I bet you do,” he chuckled.

He removed his fingers, slapping your ass cheeks, then flipping you down onto the bed. “My dirty little girl, touching her little holes while thinking about her bias.”

You couldn’t maintain eye contact, your fingers fiddling with the sheets when he went down to grind his cock against your pussy, both of his arms beside your head.

“Aww baby, are you shy?” he cooed, pushing his cock inside you, trying to find the angle that hits your spot.

You pouted, your eyes a bit hesitant. He held your cheeks so you would look at him. “Don’t worry… daddy’s here, I’m gonna fuck you so good and make your dreams come true.” 

He spit into your parted mouth, urging you to swallow before fucking mercilessly into your tight hole. He held your thighs, almost folding you in half. Your pussy was so stretched and swollen. He leaned down to whisper moans in your ear, his movements so fast you were impressed by his stamina at this point.

“Cum with me baby,” he panted, his thrusts getting sloppy, his mushroom tip hitting the right spot.

Jungkook forced you into another orgasm. You thought you wouldn’t cum, but your pussy was pulsating so badly, his cock still drilling inside you.

He let out a strained growl, his breathing turning heavier with each passing second. When you felt him cumming, he removed his cock from your pussy… quickly inserting it into your other unused hole.

You screamed loudly, the stretch sudden and painful… you could feel his cock pushing his cum deep inside your ass, the sensation making you shake and cry. When you tried to move, he held your waist tightly, balls snug so he could keep his warm cum inside.

He kissed your cheek, “So good for me, so pretty, so tight.” he whispered.

You thought he was done, but when he kissed you hard, his tongue dominating yours, you realized he wasn’t fully sated yet. He pulled you onto the nearest table, bending you over, your hands gripping it for support.

“Lift your leg here, baby,” he instructed, lifting your other leg so you were exposed to him.

The memories were hazy—you remembered him fucking you on the table while your cheeks burned red from the way he pushed you down. You could see the reflection in the mirror, your doll shoes still intact, the table wet from your drool. After that, he fucked your breasts, urging you to suck the tip like a good little whore.

Every time you thought he was done, he would pull you back again, whispering dirty praises about how you were such a good slut for him. His stamina was so impressive, and you were also impressed that you managed to stay awake the whole time.

Even when he was washing you up, he was very sweet, washing your hair and body, yet his fingers were still trailing down your swollen pussy. You protested, but he told you not to worry, saying, “Don’t worry baby, I’m gonna rub the pain away,” while rubbing your pussy in slow circles, causing you to release another orgasm in the shower.

Before you drifted off to sleep, you felt him spreading your legs, whispering. “Last one pretty girl, let me leave you a present when you wake up, yeah? All nice and wet in the morning.” 

It felt almost unreal—like something pulled from a dream you weren’t fully ready to believe had happened.

When you woke up, Jungkook was no longer there.

Your body felt heavy, drained in a way that made even small movements difficult. You shifted under the covers, blinking slowly as reality started to settle in piece by piece.

The room was quiet. When you sat up, your gaze fell to your doll shoes placed neatly nearby. 

You stared at them for a long moment, your chest tightening in a way you couldn’t quite explain. A quiet reminder that last night had not been a dream.

You weakly stood up, wearing a comfy oversized shirt you were certain was his. Walking over to the table, you noticed a set of breakfast meals laid out—eggs, waffles, bacon, fruits, and a pitcher of orange juice.

Still a bit dazed, you sat down on the couch and stared at the food in front of you, your mind struggling to catch up with reality. Last night still felt distant, almost unreal...like something your brain hadn’t fully accepted yet. But every time you shifted slightly and felt the marks on your skin, the memory returned sharply.

It was real.

You knew the rules. You would never see him again, you would never contact him again, and anything that happened that night would stay with you—carried quietly, taken to your grave.

Your eyes grew teary, not because you regretted it, but because some part of you wished it didn’t end so quickly.

Wished it lasted longer.

You knew better...that you and him were not in a fairytale. You wouldn’t be the special girl who eventually ends up with him. You weren’t inside some ridiculous fanfiction where he would text you afterward, telling you he missed you, that he wanted to see you again, that he might even love you.

Pure fiction.

Looking at the food in front of you, your eyes caught a small folded paper tucked beside the plate.

When you opened it, you had expected something sweet—maybe a cute note, maybe his number. You already knew the number he used wasn’t personal anyway, just an exclusive one-night line tied to the NDA.

“Dollshoes.”

It was written quickly, but you recognized his handwriting immediately.

You looked around and spotted a paper bag beside the bed. You stood up at once, walking towards it, your hands already shaking before you even reached it.

Carefully, you opened it.

Inside was a pair of glittery doll shoes.

You searched for a note, but there was none.

You pouted slightly, your heart still skipping at the small gesture. It wasn’t much—but it was something. At least he had left something for you.

It had been months since that night, but you would never forget it.

You told no one—not Mina, not anyone, not even in passing. You were almost afraid that speaking it out loud would make it less real… or worse, make you forget it entirely, reducing it to something that only felt like a dream.

Over the months, something else slowly clicked into place.

While reviewing your notes one day, your eyes drifted absentmindedly to your tote bag. Only then did you notice the small cooky keychain attached to it.

It had to have been what his manager saw.

A quiet sense of relief settled in you then—knowing that despite changing bags since that day, you had never taken it off.

You also tried to think harder—why did he give you a pair of doll shoes? Does he do that with all his hookups? Does he give them a farewell gift too after sleeping with them?

The thought left a strange mix in your chest. A little sadness and a little jealousy you couldn’t quite justify.

And yet, the doll shoes still felt like a strong reminder that you were once his...like he gave you something so you wouldn’t forget him.

Sometimes you would even wonder if everything that happened was only your imagination. His manager’s contact number, Jungkook’s number—gone from your phone. The NDA had included a strict no-contact clause, and everything tied to that night had disappeared with it.

Afterward, you didn’t see them anymore, and you had no idea whether they had even stayed in the country or left immediately.

The moment the marks on your body began to fade, you almost cried—like something of him was slowly slipping away from you too.

Wearing the doll shoes he gave you, you sat in a nice outdoor coffee shop with your laptop and a hot latte.

It had been almost a year.

Despite the beautiful view around you, your attention was fixed on your screen. You were writing a paper—your fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment longer than necessary, like they understood something you didn’t want to admit.

You had been careful. Writing the details with precaution.

You changed the places, the countries, the names. You rewrote reality until it no longer belonged to anyone but you. Until it couldn’t be traced back—not to him, not to that night, not to the NDA that should have never felt real in the first place.

You even made sure to hide it in plain sight.

Just another fanfiction.

Just another story.

Just enough to protect yourself.

Just enough to protect him.

Your foot tapped lightly beneath the table, uneven, restless. A habit you picked up a year ago. A habit you never lost.

And then you wrote it—the memory still too fresh to feel like a memory at all.

“Please, please, please!” you whispered to yourself, fingers crossed tightly as you stared at the three screens in front of you.

And for a brief second—you wondered if anyone would believe it was just fiction.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂˚₊┈┈୨୧┈┈‧₊˚⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂

© 2026 ggukiebar, all rights reserved

He’s been your best friend ever since the tragic Halloween party in elementary school where he arrived wearing a deeply embarrassing carrot costume, got completely roasted by the other kids, and sat crying under the table. You took pity on the sad little vegetable, sacrificed your own social standing to go talk to him, and somehow the two of you just stayed together ever since.

Which makes standing in this sweaty basement, watching girls throw themselves at him while you clutch his birthday gift like a lifeline, about a thousand times more humiliating.

Just look at him. Look at the absolute absurdity of this human being.

He’s leaning casually against a table that has been transformed into a makeshift altar in his honor. It’s an appalling masterpiece his teammates built purely for fun. His picture is sitting there in a tacky frame, surrounded by polaroids of his biceps, lit candles, and dead flowers shoved recklessly into empty vodka bottles. It looks like a shrine dedicated to a guy who died of alcoholism, which is honestly pretty likely considering he gets trashed like every second day.

You bite your lip, your eyes helplessly tracing his profile as he stands angled away from you. He holds a green glass bottle of Heineken loosely by the neck, while his other hand is shoved deep into the pocket of baggy pants. A black tee hangs off his shoulders.

One girl (a blonde cheerleader you’ve seen with him before, but never bothered to get to know and don’t particularly want to) rests her palm against his forearm, leaning in so close her chest is practically pressing into his ribs. Her lashes flutter while she whispers something directly into his ear over the heavy bass booming through the speakers.

Jungkook just tilts his head back, taking a long swig from his beer, before offering her a lazy smirk, his tongue flicking out to lick the silver ring at his bottom lip. And every single time he smiles like that, your heart does a sickening squeeze inside your chest, while the relentless bass from the speakers pulses directly in your temples.

God, you hate parties. You hate loud places. You hate the smell of beer, and you hate people in general.

Except for him. Which is the entire, catastrophic problem.

Except a good friend wouldn’t have spent the last four weeks acting like a ghost. A good friend wouldn’t have left him on read for a week, dodging his phone calls, and sprinting behind the library book stacks every time you caught sight of his oversized silhouette cutting across the campus quad.

You shouldn’t even be here. In a completely rational world, you would be back in your dorm room, drafting an essay that no one will ever read. But it’s Jungkook’s twenty-first birthday. And as much of an absolute coward as you’ve been lately, you’re still trying to be a good friend.

That was the exact millisecond you realized two terrifying, unavoidable truths:

A good friend certainly wouldn’t have spent the last thirty days completely spiraling because of a stupid, mindless party game... It was just a dare. Jungkook had to kiss whoever was sitting on his left, and unfortunately, that was you. You’d had a nagging suspicion before that you might actually like him, but that kiss cemented it all. It was good. Too good. That was the whole problem: your stomach erupted with butterflies, your pulse lost its mind, and you felt every single thing you weren’t supposed to feel for him.

1. You are violently, desperately, hopelessly in love with your best friend.

2. You are completely fucked.

Because look at him, and then look at you. You are nothing like the girls he hooks up with. Girls with pretty smiles, flat stomachs, and perfectly styled hair. You can’t compete with that. You don’t even want to try to compete with that. If he ever found out you felt this way, it wouldn’t be some romantic movie ending. It would just be agonizingly awkward. He’d probably try to let you down easy, and then twelve solid years of unshakeable friendship would dissolve into a puddle of radioactive cringe.

So yeah. You avoided him for a solid month. You weren’t ready to face him. You’re still not. But really, how can anyone ever be ready to face Jeon Jungkook when he looks like that?

You briefly contemplate summoning whatever microscopic shred of courage you have left, thinking that maybe–just maybe–you should be the bigger person and approach him first. Get it over with. Except you don’t even get the chance to move.

Right on you.

One of his basketball teammates walks up to him, loudly slurring something into his ear.

Jungkook nods absentmindedly, but his dark eyes begin casually scanning the packed room. His gaze sweeps past the beer pong table, past the crowd by the speakers, and then freezes.

He cuts the guy off mid-sentence without even pretending to offer a polite excuse, mutters something brief to his group, and detaches himself entirely. He doesn’t glance back once.

Panicking completely, you snap your head to the left, staring with intense, fake focus at a pathetic bundle of ‘21’ foil balloons taped to a pipe.

“Hi, stranger,” a voice booms directly over the bass.

Even though you literally watched him march across the room, your entire body jolts. You flinch as a cold glass edge pokes you lightly right in the stomach, realising it's just Jungkook, nudging you with the neck of his Heineken bottle.

“Thought you were gonna ditch me today, too.”

Guilt stabs through the knot in your throat. You look up at him, your mouth running dry at how close he actually is. “I wouldn’t ditch you on your birthday,” you mumble, trying to sound normal and failing miserably.

“Oh, really?” Jungkook tilts his head, as his smile turns mockingly sweet. “Could’ve fooled me. Considering you’ve been treating me like trash for four weeks straight.”

You instantly drop your gaze to the ground, uncomfortably shifting your weight. He’s right, and you know it. You suck. You’re a terrible best friend.

When you don’t respond, opting instead to chew the absolute hell out of the inside of your cheek, Jungkook takes a step forward, resting his palm flat against the wall right next to your head. His shoulders completely block out the rest of the basement, trapping you in a inescapable shadow. He slowly lowers his head into your space.

“Look at me,” he commands. “What is actually going on with you?”

“Nothing,” you squeak out, staring rigidly at his collarbone instead of his eyes. “I was just… busy.”

“Busy,” Jungkook repeats, the word rolling off his tongue with skepticism. “You were too busy to answer my texts? Too busy grab a lunch with me? You sprinted out of the library last Tuesday the second I walked in the door.”

“I didn’t,” you mumble, but the music swallows your words whole.

“You did.”

“I was just… jogging”

He tilts his head, his eyes trailing slowly over your flushed cheeks. “You’re a terrible liar Y/N.” His voice drops.” Tell me what’s actually up, or we’re gonna stand against this wall all night.”

You swallow hard, your hand cramping around the gifts handle. “I’m not lying,”

“So you just happened to develop a sudden, life-altering allergy to my existence?”

“Maybe I just have other friends, Jungkook,” you snap defensively, “Believe it or not, my world doesn’t revolve around waiting for you to finish basketball practice.”

Jungkook snorts, rolling his eyes at your lie. “We can play dumb if you want–But we both know you’re full of shit.”

“Can we just end this conversation?” you plea, completely out of excuses.

You feel dizzy, and the scent of his cologne doesn’t make it any less overwhelming. You plant your hand against the center of his chest and push, hoping to get at least some of your personal space back. But Jungkook doesn’t budge an inch. Instead, he lowers his gaze to where your palm is pressed against his shirt, then flickers his eyes back up to yours, giving you a look that says: we are nowhere near done with this conversation.

You let out a defeated sigh, pulling your hand back. “Okay… I’m sorry,” you shift uncomfortably against the cold wall. “I’m sorry for not talking much lately. It’s just…”

You trail off, stopping for a moment as your brain scrambles to assemble a half-decent cover story. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch a couple of girls by alcohol stand watching the two of you with envious glares. A wave of discomfort washes over you, but you quickly drag your focus back to your best friends face.

“My mind has just been all over the place lately,” you continue, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. “I just needed some time alone.”

"Why? Is your period coming up soon or something?” he asks, brows furrowing slightly.

You mentally roll your eyes so hard they practically disappear into the back of your skull. Of course. Typical guy logic—if a girl has an emotional crisis or a sudden change in mood, it must obviously be tied to her monthly cycle.

Anything to get him off your back.

“No…” you start to say, but catch yourself, realising that blaming hormones is the fastest exit ticket out of this suffocating interrogation.

“Actually… yeah. Maybe. It’s probably that.”

“Ah,” he hums, nodding like he just cracked a complex equation.

“Anyway,” You look down at the black paper gift bag resting in your hands, then you push it against his stomach. “Happy birthday, Jungkook.”

Jungkook looks down at it, one eyebrow arching up toward his messy fringe. “For me?”

“No, I brought a gift to a basement party to flex my paper-bag collection,” you deadpan, and roll your eyes at his amused face. “Yes, for you. Who else?”

“I don’t know,” he drawls, a faint, infuriating smirk tugging at his mouth. “Maybe for your mysterious new friends.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, though a involuntary smile tugs at your lips despite your best efforts. “Happy birthday, really. Love… you.”

The words hang in the air between you, making a sudden spike of anxiety shoot straight through your chest. Saying ‘I love you’ has been a completely normal, brainless habit for the two of you over twelve years of friendship, but saying it now, it just feels wrong. It’s nothing casual about it anymore.

Jungkook doesn’t seem to notice the glitch in your system. He finally lifts his palm off the wall next to your head, cutting off the suffocating proximity as he reaches out to take the bag.

Before he can grab it, you snatch it back toward your waist. “Open it later tho.”

Jungkook stops, his eyes flickering with instant amusement as he looks at you. “Why?” he teases, leaning back down into your space with that grin. “What’s in there? You wrote me a love letter?”

“You wish,” you shoot back, forcing an incredulous laugh. “In your dreams. Never.”

“Pity,” He fakes a disappointed tone. “Would’ve loved to read how much you adore me. Might’ve even framed it.”

You just look at him, your eyes silently pleading with him to just stop. Sensing that you’re genuinely not in the mood to spar, Jungkook’s grin softens.

“Alright, alright,” He says, then straightens his left arm, presenting his wrist to you. “Hang it here then.”

You let out a quiet breath and loop the handles of the paper bag over his wrist. Jungkook watches your hands closely, his eyes tracking every movement of your fingers. Before you can step back to put some safe distance between your bodies, he nonchalantly hands you the green Heineken bottle he’d been holding in his other hand.

You take the cold glass automatically, completely confused. “What—”

With his other hand now totally free, Jungkook instantly reaches out and hooks two fingers into the front collar of your top, tugging you forward. He steps right into you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and pulling you into a tight hug.

“Glad you finally came out of your den.” He says directly against the top of your head.

Your heart does a violent flip inside your chest, but before you can process what’s happening, his arm settles over the back of your neck. He grips you in a uncomfortable, unbreakable headlock, turning your body around and forcing you to walk right alongside him.

“Now,” he drawls, with a sudden spark of energy as he steers you straight toward the chaotic center of the basement. “Let’s go have some fun.”

Panic instantly flares through you. “No—Jungkook, wait! No!” you choke out, desperately trying to plant your feet against the slick, alcohol-covered concrete.

In the chaos, a tall guy blindly stumbles backward, slamming hard into your arm. The momentum knocks the green Heineken bottle right out of your grip, sending it onto the floor.

He’s dragging you right into the worst part of the room. The area directly in front of the colossal speakers, surrounded by a sea of sweaty, heavily intoxicated students thrashing around in mindless rhythm. A few people glance over,

recognizing the college’s prized basketball captain hauling his usual nerd sidekick into the fray, but most are far too wasted to care.

“Watch where the fuck you’re going,” Jungkook snaps instantly.

The guy spins around ready to argue, but the second he locks eyes with Jeon Jungkook, his face pales. “Shit–Sorry, man,” he stammers, backing away intimidated.

Jungkook doesn’t even bother answering him. He just gives him one last glare before kicking the bottle toward the wall.

“Hey! Don’t litter!” you yell over the noise.

You duck your head, desperately trying to wriggle out from under his arm, but he only tightens his hold, locking you flush against his side.

“Just one dance, nerd!” he shouts down into your ear. “Live a little!”

“I don’t want to live.” You whine, digging your sneakers in again. “Let me go!”

“Not a chance,” he chuckles. He casually steers you past a group of guys who move instantly move out of his way.“ You dodged my texts for a month. You owe me.”

“You can’t do this to me!”

“I’m the birthday boy. I can do whatever the hell I want!”

God, he knows you hate dancing. He knows it better than anyone in the world. You are the worst at it: awkward, stiff, and utterly devoid of any rhythm. It is pure embarrassment for you, especially in front of a crowd of people who already view you as the quiet outcast clinging to the most popular guy in this shithole.

You didn’t sign up for this. You just wanted to come here, hand him your gift, wish him a happy birthday, and retreat back to the safety of your dorm room to study. But of course, Jeon Jungkook never makes anything easy for you.

Just when you think your spine is going to snap from the tension, Jungkook finally loosens his grip on your neck. You let out a breath, happy that you’re finally free, but before you can take a single step, he smoothly spins you around to face him. His hands clap down firmly onto both of your shoulders, trapping you in place as he looks down into your stressed face.

“One dance,” he promises. “One dance, and I’ll let you go free. Deal?”

You stare up at him, then flicker your eyes nervously around the crowded dance floor. You mentally weigh your options: fight him, or suffer through three minutes of awkward swaying and earn your freedom.

“What am I even supposed to do?” you ask nervously. “Will I have to do… that?” You point at a girl nearby who is aggressively twerking against her boyfriend.

Jungkook glances over at the girl, his eyes trailing over the drunk, grinding couple. “Fuck no,” he stares at them with a half-bored scowl. “I don’t want you dancing like that here.”

He drags his gaze back to your face and takes your hand, pulling you into the tiny space between you. You’re about to ask what the hell he’s doing when he lifts your joined hands overhead and spins you around. You turn beneath his arm, your hair fanning out behind you. When you come back around to face him, your face is twisted into a scowl of zero enthusiasm.

“Bro, you look like you’re about to be executed,” he wheezes, taking a deliberate step back to give you room. “C’mon, Y/N. At least pretend you’re having fun on my birthday.”

“This is stupid,” you cross your arms defensively over your chest. “There’s not even a beat to follow.”

“Sway. Just move your feet.” He tilts his head, gesturing toward you with an encouraging jerk of his chin. “Go on.”

Under the weight of his gaze, you force your feet to shift. You just want this to be over so you begin swaying awkwardly from side to side, your shoulders stiff as fuck, looking like a nervous middle-schooler at her first school disco, but– hey you are trying, right?

“Good, good,” Jungkook gives you a crooked smirk tugging at his lip ring as he watches your terrible attempt. “See? You’re a natural.”

“I hate you,” you deadpan.

“No, you don’t.”

“Relax,” he murmurs, and you almost miss his words over the thumping music.

Suddenly, Jungkook closes the space between you again. He reaches out with both hands, placing his palms firmly against your hips.

Your entire body freezes instantly. The air catches in your lungs, and for a second, you feel like you might actually die when his fingers press firmly through the fabric of your clothes.

Without breaking eye contact, he gently guides your body, applying pressure to force your hips into a smooth sway that actually matches the underlying beat. The touch is tormentingly electric. Every finger pressing into your skin sends a wave of heat straight up your spine.

For a second, your hands hover awkwardly in mid-air between your chests. You have no idea what to do with them, so your fingers instinctively dart out and squeeze his forearm, gripping the hard muscle beneath his sleeve.

“Put ‘em here,” he shouts, taking your wrists and lifting your hands up, until they’re resting flat against the skin at the back of his neck.

You hesitate for a fraction of a second, your heart pounding against your ribs. But you swallow hard and let your fingers wrap loosely behind his head. You have nothing left to lose anyway. Just your entire sanity.

Jungkook’s hands tighten on your waist, and suddenly, you’re actually dancing. The awkwardness begins to melt away under the rythym he’s forcing onto you. Jungkook notices the shift instantly. A slow, triumphant smile spreads across his face, as the lights shift from crimson to electric blue.

Without warning, he grips your waist tighter and dips you backward, supporting your full weight with zero effort. You let out an involuntary, startled laugh, clinging to his neck for dear life before he smoothly pulls you right back up against his chest.

“See?” His thumbs gently stroke the crest of your ribs through your shirt, coaxing your stiff frame to loosen up completely. “You didn’t die, did you?”

You force a dramatic roll of your eyes, trying to hide the way your cheeks are burning. “Whatever, Jeon. You’re still annoying.”

“I’m the best, you mean,” he winks, eyes sparkling as he moves with you. “You didn’t seem to hate parties this much at Namjoon’s place.”

Your smile instantly vanishes at his words. The night at Namjoon’s villa. The night of the spin-the-bottle game, the whiskey, and the kiss that completely ruined your entire life.

“That was different,” you say quickly, your voice tight as you scramble to change the subject. “You made me drink. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

Jungkook tilts his head, a playful curve tugging at his lips. “Should I pour you a glass tonight then? Get you back into that mindset?”

“No, thanks,” you snap back a little too fast, your hands tightening defensively against the nape of his neck. “I’m good staying completely sober tonight.”

“Lame,” he teases softly. “You were way more fun when you weren’t constantly acting like a paranoid grandma.”

Before you can formulate a bitter comeback, jungkook spins you around again. His hands stay glued to your waist, this time pulling your back flush against his chest. You blink in pure confusion, your breath catching in your throat as he continues to guide your hips from behind, seamlessly matching the rhythm.

Fuck your life. He’s such a good dancer, you think bitterly to yourself, feeling the hypnotic grind of his body against yours. And a good kisser, too—

You instantly slap yourself mentally, horrified at where your brain just wandered. You have to stop thinking about his stupid mouth.

Jungkook leans his head down, his lips hovering mere millimeters from the shell of your ear. “You disappeared right after that, by the way,” he pauses. “Why?”

Your heart completely stops. You try to play dumb, keeping your eyes glued ahead. “I did?”

“Yeah. Right after the game,” he insists, his chest rising and falling against your back. “I looked everywhere for you. I was searching the whole house until Dani told me you had already left to the dorms.”

Dani–your roommate and the only person who had witnessed you sprinting out of Namjoon’s sprawling villa that night in a state of extreme panic and spiraling into a full-blown existential crisis after Jungkook’s lips touched yours. You had practically collided with her on the driveway, tears of pure embarrassment blurring your vision, mumbling some incoherent lie about feeling sick before fleeing back to campus.

“I… I just wasn’t feeling good,”

“You looked fine two minutes before that,” Jungkook murmurs, his warm breath fanning across the sensitive skin of your neck as he pulls you just a fraction tighter against him. “So what actually happened, Y/N?”

The unbearable heat of his body, his suffocating proximity, and the relentless interrogation finally blow your fuse. You react like you’ve been burned, pulling away and twisting violently in his grip, taking two fast steps to the side. His hands slide off your hips, dropping into the air as the sudden separation breaks the rhythm entirely.

Jungkook blinks in confusion. “What the hell?” he asks, his voice laced with sudden frustration as he takes a step toward you. “What is your problem now?”

“Nothing!” You blurt out. A few students nearby turn their heads, their drunken gazes drifting in your direction. “I told you, I was feeling sick! Why are you being so insanely insistent about this?!”

“Because you’ve been acting like a completely different person for a whole month!” Jungkook groans back, his shoulders tensing up as he gestures between the two of you. He looks genuinely baffled, hurt even, by the sudden wall you’ve thrown up. “I’m just trying to figure out why you’re being so damn sensitive all of a sudden! We used to talk about everything, and now I can barely get a sentence out of you!”

“I’m not being sensitive!” you shout.

You can’t do this. You can’t stand here, surrounded by sweaty strangers, arguing with the guy you’re pathetically in love with while he looks at you like you’re a crazy person.

“You know what? Forget it,” you choke out, taking another step backward toward the crowd. “I’m going. Happy birthday, Jungkook.”

“Going where?!” he barks, his sharp jaw clenching tightly as he takes an instinctual step after you, but the sea of bodies surges between you two, cutting off his path.

“To bed!” you yell back over your shoulder, not daring to look him in the eye again.

“Yeah, fucking go then!” his voice booms out, sharp, and raw with frustration. “Go lock yourself in your room and ignore me for another fucking month!”

“Maybe I will!”

You turn on your heel and shove through the wall of drunk, dancing college students, not caring whose shoulders you bump into. Tears instantly prick at the corners of your eyes, blurring the lights into smeared streaks of color. You bite down hard on the inside of your lip to keep them from spilling over.

Jesus, you’re so stupid.

You ran away again. Like a absolute, pathetic coward. On his birthday. He had spent the night dragging you out of your shell, trying so hard to pull his best friend back, and you just threw a tantrum and sprinted for the exit because you couldn’t handle his hands on your hips.

You push through the metal fire door at the edge of the basement, bursting out of the suffocating chaos, and head straight up the concrete stairs leading into the college entryway corridor. The sudden silence here makes you feel uneasy, leaving a high-pitched ring echoing in your ears. The only remaining sound is the muffled thud of the party pulsing beneath the floorboards.

You stop.

Every single instinct in your body is screaming at you to just keep walking; go back to your dorm room, bury your face in a pillow, scream, cry, and then pass out asleep. It’s the safe option. It’s the smart option.

But your feet refuse to move toward the exit.

You hesitate, completely torn between the safety of your cowardice and the overwhelming, heartbreaking guilt of leaving Jeon Jungkook angry on his birthday.

You stand there frozen for what feels like ten full minutes, completely zoned out. You wipe away the fresh tears blurring your vision with the back of your sleeve, trying desperately to pull yourself together.

​Driven by sheer anxiety, you start pacing back and forth down the corridor like a lunatic. The dull glow of the moon shining through the big window illuminate the trophy cases lining the walls. You glance sideways as you walk, your eyes catching the glint of row upon row of gold cups, medals, and framed photographs preserved behind glass.

​And in almost every single display, there he is.

​Front-page newspaper clippings framed in dark wood show Jeon Jungkook in his element, captured mid-stride on the basketball court, his jaw set in fierce determination, headline after headline praising the university's prized star player. He looks untouchable, larger than life, a campus legend enshrined behind glass while you stand out here in the hallway, spiraling over a stupid party game.

Finally you take a deep breath, and turn on your heel, fully intending to push through that heavy door and fix the mess you just made. But before your hand can even reach the push-bar, the door swings open with a heavy bang.

You stop in your tracks like a terrified deer caught in headlights. You quickly step back against the wall, hoping to blend into the shadows, but it’s far too late. First, you hear laughter, then a group of guys comes marching out the door.

“Oh—Y/N! Wassup?.”

You wince inwardly, plastering on a stiff smile as you recognize Taehyung, one of Jungkook’s closer friends from the basketball team. He’s walking at the front of the pack, looking thoroughly buzzed with a half-crooked grin on his face.

“Hey, Taehyung,” you say, offering a quick wave.

Taehyung slows his pace as he passes you in the narrow hallway, gesturing loosely toward the exit doors. “We’re just heading out back to roll a blunt and grab some fresh air. You wanna come?”

“Oh. No, I’m good, thanks,” you reply instantly, your voice higher than usual. “I’ll pass.”

Taehyung tilts his head, his hazy eyes scanning your tense posture. “You sure? You look like you need to relax a little,”

“No need. Thanks, though.”

You’ve always felt a strange discomfort whenever Jungkook’s friends interact with you. You’re strictly the quiet girl who exists in Jungkook’s shadow, completely out of place in their circle of popular athletes. But because you’re Jungkook’s best friend, they always treat you with a weird kind of politeness. They know better than to disrespect you or push you too far, simply because Jungkook would probably tear them apart if they did. But still, being acknowledged by them only highlights how much you don’t belong here, and you hate every second of it.

Your heart drops violently into your stomach when you notice Jungkook among the group, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his pants and the gift from you still hanging from his wrist. He glances up, his hooded eyes instantly locking onto yours.

For a second, you think he’s just going to walk right past you without saying a word, letting the bitter fight downstairs linger between you. But as he brushes past your shoulder, his gaze trails over your face with a mocking edge.

“Thought you went to bed.” He throws a bitter remark over his shoulder.

The words bite, but the guilt riding your chest gives you a sudden spike of desperate courage.

“I changed my mind,” you say quickly.

Jungkook stops in his tracks. The rest of the guys keep walking toward the double glass doors, but Jungkook spins slowely around to face you, crossing his arms over his chest.

He tilts his head with skepticism. “You did?”

“Yes.” You look up at him, your eyes silently pleading, dropping every last shred of your pride. “Can we talk? Please?”

“Didn’t we just do that down there?” he hums, gesturing lazily toward the basement. “Pretty sure you weren't exactly talkative right before you screamed in my face.”

“This time for real. Please. Just… somewhere else."

You need to fix this. You need to fix this right now. The weird, depressing wall that has built up between the two of you over the last thirty days is unbearable. You just want things back to the way they were before that stupid spin-the-bottle game, before your traitorous heart ruined everything. You need your best friend back.

Before Jungkook can respond, one of the guys at the back doors shoves the glass open, letting in a gust of night air. “Yo, JK! You coming or what? “he shouts, waving his arm. “Let’s move!”

“Hold on, man,” Jungkook calls back over his shoulder.

“Hurry it up, The blunt’s not gonna smoke itself, bro!” Jungkook’s friend chuckles, holding the heavy door open for the rest of the group as they trickle out into the night.

Jungkook turns his attention back to you, standing motionless in the dim hallway. He looks down at you quietly, clearly weighing his options in his head, biting down on his silver lip ring as he ponders your request.

The mindless habit drives a stake straight through your soul. For a millisecond, your brain totally short-circuits. Your eyes drop down, helplessly lingering on the plush curve of his bottom lip, the metallic glint of the ring, and the memory of how soft his mouth felt against yours thirty days ago. Panic flares in your veins, and you violently snap your gaze back up to his eyes, praying he didn’t catch you staring.

Jungkook lets out a low breath, releasing his lip. “Okay.”

You blink, your brain still completely scrambled from your momentary lapse in sanity. “Okay… what?”

“Okay, come with us out back,” he says, gesturing toward the doors with a flick of his chin. “I’ll hit the blunt, we’ll get some fresh air, and then we’ll talk after. Deal?”

“I don’t know, Jungkook…” you whine softly, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as you stare nervously at the glass doors.

He sighs. “What now?”

“I really don’t want to stand out there while you guys smoke.”

Jungkook scoffs, adjusting the gift bag still dangling from his wrist. “It’s not like I’m asking you to smoke.”

“I know…” you say frustrated. “I know that, but I really don’t want to be an active participant in you destroying your health. You’re literally on an athletic scholarship, Jungkook. You have a game next Friday! Do you have any idea what THC and carbon monoxide do to your oxygen intake? It’s terrible for your cardiovascular system, and—”

Jungkook rolls his head back, letting out a dramatic sigh that echoes off the empty hallway walls. “Ah, Jesus Christ, stop being such a fucking buzzkill for five minutes.”

“I’m just looking out for you! Someone has to keep you from ruining your own life!”

“Whatever,” he ignores you, totally unbothered by your lecture.

He starts walking backward toward the exit, his eyes still fixed entirely on you.

“Come on,” he drawls, when he notices you aren’t immediately following him. “I’m not asking again.”

You let out a pathetic whine of defeat, dragging your feet as you finally force yourself to walk after him. Seeing you cave, Jungkook’s jaw loosens up, a small, triumphant smile tugs at his mouth, making your heart do an annoying, fluttery flip inside your chest.

He spins around on his heel, pushing open the glass door. As the cold night air rushes inside again, you realize the rest of his basketball friends have already vanished into the shadows of the campus quad. Jungkook catches the edge of the door, holding it wide open for you.

“Ladies first,” he says, leaning his shoulder against the frame.

“Thanks,” you mumble, as you brush past him.

The sudden drop in temperature hits you like a elephant from the sky, making you shiver inside your thin top. Behind you, the door slams shut, and Jungkook steps out, letting out a ragged hiss as the freezing wind cuts right through his t-shirt.

You head straight toward the basketball courts, wrapping your arms tightly around yourself to trap whatever amount of body heat you have left. The university is cut-budgeting power again. Only a single overhead reflector lamp is buzzing tonight, casting a weak glow over the ground and leaving most of the court in the dark.

“Fuck,” Jungkook mutters beside you as his shoulders hunch against the cold. “I’m freezing my fucking balls off out here. Feels like they’re about to snap off and roll away.”

You glance sideways at him. “Tragic. We definitely wouldn’t want that to happen.”

“We?” He wiggles his eyebrows playfully, while a smirk spreads across his face.

“We, as in the collective population of female college attendees,” you shoot back smoothly. “I’m sure the campus would go into an official three-day period of mourning if your precious manhood met a tragic frostbite incident.”

Jungkook bursts out laughing, tossing his head back with zero shame. “Hey, mock all you want, but those balls are worshipped on this campus, nerd. They deserve respect.”

“I am not having a conversation about your genitalia at midnight, Jungkook,” you groan, digging your chin into the collar of your shirt.

“Whose balls are being worshipped?!” a voice suddenly shouts from the dark.

You both stop near the base of the bleachers and look up. Leaning over the top metal railing is Taehyung. He’s dangling a lit blunt between two fingers, his face twisted into a squinting, profoundly confused expression as he peers down at the two of you standing in the shadows.

“Mind your business.” Jungkook shouts back. “And save me a fucking hit!”

Taehyung lets out a loud laugh, taking another slow drag that lights up his face. “Better hurry your ass up then! Half the damn thing’s gone already. You two were walking up the path like a pair of delicate fucking princesses!”

Jungkook just snorts, as he leads the way up the open metal stairs, his long legs taking them two at a time. The hollow clang of his sneakers echoes through the night as you trek up behind him.

“Woah, hold up,” Jungkook mutters instantly, looking back.

A sudden knot of severe discomfort tightens in your gut as you glance around the upper deck. You realize you are the only girl up here.

Lost in your own head, the toe of your sneaker catches unexpectedly against the edge of a metal riser.

Before you can tumble down the stairs, his hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist and pulling you upright. The heat of his skin burns right through your shivering frame.

“Light the damn stairs so she can see!” He barks a command toward the top row.

Within a fraction of a second, three separate phone flashlights snap on at once. The guys blindly point the white beams straight down the stairwell, aiming them directly into your face. The sudden, blinding illumination hits your pupils, totally washing out the darkness, making you feel like you’re walking straight through the pearly gates of heaven to meet God Himself. You squint aggressively, holding a hand up to shield your face as you scramble up the last three steps.

“Off the face, idiots! Turn ‘em down!” Jungkook snaps, waving his hand until the guys quickly redirect the blinding beams downward, propping their phones up on the cold metal seats to illuminate the bleachers without blinding anyone.

You quickly take a seat in the row right behind them, pulling your knees up to your chest curling into a small, hopefully invisible ball. Jungkook turns his head, his eyes trailing over you as you settle in. Sensing you want a little space while you wait out his smoke break, he doesn’t push it. He steps over the bench in front of you and takes a seat on the top railing, perching himself right in the middle of his group, but still positioned so he’s angled half-toward the guys and half-facing you.

From where you sit, the repositioned phone flashlights cast a light around his silhouette. He looks disrespectfully handsome up here. The dark wind tousles his messy fringe, and his silver lip ring glints softly in the light.

Taehyung hands him the lit blunt. Jungkook takes it between fingers, bringing it to his mouth and taking a slow, deep drag. His jaw clenching as he holds the smoke for a brief second before exhaling a cloud into the air.

He lets out a low, satisfied hum, his eyes fluttering shut for a fraction of a second. Watching the effortless, sinfully attractive way he inhales, a traitorous thought crosses your mind: There is no way inhaling literal smoke can possibly feel or look that good.

“Damn, Kooks,” one of the guys chuckles, leaning back against the plastic chair. “That hit hard, huh?”

“Fuck yeah,” Jungkook rasps, as he passes the blunt along. “Shit’s good tonight.”

“Told ya” Taehyung boasts, slurring his words with a proud grin. “Got it straight from a good source.”

“Which is?” Jungkook asks, eyes casually tracking the trail of gray smoke drifting into the freezing night air.

“Hoseok,” one of the boys (the one with the messy curly hair) chuckles, shaking his head. “Guy’s practically a professional gardener. I swear to God, he has a legit greenhouse set-up in his basement.

“He’s gonna end up locked away ten to fifteen by the end of the semester,” another teammate snorts from the corner, taking a quick drag before passing it off.

The whole group breaks out into a chorus of low laughter that echoes loudly across the dark, empty bleachers.

You let out a quiet sigh, entirely unamused by the turn of conversation. Feeling thoroughly out of place, you rest your chin on your kneecaps and idly play with your shoe laces. You just want this ritual to end so you can have your talk with Jungkook and go to your room.

As the guys carry on arguing over which dealer in the city has the best strain, you feel a sudden shift in front of you. Taehyung pivots in his seat on the row directly ahead, slumping back and throwing one arm over the back of his chair. He turns his head, his sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes fixing directly onto you.

You blink, looking up from your shoes in mild surprise.

“Hey,” Taehyung hums softly. “Just realised, l haven’t seen you around much lately. Where’ve you been hiding Y/N?”

You shift uncomfortably under his direct gaze, your fingers tightening around your knees. “Oh… nowhere really. I was just… pretty busy with classes.”

Taehyung squints at your face in the light of the propped-up phone flashlights, studying your features like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “You look different.”

“I do?”

Suddenly, his eyes widen slightly. “Wait… Yo. Did you take off your braces?”

Your cheeks instantly flare hot with embarrassment. “Oh. Yeah. A couple of weeks ago.”

“Shut up, really?” Taehyung grins, leaning a fraction closer with genuine curiosity. “Let me see! Smile for a second.”

“Taehyung, no,” you mutter, ducking your head slightly to hide the flush creeping up your neck. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Come on, don’t be shy,” he encourages. “Just a quick one. Let me see.”

Realizing he isn't going to drop it until you comply, you force a quick, awkward little smile just to get him off your back.

"Nice!" Taehyung nods approvingly, letting out a low whistle. "Honestly, the braces were cute, but your smile looks crazy good now. Look at you glowing up."

A fresh wave of heat surges straight to your face. "Uh... thanks," you mumble, unaccustomed to receiving random compliments from guys like him.

You flicker your gaze past Taehyung’s shoulder and freeze. Jungkook is no longer listening to whatever conversation his teammates are having. He’s sitting perfectly still on his high perch, his eyes locked onto you and Taehyung with a unreadable expression.

You shift nervously in your seat under his stare, but Taehyung, completely oblivious to his captain's mood shift, keeps talking.

"Didn't you wear glasses too?" Taehyung says, tilting his head as he inspects your face further.

"I only wear them for reading," you say quickly, feeling self-conscious. "I don't need them all the time."

"Too bad. I like them," Taehyung hums. "They really bring out your eyes."

A startled little laugh escapes your lips before you can stop it. The compliment catching you completely off guard. "No they don't"

"They really do–I swear!"

Before you can formulate a reply, a sudden, loud bang cuts the air, when Jungkook hand clasps down hard onto the plastic chair Taehyung is leaning on. The entire group instantly falls dead silent, cutting off their conversation to look up at their captain.

"Alright, blunt's done," Jungkook barks out, flicking the tiny remnant of ash off into the wind. "Clear out, all of you. Y/N and I have shit to talk about."

Taehyung blinks, raising his hands in a slow, easy gesture of surrender. "Alright, damn, birthday boy. No need to snap."

"Move it," Jungkook repeats firmly.

Taehyung gives you one last easygoing smile, throwing a casual wave over his shoulder as he tags along with the guys, who quickly scramble to grab their phones and head out. “See you around, Y/N. Don’t be a stranger.”

“Bye, Tae.” You offer him a polite nod.

Jungkook stays perched at the top of the seat, his eyes silently tracking the group as they clamber down the metal steps. Right as they hit the ground below, Jungkook turns around to face you.

"What?"You look up at him nervously.

"I'm all ears," he says simply.

You bite your lip anxiously. Shit. You hadn't actually planned what to say. Asking to talk was pure impulse, and now you're completely stranded with no script.

Jungkook watches the color drain from your face. He moves up, and sits down right next to you on the metal row, his legs spread wide, slumping his back against the railing. Without warning, he leans sideways and bumps his shoulder firmly against yours in a small gesture meant to break your tension.

"C'mon," he hums, his tone softening into that familiar rhythm reserved only for you. "Speak up, nerd. You pleaded for a private audience, so deliver."

You wrap your arms tighter around your knees, staring rigidly at your shoes. "I... I just wanted to apologize," you murmur softly. "For how I acted downstairs. And... for the last month. I hate that things suck between us right now, Kook. I really do."

Jungkook doesn't answer right away. He rests his elbows on his knees, his dark hair falling slightly over his forehead as he tilts his head to look at your side profile. "I just don't get the sudden shift, Y/N," he says quietly, genuine confusion lacing his words. "One day we're fine, and the next you're sprinting away every time I walk into the same room as you. Did I do something?"

"No! No, it wasn't you," you lie quickly, desperate to keep him from digging any deeper. You scramble for a half-decent excuse that won't ruin your entire life. "I was just... tired, okay? I think I just got completely overstimulated at Namjoon's party. The drinking, the crowd, the chaos... I panicked. I just needed space and I didn't know how to act normal after you know... all that."

Jungkook lets out a low hum. He straightens, tilting his head back to look up at the sky. The dark clouds from earlier have finally parted, revealing a clear expanse of stars. You follow his gaze, tilting your chin up to stare at the constellation directly above the dark basketball court. The quiet between you feels lighter now, the crisp wind whistling softly through the metal bleachers.

Beside you, Jungkook slowly shifts his head, his dark eyes sliding off the stars to focus entirely on the side of your face. He watches you take a quiet breath, studying the way the starlight hits your eyes.

"It was cause of that dare, was it?" he asks suddenly, his voice dangerously calm.

"What?" you squeak out, your heart hammering a against your ribs.

Of course he isn't stupid. Jeon Jungkook might act like a dense, arrogant dick half the time, but he knows you better than anyone on this planet. He knew the exact timeline of when you started acting like a ghost.

"The spin-the-bottle game. The kiss." He turns his body fully toward you, leaning in a fraction closer. "You started acting weird the exact second my mouth touched yours."

"I did not—"

"Y/N, please," he cuts you off. "You literally froze like a corpse, turned red, and vanished two minutes later. Did you really think I wouldn't put two and two together?"

Your throat seals completely shut. You want to say something, tell him he is in the wrong, but before you can blurt out a mortified lie to defend yourself, Jungkook keeps talking.

"Look, if that's what freaked you out, you're taking it way too seriously," he drawls, treating the topic with the absolute casualness of a guy who hooks up with girls on a weekly basis. "It was just a stupid party game. A dumb dare. It’s not like it meant anything, right? Kissing is just... kissing. It's not a big deal."

He giving you a reassurance-filled nudge with his knee. "We're best friends Y/N. A ten-second kiss isn't gonna change twelve years of us being us unless you let it be weird. So just drop the awkward act, okay?"

You sit there, feeling profoundly stupid. While you had spent the last thirty days spiraling the hell out of your mind in your room; unable to sleep, unable to eat, your whole world completely turning upside down by the memory of his mouth—he had barely given it a second thought. To him, it was just a meaningless Friday night thing, no different than kissing any other girl at a party. Meanwhile, you were sitting here barely holding the shattered pieces of your heart together.

"Yeah," you mutter, forcing yourself to keep a casual tone. "Yeah, you're right. It was just a stupid kiss."

"Unless..." Jungkook starts, but before you can even process, he shifts his frame, lunging forward until he's hunched right in front of your face. His nose suddenly inches from yours, his mischievous eyes lock straight onto yours, trapping you entirely.

"Unless you went and fell deeply in love with me," he mumbles, a playful smirk curling the corners of his lips. "Because that would be a real problem."

Your stop breathing.

You slap your palm against his forehead, shoving his face away from yours with way more force than necessary.

"You're crazy!" you choke out. "I am NOT in love with you!"

"Chill out Y/N. Jesus, I was just joking," he chuckles, shaking his head as he runs a hand through his windswept hair. "Don't break my neck over it."

You quickly turn your face away from him. Trying desperately to look unbothered, you lift your trembling hands and gather your hair, pulling the long strands over one shoulder, exposing your flushed neck to the icy draft, desperate for the cool air to soothe the embarrassed fire consuming you.

Jungkook calms down, his low chuckles fading into a contented sigh. His eyes track your nervous movements for a second before his gaze drops to his wrist, where the small, already wrinkled paper gift bag you’d practically shoved at him earlier is still dangling by its thin handles.

"So... Can I open it now?"

"Uh," you clearing your throat to steady your voice. "Sure. I mean... it's really nothing much. Don't expect a masterpiece or anything."

Jungkook doesn't say anything to that. He reaches into the bag, pulling out a small, custom-made photo booklet first. Flicking on his phone flashlight, he props it on his thigh, illuminating the pages as he slowly flips through the handmade DIY scrap project.

A tiny, genuine grin softens his features as he traces a finger over a printed picture of the two of you as ten-year-olds, standing in your backyard with ice cream smeared across your faces.

"Look at you," he laughs under his breath, pointing at the photo. "You used to be taller than me, man. What happened? Did you just stop growing in fourth grade?"

"Shut up," you smile softly.

You look at the photo under the light of his phone. Little does he know, you had cried an absolute waterfall of tears over that exact same photo just three nights ago in your dorm room. You had sat on your floor at 2 AM, tape and scissors scattered around you, terrified out of your mind that your stupid, unrequited feelings were going to burn down the only thing that had ever truly mattered to you: twelve years of unconditional, sacred history.

"Wait, there's more?" Jungkook murmurs, reaching back into the bottom of the bag.

He pulls out a small, black box and pops it open, revealing a silver chain resting inside.

Your pulse spikes again, self-consciousness instantly flaring up. "I... I didn't know if you'd like it," you stumble."It has the first letters of our names. It's kind of cheesy, I know. You don't have to wear it if it's—"

"Shut up. It's cool as fuck," Jungkook cuts you off, staring down at the polished metal. "Seriously. I love it."

At his words, you let out a long breath you didn't even realize you were holding, every tense muscle in your shoulders finally relaxing with a wave of pure relief.

"Put it on me"

"What?"

"Put it on me, nerd," he repeats, leaning back toward you.

You lean in, taking the silver chain from the box. You wrap the necklace around his throat, hyper-aware of everything: the heat radiating off his body, the faint scent of smoke clinging to his shirt and the soft, short hairs at the nape of his neck brushing against your knuckles. You fumble with the tiny silver clasp for an agonizing second, your fingers trembling slightly.

"So," Jungkook speaks up, his posture completely relaxed under your touch. "Are we good now? Back to normal?"

You finally click the clasp into place, snapping your hands back as if his skin had burned you.

"Yeah," you whisper, swallowing down the lump in your throat. "We're good."

Before you can pull away, he reaches his arm out and roughly ruffles your hair, tossing your strands into a messy nest just like he always did when you two were kids.

"Hey! Stooop." you groan, ducking your head, while a helpless smile slips past your defenses anyway.

"Thanks, Y/N," Jungkook pulls his hand back and leans his head against the railing. "Seriously. Best gift tonight."

"Glad you like it."

You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, quietly watching the handsome profile of his face.

​A quiet wave of relief washes over you as you realize the uneasy tension that had hung between you two for weeks has finally vanished. You sit together on the bleachers in peaceful silence for a long while, watching the dim city lights in the distance and simply enjoying the stillness of the night, wrapped in the comfort of each other's presence.

And right then and there, you make yourself a silent promise: you’ll get it together. You’ll lock these stupid feelings away in the darkest corner of your chest, throw away the key, and carry the secret to your grave. He will never, ever know that you’re in love with him.

Maybe Jeon Jungkook is a heartless playboy to the rest of the world now. Maybe he breaks hearts across campus without a second thought, treating girls like temporary distractions. But you aren’t naive. You know that one day, the universe will catch up to him.

One day, he’ll fall for someone for real. He’ll have a real girlfriend. A stable relationship. Someone he actually wants to keep.

And when that day comes, it won’t be you.

You could never be the girl he chooses. You’ll simply stand on the sidelines, clapping the loudest from the front row as you watch him love somebody else.

Always the safety net.

Always the shadow.

Always the best friend–never the one he falls for.

You just have to survive one last year until his graduation. One final stretch of holding your tongue, and hiding the wreckage in your heart without ever blowing your cover. If you can make it through to the end–until he walks across that stage, diploma in hand, and leaves this campus behind–then maybe it means you were never truly in love with him after all.

Maybe you were just delusional.

Hopefully.

𝓟𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 | 𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓮𝔁 | 𝓝𝓮𝔁𝓽 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽

𝓐𝓾𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓻'𝓼 𝓝𝓸𝓽𝓮: ​Yippeee! I’m so happy to finally share this first chapter with you guys! I hope you enjoyed it! ​Not gonna lie, I sweated my absolute ass off trying to finish this today, so I really hope it hit the spot! ʚ˃ ᵕ ˂ ɞ

Please feel free to drop a comment and let me know your thoughts. Reading any feedback genuinely gives me the life force I need to keep writing (especially when my part-time job drains every last drop of my energy 💀).

​Thank you so much for reading, and I can't wait to hear what you think!ੈ♡‧₊˚*