♡

Genre/Warnings: Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Classmates in University, University AU, Soft Angst, Emotional Intimacy, First Time (with eachother), Soft dom koo, Sub reader, Mutual Pining, Fluff, Smut (Explicit Sexual Content), Safe Sex Discussion, Raw in the end.... Consent, Domestic Vibes, Tenderness, Slight Humor, Music Major AU

W/c: 4.1k

A/n: This is my first official smut fic, woohoo ! This was also formed from the build of a fic, so I am thankful to you all. I am still learning to write smut, so please bear with me, I will have to do soft stuff for now on, but I will become… freakier (?) in the future. Any whom, I hope you all enjoy it! 

“Hey,” Jungkook called out, his voice casual but a little hopeful. “You wanna come over and study for the test tomorrow?”

I was halfway out of my seat, slinging my backpack over one shoulder. “I do… but I don’t have a ride,” I replied, zipping up the front pocket and trying not to sound too disappointed. I could feel his eyes on me, steady and warm, which made my fingers fumble a little with the zipper.

“Oh right… your cousin’s borrowing your car.” He rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. “Do you need to go home for anything after school?”

I paused, mentally running through my checklist. “Not really. I just wanted to change into something comfy and grab some Tylenol. My head’s been kind of pounding all day.”

We fell into step together, heading down the hallway. It was quiet since most students were off-campus for break, which made the usual chaos feel like a distant memory. I liked it better this way. Less noise. Less pressure to pretend I was good at small talk.

“I’ve got Tylenol in my car,” Jungkook offered, glancing over at me. “And if you want, you can borrow one of my hoodies or shirts.”

He cleared his throat right after, like he realized what that sounded like. Offering your clothes to someone wasn’t exactly neutral territory... especially not when you’re a guy and she’s… well, me.

I looked up at him, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Yeah… that sounds good. But I’m not bringing my books this time. That’s on you.”

He laughed, the sound light and easy. “Aye aye, Captain.”

Once Jungkook and I got into his car, he immediately leaned over and started digging through his dashboard. After a few seconds of shuffling through gum wrappers and random receipts, he pulled out a small bottle of Tylenol and handed it to me with a proud smile.

“Told you I had some,” he said.

I snorted, taking the bottle from him. “I never said you didn’t.”

He gave me a playful look. “You didn’t have to. I could hear the doubt in your voice.”

I rolled my eyes, popping the cap and shaking out two pills. “You’re dramatic.”

“Accurate,” he replied, settling back into his seat and tapping the steering wheel like he was waiting for applause.

I dry-swallowed the pills and leaned back, letting out a quiet sigh. The car was warm, and the soft music playing from the speakers made it feel kind of cozy. I glanced over at him, and he was already watching me.

“You good?” he asked, voice low.

“Just tired,” I said. “And my head’s still kind of pounding.”

Without saying anything, he reached into the backseat and grabbed a hoodie—black, oversized, and clearly his. He handed it to me like it was no big deal.

“Here. You can wear this if you want.”

I hesitated for a second, then took it. “Thanks.”

As I pulled it over my head, he started the car. “Anytime.”

The car rolled out of the school parking lot, and the silence between us was easy—comfortable. The kind that didn’t need filling, but Jungkook filled it anyway.

“So,” he said, glancing at me with a smirk, “how’d that blind date go last week?”

I groaned immediately, letting my head fall back against the seat. “Ugh. Do we have to talk about that?”

“Oh, we absolutely do,” he said, grinning. “I need details. Was he weird? Did he talk about crypto? Did he wear toe shoes?”

I laughed. “No toe shoes, thankfully. But he did spend twenty minutes explaining his fantasy football strategy. And then asked if I wanted to split the bill after ordering the most expensive thing on the menu.”

Jungkook winced. “Oof. That’s rough. So… no second date?”

“Not unless I want to hear about his protein powder preferences again.”

He chuckled, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “Well, I’m not saying I told you so, but…”

“You’re totally saying it.”

“I mean, yeah,” he said, shrugging. “I just had a feeling. Blind dates are cursed.”

I glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “You sound suspiciously happy about this.”

He kept his eyes on the road, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “I’m just saying. Some guys don’t know what they’ve got in front of them.”

I felt my cheeks warm, and I turned to look out the window, trying to hide the smile creeping onto my face. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously charming,” he corrected.

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t help laughing. “You wish.”

He glanced at me again, eyes soft but teasing. “Maybe. But I’m still winning. You’re in my car, wearing my hoodie, and heading to my house. That’s gotta count for something.”

I shook my head, smiling. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are.”

“So, what are you struggling with right now?” Jungkook asked, shutting the door behind us with a soft click. He tossed his backpack onto the rack near the entrance, where a hoodie, a pair of headphones, and a half-used notebook already lived.

I stepped inside, slipping off my shoes and taking in the familiar space. His place always smelled faintly of coffee and whatever cologne he wore—warm, a little spicy, and somehow comforting.

“Everything,” I said dramatically, dropping my bag onto the couch and flopping down beside it. “But mostly composition. My brain refuses to cooperate with chord progressions this week.”

Jungkook walked over and plopped down next to me, grabbing his laptop from the coffee table. “You’re still stuck on that jazz harmony assignment?”

“Don’t remind me,” I groaned, pulling my legs up onto the couch. “I swear, every time I think I’ve nailed the voicing, it sounds like a haunted circus.”

He laughed, opening his laptop and clicking around. “Haunted circus could have a vibe, though. Maybe you’re just ahead of your time.”

“Or I’m just bad at jazz,” I muttered, leaning over to peek at his screen. “What about you? What’s been frying your brain lately?”

He sighed, rubbing his temples. “Ear training. I had to transcribe a twelve-tone row yesterday and I think I lost a piece of my soul.”

I snorted. “You had a soul?”

“Rude,” he said, nudging me with his elbow. “I had a very delicate, musical soul. It’s gone now. Thanks, Schoenberg.”

We both laughed, and for a moment, the stress of school felt miles away. He turned toward me, his expression softening just a little.

“Hey,” he said, voice quieter. “You’re doing better than you think. You always are.”

I looked at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. “Thanks.”

He smiled, then bumped his shoulder against mine. “Now come on, haunted circus girl. Let’s fix those chords before they summon something.”

The hours passed in a blur of scribbled notes, half-played melodies, and frustrated sighs. Now we were both sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of Jungkook’s coffee table, surrounded by a chaotic spread of music textbooks, loose sheet paper, and two half-empty mugs of lukewarm coffee.

My hoodie sleeves were pulled over my hands, and Jungkook had his hair tied back messily, a pencil tucked behind one ear like he’d forgotten it was there. The room was quiet except for the low hum of his speakers playing some lo-fi jazz in the background.

“I think my brain has officially melted,” I mumbled, flopping back onto the carpet and staring at the ceiling. “I just tried to spell ‘cadence’ with a K.”

Jungkook chuckled, still hunched over a page of notes. “Honestly, same. I just wrote ‘dominant seventh’ in a sentence that had nothing to do with harmony. I think I’m hallucinating theory terms.”

I smiled, letting the silence settle between us. It wasn’t awkward—just heavy. Like something had been sitting in the room with us all night, waiting for one of us to acknowledge it.

I glanced over at him. He was still focused on his notes, but his shoulders looked tense, like his thoughts were louder than the music.

“Hey,” I said softly.

He looked up, eyes tired but attentive. “Yeah?”

I hesitated, then sat up slowly, hugging my knees. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

I fiddled with the edge of my sleeve, heart thudding in my chest. “Have you… been thinking about us lately? Like, not just as friends. More than that.”

Jungkook froze for a second, his pencil slipping from behind his ear and landing on the table with a quiet clink. His eyes met mine, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just looked at me like he was trying to decide whether to speak or act.

Then he nodded slowly. “Yeah. I have.”

The air between us shifted—like something invisible had finally been acknowledged. I swallowed, unsure what to say next, but before I could, he leaned in.

Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just quiet and certain.

His hand brushed against mine, then moved to gently cup my cheek. His thumb grazed my skin, and I felt my breath catch.

And then he kissed me.

Soft, warm, and real.

It wasn’t perfect—his nose bumped mine slightly, and we were both a little tense at first—but it didn’t matter. It was the kind of kiss that made everything else fade out. The textbooks, the coffee, the stress, the music theory—it all disappeared.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against mine, and he smiled.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he whispered.

I smiled back, heart fluttering. “Me too.”

His lips had barely left mine when I felt it—this rush of something deeper, heavier. Like every moment we’d spent pretending not to want more had finally caught up to us.

He was still close, forehead resting against mine, his breath warm and steady. But I couldn’t stay still. Not anymore.

I reached up, both hands finding the sides of his face, fingers curling gently against his jaw. His eyes widened just slightly, surprised—but he didn’t pull away.

I kissed him again.

Harder this time. Needy. Like I’d been holding it in for too long and couldn’t pretend anymore.

He responded instantly, his hands finding my waist, pulling me closer until there was barely space between us. The textbooks scattered around us were forgotten, the coffee cold and untouched. All I could focus on was him—his mouth, his touch, the way he kissed me like he’d been waiting just as long.

Somehow, in the midst of the heat between us, I ended up in his lap—straddling him, knees pressed into the carpet on either side of his thighs. His hands gripped my waist, firm and steady, grounding me in the moment even as everything else felt like it was spinning.

His eyes searched mine, dark and unreadable, but his touch said everything. There was no hesitation now. No second-guessing.

I leaned in again, kissing him with the same urgency that had pulled me into his lap in the first place. His hands slid up my sides, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie that I was still wearing—his hoodie—like he couldn’t decide whether to pull me closer or just hold on.

The kiss deepened, messy and breathless, our mouths moving like they were trying to make up for lost time. I could feel his heartbeat under my palms, fast and strong, matching mine beat for beat.

“You sure?”

I nodded, not trusting my voice. My hands slid up into his hair, tugging gently, and that was all the answer he needed.

He kissed me again, slower this time, but deeper—like he wanted to memorize every part of it. His hands moved with purpose now, exploring, learning, holding me like he’d been waiting for this moment longer than he’d ever admit.

His hands slid up, fingers curling into the fabric of the hoodie he’d lent me. and my shirt beneath it. In one slow, deliberate motion, he tugged both over my head, leaving me breathless and bare from the waist up, save for the bra I hadn’t even thought about until now.

He swore under his breath, voice low and rough, eyes locked on me like I’d just undone something inside him. My chest rose and fell as I tried to catch my breath, still dizzy from the kiss that had left us both undone.

Jungkook bit his bottom lip, gaze sweeping over me with reverence and hunger all at once. Like I was something rare. Something he’d never expected to have in front of him.

“You’re…” he started, but didn’t finish. Words didn’t seem to work anymore.

I gave a soft huff, cheeks warm, heart pounding. And still, he just looked at me—like I was a song he’d been trying to write for years and had finally found the right notes

“Beautiful… so damn beautiful,” he murmured, voice low and rough—almost a growl. The sound sent a shiver down my spine, made my stomach flip like I’d just stepped off a cliff and landed in something electric.

Before I could respond, his arms were around me, lifting me effortlessly off the floor. I let out a surprised breath, instinctively wrapping my arms around his neck as he started down the hallway of his apartment.

“Where are we going?” I asked, my voice soft, eyes catching the curve of his jaw and the way his expression had shifted—focused, intent, still shirtless and somehow even more breathtaking in the dim light.

He glanced at me, lips twitching into a smirk. “To my bedroom. I might be an asshole sometimes, but I’m still a gentleman.”

I laughed quietly, heart racing, head resting lightly against his shoulder. The tension between us hadn’t faded—it had only deepened. But now, it felt like something more than just heat. It felt like trust. Like something real.

Jungkook pushed open the door to his bedroom with one hand, the other still holding me close against him. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the hallway light spilling in behind us. It smelled faintly of cedar and something warm—familiar, like him.

He walked over to the bed and gently laid me down, his touch careful, almost reverent. The mattress dipped beneath me, cool against my back, but the warmth in his eyes made everything else fade.

He hovered above me for a moment, arms braced on either side, just looking. Like he needed to memorize this—me—before anything else.

Then he leaned in and kissed me again.

It was slower this time. Deeper. Not rushed or frantic, but full of everything we hadn’t said out loud. His lips moved against mine with a kind of quiet urgency, like he wanted to make sure I felt every ounce of what had been building between us.

His hand slid up to cradle my jaw, thumb brushing softly across my cheek. I reached up, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer until there was no space left between us.

The kiss grew heavier, breathless, but still tender. Like we were both trying to say something without words—something that had been waiting just beneath the surface for far too long.

His knee slid between my thighs, pressing gently but firmly, and the sudden shift stole the breath from my lungs. I gasped, instinctively pulling back from the kiss, but Jungkook didn’t stop. His lips followed the curve of my jaw, trailing soft, deliberate kisses down to the sensitive hollow of my neck.

Each touch was electric—featherlight but purposeful—like he knew exactly where to go, exactly how to unravel me.

I felt his breath against my skin, warm and uneven, and it sent a shiver through me. My fingers gripped the sheets, then found his shoulders, grounding myself in the solid weight of him above me.

He murmured something low against my collarbone, the words lost in the heat of the moment, but the way he said it made my heart stutter.

His hand slid down my side, slow and steady, anchoring me as his mouth explored the delicate line of my throat. I tilted my head back, giving him more, and he took it—every inch—like it was sacred.

There was no rush. No need to hurry. Just the quiet hum of our breathing, the soft rustle of fabric, and the feeling of being completely seen.

He sat back on his heels, eyes never leaving mine, and reached for the hem of his shirt. The fabric lifted slowly, revealing smooth skin and the lean lines of his torso. He tossed the shirt aside without ceremony, like it was just another layer he didn’t need between us.

I’d never seen him like this before—not just shirtless, but open. Vulnerable. His chest rose and fell with each breath, and I could see the faint scar near his ribs, the freckles scattered across his shoulders, the quiet strength in the way he held himself.

He wasn’t perfect. He was real.

And that made him even more beautiful.

He stood for a moment, fingers working at the button of his jeans, and I watched, heart pounding, as he stepped out of them. No hesitation. No performance. Just him, bare and unguarded, like he trusted me with every inch of who he was.

When he climbed back onto the bed, the mattress dipped beneath his weight, and the warmth of his skin met mine. I reached up, fingertips brushing along his side, tracing the curve of his hip, the line of his stomach.

“You okay?” he asked softly, voice low and steady.

I nodded, unable to speak, and pulled him down to me.

His lips met mine again, and this time, it felt like surrender.

is voice was barely a whisper, brushing against my skin like a breeze. “You sure you wanna do this?” he murmured, eyes searching mine. “No prep or anything?”

I could feel the tension in his body—his restraint, his care. He wasn’t rushing. He was asking. Giving me space to choose.

I shook my head slowly, fingers curling around his wrist. “No,” I breathed, my voice trembling with certainty. “Just want you.”

Something shifted in his gaze then—like the weight of my words settled deep inside him. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to mine, and for a moment, we just stayed there. Breathing. Feeling.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, and I knew he meant it.

His hand slid down, slow and deliberate, tracing the curve of my thigh as he settled between them. The warmth of his skin against mine was grounding, electric, and I felt myself arch toward him, needing more.

He kissed me again—soft, reverent—and everything else faded. There was no fear. No hesitation. Just the quiet hum of trust and the ache of wanting.

And when he finally moved, it wasn’t just physical—it was emotional. Like every part of him was reaching for every part of me.

He was big and thick, and with each movement of his hips, noises left my lips, muffled by his mouth. 

“So good… always knew you would feel good… dreamed about this.” He groaned, panting above me as he pulled back, his hands on either side of my head, looking down between us to see where we connected. 

I was so full, it felt so good.

I barely registered his words, too caught up in the pleasure unraveling between us. His touch, his breath, the way he moved—it all blurred into sensation, into heat. My body responded instinctively, arching into him, chasing every spark he lit beneath my skin.

But when he sped up, that’s when everything changed.

The quiet gasps turned into moans, soft and then louder, echoing in the room like a song only we knew. His name slipped from my lips without thought, and I felt his grip tighten, like the sound of it did something to him.

We weren’t holding back anymore.

The rhythm grew urgent, raw, and yet still tender… like he wanted to give me everything, all at once. His forehead pressed to mine, and I could feel the tension in his body, the way he was holding himself together just barely.

Our voices tangled in the air, breathless and unfiltered, rising with each movement. It wasn’t just physical—it was emotional, overwhelming, like we were breaking open and finding each other in the pieces.

And when it finally crested over many minutes later, when the pleasure spilled over and pulled us under, it felt like falling and flying at the same time.

He collapsed beside me, chest heaving, arm pulling me close. Our skin was slick with sweat, our hearts still racing, but the silence that followed was soft. Sacred.

I turned to him, brushing my fingers across his cheek, and he smiled—tired, tender, and completely mine.

We lay there in silence, the kind that didn’t feel empty—just full of everything we couldn’t quite say yet. His arm was still around me, holding me close like he wasn’t ready to let go. Like he was afraid the moment might slip away if he loosened his grip.

It was our first time. And it felt like something sacred had just happened.

Jungkook shifted slightly, brushing his thumb across my cheek as he looked down at me. His eyes were soft, searching, like he was still trying to make sure I was okay.

“You’re really quiet,” he whispered.

I smiled, a little shy now that the rush had faded. “Just… processing.”

He nodded, like he understood completely. “Me too.”

He leaned in and kissed me again—not like before, not hungry or desperate. Just soft. Slow. Like he wanted to remind me that this wasn’t just about the act—it was about us.

“I didn’t want to rush you,” he said, voice low. “I hope it was okay.”

I reached up, fingers brushing his jaw. “It was more than okay. It was… everything.”

His expression shifted then—relief, affection, something deeper. He pulled me closer, tucking my head beneath his chin, and I felt his heartbeat against my cheek. Steady. Strong.

“I’ll get you some water,” he murmured, starting to move, but I held onto him.

“Stay. Just for a little longer.”

He smiled and settled back in, wrapping the blanket around us both. His fingers traced lazy circles on my back, grounding me in the quiet.

And in that stillness, I knew something had changed. Not just between us—but inside me. Like I’d given a piece of myself and received something even more precious in return.

Jungkook’s fingers traced idle patterns along my spine, like he wasn’t even thinking about it—just touching me because he could. Because he wanted to.

I felt his chest rise beneath my cheek, then fall again. He’d been quiet for a while, and I could tell something was stirring behind his silence.

Then, softly, he spoke.

“Can I ask you something?”

I lifted my head just enough to meet his eyes. “Of course.”

He hesitated, like he was choosing his words carefully. “Did it… feel different for you? Like, not just physically. But… like something shifted?”

I blinked, surprised by the question—but not in a bad way. It was so him. Thoughtful. Honest.

I nodded slowly. “Yeah. It did. It felt like… like we crossed into something deeper. Like we’re not just us anymore—we’re more.”

His eyes softened, and he pulled me closer, pressing a kiss to my temple. “That’s exactly how it felt for me.”

We lay there for a while longer, wrapped in warmth and quiet understanding. No need to rush into sleep. No need to fill the silence with anything but presence.

Eventually, he whispered, “I’m really glad it was you.”

I smiled against his skin. “Me too.”

And in that moment, with nothing but the sound of our hearts and the hush of the night around us, I knew we’d never be the same.

The room had gone quiet again, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel empty—just full of warmth and breath and the soft hum of connection. His arms were still around me, one hand resting lightly on my back, the other tangled in my hair like he’d forgotten it was there.

Neither of us spoke. We didn’t need to.

I could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my cheek, grounding me in the moment. His skin was warm, his breathing slow, and every now and then, his thumb would brush gently across my shoulder, like he was still making sure I was there.

The weight of the night settled over us, not heavy, but comforting. Like a blanket of everything we’d just shared—trust, vulnerability, closeness.

My eyes drifted shut without meaning to, lulled by the quiet and the way his body fit so perfectly against mine. I felt him shift slightly, his lips brushing my forehead in a soft, sleepy kiss.

And then… nothing.

Not silence, not absence—just peace.

We didn’t say goodnight. We didn’t move. We just drifted, slowly, together, into sleep. Wrapped in each other’s arms, hearts still echoing the rhythm we’d found, bodies still humming with the memory of touch.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t spoken.

But it was perfect.

Thank you for reading ! If you made it to the end, please leave a like !!

Quick backstory before reading:

Taehyung is a globally known K-pop artist, currently in his late twenties. He's introspective, artistic, and has a soft spot for vintage aesthetics, jazz, and anything that feels timeless.

Y/N is a published author, also in her late twenties, known for emotionally rich writing that often draws from personal reflection. She's grounded, observant, and a little quiet — the kind of person who notices the details others miss.

The two met through Taehyung’s cousin, who is a close friend of Y/N’s. They were introduced at a book launch event, where Y/N was signing copies of her latest novel. Taehyung struck up a conversation, fascinated by her writing and energy.

After the event, they exchanged numbers and began texting regularly, their connection deepening through thoughtful messages, shared art, and the kind of conversations that linger long after the phone screen goes dark.

This series follows their romantic journey chronologically, starting with their first official date at a cozy vintage café just outside Seoul — a quiet place filled with jazz, warmth, and the tension of something new beginning.

It starts with a text the night before.

Tae:

wear something you feel pretty in :) and maybe bring a book? if you want.

You stare at the messages for a full minute before your fingers even move. He always sends texts like they’re whispered secrets, like there’s a whole smile tucked between every line. Your heart flutters stupidly, then you throw your phone onto the bed and groan into your pillow.

You’re nervous. Not just in the butterflies kind of way, but in the “oh god what do I even say to someone like him” kind of way. You’re a writer—words are supposed to be your thing. But none of the ones in your head sound even remotely normal.

He’s Taehyung. As in the Taehyung.

But he’s also just Tae, the guy you met through his cousin at her book launch. The guy who asked what pen you used when you signed your name in her copy. The guy who texted you a week later with a screenshot of your book on his nightstand.

You hadn’t expected him to be real. Not really. But he is. And tomorrow, you’re going on a date with him.

The vintage café is about an hour outside of Seoul. You’d almost missed it, tucked away at the edge of a quiet hillside road, nestled between ivy-covered walls and flowering trees. It smells like cinnamon and old paper when you step inside, and the air buzzes softly with Ella Fitzgerald drifting through overhead speakers.

Taehyung is already there.

He’s leaning over a small table near the window, flipping slowly through a photo book that looks older than both of you combined. There’s a cup of something dark and warm in front of him. His hair is longer than it looked in the pictures he sent yesterday, curling gently at the nape of his neck. A soft cream cardigan hangs off his shoulders, and he looks up just as you step forward.

You see it then—the slow smile, the dimple, the light in his eyes.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” you breathe.

And god, you really hope you don’t sound as winded as you feel.

He stands, tugging out your chair for you, then settles back into his own like you’ve done this a hundred times.

“Did you find the place okay?”

“I did. It’s beautiful.”

He beams. “I’m glad. It’s one of my favorites. I thought you might like it too. You seem like someone who’d appreciate a place with a story.”

Your heart skips.

You wonder if he knows what it does to you when he says things like that—thoughtful, simple things, said so earnestly.

“I brought a book,” you say quickly, motioning to your bag.

He perks up. “Really? Which one?”

You pull it out and he leans across the table, his face lit with curiosity. When he sees the title, his brows lift.

“You reread your own work?”

“Not exactly,” you laugh. “I was checking some passages I wrote a few years ago. It helps sometimes, especially when I feel stuck.”

“I like that,” he says, then pauses. “It’s brave, you know? To read your past self without flinching.”

You’re not sure what to say to that. No one’s ever put it that way before. You sip your drink, letting the moment stretch.

He talks about a jazz concert he went to last week, and you tell him about the strange dream that became a poem in your notes app. Conversation slips easily between you, warm and steady like sunlight filtering through the lace curtains.

At one point, he reaches across the table, brushing a crumb from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. It’s such a small gesture, but your breath catches.

He doesn’t say anything about it. Just smiles like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal to feel like your whole chest is unraveling under the weight of someone’s touch.

After two hours, the café starts to empty. The golden hour light spills through the windows and Taehyung asks if you want to walk for a bit.

You say yes.

The road behind the café curves gently up a small hill, framed by wildflowers and low stone walls. He walks beside you with his hands in his pockets, close enough that your arms almost brush.

“Can I tell you something?” he says suddenly.

You glance at him. “Of course.”

He looks straight ahead as he speaks. “I was really nervous about today.”

You blink. “You were?”

He nods. “You’re... different. In a good way. I don’t feel like I have to perform with you.”

Your heart squeezes.

“I get nervous too,” you say quietly. “Especially with someone like you.”

He laughs at that, stopping to turn toward you. “Someone like me?”

You shrug. “You know what I mean. You’re… bigger than life. Kind of intimidating.”

He tilts his head, watching you.

Then, with a small step closer, he says, “I don’t want to be. Not with you.”

There’s a long pause. His eyes are on yours, dark and thoughtful, and the breeze shifts the edges of his cardigan against your arm.

You could kiss him. Right now. The moment is there, hanging delicately between you, full of possibility.

But instead, he takes your hand.

It’s gentle. Certain. Warm.

And somehow, that means more.

Later, when he drops you off at the station, he walks you all the way to the platform. The train hasn’t arrived yet, and there’s a long silence while people bustle past you on the concrete.

“I had a really good time,” you say finally.

He smiles down at you. “Me too.”

The moment lingers. He looks like he wants to say something else. Then he leans down and presses the softest kiss to your forehead.

“Let me know when you get home safe, okay?”

Your cheeks burn. “I will.”

And then, with one last smile, he steps back. Watches you until the train doors close.

It isn’t until you’re halfway back to the city that you realize you’ve been smiling the entire time.

And in your phone, there’s already another message.

Tae:

i really like you, y/n.

The house still smells like fresh paint and pinewood. Not in a harsh, industrial way, but like memory — like something handmade and hopeful. Its Jungkook’s house. Our house now. Built not with hammers or nails, but with years of late-night talks and tired kisses and holding on when things got heavy.

I sit on the edge of our bed, the day still clinging to me like static. My heels are by the door, somewhere near my purse, which I think I flung onto the armchair without looking. There’s mascara under my eyes. I saw myself in the mirror, but I didn’t have the energy to care at the moment.

The lock clicks. The door opens.

“Baby?”

His voice is hoarse from the day, from singing or talking or just existing under the weight of a spotlight. Still, it softens something in me.

I push myself up, my feet padded in socks as I shuffle toward him, down the stairs and into the hallway. I meet him in the foyer, the soft amber glow of the light making him look handsome as always, but tired. He had a hoodie bunched in one hand, hair falling out from under a supreme beanie, eyes rimmed with that familiar hint of exhaustion. But when he sees me, something changes and he smiles.

“I missed you,” I say, and my voice breaks a little.

He doesn’t answer with words. Just folds me into him like he’s been waiting to do it all day. His arms wrap around me, warm and steady, and mine slip beneath his hoodie until my hands find the soft cotton of his shirt and the curve of his spine. I hold him like I can glue us back together.

We stay like that for a while. Neither of us rushes it.

He smells like outside — city air and car leather and the faintest bit of coffee — but underneath it, I still find him. The scent I know from t-shirts and pillowcases and the crook of his neck when he’s half asleep.

Eventually, he pulls back just enough to press a kiss to my forehead.

“Let me rinse off real quick,” he murmurs. “You go change. I’ll be right there.”

I nod and watch him disappear into the bathroom. A second later, I hear the water turn on and the soft clink of his rings hitting the counter. The hoodie lands in the laundry bin. The shower hums to life.

I step into our walk-in closet and start peeling the day off. One layer at a time. The skirt, the blouse, the bra that’s been digging into me since 3 p.m. I pull on one of his oversized shirts — the faded black one with the cracked print — and a pair of sleep shorts. At the vanity, I take off my makeup, watching the tired version of myself disappear with each cotton pad swipe.

When I look back up, I almost look like me again.

The water shuts off. He’s quiet. I can hear the soft pad of his feet against the floor, the way he dries off slowly like he’s already half-asleep.

He comes into the room a minute later, towel slung over his shoulders, hair damp and messy. He’s traded the hoodie and jeans for gray sweatpants, and that’s it. His tattoos peek out from his bare skin, catching the warm light of the lamp beside our bed.

“You okay?” he asks as he climbs in beside me.

I nod and slide under the covers, turning to face him. “I am now.”

He pulls me in gently, like he’s afraid to press too hard, and I nestle against his chest. My cheek finds that familiar spot over his heart. His hand smooths down my back, slow and steady.

He doesn’t rush me, or speak right away. Just breaths with me until I stop feeling like I’m falling apart.

“Was your day okay?” I ask, my voice muffled by his skin.

He sighs. “Busy. Kind of nonstop. You know how it is.”

I do. Of course I do. Being married to an idol means I see every side of the world he lives in. The stage, the rehearsals, the fans, the cameras, the moments no one else gets to see. The ones when he gets quiet and distant and tired in a way that sleep doesn’t fix.

“You still smell like your conditioner,” I say with a small smile.

He chuckles low. “Good. You like it.”

We lie like that, tangled up in each other, just breathing. My fingers trace shapes on his side, and his thumb draws soft lines down my arm. It’s quiet, but not empty. It’s full of everything we don’t need to say out loud.

“Some days just feel heavier than others,” I whisper.

He nods against me. “Yeah. Me too.”

There’s comfort in that. In the mutual understanding. In knowing we both had days that made our shoulders slump and our minds spin. But here, in the soft hush of our room, in the walls we chose and the sheets we picked together, we’re safe.

“I like that you always come home to me,” I murmur, “I love it, actually.”

He presses a kiss to my hair, “Good, because there’s nowhere else I’d rather go.”

Eventually, the weight of the day fades. My eyes grow heavy. His breathing evens out besides me, and I shift just enough to kiss his collarbone before settling into the embrace again.

His breathing evens out beside me, and I shift just enough to kiss his collarbone before settling into the embrace again.

But tonight, something lingers in the quiet. A gentle pull under the surface. The kind that happens when you need someone, not just for comfort, but to feel alive again after a long day of feeling numb.

My fingers twitch where they rest against his chest, and he notices. Of course he does. His hand on my back stills for a second.

“You’re not sleepy?” he murmurs, voice just above a whisper.

I shake my head a little and tilt my chin up so I can meet his eyes in the soft light.

“Not yet.”

He shifts to face me more fully, our legs brushing under the blanket. His hand moves from my back to my waist, warm and deliberate. It lingers there, thumb stroking just above the band of my shorts. His eyes study my face like he’s waiting for permission.

And I give it. Not with words, but with the way I lean forward and kiss him.

It’s slow at first. Like we’re still unraveling the tension from the day. His lips are soft and familiar, and he tastes like the peppermint tea he always sips after late rehearsals. My fingers slide into his damp hair while his hand slips under my shirt, palm flat against the bare skin of my lower back.

His touch grounds me. Wakes me up. Reminds me that I’m here. With him. Safe. Wanted.

The kiss deepens. Less tentative, more certain. He rolls onto his back, pulling me gently on top of him, our bodies aligning in a way that feels effortless. Natural.

I settle my hips against his, and the sound he makes is low and quiet but filled with heat. His hands explore my sides, slipping beneath my shirt like he wants to memorize the way my skin feels after a long day. I reach down and tug the fabric over my head, letting it fall somewhere off the side of the bed.

His eyes move slowly, reverently. Like I’m something sacred.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. His voice cracks just slightly, and it makes my heart clench.

He kisses my chest, my collarbone, the curve of my shoulder, and each one feels like a soft apology for the hours we lost to work and exhaustion. His mouth is warm, his breath gentle, and when his hands trail down to my hips and guide me into a slow rhythm against him, I let out a quiet moan that disappears into his neck.

We move slowly. Like we have nowhere else to be. Like we’ve earned this.

The tension that built up in my muscles throughout the day melts with every touch, every kiss, every soft word he mumbles against my skin. My name, I love you, you feel so good, baby, let me take care of you.

I don’t rush him. He doesn’t rush me. We take our time, relearning each other even though we already know everything. His hands are steady. Mine are trembling, just a little, from the way he makes me feel safe and desired all at once.

When we come together, it isn’t loud or wild. It’s quiet and full and deep. Like a wave pulling us under in the best possible way. We fall apart gently, clinging to each other as we ride it out, as we find our way back to ourselves again.

Afterward, we don’t say much. I lay on top of him, our hearts racing against each other. His hands stroke slow lines across my back again, this time with an added warmth that lingers from the afterglow.

“Thank you,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to his jaw.

He smiles, eyes still closed. “For what?”

“For knowing what I need without me saying it.”

He turns his head just enough to kiss me again. Softer this time. Sleepier.

“Always.”

Eventually, I roll off him and tuck myself against his side. He pulls the blanket over us with one arm and holds me close with the other. His breathing slows again, and mine follows.

This house might still be finding its shape, but we’re already settled in it. In this bed, in each other. The walls might still echo, and the corners might still feel empty. But this room, this moment, is full.

Not just with love, but with something even deeper.

Home.

🧸Fluff

There’s always been something unspoken between you and Jungkook—a slow-burn warmth that neither of you have dared to define.

You’re best friends. That’s the rule. But he calls you “baby” and “pretty” and “my girl” when he’s feeling soft—and you never correct him. How could you, when your heart thrums every time?

He’s always touching you. A hand on your lower back to guide you through a crowd. His thigh pressed to yours when you sit close. Brushing your hair behind your ear just to watch your expression shift under his fingertips.

Whenever you're sick or down, he’s there. No questions. Bringing soup, wearing sweats, curling up at the end of your bed, playing soft music through his phone while you rest. “You don’t have to take care of me,” you whisper. “I know,” he says quietly. “I want to.”

The way he looks at you—like he wants to say something but can’t. Like if he speaks it out loud, he might ruin everything. So instead, he memorizes you in silence. Watches your lips when you laugh. Lets his gaze drift a second too long before looking away.

You share clothes. Or rather—he lets you steal his. Oversized hoodies, caps that still smell like his cologne, even boxers when you crash at his place. “You’re a menace,” he teases when you emerge from his room in nothing but his long t-shirt. But his voice is always a little lower. A little breathless.

Late night phone calls turn into 2AM confessions. “If you were mine…” he says once, before catching himself. Your heart stalls. “You’d what?” you ask. But he just sighs and says, “Never mind.” But you know.

❤️‍🔥 Smut (not to intense)

The problem with Jungkook is—he’s not your boyfriend. But sometimes... he feels like everything but.

NSFW related content below – emotional and physical tension, not a full relationship.

It starts innocently. You’re tipsy, watching a movie, curled up together. His hand on your thigh. His breath on your skin. You shift. So does he. The air changes. You feel it in your spine.

You don’t talk about the first time you kiss. How he leans in too slowly, like waiting for you to pull away. And when you don’t, he kisses you like he’s been dying to. Hungry. Careful. Reverent. “You taste exactly how I imagined,” he breathes against your mouth—and your brain short-circuits.

That night, you don’t go all the way. But he presses his forehead to yours afterward, both of you panting, and says, “Tell me to stop next time. Or I won’t.”

When it does happen, it’s after weeks of pretending you’re fine. Of pretending touches don’t linger. Of looking away too quickly. And when the tension finally breaks, it’s messy, desperate, full of emotion you don’t name. He moans your name like a prayer and holds your hand the entire time.

Jungkook is rough around the edges, but soft with you. His hands know where to go. His mouth is everywhere. But it’s the way he looks at you—like you’re his—that breaks you.

Afterward, he stays. Always. He tucks you into his chest, tracing patterns on your back, his voice a whisper. “What are we doing?” you ask once, afraid of the answer. He doesn’t reply. He just kisses your forehead and holds you tighter.

🥺+🥀Angst (not to intense)

Being friends with Jungkook is beautiful... And heartbreaking.

You don’t talk about the nights he shows up at your door drunk, eyes glassy, asking if he can crash. He curls up next to you, his arms around your waist like muscle memory. But in the morning, he’s gone before you wake. No goodbye. Just your phone buzzing with “sorry" a few minutes later.

He’s your best friend, but sometimes he acts like your boyfriend. Sometimes he treats you like a stranger. It hurts in a way you can’t explain. Because how do you grieve someone who was never yours to begin with?

You date someone else for a while. Jungkook smiles. Laughs. Even gives you advice. But that night, he texts you: “do you love him?” You don’t answer. And neither does he when you call.

One night, after a party, you ask him—really ask him—“Do you have feelings for me?” He looks away. Laughs bitterly. “Would it even matter if I did?” Your silence says it all.

Eventually, he starts pulling back. Not out of cruelty, but self-preservation. He can’t be near you without wanting more. And you feel him slipping—slowly, painfully—as if you're watching a door close that was never truly open.

And yet—he never quite let's go. Sometimes, you’ll find him waiting outside your building, looking at you like he still dreams of what could’ve been. “I miss you,” he says one night, voice shaking. “But I don’t know how to love you halfway.”