#cliffhanger

"Cliffhanger"

Synopsis: New York is a wasteland—neon lights, empty hearts, and poems no one reads. You wander through it, a girl of ink and restraint, fluent in beauty but starved for touch. Then there’s him: Jungkook. An art in human form. Dangerous in the way truth always is. He sees you, strips you bare with nothing but words, and suddenly every poem you’ve ever written feels like a confession. Maybe ruin isn’t so bad—if it’s the kind that finally makes you feel alive.

Genre: Artist!jungkook x Poet!female reader.

Word count: 19k

Now Playing: Life Of The Party - The Weeknd.

Warnings: College au, Jungkook is twenty one, Reader is twenty one, Reader is low-key a FREAK, virgin reader, drama, smoking & drinking, sexual frustration, Sexual tension, cliffhanger (because im a rage baiter), author loves poetry and is sleep deprived, jungkook is boyfriend material, reader is super poetically HORNY 24/7.

Author’s Note: Wrote this in my bedroom at 1 am in the morning LMAOOO.

In the neon-lit wasteland of New York, where shadows dance and dreams whisper, you tread the path of a lost soul. The city's heart beats with a restless rhythm, a symphony of unfulfilled desires and echoes of broken dreams. You, a poet of ink and restraint, wander this labyrinth, your heart a well of unsung verses, your soul a beacon of yearning.

Your poems are secrets whispered to the wind, searching for ears that can hear the depths of your words. Yet, in this city of steel and glass, your voice is often silenced, drowned by the cacophony of urban life. Your apartment, a shabby facade, hides a luxurious interior, a sanctuary where you can be yourself, untouched by the world outside. You are a twenty-one-year-old, a soul adrift in the vast ocean of New York, plain and boring on the surface, but a tempest of passion and desire beneath.

Your body, a canvas of curves, an hourglass figure that turns heads, though you rarely notice. Your doe eyes, plump and glassy lips, and long, wavy brown hair make you look like a fairytale come to life. Yet, you feel invisible, unnoticed, a ghost in the city that never sleeps.

This 'sex disease' you think you might have is a constant companion, a relentless whisper in your mind. It clouds your thoughts during gatherings with friends, during nights out with classmates, and even in the quiet moments between lectures. You fantasize about being taken by a man carved by the gods, a fantasy that feels romantic and forbidden.

Your notebook, a small, unassuming book, holds the key to your inner world. 'My deepest thoughts' is innocently scribbled on the cover, a secret that no one asks about, a sanctuary for your most intimate desires. In its pages, you pour out your heart, your fantasies, your longing for a touch that sets your soul on fire.

You walk through the bustling streets of New York, past the vibrant art galleries and the echoing poetry readings, past the open studio events where artists spill their souls onto canvas and paper. Yet, you remain unseen, your own art unseen, your own voice unheard. The city is a wasteland of opportunities and dreams, and you are just another lost soul, searching for a spark in the darkness.

In this concrete jungle, you are a fairytale princess trapped in a mundane existence, your beauty unappreciated, your desires unfulfilled. You are a poet, a dreamer, a woman of curves and secrets, wandering through the neon-lit streets, waiting for a miracle, waiting for someone to see you, to understand you, to set your soul ablaze.

Your heart is a canvas painted with the colors of longing, your mind a garden of forbidden desires. You are a star in the night sky of New York, waiting for someone to notice your light, to see the beauty in your darkness, to hear the poetry in your silence. You are a whisper in the wind, a dream in the heart of the city, a soul searching for its mirror, its echo, its destiny.

The city's neon lights flicker like stars in the night, each one a promise, a possibility. You walk beneath them, your footsteps echoing the beat of your heart, a rhythm of longing and desire. The streets are a tapestry of stories, each one a thread in the fabric of your life, each one a verse in the poem of your existence.

Your thoughts are a garden of wildflowers, each one a fantasy, a dream, a secret desire. They bloom in the darkness of your mind, their petals unfurling to reveal the depths of your soul. You tend to them with care, nurturing them with words and ink, letting them grow and flourish in the pages of your notebook.

The 'sex disease' is a river that flows through your veins, a current of passion and desire that courses through your body. It is a fire that burns in your belly, a flame that ignites your soul. It is a hunger that gnaws at your heart, a longing that consumes your mind.

Your body is a map of curves and valleys, a landscape of desire and temptation. It is a temple, a sanctuary, a place of worship. You move through the city, your hips swaying, your steps a dance, a rhythm of seduction and allure. Yet, you remain unseen, your beauty unnoticed, your allure unappreciated.

The city is a symphony of sounds, a cacophony of voices and whispers. You move through it, a silent observer, a watcher in the shadows. You see the world with the eyes of a poet, your gaze capturing the beauty and the pain, the joy and the sorrow, the light and the darkness.

Your heart is a well of emotions, a reservoir of feelings and desires. It is a place of depth and complexity, a world of its own. You dive into its depths, exploring its recesses, uncovering its secrets. You write about it, pouring your heart onto the pages of your notebook, letting your words flow like a river, a torrent of emotion and passion.

You are a woman of curves and secrets, a dreamer of dreams, a poet of the night. You wander through the neon-lit streets, your heart a beacon of longing, your soul a canvas of desire. You are waiting for a miracle, for someone to see you, to understand you, to set your soul ablaze.

The city is a wasteland of opportunities and dreams, a place of promise and possibility. You are a soul adrift in its vast ocean, a star in its night sky, a whisper in its wind. You are searching for a spark in the darkness, for a light to guide you home, for a love to set your soul on fire.

Your heart is a garden of wildflowers, a river of passion, a temple of desire. It is a place of beauty and wonder, a world of its own. You tend to it with care, nurturing it with words and ink, letting it grow and flourish in the pages of your notebook. You are a poet, a dreamer, a woman of curves and secrets, wandering through the neon-lit streets, waiting for a miracle, waiting for someone to see you, to understand you, to set your soul ablaze.

Monday bleeds gray. Even the sky looks tired of itself — a smeared watercolor of cloud and smog pressed low over the city. You move through it half-awake, part of the herd dragging themselves toward obligation. The subway breathes around you, a living thing of metal and exhaustion. Somewhere, a busker sings off-key about love, and you almost laugh — love feels like such a foreign word before noon.

By the time you reach campus, the morning has folded in on itself. The hallways smell of coffee and old paper. Desks lined like gravestones, screens flickering with someone’s forgotten slideshow. You sit, open your notebook, and try to pretend you belong to this world of deadlines and discussion posts.

For the first hour, you manage. Your pen scratches dutifully, your face arranged in its polite version of interest. But soon your focus slips — drowned out by the chorus of whispers behind you.

Laughter. Secrets. The kind that hum like electricity.

You catch fragments. Names you don’t know. Nights you can’t picture yourself in. There’s a kind of confidence in their carelessness — the way they speak about intimacy as if it were a class they’d already passed, while you’re still fumbling through the syllabus. You tell yourself you’re not missing anything, that the quiet life suits you. But a small, reckless ache in your chest disagrees.

So you write. It’s what you’ve always done when the noise gets too loud. Words spill in the margins of your notes, looping into thoughts you’ll never say aloud:

“Some people speak in kisses, I only know how to write them.”

Your handwriting wavers as if embarrassed by its own honesty.

By the time the professor dismisses class, you feel translucent. The fluorescent lights hum like bees trapped behind your eyes. You walk out into the drizzle, hair slipping loose from its tie, the city slick with reflections. Everything shines too much and means too little.

A few hours later…

The café across the street becomes your refuge — small, warm, threaded with the low hum of music. You sink into the seat by the window and let the fogged glass blur the world outside.

Jenna arrives late, as always. She breezes in smelling like perfume and expensive restlessness, her coat the color of sin. When she spots you, her smile is wide and a little performative, the kind that demands to be watched.

“You look like death warmed over,” she says, dropping into the chair opposite you.

“Thanks. I was going for that.”

She laughs, the sound brittle and bright. She orders something complicated, then begins her usual monologue — men, heartbreak, impulsive decisions dressed as self-discovery. You listen the way one might watch a storm from behind glass: fascinated, detached, knowing you’ll never step into it but unable to look away.

“He texted me at two in the morning,” she says, stirring her latte. “Said he missed me. Can you believe that? After everything?”

“Maybe he did,” you offer, quietly.

“Oh please. Men don’t miss people, they miss attention.”

You smile, tracing the rim of your cup. Jenna always speaks with authority about things she doesn’t believe in. That’s what you like about her — she’s chaos wearing lipstick, proof that a person can burn and call it living.

But you also know her eyes too well; the way they sharpen when she catches interest in something that isn’t hers. You’ve learned to keep your privacy locked, disguised behind boredom.

“You never tell me anything,” she says, half-teasing, half-accusing. “You’ve got that secret look again. What goes on in that poet head of yours?”

Something you can’t comprehend…

“Mostly words,” you answer. “Sometimes nothing.”

“Liar.”

Her grin softens the word, but it lingers between you like smoke. You change the subject, asking about her classes, her job, anything to redirect the spotlight. She follows the shift easily, talking with her hands, every gesture a small performance.

Outside, the rain has turned to mist. The world beyond the glass glows with the reflections of passing cars — red, gold, violet — the colors of a pulse. You watch the city breathe, and for a moment you forget you’re supposed to be listening.

That’s when you notice him.

He’s sitting a few tables away, half-hidden by a column of shadow. Dark hair falling over his forehead, fingers stained faintly with graphite. There’s a sketchbook on the table, a cigarette tucked behind his ear, and a cup of coffee gone cold beside him. He doesn’t look up, but somehow the air shifts around him — charged, deliberate.

Your gaze catches and holds. You tell yourself it’s just curiosity, but something deeper stirs beneath it — the sense that you’ve seen him before, not in body but in idea. Like the face behind a dream that never ends properly.

“You’re doing it again,” Jenna says, snapping you back.

“Doing what?”

“Staring into space like you’re in a movie. Who is it this time?”

“No one.” You sighed, for the second time since you’ve been in the cafe shop.

“Mm-hm.”

She follows your line of sight anyway. Her eyes narrow, her lips twitch into a knowing smirk “Well. He’s not no one.” You sighed, she’d already set her sights on the poor guy.

“You don’t even know him.” You lightly scoff.

“Neither do you. So were both in the same boat Y/n.”

You look away, cheeks warming though you can’t say why. When you glance back, the stranger is sketching something quick and precise. His hand moves with the kind of focus that looks almost painful, like every line he draws costs him something.

The café noise fades, replaced by the steady rhythm of pencil on paper. You imagine, for no reason at all, that he’s drawing the city — or maybe the inside of his head, which probably looks the same: messy, relentless, alive.

Jenna keeps talking, spinning another story about love as currency, pain as proof. You nod along, half-listening, your thoughts are somewhere else entirely. You think about the wasteland you wrote about in your notebook — the city of neon hearts and hollow laughter — and realize it’s not so barren tonight. Somewhere between the sound of rain and the scratch of his pencil, something small begins to bloom.

The days no longer pass; they simply dissolve. Monday bleeds into Wednesday, and time folds over itself like thin paper. The calendar might insist on progress, but your mind stays caught in one long, endless dusk. You wake up, eat, exist, but everything feels blurred around the edges, as if you’re watching your own life from behind glass.

You’ve become a ghost wearing skin.

Desire, that quiet storm inside you, doesn’t fade—it mutates. It turns into static at the back of your thoughts, whispering of things you’ve never touched. You tell yourself you’re fine, that solitude is just discipline by another name, that you can translate every ache into words. But the truth doesn’t stay silent for long. It surfaces in the lines you write, the ones you tear out of your notebook before anyone can see.

By the time the week ends, you can’t bear the apartment walls any longer. The air there is too still, the silence too loud. So you put on the first outfit your hands find—a soft white dress that feels like borrowed innocence—and leave without thinking.

The city greets you the way it always does: indifferently. Cabs hiss through puddles, lights flicker even in daylight, and every face that passes looks carved from hurry and hunger. You wander until your feet take you somewhere new: a narrow doorway on 11th Avenue, the words Artemis Gallery painted in fading gold on glass.

Meanwhile…

Inside, the air is cool and smells faintly of paint and dust. The floorboards creak like old secrets. You move slowly, careful not to disturb the hush that hangs between canvases. The place is small but curated with devotion—every frame seems to glow faintly in the late afternoon light.

You drift past landscapes that ache with longing, portraits that feel more honest than mirrors. The stillness seeps into you, softening the noise inside your head. Then you stop.

It’s the painting near the back wall that holds you captive.

A woman, bare as an idea, leaning over a man whose gaze burns upward at her. The red blanket draped around them looks almost alive, folds blooming like petals. The woman’s face is tilted toward the ceiling—eyes closed, mouth parted in a silent song. The man beneath her is half in shadow, expression unreadable except for the small, devastating curve of his lips.

The plaque beneath it reads: Creation No. 7 – “The Moment Before Sound.”

The title alone feels like poetry. You imagine the artist choosing those words with trembling hands.

You step closer until the scent of varnish meets your breath. For a moment you forget you’re not supposed to touch; your hand rises instinctively toward the painted red, the illusion of warmth.

Then—

“Careful,” a voice says behind you. Low. Calm. Almost amused.

“They say the last woman who touched that canvas cried for three days.”

You turn sharply.

He’s there. The stranger from the café.

But he’s not just the stranger anymore; the memory of his presence comes rushing back—the curve of his wrist as he sketched, the smoke curling above his cup. Seeing him now feels less like coincidence and more like consequence.

He’s taller than you’d imagined, though maybe it’s just the way he carries gravity. His dark hair falls into his eyes, a silver glint catching where the light hits his lip ring. Ink coils along his right arm, intricate, deliberate, disappearing beneath the sleeve of a black button-up that fits him too well to be casual. His voice still lingers in the air, rich and textured like velvet pulled tight.

You find your own voice somewhere beneath your surprise. “You were at the café,” you say softly.

He nods.

“And you were pretending not to look.” So he must’ve noticed that you were looking at him, the whole while you were there.

Your cheeks warm. “I wasn’t pretending.”

“Then you were looking.”

“Maybe.” You replied, shamelessly.

“Good.”

The word lands like a brushstroke—simple, confident, final.

He steps beside you, not too close, but close enough that you can sense the warmth radiating from him. For a moment you both stare at the painting.

“They say the artist painted this after he lost his lover,” Jungkook murmurs. “But I don’t think that’s true.”

“No?”

“No. This isn’t grief. It’s recognition.”

He folds his arms loosely, eyes still on the figures. “He wasn’t trying to remember her. He was trying to understand himself through her.”

You glance up at him, struck by the certainty in his tone. “You talk like you knew him.”

“I know what it feels like,” he says simply.

“To lose someone?” You look up at him innocently, curious, and maybe anxious.

“To find someone and realize they were holding a mirror.”

His words hang between you, heavy, deliberate. The gallery’s silence seems to deepen around them.

“You sound like a poet,” you say.

“I’m an artist,” he replies, turning to meet your gaze. “But poetry happens when paint isn’t enough.”

“What do you see when you look at it?” you ask, gesturing to the painting.

He studies it a long moment. “Two people trying to become one. Failing beautifully.”

You breathe out a small laugh, caught between admiration and unease. “That’s bleak.”

“No,” he says, and his voice softens. “It’s human. We’re all just trying to merge with something bigger than ourselves—love, art, chaos, it doesn’t matter. We call it passion because destruction would sound too honest.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. His words brush against something raw in you, something you’ve tried to keep buried under reason.

He looks back at the painting, then at you “You’re a writer,” he says.

It’s not a question. “How—”

“The way you look at things,” he interrupts gently. “Writers see the world in verbs. I can tell.”

You smile despite yourself. “And what do you see in me now?”

He considers, eyes steady. “A story that hasn’t decided if it wants to be told.”

The air between you seems to tighten, not with tension, but with awareness. The hum of a distant air vent becomes deafening; even your heartbeat sounds like it belongs to the room.

“Maybe I don’t want to be written,” you whisper.

“Then why come to a place full of stories already painted?” He smirks slightly.

You have no answer for that.

He smiles faintly, the corners of his mouth curving like the beginning of trouble.

“I’m Jeon Jungkook,” he says finally, offering his hand.

You hesitate, then take it. His palm is warm, calloused, the kind of hand that’s spent more time creating than resting.

“And you?”

“Y/n L/n.” You replied.

He repeats it quietly, as if testing the weight of it in his mouth.

“Y/N,” he says again, slower this time. “Sounds like something you’d whisper to the dark when you think no one’s listening.”

You don’t know whether to laugh or run. “Do you always talk like that?”

“Only when the silence deserves company.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. He chuckles softly, gaze still fixed on the painting.

“If you stay long enough,” he says, “you start to realize art galleries aren’t quiet at all. Every piece here is screaming.”

“What’s this one screaming, then?”

“Don’t look away.” The words fall like prophecy.

For a while you both stand there, watching the same painted figures and pretending not to feel the same pull. The city outside keeps moving, but in here, time folds again. It feels like the beginning of something you’ve been writing toward without realizing it.

You should have been able to breathe in your own home. But tonight, the air felt different. Thicker. Slower. Weighted with something you didn’t want to name.

The papers around you looked like evidence scattered around a crime scene. And you was both the murderer and the victim.

Your own handwriting exposed you. Confessed for you. Revealed every shadow you tried to bury under composure.

You didn’t want Jungkook. Not in the reckless way people chase after beauty. Not in the cheap hunger that crumbles once fulfilled.

What you wanted was far worse.

You wanted the version of him that existed in your mind—the silent, disciplined, devastating man who had studied your as if you were a painting behind glass.

He hadn’t touched you. Not even a brush of skin. But somehow he had traced you… completely.

And that was why you lay there now, breath shallow, heartbeat unsteady, like a woman who had opened a door she should have left locked.

Your fingers reached instinctively for you notebook. The soft pastel cover, the rose pressed into the surface, the pages that smelled faintly of ink and something warm.

You flipped it open. The newest page was filled with him.

Not his name—never that. You couldn’t bring yourself to write Jeon Jungkook on paper as if claiming him in ink would summon him into the room.

Instead, you wrote metaphors. Symbols. Images.

The man with constellations in his veins. The man whose eyes swallow sins whole. The man carved by restraint and ruin.

A soft laugh escaped you—barely a breath, barely real. You was ridiculous. Utterly, hopelessly ridiculous.

Your phone buzzed again, but you ignored it this time. Jenna would only tease you more, and You wasn’t ready to admit that part of you wanted to be teased. Wanted someone to say what she was too afraid to say yourself:

‘ That one encounter with Jungkook had set your entire inner world on fire. ’

You rolled onto your side, staring at the papers that framed you like a chalk outline.

“You’re pathetic,” you muttered to yourself. But it didn’t sound cruel. It sounded scared.

Because you wasn’t just thinking about Jungkook. You was craving…something you had never admitted wanting.

Control. Dominance. Not in the physical sense, but in the way he carried himself. Disciplined.

Measured. Gentle in a way that terrified you more than cruelty ever could.

A man like that could fold a woman open without raising his voice. Could undo every wall brick by careful brick.

You pulled your knees to your chest, burying your face in them.

You had spent your entire life avoiding men. Desiring to be touched. Even in poetry, you wrote about intimacy from a distance, from a safe vantage point where you could pretend you was above desire.

Jungkook had ruined that illusion in thirty minutes.

You remembered his voice—low, composed, threaded with velvet and steel. You remembered the way he tilted his head when he listened to you. As if he were memorizing the slope of your thoughts.

You remembered the faint crease in his brow when you interpreted his painting. Not the irritation of an artist critiqued…but the surprise of a man who felt suddenly exposed.

You remembered the warmth of his breath when he leaned closer to read your expression.

How it ghosted your skin like a promise.

You remembered the way his gaze traveled—not like he was checking you out, but like he was studying a blueprint he planned to reconstruct from the inside out.

And you remembered how your entire body reacted—heat pooling under your skin, a tremble that wasn’t fear, a tightness in your chest like a prayer you didn’t know how to articulate.

You pressed your palms to your lips.

He shouldn’t be able to occupy your mind like this. Not after one meeting. Not after a simple conversation.

You barely knew him. You didn’t even know what his favorite color was—or if he laughed easily, or if he preferred morning or night, or how he drank his coffee.

But somehow, you knew the shape of his presence. Knew the atmosphere he carried with him. Knew the way his silence felt heavier than other people’s words.

You knew…him. Or some part of him.

And that was the part you couldn’t escape. You flipped to another page, pen trembling between her fingers.

Words spilled out before you could stop them:

‘ He is the storm I mistake for a sanctuary. The fire I beg to burn me. The shadow I invite into my ribcage. ’

She stared at the lines, pulse quickening.

He was creeping into your writing. Into your rhythm. Into the marrow of the stories she told herself to fall asleep.

It wasn’t love—you wasn’t that foolish. It was obsession, but not hers.

It was as if he had planted something inside you. A seed. A whisper. A promise.

You shivered.

Jungkook hadn’t pursued her. Not openly. Not obviously.

But there had been something in his eyes—something patient, calculating, tender in a way that frightened her more than ferocity ever could.

He looked like a man who didn’t chase. He waited. And when he waited, the world rearranged itself to bring him what he wanted.

The thought made heat bloom in your belly, a slow flush that crept up your neck.

“No,” you whispered. “I won’t fall for it. I need to stop thinking about him.”

But her body didn’t listen. Your mind didn’t listen. Your heart didn’t listen.

You kept replaying the gallery, the moment he stepped into her space, the way he looked at her as if he’d found something precious he hadn’t realized he’d lost.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t even sexual. It was hunger. Beautiful, restrained hunger.

You curled into yourself, helpless against the memory of his voice. If Jungkook ever wanted you—truly wanted you—but you knew that you wouldn’t survive it.

And worse? You weren’t sure you wanted to.

Jungkook’s fancy apartment was quiet in the way abandoned cathedrals were quiet. Holy, echoing, haunted. He liked it that way. Silence sharpened his thoughts. Darkness steadied his heartbeat.

But tonight…silence wasn’t enough. It wasn’t deep enough, wasn’t dark enough, wasn’t wide enough to hold the storm inside him.

He sat on his studio stool, a paint-splattered rag draped across his thigh, hair falling over one eye. The room was dim, lit only by a single lamp in the corner, its soft gold glow illuminating the canvas in front of him.

A canvas he had started painting the moment he got home from the gallery. A canvas he had touched every night since.

A canvas of her of you.

Not fully. He would never reduce you to ink and color so easily. You were more than that.

But the outline was unmistakable—the shape of your jaw, the fall of your hair, the softness in your posture that made every predator inside him sit up with quiet, hungry reverence.

He lifted his brush, the stroke deliberate, painfully slow, as if touching the canvas was the same as touching you.

His voice broke the silence, low and rough: “Hold still for me.”

As if you were there. As if you were sitting before him in real flesh and trembling breath. His hand curled slightly.

He hated how much he wanted that. How deeply, violently, silently he yearned.

Jungkook prided himself on control. He wasn’t a man who lost himself. He wasn’t a man who let desire rule him.

He shaped desire. Disciplined it. Commanded it. But you…you were different.

You were purity dipped in shadows. You were softness carved from quiet wounds. You were innocence wrapped in literature and scar tissue, walking gently through a world that wasn’t built for the softness you carried.

And he—who had lived a life of beautiful ruin—found himself wanting that softness more than he wanted breath.

He dipped the brush again. Slow stroke. Slow breath. Slow discipline.

He traced the faint curve of your shoulder on the canvas, the translucent pink nightgown that existed only in his imagination, something you would look breathtaking in—something too delicate for anyone but him to see.

He painted lace, he painted shadow. He painted the quiet rise and fall of breath you didn’t even know he memorized.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. He didn’t paint you naked. He didn’t have to.

The intimacy lived in the space between his restraint.

He whispered your name quietly, like a confession he would never speak aloud. “Y/n.”

The name tasted like sin in the quiet.

You had been on his mind long before he admitted it to himself.

You had walked into his gallery unarmed, unaware, untouched by the world he lived in. You didn’t flirt. You didn’t pose. You didn’t try to impress him.

You simply existed. And that alone ruined him.

He remembered the moment clearly—too clearly. You standing in front of that painting. Your eyes soft but intense, as if you saw more than what was on the surface. As if you saw him behind the brushstrokes.

You didn’t look at his art the way most people did, not with hollow admiration or pretended understanding.

You looked at it like you were listening to it breathe. No one had ever looked at his work that way. No one had ever looked at him that way.

He had felt it instantly—something ancient and instinctive shifting inside him. Something that recognized you as if he’d been waiting for you without realizing it.

He set the brush down, breathing in slowly.

On the other side of the studio, his phone lit up with a notification. A message from someone he should probably respond to. A dinner invitation. A gallery request. A reminder about an interview.

He let it ring and dim.

None of it mattered. Not when you were in his head. Not when you had become the quiet obsession he could no longer put down.

Jungkook leaned back, eyes dragging over the painting again.

He had painted hundreds of women. Painted intimacy in every shade of tragedy and desire. But this was the first time he painted someone he had only met once.

This was the first time he painted from hunger instead of memory.

He tilted his head slightly, studying you. The soft pink nightgown. The lace. The half-covered chest. The shy posture that wasn’t shy at all—just unclaimed.

You were untouched.

He felt the truth of it like fire under his ribs. Not untouched as in naive. Not untouched as in childish.

Untouched in the way a locked room that is untouched—not because no one wanted to enter, but because no one deserved to.

Jungkook dragged a hand over his mouth. “You have no idea,” he murmured.

No idea you were on his canvas. No idea you were under his skin. No idea he had memorized the cadence of your breath, the tremor in your voice, the way you shifted your weight when you were nervous.

No idea you had already become his muse. The brush clattered softly as he set it down completely.

He stood, pushing the stool back with one foot, walking slowly toward the painting as if approaching something almost sacred.

He reached out, fingertips hovering just a breath above the dried paint of your cheek.

Not touching. Never touching.

He didn’t need the physical contact. What he felt was deeper.

“You’re the kind of woman men ruin themselves for,” he whispered.

And he was a man built for ruin. Not the destructive kind. Not the chaos. Not the recklessness.

But the quiet, patient kind. The kind that unfolds slowly. The kind that binds instead of breaks.

His eyes dragged over the soft pink nightgown he’d given you in the painting—the one you didn’t know you were wearing for him.

“I’ll be gentle,” he said to the empty room. It wasn’t a promise. It was a warning.

A soft, devastating one.

“And you’ll let me.” There was a stillness after that. A breath held by the world.

Jungkook stepped back, wiping his hands on his jeans, jaw tight, eyes darker than the paint on his fingers.

He wasn’t the type to chase. He wasn’t the type to fall. He wasn’t even the type to want.

But you…

You weren’t a choice. You were an inevitability.

He turned off the lamp, letting the room fall into darkness.

The painting glowed faintly from the hallway light spilling in—a silhouette of you, ethereal, untouchable, his.

He closed the door softly behind him and whispered to the dark: “You’ll come to me, and i’ll wait patiently.”

Not hopeful. Not desperate. But Certain.

The park was quiet in the way only noon could be—lazy sunlight filtering through the trees, the wind carrying the faint sweetness of grass and distant bakery sugar. You sat alone on a wooden bench, your notebook open on your lap, fingers curled around a pen that hovered motionlessly above the blank page.

Your thoughts were not your own anymore. They belonged to him.

To the way his voice had wrapped around you like silk tied at the throat. To the way his eyes had traced you as if you were the only light left in the world worth painting. To the way his presence had filled the gallery so subtly, so completely, that you forgot what it meant to breathe without watching him.

Jeon Jungkook.

The name itself haunted you in the same soft, wicked way a whisper against the nape of the neck did—barely there, yet deep enough to stain your entire spine.

You didn’t want to be thinking about him. But your mind betrayed you with ease.

Even the breeze seemed to bring him to you. The warmth. The hush. The awareness. You closed your eyes.

And immediately, you saw it—your dream, the one that refused to fade.

Jungkook in the dark, moonlight carving the muscles of his back, his hair a mess of soft curls, damp as if he had just stepped out of a shower. Shirtless, broad, impossibly warm. His tattoos creeping like shadows over his arm, disappearing beneath lower places you dared not imagine too clearly.

His fingers skimmed your hips: “Hold still for me, sweetheart…I’m painting you.”

His voice in the dream was a husky truth you weren’t ready to touch.

You felt the ghost of his mouth at your neck—warm, sinful, knowing—and the heaviness of him caging you in like you were something precious he could break if he wasn’t careful.

But dreams were cruel. They ended exactly when they began to feel real.

You inhaled sharply and opened your eyes, grounding yourself back in the daylight, the sound of birds, the distant laughter of children. Your heart slowed, your breath steadied.

You looked around. Sunny park. Empty bench. Ordinary afternoon.

See? He’s not here. He’s nowhere. He’s gone. It was a one-time encounter.

You forced yourself to believe that. Forced yourself to swallow the ache he left behind in your chest. Forced yourself to pretend he didn’t already live somewhere in the softest part of your mind.

You returned your gaze to your notebook. Your pen trembled against the page.

You did not write about the sky… nor the grass…nor your day…Instead, you wrote—

‘ A predator does not rush. He circles, waits, breathes against the air you might breathe, and lets you feel him long before he steps into view. ’

Your heart clenched. You hated that you wrote that. You hated that you meant it.

You closed the notebook, hugging it close to your chest as if you could smother the truth inside it.

“Get a grip,” you whispered to yourself. “It was just a conversation. He doesn’t know you. He doesn’t want you. You’re being dramatic—”

“Are you?” Your entire body froze.

The voice—low, smooth, maddeningly rich—cut through the air like a blade dipped in honey.

Slowly, painfully slowly, you turned your head. And there he was.

Jeon Jungkook stood only a few feet away, sunlight hitting his figure in the exact way that made reality feel staged. A white button-up half-tucked into dark slacks, sleeves rolled to his forearms, veins prominent. Two silver rings glinted on his fingers. His long dark hair fell messily around his face, some strands brushing his eyes. His lip piercing caught the sun—sharp, sinful.

But it was his eyes that stole the air from your lungs.

Dark. Focused. Devouring without touching. Looking at you like you had wandered right into his waiting hands.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he murmured, stepping toward you with quiet, calculated grace. “Or…” he tilted his head, eyes dipping to your notebook, “like you were just writing about one.”

Your breath stuttered. Your fingers tightened around your notebook so hard the spine bent.

“Jungkook…” Your voice cracked. You hated how it cracked. “W–What…what are you doing here?”

He smiled—slowly, knowingly, like a man who enjoyed watching prey take a single step back.

“I could ask you the same,” he said, hands slipping casually into his pockets as he approached. “But I think you already know I’m not the type to wait for fate to arrange second meetings.”

You swallowed. Hard. He stopped in front of you—close, but respectful.

Close enough that you felt his presence lick over your skin. Close enough that you smelled clean soap, warm cologne, and something darker beneath.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” he murmured, voice quieter now. “But I thought…I should at least say hello.”

“That’s…fine,” you breathed, though nothing in your body felt fine.

Jungkook glanced down at your notebook again. His voice dropped even lower—dangerously low. “May I sit?”

The question was polite. Too polite. As if he was used to being in control but forced himself to ask because it was you.

“Yes,” you said before you could think.

He took a slow seat beside you. Not touching—never touching—but close enough that the warmth radiating off him felt like a hand sliding beneath your ribs.

Silence stretched between you.

He studied your profile with the attention of a sculptor carving marble. His gaze lingering. Tracing. Worshipping quietly.

“You’ve been thinking,” he said. Not a question. A certainty. “Your eyes look…troubled.”

“I’m not troubled.”

“Mm,” he hummed. “Liar.”

Your breath caught.

“I can always tell,” he added. “People reveal everything in their eyes. Especially poets. But you, on the other hand—you express your feelings through body language.”

You wanted to look away. He didn’t let you.

Jungkook leaned slightly closer, breath grazing your cheek. “You look like someone who’s been running from something.”

Your fingers clutched the notebook to your chest. “I’m not running.”

That faint, devilishly gentle smile returned “No,” he murmured. “You’re not running. You’re…drifting.”

You almost choked. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Jungkook said softly, “you want something you’re afraid to name.”

Your chest tightened, breath shaking, pulse echoing in your fingertips.

“Or…” he whispered, leaning closer still, “someone.”

Your knees nearly buckled—and you were sitting. You forced yourself to breathe. “You’re…you’re too much,” you whispered.

“And you,” he breathed, “are not enough for yourself. Not yet.”

Your lips parted. No sound came out. Jungkook’s eyes fell to your hands wrapped around the notebook. “What were you writing?”

“N–Nothing.”

Another soft laugh. Dark. Knowing. Intimate. “Let me guess,” he murmured. “A poem.”

You said nothing. He tilted his head.

“About someone who shouldn’t exist in your mind but does?”

You flinched. His smile deepened, cruelly—yet so attractive.

“You…” His voice turned to velvet. “Look at me.”

You did. And the moment you did, you knew you were lost.

His gaze softened—not predatory now, but unbearably tender. A warmth that smoldered rather than burned.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said quietly. “I’m not here to take anything from you. Not yet. I just… want to sit with you. Even if it’s just for a moment.”

The gentleness in his tone unraveled something inside your chest. He didn’t reach for you. Didn’t touch you. Didn’t push. He just…existed beside you, warm and patient and impossibly present.

A man waiting for a door you didn’t know you had locked.

Slowly, you exhaled. Slowly, your grip loosened.

Slowly, your shoulders eased.

And slowly—painfully slowly—Jungkook let his knee brush yours.

Just the slightest touch. So subtle you wondered if it was an accident.

It wasn’t.

Your breath caught. His eyes flicked down to your knee. Then back to you.

It’s like tasting the sweetness, his voice whispered in your mind. Just the tip. Just enough to know you want more.

He turned his face toward the sky, letting you feel the warmth of his presence without forcing you to acknowledge it.

But the shift had already begun. You felt it. Jungkook felt it. The world around you felt it.

The first thread between predator and swan pulled taut—soft, delicate, unbreakably strong. And then—quietly, barely above a breath—you spoke. “Jungkook…” You swallowed. “Show me.”

His head turned slowly. Carefully. “Show you what?” he asked.

You met his gaze, heart pounding. “What it feels like…to be touched. Just enough.”

For a moment, he said nothing. Then his mouth curved into something reverent.

“…Alright,” he murmured. “Only if you let me.”

The city kept breathing around you. And you let him, because who can resist a man like him?

Who can resist a man like Jeon Jungkook?

part two of this . confronting player!satoru when he left you last night.

the morning comes too quickly, sunlight filtering through your curtains like it has any right to be so bright after the night you've had. you barely slept. every time you closed your eyes, you saw satoru with her—his hand on her waist, that easy smile he used to save just for you painted across his face for someone else.

you check your phone. nothing. no missed calls, no texts, no half-hearted explanation. just silence, which somehow feels worse than any excuse he could've given.

but you're not going to let this go. you deserve answers. you deserve to hear him say it to your face, whatever it is. so you get dressed, splash cold water on your face to reduce the puffiness around your eyes, and head out.

you know where he'll be. satoru is a creature of habit despite his chaotic energy—early mornings mean the cafe near campus, the one with the overpriced tea he pretends to hate but always orders anyway.

and there he is.

he's sitting by the window, sunglasses pushed up into his white hair, scrolling through his phone with that infuriatingly relaxed posture. like nothing happened. like he didn't shatter your heart last night and leave the pieces scattered on the wet pavement.

your heart hammers against your ribs as you walk over. he looks up when your shadow falls across his table, and for just a second—barely a breath—something flickers across his face. guilt, maybe. or recognition of what's coming.

"hey," he says, casual as ever, like you're just running into each other by chance. "didn't expect to see you here."

"we need to talk." your voice comes out steadier than you feel.

he leans back in his chair, and you hate how beautiful he looks in the morning light. "okay. talk."

you slide into the seat across from him, fingers twisting together in your lap. "last night. i saw you."

"saw me where?" he takes a sip of his drink, and you want to scream at how unbothered he seems.

"with her. outside that restaurant. you had your arm around her, satoru."

he sets his cup down, and there's this look in his eyes—something distant and cool that you've never seen directed at you before. "okay. and?"

“and? and you had your umbrella around her, satoru! are you serious right now?!”

"i don't see what the big deal is." he shrugs, actually shrugs, like your heart isn't cracking open right in front of him. "we were just… hanging out."

"just hanging out," you repeat, voice hollow. "you were holding her like—like she was yours. i stood in the rain for you.” you barely croaked out, your throating tightening with every syllable you spew out. “i thought… i thought we were going on a date.”

"hey— i didn’t ask you to not bring an umbrella." the words are so dismissive, careless. he doesn’t meet your eyes now. "look, i don't know what you thought this was between us, but we were never really together. not officially.”

the café suddenly feels too small, too bright, too loud. "what?"

"come on, don't make this into something it's not." he finally looks at you, and his blue eyes are so cold. "we hung out. we had fun. but i never said we were exclusive or anything. you're reading too much into it."

"reading too much into—" you can't finish the sentence. six months. six months of late-night calls and inside jokes and the way he'd look at you like you were the only person in the room. six months of his hand finding yours under tables and good morning texts and him keeping that stupid hoodie you liked at his place just for you.

"satoru, you told me i was special to you."

"you are. as a… friend. situation ship. whatever y’wanna call it." he's looking at his phone again, like this conversation is boring him. like you're boring him. "i think you just got the wrong idea somewhere along the way. that's not my fault."

something inside you breaks. cleanly, quietly, like ice cracking on a frozen lake.

"you're lying." your voice shakes. "i know you felt it too. i know you did."

"felt what?" he stands up, grabbing his cup. "look, i've got class. we're cool, okay? no hard feelings. i'll text you later."

but you both know he won't.

you sit there as he walks away, as he pushes through the cafe door without looking back, as he disappears down the street like he didn't just rewrite your entire history together. like he didn't just gaslight you into questioning every moment you shared.

the tears come hot and fast, and you don't even care that people are staring. you feel stupid. foolish. how did you get it so wrong? was any of it real? did he ever actually care, or were you just convenient? just there?

your phone buzzes against the table, and for one pathetic second you think it's him. that he's come to his senses, that he's sorry, that he's going to take it all back.

but it's not satoru's name on the screen.

it's suguru's.

"we need to talk. call me when you can."

you stare at the message, tears still streaming down your face, and something cold settles in your stomach. suguru never texts you directly. he's satoru's best friend, has been since they were kids. whatever he has to say, it's important.

your finger hovers over the call button.

maybe you don't want to know. maybe ignorance would hurt less than whatever truth suguru is about to tell you.

but you press it anyway.

you don’t have anything to lose anymore. it is not like you did back then.

w/ megumi fushiguro

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hi so this is my first ever actual fic and first ever actual post so pls be nice and sorry if it's ahh 😅 i've never written angst before just read it

hope you like it! :)

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"would you rather not being able to see or not being able to hear?" you questioned, picking at a piece of grass next to your thigh–which was coincidentally close to megumi fushiguro's thigh–but neither of you cared.

you both lay on your backs, feeling the summer-spring breeze glide across the landscape. shiro and kuro both curled up against one of y'alls feet, probably sleeping.

"that's a hard question." he mumbles, "they're both important senses."

you hum. "yeah-but deaf and blind people do it everyday, so it can't be that hard, right?"

you look over and meet his deep green eyes. they're hitting the soft sunset perfectly, and it'd be hard to look away. you loved looking at his face, but not as much as hearing his voice.

he looks at you for a moment, almost taking in the view. "do i have to choose?"

"yes."

"hearing."

"why's that?"

his mouth closes. opens again, then shuts. he turns away and says something you can't quite catch under his breath.

you turn over a little, to get his attention. you place your hands underneath your head to rest on the grass.

"what was that?" you giggled, attempting to poke at his nose.

he turns his face away, "stop that."

"tell meee megumi!"

a pink shade of blush creeps up on his cheeks, and he makes a face while forcing a harsh sigh out of his nose.

"i guess i wouldn't...wouldn't be able to not see your face." he turns his face away, fully red now...

your mouth opens in playful shock, (like you didn't know your silly boyfriend was head-over-heels for you enough) "megumiii!" you squeal.

"you're such a loverboy!" you ruffle his messy, raven black hair giggling. he grunts under his breath.

"it's nothing." he grumbles, unconvincingly. "what about you?"

your eyebrows furrow a little. you didn't really prepare an answer yourself, you just liked seeing what he would answer in the scenario.

you flop back onto your back, arms tangling in the long grass. "if i had to..."

"...unable to see." you finally say.

he turns over, furrowing his brows. "you wouldn't want to see?"

"i mean...no," you purse your lips together, "i'd rather hear than see, you know?"

he shakes his head.

"i think hearing somebody's voice is the closest thing you'll get to their soul. the physical of somebody doesn't reflect who they are," you say.

megumi looks in deep thought, turning his head back to focus the clouds. he hums, "you wouldn't want to see me?"

oh, your sweet boyfriend.

"oh-megs, no! that's not what i meant at all. i love seeing your face." you flip on your side, looking down at his beautifully-made features. and those lucious, beautiful lashes that you were so jealous of.

you brush his strands out the way of his eyes, and place a kiss on his cheek. his breath hitches, unexpecting your sudden attention.

smiling down at him, you lay on his chest. "you don't have to worry, i'm not losing my sight anytime soon."

he sighs, running his hand along your hair. you can hear the smile in his breath.

_________

your scream cuts through the fighting.

a raw, piercing shrieking cutting through everything. nobody moves.

except megumi.

nue swoops him off his feet, gliding him over to your area, covered in what looks like a bunch of blood.

you're kneeled over choking and crying, deafening screeches leaving your vocal cords.

megumi jumps off and slides on his knees, hands cupping your shoulders. "i'm here-i'm here, what happened?"

you're covering your face, pain surging through every bone you could possibly have.

your voice rasps from the extensive straining of your yells.

"he...he got me. i got too cocky-" you're choking on your words, tears burning your skin, throat tight with pain. "-hit me...it hurts, megumi it hurts...

-please make it stop..." you cry.

megumi looks at your bloody body, anger flowing throughout his veins. he moves to see your face, ducking to look at you.

"it'll be okay. look at me." his voice softens.

"i can't..."

"what?"

"where are you? i don't ... i don't know where to look. i can't see you."

the words ring in his head over and over. she can't see me? what does she mean?

"...what?" he questions, "what are you saying?"

you slowly take your hands off your face, revealing your eyes.

-

"-it's called a subconjunctival hemorrhage, or hyphema. it happens if you recieve a blow hard enough that blood rushes to your eyes and it could cause permanent loss of sight." gojo repeats.

"oooh myyy goooddd..." nobara draws out, "who cares?"

you nod your head along. "so? what does this have to do with jujutsu sorcery, sensei?"

"i'm just saying. you guys need to know this in case you get seriously hurt. i don't want any of my students going blind."

megumi looks over at you, rolling your big eyes to the back of your head. slumping back in your chair.

"that would never happen anyways..." you mumble under your breath.

-

it's everywhere. blood spreading in every white area in your eyes. you looked scary, to somebody. but not megumi. you just looked like his pretty girl, hurt and scared.

"fuck..." he whispers, brushing his finger over your cheek.

"what? is it bad? do i look bad?" you force out.

"never... you could never look bad." he reassures to you, "but this is bad... like really bad."

you try crying but the tears pierce your sockets and it feels like they're burning your skin. you throw your arms over what you think is megumi's body, shaking and breathing unevenly.

"megumi..." you whisper, "i should've listened to gojo sensei, right?" you choke out a laugh.

he stands up, carrying you.

"it's not the time to joke. we need to get you help." he tries to sound serious, but his voice cracks at the last word.

he can't bare the thought of losing your endless compliments on how "pretty my boyfriend's face is", or how you "wish i could have your eyelashes. could you cut them off and give them to me?"

he was so scared you'd die that he didn't realize your body had stopped shaking a while ago.

_________________________________________

summary ⠀: ⠀when y/n l/n was kissed by Luke Hughes at umich before he left for New Jersey without a word — she didn’t expect his older brother to be the one to reunite them, 2 years later.

warnings ⠀: ⠀Luke Hughes is bad at feelings, slight angst, sad reader, reader is alluded to have tattoos, Luke is kinda (very) stupid

type ⠀+ ⠀notes ⠀: ⠀smau & written ++ reader is at umich for public health sciences & neurosciences, also i’m british i have no clue how USA summer holidays work , i’m also not too proud of this one

faceclaims ⠀: ⠀sophia birlem + random pinterest girls

pairing ⠀: ⠀Luke Hughes x reader