#masterlist bts

Your head didn’t ache. Your limbs didn’t feel heavy. There was no immediate rush of regret flooding your chest. Instead, there was quiet. You turned your face into the pillow, let out a breath, and muttered to no one, “Okay.” Time to face the uncomfortable talk after sex.

You sat up and took in the room. Simple. Masculine. Clean lines, warm colors, nothing flashy but nothing lazy either. There were books on the nightstand — actual books, not decorative ones —, a leather jacket slung over the back of a chair and some paintings around the drawers. On the dresser: a watch, a set of keys, and a single photograph of a little girl with messy hair and a missing tooth smile, holding a glitter-covered rock like it was treasure. You stared for a second and then looked away.

You found your dress draped neatly over the foot of the bed. Your heels were lined up side-by-side. Your phone was plugged in. He had plugged in your phone.

Jungkook was already annoying.

You uncomfortable put the dress on and wandered barefoot into the apartment, your shoes and bag in one hand. The smell of coffee led you to the kitchen, where you stopped. It looked like a catalog ad. Sleek counters. Stainless steel. A French press on the counter, half-full. And Jungkook — standing at the stove, shirtless, in grey sweatpants, flipping something in a pan like this was a Tuesday. You could see all his tattoos better now in daylight.

“Morning,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “Hope you like eggs.”

“Are they poisoned?” you asked, voice scratchy with sleep.

“Only slightly,” he said. “I didn’t want you getting attached.”

You smirked, leaning against the wall. “You cook breakfast for all your one-night stands?”

“Only the ones who snore like they pay rent.”

“I don’t snore.”

He shrugged. “You snore pretty.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled.

There was something infuriating about how comfortable he looked. Like your presence didn’t throw him at all. Like he’d been cooking for someone his whole life and had learned the art of giving without asking. He handed you a mug of coffee without being prompted.

You took a sip. “Okay, fine. This is good.”

“Roasted it myself,” he said. You narrowed your eyes. He raised a brow. “What? You think tattoo artists can’t have hobbies?”

“No, I think you’re trying too hard to be impressive.”

“I’m really not,” he said, plate in hand now. “You’re just easily impressed.”

You followed him to the kitchen island, sliding onto the stool while he set down two plates with eggs, toast, avocado. Clean, unfussy, hot.

“You know,” you said between bites, “I was expecting more… chaos.”

“Because I have tattoos?”

“Because you have a child.”

Jungkook nodded, chewing thoughtfully. “Fair. But I like things in order. When you’ve got a seven-year-old who believes glitter is a personality trait, you need to carve out the calm somewhere.” You paused mid-chew. He caught it. “Yeah, you saw the picture.”

“I saw a glitter rock,” you said carefully.

“Sunni’s masterpiece,” he said. “It lives in my glove compartment now. She made me promise to take it with me ‘in case the car gets sad.’” You blinked, and for the first time that morning, something twisted slightly behind your ribs. Jungkook reached for the pepper grinder. “Relax. She’s with her mom this week. You don’t have to run screaming just yet.”

Now you knew his daughter’s name. You needed to leave that place as soon as possible.

“I’m not running.”

“Yet.”

You tilted your head. “You’re older than me, aren’t you?”

He smirked. “What gave it away? The bad jokes or the emotional regulation?”

“Both,” you said. “How old?”

“Thirty-three.”

“Shit.”

“You?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Seven years,” he said, sipping his coffee. “Not bad.”

“Debatable.”

“Oh, come on. That just means I had a flip phone while you were still wearing glitter lip gloss.”

You gave him a long look. “It was Dior glitter lip gloss, thank you.”

Jungkook chuckled. “Of course it was.”

You two ate in a companionable silence for a moment. The kind that only came when both people knew exactly what this was and weren’t pretending otherwise.

“You live alone?” you asked.

“Most of the time. Sunni’s here on weekends and some weeknights. Her mom’s got a career that eats up a lot of travel.” You nodded, impressed by how easily he said it. No drama. No resentment. “And you?” he asked. “What do you do when you’re not scaring men in bars?”

“I run a company.”

“What kind of company?”

“Some Italian restaurants” you shrugged.

Jungkook blinked. “You don’t look like a woman who tolerates gluten.”

“I don’t,” you said, joking. “But I respect the culture.”

He smiled. “You’re funny.”

“I know.”

There was a pause. He leaned back, watching you now. Not ogling, but observing. Calm. Focused. The kind of gaze that made most men look like they were fidgeting.

“You’re smart,” he said. Not like a pickup line but just a fact.

You didn’t hesitated. “I am.”

“Went to school for it?”

“Law. Worked in a firm for three months and then I got bored.”

“Of course you did,” he said. “You’ve got that ‘I will destroy you with precedent and poise’ energy.”

You laughed again. Goddammit. Jungkook reached for something on the counter— a pen, a sticky note — and scribbled quickly. Then slid it toward you across the granite like it was a contract.

“My number,” he said. “In case you ever want to feel in control again.”

You stared at it for a second, amused. “You giving this to all your hook-ups?”

“No,” he said. “You’re the first one who’s tried to negotiate my egg seasoning.”

You folded the note, sliding it into your bag. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

“Didn’t say it did.”

“I’m not looking for anything serious.”

“Neither am I.”

You two locked eyes for a beat too long. Then you stood, brushed invisible lint off your dress, and said, “Well. This was surprisingly pleasant.”

Jungkook leaned on the counter, smiling like a man who had nothing to prove. “You say that like it’s a threat.” You didn’t reply. He watched you slip on your heels, toss your hair over one shoulder, and head toward the door. “Hey, Y/n,” he called out as you opened it.

You turned. “Huh?”

“You left your phone” he said, holding it up.

You crossed back, snatched it from his hand, and paused. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

You left. And Jungkook… shirtless, with two empty plates and the smell of coffee still warm in the air, just stood there for a second. Then he smiled to himself, shook his head once and thought softly, “Trouble.”

—————

The Mariani office didn’t look like a restaurant headquarters. It looked like a magazine spread — clean marble surfaces, white oak floors, carefully curated vases that changed weekly, and coffee that somehow tasted like it had flown first class. You stood at the far end of the long glass conference table, arms crossed, legs sharp under a tailored navy suit dress that made people listen harder. The sunlight hit your hair just right, enough to not make you more annoyed that you already were.

You weren’t yelling. You never needed to yell. You just asked one question, the kind of question that made three department heads rethink their career choices.

“Why,” you said, tapping your finger once on the printout, “are there plastic menus in a space with velvet chairs and hand-painted walls?”

The woman across the table, Marisa, Events Director, blinked once. “They’re temporary. Just for the soft launch. We thought—”

“No. You didn’t think. You assumed,” you said, calm as possible. “Do you know what assumption tastes like, Marisa?”

The woman swallowed. “…cheap.”

“Exactly.”

You turned, walking toward the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the street below. Your office was just the penthouse floor of a restored building full of different offices in the heart of the city. Elegant but not flashy. Just like you. The newest Mariani location was three blocks away, still about to finish some last touches but the soft launch was already sending out invitations to critics and investors who had the collective power to destroy or elevate a brand in one dinner.

“Look, I’m not being difficult for sport,” you added, softer now. “We’re selling an experience, not just spaghetti and rigatoni. That means everything, from the plates to the fucking bathroom soap, tells the story of who we are. And we are expensive.”

There was silence. Then murmurs of agreement. You didn’t gloat. You just sipped your cold espresso and moved on when everyone agreed that it needed to be changed immediately.

Later that morning, you stepped into your personal office, shut the door with a firm click, and let yourself exhale. The new espresso cup you had was stale. You didn’t care. You hated interruptions when you were working, and this place - this bubble you’d built of quiet control - was the only space that ever felt fully yours.

You sat behind your desk and opened your laptop. Three dozen emails. Menu revisions from the Spain team. Budget approvals for Valencia. A note from the lawyer about a new licensing regulation. You moved through it fast, efficient, razor-sharp, completely in command. You weren’t just pretty or rich or terrifyingly well-dressed— you were brilliant. The kind of person who caught the missing zero in a spreadsheet before the finance guy noticed. Who remembered the name of the pastry chef’s dog and the exact shade of red the director had painted their front door.

And yet, despite your ruthless control, there was something fragile beneath it. Something you kept buried.

Halfway through responding to an investor memo, your phone lit up with a notification from the nursing home. You stared at it. Then clicked.

Rosa Mariani - Medical Update Available.

Rosa had been the only person who ever told you “no” and meant it. She had raised you between revolving door babysitters and parents who treated affection like a tax write-off. Rosa, with her gruff voice and soft hands. With her biscotti that could break teeth and the gentlest lullabies in Italian you had ever heard.

Now she was fading. Slowly, stubbornly, but definitely fading.

You sat back in your chair and ran a finger along the edge of your espresso cup. You didn’t cry. You never cried at work. Instead, you picked up your phone, dialed the facility, and asked for an update in that same composed, expensive voice you used with investors. After a few minutes of reassurance and politeness, you hung up.

Then you sat there for a moment, just breathing.

No one in the office would know that you were two seconds from driving to the other side of the city to sit at a bedside and beg a woman with Alzheimer’s to remember your name. No one would see that the CEO of and Italian chain food, a rich egocentric girl, was still the twelve-year-old girl who once clung to an apron and begged for another bedtime story in Italian.

You straightened. Pulled your jacket tight. And got back to work. Because vulnerability was not part of your brand. You decided to walk it off. Going to see the next thing in your list of duties of the day.

The new photos of the new - at least, about to be- Mariani location in Spain was a construction site dressed in potential. You were sure it smelled like sawdust and cement dust, but you could already picture the finished space in perfect detail: soft warm lighting, high arches, the curve of the host stand, the brass cutlery that would feel cool in a diner’s hand. You could see it like memory— because you’d built it in your mind a hundred times. You were ready to invest in that place. A step closer to Italy.

With a better mood, you decided to visit the new location in Seoul. The one that was about to launch soon and was just some streets away from the office.

You moved through the site in Louboutins, naturally. Your team… architects, designers, the head chef, a frazzled assistant named Gina with three iPads and a mild caffeine addiction, swarmed around you like bees trying to keep up.

“This wall was supposed to be Venetian plaster,” you said, voice calm, pointing at a freshly primed panel. “That’s drywall. Fix it.”

“Noted,” the contractor muttered, scribbling.

“And the sconces?” you asked, turning toward the entryway.

“Delayed. Backordered,” Gina jumped in, already scrolling.

“Find alternates. Hand-blown, amber glass, minimum three inches in diameter. If you show me anything that looks like it belongs in a Marriott I will walk into traffic.”

“Yes, boss.”

You turned on your heel, barely glancing at your tablet. “And where’s the espresso machine?”

“We change it for the bigger one you wanted. Shipping tomorrow,” one of the kitchen leads said. “Alessandro said he’d handle the calibration once it lands.”

“Good. Alessandro likes the pressure at 9 bars, not 11. It messes with the crema. And it actually makes the cortado taste better.”

There was a pause. “How do you know that?” Gina asked, blinking.

You looked at her. “He’s always bitching about it”

You knew the effect you had in people. The scary boss, the annoying CEO. The hateful manager. You knew what most people thought about you the first time they met you. Annoying, only cares for money and her business. It was true, in part.

You never smiled for effect. Never performed softness. But you remembered birthdays and food allergies. You caught mistakes before they became issues. You knew which chef refused to work under fluorescent lighting and which server got anxious before inspections. You expected excellence but you rewarded loyalty. And most people would rather disappoint a god than disappoint you. So you let the hate happened, because your team knew you by now. Specially when the pressure got you.

This, the life you had worked for. It was something that made you happy.

—————

Your apartment sat like a crown atop the building — two floors of steel, glass, and unapologetic luxury. The kind of place people only saw in movies or real estate porn. High ceilings, dark marble floors, a spiral staircase that curved up like sculpture. Every detail was intentional. The lighting was soft, the art minimalist but personal — a giant abstract canvas from an artist Bohyung had once drunkenly hooked up with in Berlin, a few framed black-and-white photos from a trip the three of you had taken to Tokyo five years ago. The penthouse smelled like fresh basil and roasted tomatoes, the aftermath of your very rare decision to cook. Not that you couldn’t cook, because you definitely could. But it usually meant taking time for it — and you couldn’t waste seconds when you were running a big company— so you just preferred not to, unless you were showing off or trying to forget something.

Tonight was neither. Tonight was routine. Tuesday night dinner. An unspoken tradition between your two best friends and you, no matter how busy or jetlagged or generally dramatic your lives got.

Bohyung was already barefoot on the couch, swirling wine in one hand like a bored nobleman. His linen shirt was half-buttoned, his hair messily perfect. He worked in luxury estate acquisitions aka convincing rich people to buy even more properties they’d never live in. He had a gift for languages, for diplomacy, and for saying devastatingly rude things with a charming smile. Se-hoo sat across from him, legs crossed, sipping slowly from a glass of Barolo she’d brought. She ran a private consulting firm for high-profile rebrands— politicians, CEOs, scandals waiting to happen. She had a mind like a scalpel and the emotional range of a Russian novelist. Beautiful, deliberate, and cool as ice— except when she laughed, which was rare but honest.

You and Bohyung had been friends since kindergarten— trauma bonded over ballet recitals and broken curfews. Se-hoo arrived later, in your second year of university, transferring in after a semester scandal involving someone else’s fiancé and a shattered Baccarat tumbler. You two hated her for a week, then fell in love with her for life.

“You used real garlic,” Se-hoo said, tasting the pasta like she was judging it for a Michelin star.

You poured yourself a glass of wine. “I’m not a monster.”

“I mean, you are,” your other friend said, “but a monster with taste.”

“Thank you,” you said, pleased.

The three of you sat around the open-plan kitchen island, warm lighting and an already half-finished bottle of wine in the centre. The three of you ate, the three of you bitched. The three of you gossiped. And eventually, after the pasta had been cleared and the gelato opened, Bohyung struck.

“So,” he said casually, “how was mystery man?”

You rolled you eyes. “There is no mystery. He was just… you know.”

“Oh,” he said, lips twitching. “Just a fuck.”

“Exactly.”

Se-hoo raised an eyebrow. “A nameless fuck?”

“Jungkook,” you muttered.

“That sounds hot. He was hot.” she pointed out

Bohyung snorted. “Oof. That’s such a daddy’s name.”

You took a slow sip of wine. “Funny you say that.”

There was a beat of silence before Se-hoo blinked. “No way.”

“Yeah.”

“Like… actual dad?” she asked.

“Seven-year-old daughter,” you said, licking a bit of pistachio gelato off your spoon. “Mild glitter obsession, according to him.”

Bohyung leaned back. “Jesus. How did that come up? During foreplay?”

Se-hop snorted. “Did he show you her report cards between rounds.”

“No, he didn’t. And Ew, disgusting.”

Your friend raised his glass. “Honestly, missed opportunity.”

“He mentioned it over breakfast.”

“Oh, you stayed?”

“He made eggs. I didn’t want to be rude.”

Bohyung put a hand over his heart. “Wow. Look at you, supporting single fathers. You’re basically a philanthropist.”

You gave him a flat look. “It was good sex. He was hot. I was bored.”

“And emotionally repressed,” Se-hoo added helpfully.

“Exactly,” you nodded.

“He was hot.”

You laughed. Not in a cruel way, just the kind of laugh that came with knowing someone too well to lie. The kind of laugh that loved you, even when it roasted you.

“He was…” you trailed off, then shrugged. “Fine.”

Bohyung narrowed his eyes. “Oh no. She said fine. He was not fine. He was big and broad and responsible, wasn’t he?”

“He owns a tattoo shop,” you said, as if that answered something.

Se-hoo blinked. “Of course he does. Did you fuck a romance novel, Y/n?”

Your other friend leaned forward. “Wait. Does he have forearms? The kind that look like they could carry you and the weight of your childhood trauma?”

“Dude.”

“Did he call you sweetheart in that ‘I pay my taxes and use my hands to built furniture without instructions’ voice?”

You bit back a smile. “You are both insufferable.”

Se-hoo smiled lightly. “You’re still thinking about him.”

“I’m not. He gave me his number and I took it because I’m polite. I don’t even know his last name.”

“Sure,” Bohyung said. “And I only follow hot rugby players for their footwork.”

You moved on, eventually— because you always did.

Talk shifted to other things. Se-hoo’s newest nightmare client, a tech CEO with the personality of a wine cork. Bohyung’s latest business trip to Paris where a billionaire tried to buy a 17th-century chateau without seeing it. Your upcoming launch event and whether or not you were going to wear the red heels that cost too much.

It was comfortable, easy. The kind of dinner that felt like a deep exhale. A reminder that no matter what the world expected from you all… clean lines, sharp deals, expensive control. There, in that room, you could let it bend.

As the night wound down, Bohyung curled into the corner of the velvet couch and sighed. “Honestly, I love us.”

Se-hoo drained her glass. “I tolerate us.”

You leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, lips twitching. “You both wish you were me.”

The girl stretched. “I do wish I had your closet.”

Bohyung smirked. “And your apartment.”

“And your cheekbones,” she added.

“But not your daddy issues,” he said.

You raised your glass. “Cheers for that.”

You clinked glasses

Somewhere in the city, Jungkook was probably folding glitter-stained laundry or putting a little girl to bed. And here, in your castle in the sky, you were full, half-drunk, adored. And exactly where you belonged.

—————

It was almost midnight when you stepped into the coffee shop.

The street outside was mostly empty, lights low and hazy from the rain earlier. The café sat on the corner of a quiet neighborhood you rarely visited— a little too slow, too far from the pulse of the city. But you’d had a meeting nearby that ran late, and after hours buried in contracts and menus and talking to architects who couldn’t follow instructions, you needed caffeine and a quiet table that wasn’t backlit by luxury branding. The place was warm, dim, and half-empty. Mostly college students with headphones and a couple of people staring blankly into their screens. The barista looked half-asleep. Jazz played low on the speakers, old-school and moody.

You stepped in, ordered a double espresso with an oat milk cookie— which took longer than it should— and turned to find a seat… when you heard it.

“Y/n.”

You looked up. Jungkook sat in the back corner, sleeves rolled, sketchbook open in front of him, a pen twirling loosely between his fingers. There was a mostly empty mug beside him, and a pastry he’d clearly forgotten existed. His hair was a little messy. He had glasses. His eyes were calm and sharp and amused… He looked better than you remembered. Or maybe exactly the same, and that was the problem. It had been almost three weeks.

“Well,” you said, walking over slowly, one brow raised. “If it isn’t the tattooed dad.”

Jungkook grinned. “Still remembering me by my most defining trait, I see.”

You sipped your coffee. “You wish. You’re also ‘that guy who made very decent eggs.’”

“High praise from a woman who probably eats in Michelin star kitchens by accident.”

“I don’t eat in them,” you said, sliding into the chair across from him. “I own them.”

He laughed, low and warm. He seemed amused by you “Of course you do.”

There was a pause. A beat where the past sat between you two like static. Both maybe trying to remember what was said that morning after the one-night stand. The first one that wasn’t awkward for you.

You tilted your head. “What are you doing out here? You work… where, exactly?”

“Ten minutes that way,” he said, jerking his thumb toward the window. “I was working late at the shop. One of the guys stayed late to finish a sleeve and the AC jammed. Took me an hour to fix it.”

Of course he fixed it.

You nodded, leaning back. “So, caffeine and quiet?”

“Exactly. And you?”

“Work. I had a meeting with an investor who likes to schedule things at strange hours like he’s in some kind of high-stakes European thriller. I was ready to strangle him halfway through.”

Jungkook grinned. “Did you?”

“No. I just charged him an extra three percent.”

He laughed again. “Still terrifying.”

“I’m efficient,” you said, lips twitching. “Terrifying is a bonus.”

You two talked for a while. Nothing big. Just easy words in a quiet space. About the neighborhood (you still hated it), about tattoo machines and supply issues, about espresso and bad lighting and why good jazz never played in the places that needed it most… It wasn’t flirty. Not obviously. But there was something in the way he looked at you— calm, curious, still very much aware of every detail. And something in the way you kept glancing at his hands, remembering without meaning to.

Eventually, you both stood up at the same time.

Outside, the air was cool, damp from the earlier rain. Your steps slowed at the corner, where you’d have to split.

Jungkook looked at you. You looked back, lifting an eyebrow. “What?”

“You never saved my number, did you?” he stated more than asking.

You smirked. “I didn’t think we were doing that.”

“We weren’t.” You two stood there for a beat. Then he asked it. Quiet. Direct. “Do you want to come back to my place?”

You didn’t hesitate. You just smiled and said, “Lead the way.”

You walked off down the street. Not together, exactly. Just side by side. No promises. No labels. Just two people with unfinished business and nothing to explain.

His house wasn’t that far from the coffee shop. You remembered. Since he didn’t bring his car, he took your keys from your hands and drive you both to his place. At least you had a drive for later to go back home. It didn’t take you too much to arrive. Five minutes later you were walking inside his building and he was already grabbing your hand to lead you to the elevator and to his apartment.

It didn’t take him long to lose control and kiss you

Jungkook leaned you against the wall of the hallway, next to his door. His hands wrapped around the sides of your face as he kissed you hard and needy, as if he had been waiting for this more than he would like to admit. His lips pressed against yours with strength and excitement. It made you remember the first and only night you spent together. Slightly - too - drunk to remember it perfectly but sober enough not to forget how good it was.

His touch. His lips. His naked body against yours. You remember every moan and every thrust. You could remember the feeling of every sigh and every touch.

You wanted him more.

His lips were soft. His kiss searing and full of desire. The fire inside you almost flooded his, flaming and full of heat. His hands roamed to your body, from your cheeks to your hips, tracing every part of you with his fingers, burning every part of your skin over your dress and under your coat. He pressed harder on your hips and moved the hem of your dress to start pulling it up slowly until your your panties showed. The dress giving him better access to you.

He was burning for you. You could hear your heart trumping in your ears, Jungkook made you feel so alive and energetic, and you knew you made him feel the same way, for the way he kissed you hard and deep, coaxing your lips open and forcing his tongue inside. He wanted to burn his name inside your mouth and keep anyone else from kissing you again.

He takes one hand on your jaw to keep your mouth open and pliant while the other travels down to squeeze your hip and run wildly across your tummy to your core. Jungkook moved his mouth to your jaw, sucking the skin and trailing his lips down to your neck. even just touching you through your panties is getting him lightheaded. His fingers moved down to your center, his thumb starting to rub your clit on top of your underwear.

You threw your head back to the wall, sighing of pleasure.

“Wait— Jungkook, we’re in the…”

“Let me take care of you, pretty.” he didn’t let you finish, finger working on making you wet. His tongue laves over your skin as he pants into your neck. He has to keep himself from rutting against your thigh, getting too heady at the feeling of finally touching you again. “Tell me you like it.”

You sighed again, feeling your panties getting soaked wet, his fingers working slowly on you. Your voice barely hold its own. “I like it.”

But that wasn’t enough for him.

He wants to see your knees buckle and give up. He wants you crying. He wants to watch your eyes get glossy and wet. He wants you trembling and begging for mercy, wants to give you more and more because he knows that you’ll be good and take it. Because this time he wasn’t going to give you the control, he was the one to have it.

You gasp as his fingers circle your clit, and he’s starting to feel how wet you are even through the layers of clothes. He moves your underwear, his fingers tease your entrance and he presses down on your clit, watching your mouth drop open as he swipes it fervently, needing to get you dripping and ready. He steals your lips for another kiss, letting you pant into his mouth as he takes everything he wants from you.

“You want me to fuck you with my fingers, baby?” He asked, voice lower and rough, full of desire. “Is that enough for you, uhm?”

Baby.

“Shit— Just fuck me.”

Your voice was low, trying to keep it together. Jungkook liked how you tried to keep control, even in this situation. So he chuckled, a dark and grutal one that made you freeze slightly.

“Not yet, pretty. I’m just starting with you.”

He circles his finger around your entrance, teasingly applying pressure just to watch you squirm before slowly fucking two fingers into you, with the intention of making you lose your mind little by little.

And he wants to smile. With the way he has you pressed against the wall of his building, fingering you slowly and making you sigh in pleasure with the low lights of the hallway barely holding on. And he wants to fuck you there, where anyone can show up and see you breaking apart like this— but he had enough control to just made you lose your mind to have you beg for it. Just enough so you could ask for it— His cock sits hot and heavy in his pants, but he barely pays it any attention. He’s much more focused on working you up, make you dripping on his fingers.

He increases his pace a little more, curling his fingers up and fucking you harder. It takes him a minute to find the spot he was looking for, but he knows he’s got it when you moan and your leg kicks out helplessly. He keeps pressing into that spot, curling his fingers up to hit it every time, relishing in the garbled moans that spill out of your mouth.

“Ngh— shit, go harder.”

“Yeah?. Are you feeling good?” He increased his pace, fucking his fingers deeper into you. “You’re dripping on my hand, baby.”

His fingers continue to rub recklessly at your cunt, making you a little dumb. For a moment, Jungkook doesn’t care about being sweet or gentle or slow— he wants you to be blinded by your need for him, to ache for him so bad you’d cry. But then— he feels you tightening around his fingers so hard he can barely move, stuck pressing into you relentlessly to get you to your peak. And you’re getting there, so fast and excited—

But it stops.

Your orgasm doesn’t come.

Jungkook takes his fingers out of you and your hips involuntarily move to reach them in a needy way. He presses his palm to your tummy and you make a sweet little noise of complaint that he founds adorable and so hot it makes his cock twitch in his pants.

“What are you doing?” your voice sounds more needy that you wanted it to be.

“I won’t fuck you here, baby. Come on now.”

You blinked. Thinking how you were so horny you didn’t mind getting fuck like a whore in the middle of a hallway. But it makes you feel a little good how he was such a man to not do it and take you to his bedroom to fuck you properly.

It doesn't take you two long to get to his room. Jungkook giving you a quick kiss on the lips before pushing you onto his bed, moving you with little to none delicacy so he can spread your legs and kneel in front of you. Knees pressing hard on his cold carpet. He holds your legs open, staring at your center with a wicked grin, your panties ruined and soaked in full display. He kisses up your leg until he gets to your core, ghosting his lips over your heat and blinking up at you.

“I’m going to taste you. And I want you to look at me until you come in my mouth.”

His voice was rough. It wasn’t a request, it was a command.

And you were dripping for him. He was so hot you wanted him to fuck you all day long. The only thing you could do was nod slowly. And he smirked. Because you were such a bossy bitch and now you were spread, lying in bed and nodding like a good girl for him. And you knew how much he wanted that after the first night where you had him under you, grunting and trying to keep his composure while you were taking control.

He likes you that way. Too much to admit. Spread for him and ready to take him in any way. His hands roamed over your tights before taking your panties off. And it doesn’t take him long to give you what you want. Because he wants you more than he likes to admit. In less than a second, he’s salivating like a dog, abandoning all his patience and smothering his face between your legs without a care in the world. He brings his mouth to your clit, sucking lightly and rolling his tongue over the bud his tongue dives into your cunt, desperately pushing into your walls. He wants to hear you cry, to feel you squirm— for him. He likes to find relief in knowing he can make you feel good.

His nose is right against your clit as he fucks his tongue into you. You’re moaning out, a little louder, much whinier than the first night you had and what he’s heard from you. And that does crazy things to him. He wants to fuck you so bad. He’s rock hard, almost leaking from his jeans. Your fingers fist his hair, your back aching at the pleasure that his tongue was giving you.

Jungkook pushes his face further against you, desperate to get as close as he possibly can, reach as far into your cunt as his tongue will allow. He is aching to finally taste your orgasm. His fingers immediately moved to your cunt across your clit, he comes back down to your hole, lapping up the arousal that spills out of it hungrily, moaning at the taste.

But before he can taste all of your juices, your cunt dripping of your orgasm, you pulled his hair to look at him— too serious that he freeze for a moment.

“Jungkook, fuck me already.”

And he obeys.

He immediately pulls away from your cunt— not before sucking one last time your clit—, he stands up and kneels in bed, between your legs. Quickly taking off his shirt in one motion before using it to clean off your juices from his jaw. And he looks so hot on top of you. Perfect clean skin. Broad shoulders and back. Toned arms and abs. Tight stomach and narrow waist. He looked like a sin, specially with one arm all inked full of tattoos you want to lick to death.

Jungkook moves over you. His heat poured onto your torso immediately and you shivered, letting your fingers glide over his narrow waist, getting under the waistband of his jeans and pulling them down to his thighs with his underwear. You see his cock, jumping hard until it hits his lower stomach. Red, veiny and big, his tip leaking pre-cum. You wanted to lick it off clean. He was so hot and such a manly man.

Jungkook fisted your hair before kissing you, hard and open. His hands moved to your dress, taking it off fast as possible and leaving you naked. His body stretched as he reached for his bedside table, opening the drawer and haphazardly pulling out its contents until he found what he was looking for. Your mouth only left his mouth once he rose up, taking out a condom, looking down at you from between your legs. His eyes never left your body as he pumped his cock slowly, leaking more. He looked like a sin staring down on you as he rolled the rubber on.

“You looked so hot” He told you a little breathless. “I’m gonna fuck you hard now, okay?. And you’re going to take it.”

Jungkook kissed you again, hand in your jaw to keep you in place. He taps his tip against your entrance. And before you have time to register he slides his cock between your slick folds, aching to be inside you. You wrap around him tight, making his head spin, nothing but primal instinct driving his actions. He groaned into your mouth as he fucked you, keeping your hips still with his harsh grip.

He squeezed your thigh, pushing it down on the mattress, and you spread your legs wider. A whimper leaving your mouth when he came down grinding on you. Your back arching, eyes closing as he sucked a nipple into his mouth

His hips dipped again, rolling against you. And you bit your lips, pulling his face toward your mouth. “You told me—” you tried as another roll of his body made you clench. “Uhm— Is this hard for you?.”

Jungkook stops before looking at you. His hand in your jaw moving to your cheeks to squeeze tight, looking at you with narrowed eyes.

“This isn’t hard for you?” he nods, looking at your eyes. Dark and blown out. “This isn’t enough, right?. You’re a greedy girl, you want more. Fucking—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he proves you wrong. He slammed his hips into yours with strength. He sank into you, filling you to the brink, so deep, stretching you so completely that a single whimper torn straight from your throat. His mouth crashed into yours, making you moan, bringing your legs to the small of his back as he withdrew and sank back in deeper and harder. He fucks you hard, not faster. He thrust into you with meaning, deeper and meaner. Jungkook pressed a hand hard in your lower stomach, making you feel him better.

Your back arches and you moaned his name with meaning, feeling him so good, so rich. Jungkook rolled his hips into you on command.  Sweat glistened your bodies, and it was getting hard to breathe for both of you. You moaned, relishing how he stretched you. You gasped, trying to mold his body to yours as your orgasm started building. Your nails dragged down his back, burning his skin as you arched into him again. His mouth finds your neck again, kissing harder. His fingers in your cheeks find your clit, moving them to it faster so you could reach your high.

“Shit— Jungkook. Fuck, wait—”

“No.” His voice is demanding, manly. In a way that makes you know you’re not in control. “This is what you wanted, right?. You can take it. You’re gonna take it, pretty”, Jungkook bites your neck and your eyes get glossy in tears. “Shit— Come on, you’re so good. You’re doing so good for me…”

You squeezed him hard, and his hips stumbled at the feeling. He moans, and lets a growl when you moaned his name into his ear. A sweet noise he’s sure he will remember for weeks. You cried out as you found your release. The world spinning, your body wrecked as euphoria crashed into you. Jungkook came completely undone a few erratic thrusts later, with the sexiest moan you’d ever heard in your life. He managed to hold himself from collapsing on top of you, shifting gently to the side. 

It takes you both some minutes to come down from the high. Your body too tired to even get up to shower or clean yourself. Luckily, Jungkook seems to notice because— after catching his breath— he stands up to grab some tissues and clean you and him. With a softness that didn’t match the way he was fucking you just some minutes ago.

When he finish cleaning you off and putting his shirt over you, your face touched his pillow and you almost passed out of tiresome.

And you knew, that wasn’t going to be the last time you’ll be seeing Jungkook.

—————

Sunday morning in the city was quiet in the way you liked: no traffic, no emails, no one asking you about marble tile samples or supplier invoices or which appetizer would look better on the press photos. Just the low hum of things waking up slowly. The clatter of silverware in cafes, the hiss of espresso machines, the shuffle of strollers and dogs and hungover twenty-somethings pretending they were early risers.

You were already on the street, oversized sunglasses on, coat tied loose at the waist. You hadn’t slept over. You never slept over. You’d left Jungkook’s place around five… still dark enough to pretend it was nighttime, early enough to pretend it wasn’t a walk of shame. Not that you felt any shame. You’d brushed your hair with your fingers, borrowed his comb, stolen a sweatshirt that definitely didn’t match your skirt, and left with your heels in one hand and your phone in the other. No kiss goodbye. Just a muttered “see you” that didn’t mean anything.

Which was exactly how you liked it.

By the time you reached the café, Bohyung and Se-hoo were already seated at a sidewalk table under the heaters, sipping coffee like they’d been there for hours instead of ten minutes.

“Y/n,” Bohyun said, without looking up from his phone. “You look like a sexy widow escaping a crime scene.”

“I am,” you said, slipping into the chair between them. “And I’m very tired of hiding the body.”

Se-hoo handed you a coffee. “Who was it this time?”

You took a sip before answering. “Same as last time.”

Your friend raised an eyebrow. “The tattooed dilf?.”

“God,” you groaned. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Well what do you want me to call him?” Bohyung asked. “Zaddy Ink?”

Se-hoo smirked. “How is he, anyway?”

You shrugged. “Still hot. Still knows what he’s doing. Still very much not my boyfriend.”

“Good,” your other friend said, dramatically relieved. “Because if you start dating a man who’s emotionally balanced and knows how to make eggs, I will actually die of neglect.”

“He does make excellent eggs,” you muttered.

Bohyung clutched his chest. “This is how it starts.”

“It’s not anything,” you said. “We’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks. We text. I go to his place. We have sex. I leave. That’s it.”

“No sleepovers?” Se-hoo asked, eyebrow raised.

“No after we establish this was casual sex,” you said firmly. “And before you ask— no, I haven’t taken him to my place. I’m not an idiot.”

Bohyung leaned in. “So you’re just casually boning a very hot, very grown man with a child, feelings nowhere in sight, and no complications whatsoever?”

“Exactly.”

He nodded. “You’re going to explode.”

“I’m fine,” you said, half-laughing. “You two are so dramatic.”

“You say that like it’s an insult,” he said, biting into a piece of toast.

You settled into your chair, sighing like you were exhausted by them both but secretly comforted. You liked this part of your life, the routine of brunch with your friends, the rhythm of easy conversations that didn’t require explanation or effort. The way Se-hoo always ordered the same thing and ate it with a knife and fork like a villain. The way Bohyung flirted with the waiter just enough to get them free mimosas but not enough to get banned.

You talked for a while. about her latest campaign (a tech CEO with a scandalous burner account), his new client (a Russian heiress trying to buy a vineyard in Spain because she liked the name), and whether or not you all should all just run away to Tokyo again and start over.

Then Bohyung leaned back, stretching, sunglasses catching the sun. “Oh, by the way,” he said, casually. “Your parents’ thing is next week.”

You groaned. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“You can’t skip it,” Se-hoo said, not looking up from her phone.

“I absolutely can.”

“You skipped last year,” she reminded you. “And the year before that.”

“And the year before that,” Bohyung added.

“And you know what happened?” you said, sipping your coffee. “Nothing. They made awkward conversation with people who don’t know my name, toasted to overpriced wine, and pretended to love each other. No one died.”

He grinned. “Come on. It’s a party. The food’s good. The gossip’s better. And your dad always hires at least two jazz bands for no reason.”

“Because he likes to feel cultured,” you muttered.

Se-hoo put her phone down. “You should go. Show face. Wear something sharp. Remind them you exist and are terrifyingly successful.”

You made a face. “You mean remind them I’m successful thanks to their money and that I didn’t marry Jungwoo and give them photogenic grandchildren.”

“Oh god,” Bohyun said, dramatically fake-gagging. “Jungwoo. I forgot that was almost a thing.”

“Same,” you lied. “Blessed amnesia.”

“Please, you loved him” Se-hoo said to your friend. “Smart. Witty. Generous. Could keep up with us.”

“Honestly, he was kinda perfect” Bohyung sighed. “Knew too much about my job and the laws of it. Was pretty funny, smart and hot. The perfect man— except for his ability to disappear for weeks because of his job.”

“And you didn’t have to have sex with him,” you said dryly.

He shrugged. “A perfect arrangement.”

You laughed, finished brunch, and ordered another round of coffee just because you could. After some talk, you said goodbye to your friends, you called your driver to start work.

Your car moved through the city like it had memorized every route. Your driver, Oscar, barely spoke unless you asked— which you never did— and the ride was silent except for the quiet hum of pop music from the speakers and the steady tap of your acrylic nail against your phone screen. You were way to a meeting with a wine distributor who had the social skills of a taxidermied cat but owned vineyards in Tuscany, so charm was optional. Your mind was already sifting through numbers, names, details— the things that mattered.

Then your phone lit up.

The name of a woman you knew.

You stared at the screen for a second before picking up. You adjusted the volume and cleared your throat.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Honey! Good morning,” your mother said, voice like a soft silk scarf, warm, polished, controlled. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“I’ve been up since five.”

“Of course you have,” your mother said with a light laugh. “You’ve always been my little early bird.” That wasn’t true. you hated mornings but always did the effort for work. “How are you?” she continued. “I feel like we’ve barely spoken this week.”

You tilted your head back against the seat, watching the buildings pass. “Busy. I bought the place in Spain so the launch it’s calculated to be in eight months or less so everything’s chaos.”

“You’ll make it perfect. You always do.”

There was something in the way she said it… kind, proud, but… automatic. Like she was reading it off a script.

You exhaled through your nose. “Thanks.”

“And how’s everything else? Life, love, health? Eating well?”

“I’m fine.”

“Just fine?” you mother’s tone lifted slightly. “You’re not burning yourself out again, are you? You know you tend to overdo it when you’re in your perfectionist mode.”

You smiled faintly. “That’s every mode.”

“Well,” she laughed, “then I suppose it’s genetic.”

Another thing that wasn’t true. You had no idea what mode your mother operated in. You barely remembered her outside being on a plane or in another time zone for most of your childhood.

“What about you?” you asked. “Where are you guys now?”

“London. Your father’s giving a lecture at the Royal Academy, something on architectural postmodernism and Eastern symmetry— I stopped trying to follow halfway through.”

Right. Your father and his lectures. Your mother and her panels and consultancy projects. They were always somewhere. You sometimes joked with Bohyung that you learned geography based on your parents’ voicemail greetings.

“How long are you staying?”

“Just until Thursday. Then back in time for the gala.”

You tensed slightly. “Oh, right.”

“I just wanted to remind you,” your mother said gently, as if she sensed it. “Next Saturday at the house. Cocktails at seven, dinner at eight. You don’t have to bring anyone, of course.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“But you’re coming?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause. Her voice softened. “I know it’s not your favorite thing. But it means a lot to your father.”

“I know,” you said. “It’s fine.”

It was always “fine.”

The party wasn’t a surprise. They hosted them every year… formal, elegant, full of silver cutlery and floral centerpieces and the kind of people who called you “impressive” and then forgot your name. Technically, it was a fundraiser. Your father’s favorite word for throwing himself a well-lit celebration. This year it was for the city’s heritage commission. Last year it was for a scholarship. The year before, clean energy. All good causes. All good optics. And always the same. Same guest list. Same photographers. Same sense of standing in a house that wasn’t yours, surrounded by people who knew your face and none of your history.

“You still like the blue Valentino?” your mother asked suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

“The dress I brought you last spring. You looked stunning in it. I thought you might wear it again.”

You paused. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“You can bring Bohyung and Se-hoo, of course. I mean they’re always there for the champagne but they’re always very fun to be around.”

You smiled, despite yourself. “You mean they know how to talk to people without sounding like hypocrites?”

“Exactly.” Another silence, not awkward, just empty. Your mom cleared her throat. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your day. I know how busy you are. I just wanted to hear your voice. You’ve always had the most beautiful voice.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“I love you, darling.”

“Love you too.”

The call ended. The car kept moving.

You stared out the window, lips pressed together, hands resting on your lap. You knew your mother meant well. Always had. She was gentle, thoughtful, generous in her own manicured way. But there had always been a kind of space between you two. Like the difference between a hug and a photograph of a hug. Familiar, but never quite lived in. It wasn’t that they didn’t love you. They just… loved the version of you that they had imagined. The girl who never threw tantrums. The girl who skipped stages. The girl who grew up well, with straight teeth and good posture and business acumen.

A perfect product of two people who missed everything in the middle.

Fifteen years ago.

You had made it your personal mission to destroy every nanny who stepped foot into the house. It wasn’t that you liked being difficult — not exactly. But at twelve years old, you’d already learned that the quickest way to get your parents’ attention was through disaster. Broken windows. Expelled tutors. Hysterical voicemails. You didn’t cry anymore when they left for Tokyo or Berlin or Buenos Aires. You just got mean and loud.

It worked... Sometimes.

Today, you stood barefoot in the front hall, arms crossed, watching the newest casualty storm out of the house muttering something about demon children and emotional abuse. Your mother hadn’t even been there. Your father had sent a driver to escort the woman out, followed by a politely distant phone call:

“We’ll find someone new, honey. Don’t worry. We’ll be home next month.”

Next month. Always next month.

You kicked the wall and left a black scuff mark just because you could.

Two days later, the door dinged and out stepped a small, sharp woman in orthopedic shoes and a beige wool coat. She didn’t smile when she saw you. She didn’t compliment the apartment or coo over your name or ask if you liked ice cream or what hobbies were you into. She just looked you over, slowly, as if examining a stray cat on the edge of a good shoe.

“So,” the woman said, thick Italian accent curling the word. “You are the bambina selvaggia.”

You blinked. “What?”

The woman dropped her bag on the floor with a grunt. “Wild girl. The one who chases the nannies. You look smaller than I thought.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Who are you?”

“Mi chiamo Rosa,” the woman said. “But you can call me Nonna Rosa. Because I am too old for this shit, and la signora told me I could do whatever I want if you don’t end up in juvenile prison.”

You crossed your arms tighter. “You won’t last a week.”

Rosa shrugged off her coat and hung it— not on the rack, but on the bannister.

“You think I want to last?” she said, already walking toward the kitchen. “I came here to eat well and keep my bones warm. Your mother pays like a royal and doesn’t ask me to clean the floors. Perfetto. If you run me off, I’ll go back to Sicilia and you’ll still be crying in your golden room.”

“I’m not crying!,” you snapped.

“Not yet,” Rosa called from the other room.

It went downhill fast.

You refused to follow her schedule. You stomped around the apartment slamming doors. You threw a tantrum when Rosa moved your tablet charger without asking. At dinner, you dumped the minestrone Rosa made straight into the trash. Rosa said nothing. She just poured herself a glass of red wine, sat across the table, and ate the rest of the soup in silence.

On the second week, you locked yourself in the guest bathroom and refused to come out for hours. Rosa didn’t knock. Didn’t coax. Didn’t bribe. She just stood outside the door and said:

“Va bene. Then you stay in there. You don’t come out until you want to act like a person and not a porcupine with lip gloss.” Silence. “You’re not the first lonely girl I’ve met, bella,” Rosa added. “But even the loneliest wolf learns not to bite the hand that feeds it.”

You kicked the door. “I’m not a wolf!”

“No?” Rosa said, voice amused now. “Then come out and prove it.”

It wasn’t immediate.

But over the weeks, things shifted.

Rosa never coddled you. She corrected your Italian, rolled her eyes when you whined, and once smacked a Vogue magazine out of your hand and told you to read something with a brain. She throw you an Italian old book about the cold war— you didn’t understand anything at that time but for the first time you wanted to try. She made dinner every night. She remembered that you hated the smell of coconut lotion, that you didn’t like too much parmesan in your pasta. She asked about your day without making it sound like a checklist.

And one evening, when your mother called to cancel another return flight, you didn’t scream or cry. You just handed the phone to Rosa, sat down at the table, and ate your ravioli without speaking.

After the call, Rosa sat next to you, poured you both a tiny glass of wine. Your first one, even if you were twelve, and said, “You don’t need them to grow up strong.”

You looked at her. “Then why do I still want them to be here?”

Rosa sighed. “Because you are not a rock. You are a little girl. And little girls deserve to be held.”

Then she placed a hand on your head, softly, like she was checking your for fever and left it there a long time. And it made you a feel little more light to know someone was there, home with you. Hearing your nonsense and your feelings. And giving you your first taste of a good wine.

Present.

You blinked.

The memory lingered in your chest like a breath you forgot to exhale. You were still in the car, the city moving past the tinted windows, the sky turning the color of pewter. You didn’t know why you’d remembered Rosa just then. Maybe it was your mother’s voice still echoing in your head. Maybe it was the look on that little girl’s face you’d seen crossing the street, the one gripping her father’s hand like she didn’t want to let go… Or maybe it was the fact that you hadn’t called Rosa in over a week.

You pulled out your phone. Scrolled to ‘Nonna’ in your contacts. Paused. Then typed:

“Ti penso sempre. Sto venendo a trovarti questa settimana.” I’m always thinking of you. I’m coming to visit this week.

You hit send. And for the first time all day, you felt something close to peace.

—————

Jungkook slammed his hips against yours hard. Your head fell back over his shoulder as you tried not to make louder sounds. He was fucking you good. Like he had learned how to better than before now that he knew your body better. There were little things you love lately about putting yourself out there in your single life, the first one being getting— very well—fucked.

Jungkook had you pressed against him, with your back against his torso. Fucking you against his mattress. His right hand was pressed against your neck so that you wouldn’t get far away from him every time he slapped his hips hard against yours. His right hand was pressed in your lower abdomen to hold you in place. He kissed and bit your neck delicately— delicately that was at odds with the way he slammed his hips against you. Your right hand was gripping his hair and the other was held tightly against the bed so you could have some control not to fall passed out in bed.

He was fucking you so good it almost made you cry.

“You feel so good, pretty.” he groaned against your ear. “Are you close?.”

You were only able to nod. Jungkook was becoming greater at making you feel good. Every damn time. And he knew it.

He slipped out of you. Man-handling you around to turn around. Your back hit the bed and he was quickly to grabbed your right thigh and put it around his hip before slipping inside you again. This time faster.

“Fuck me— faster.”

“Fuck, fuck. You’re so hot, baby.”

It didn’t take you too long to finish. And neither it did for him.

You leaned against the bed trying to come back to your senses, same as Jungkook who stayed on top you for a couple more seconds to come down from his high. It was good being like this. Quiet and close. It was after some minutes more that he kissed your naked shoulder softly before pushing himself to his drawer to take some tissues and start cleaning you both. It had become kind of a routine for him to be the first one to come to his senses and start the aftercare.

Your were both still catching your breath when you flung one leg off the bed like you were dramatically escaping a scene of seduction. Jungkook laughed quietly from where he lay, one arm behind his head, entirely too satisfied with himself.

“You always leave like you just robbed me,” he murmured.

You didn’t even look back as your reached for his shirt.

“That’s because I did,” you said, moving your hair outside the fabric. “You had something I wanted. I took it. I’m leaving victorious.”

“Criminal mastermind,” he said, smiling.

“Don’t compliment me,” you called over your shoulder. “It’ll go to my head.”

You padded barefoot out of the bedroom and down the hall, headed vaguely in the direction of the kitchen—or the bathroom—or anywhere that would lead to caffeine and/or soap. But then it happened. A crack, a pop, and a sound so visceral it could only come from one thing. A LEGO. Right beneath the arch of your left foot.

You let out a shriek that could’ve shattered glass. “FUCKING FUCK, FUCK, WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?”

A worried voice came from the bedroom “Whoa—what?! What happened?!”

You limped forward like you’d been shot, one foot dangling mid-air like it had touched lava. “I stepped on a fucking landmine is what happened!”

Jungkook appeared around the corner in nothing but boxers, already looking half-concerned and half-amused. “Wait—did you just step on…?”

You held up the offending piece of plastic with the drama of a courtroom prosecutor. “This. This is what your spawn has left to assassinate me.”

Jungkook burst out laughing. “A Lego? You screamed like someone got murdered.”

“Because I was,” you snapped. “By a three-centimeter block of doom.”

He stepped closer, still laughing, and grabbed your waist before you could hobble any further. “Let me see.”

“I don’t need medical attention—”

“I’m not medically trained, I’m just trying not to let you die in my hallway.” You glared at him as he crouched slightly, inspecting your foot with exaggerated seriousness. “Okay,” he said gravely. “I think the Lego punctured your dignity.”

“Ha-ha,” you muttered, balancing dramatically against his shoulder. “Remind me again why people choose to breed.”

Jungkook looked up at you, biting back another smile. “We’re really doing this?”

“I’m just saying,” you continued, still wounded. “I never understood the appeal of tiny humans whose hobbies include screaming, spilling, and laying traps like this.”

“She probably dropped it by accident.”

“Oh, yeah?” you said, eyes narrowing. “You think it was a coincidence that the one Lego left in this fortress of neat-freak masculinity just happened to be where my foot landed?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You think my seven-year-old daughter set a booby trap to take you out?”

“Absolutely,” you nodded. “She can sense I’m not one of them.”

“One of what?”

You gestured vaguely, still balancing. “The… happy kid people. You know. The ones who like park picnics and Baby Shark and post photos like ‘My whole life’ with a sticky toddler eating sand.”

Jungkook full-on laughed then, and it vibrated through his chest as he pulled you in slightly. “You’re insane,” he said, grinning.

“I’m in pain,” you corrected. “Emotionally. Physically. Spiritually.”

Still smiling, he gently set you foot down and looked up at you. “Come on. You survived it. You can have coffee. On me.”

“I want coffee and an apology from your child.”

“She’s at school,” he said, already turning toward the kitchen. “But I’ll write one on her behalf and draw a sad dinosaur. Will that help?”

“It might,” you muttered, limping dramatically after him. “But only if it cries.”

You were, once again, reminded why you didn’t like kids.

—————

Jeon Jungkook’s mornings didn’t start with silence or introspective stillness. They started with cereal. More specifically, the sound of cereal being aggressively poured into a ceramic bowl by a seven-year-old who hadn’t quite figured out ratios.

From the bathroom, toothbrush in mouth, he called out, “Sunni, are you using the entire box again?”

“No!” came her innocent voice.

He stepped into the kitchen. The entire box was in the bowl. He just grinned, grabbed a second bowl, and redistributed the mountain of chocolatey puffed sugar without a word. It was a routine. Mess, correction, minimal drama. He liked those kind days, the ones where everything was the same and at the same time it wasn’t— you never knew what you could get from a seven-year-old child.

Sunni sat on the barstool with her hair half-combed and her socks mismatched. “Is it library day or music day?” she asked mid-bite.

“Music,” Jungkook said, sliding a thermos of coffee into his bag. “And don’t forget your recorder this time or Ms. Jennings is going to give me that look again.”

“She always looks at you like that.”

“Because she’s terrified I’ll volunteer to perform with you.”

The little girl snorted, and he ruffled her hair.

After school drop-off and a quick drive through traffic with his windows cracked and Springsteen on low, Jungkook walked into his tattoo shop just as the first artist of the day was setting up her station. The shop— “My Time” —sat on the corner of a leafy street just far enough outside the city’s most tourist-clogged parts to feel like a hidden gem. The windows were full of plants. The walls were covered in framed art, flash designs, vintage photographs. It was clean, calm, and smelled faintly of eucalyptus and ink.

It had taken him seven years to build it. Five artists, one piercer, and a rotating assistant manager who kept the books and occasionally brought him pastries he didn’t ask for but always ate.

“Morning, boss,” called Mia from her chair. Her hair was pink today.

“Morning,” he said, setting down his sketchbook and rolling up his sleeves. “Client at ten?”

“She’s early. Wants a floral rib piece. Showed me a Pinterest board the length of the Constitution.”

Jungkook groaned. “God bless Pinterest.”

He headed to his station, thumbed through his design folder, and sipped the coffee he didn’t really need.

The day passed in a quiet, rhythmic loop. Appointments, sketches, cleaning, music in the background, and the satisfying silence of people letting you create something permanent on their skin. He liked it. The small talk. The intimacy. The trust. Between clients, he leaned over the front counter where his best friend and shop partner, Park Jimin, was sketching in a notebook, AirPods in. Jungkook tapped his pen on the paper. The older looked up.

“You done ruining another collarbone or did your floral girl flinch again?” He pulled one earbud out.

Jungkook leaned on the counter. “No flinching. She was great. Talked about her dead grandmother for two hours and then tipped like a saint.”

“Damn. And here I thought tattooing grieving millennials would be the death of you.”

“Nah,” he said, stretching his shoulder. “They cry, I hand them a juice box, and we both survive.”

Jimin raised an eyebrow. “So… speaking of surviving. How’s your hot younger non-girlfriend?”

Jungkook snorted. “You mean Y/n?”

“Oh, we’re on a first-name basis now? Cute.”

The younger rolled his eyes. “It’s not a thing. We’re just— hooking up. Casually. Like grown-ups.”

“Right,” his friend said, leaning back in his chair. “Totally casual. No emotional involvement. Just penis diplomacy and the occasional Lego-related injury.”

Jungkook shook his head, laughing. “She stepped on one fucking Lego and acted like she got sniped by a Navy SEAL.”

“That’s because she’s a childless woman, man,” Jimin said, mock-serious. “They don’t understand the sacrifices we make daily. We’re warriors. Foot soldiers in the plastic toy trenches.”

He smirked. “You don’t even have kids.”

“I babysit my niece every two weeks. I’ve stepped on a Polly Pocket heel. I know pain. I actually empathize with that poor girl. You should clean your place better.”

Jungkook chuckled, flipping to a fresh page in his sketchbook. “Well, she’s hilarious. Kind of ridiculous. But smart as hell.”

“Yeah? She got a job or is she just hot and angry?”

“I think she manage some Italian restaurant. She’s very vague but brags a lot about it.”

The older blinked. “Damn. You’re dating a pasta tycoon?”

“I’m sleeping with a pasta tycoon. There’s a difference.”

“Sure there is,” Jimin said, nodding sagely. “Until she meets Sunni and runs for the hills.” Jungkook didn’t say anything for a moment. Jimin looked up. “She hasn’t met the little one yet, right?”

Jungkook shook his head. “Not even close.”

“Smart. Don’t introduce your kid to a woman who’s allergic to Play-Doh and feelings.”

Jungkook let out a breath, one of those little huffs that was half amusement, half… something else. “I like how easy it is,” he admitted. “I don’t have to explain anything. She doesn’t ask about the future. We text, we hook up, we joke around, and she leaves with her earrings in her purse like a criminal.”

Jimin narrowed his eyes. “But?”

Jungkook shrugged. “No ‘but.’ Just— haven’t had something uncomplicated in a while. And that’s good.”

“Unless you start liking it too much.”

The younger made a face. “Christ. Spare me the Dr. Phil speech.”

“I’m just saying,” his friend said, putting his sketchpad down. “Don’t let the hot sex and sarcastic banter distract you from the fact that dating with a kid is like driving with a trunk full of explosives. You crash, the whole car goes.”

Jungkook nodded slowly. “Noted.”

But he wasn’t worried. He liked where things were. He liked that you made him laugh. That you never tried to impress him or prove too deep. That you didn’t flinch at his age or his kid or his life or his life before you. He liked that you weren’t also one of those who were crazy to just be in a family or try to get him because he was divorced with a daughter. And yeah, you definitely weren’t in it for Sunni. Or family vibes. Or cozy domestic bullshit. But it worked. It worked better than anything had in a long time for him. And he liked it enough to keep it that way for the moment.

That evening, He picked up Sunni from her after-school theater club. She ran to him with her backpack bouncing and her ponytail crooked, and he crouched down just in time to catch her mid-jump.

“Dad! I was the narrator! And no one forgot their lines except Thomas but we pretended he was a ghost so it still made sense!”

“Genius,” Jungkook said. “Absolute star behavior.”

She wiggled out of his arms and reached into her backpack. “Also I drew a tiger wearing a leather jacket. But I ran out of orange so it’s actually a bear.”

“Perfect. We’ll hang it on the fridge next to disco dinosaur.”

“Disco dino is sacred,” she said seriously.

They walked to the car, Sunni chatting nonstop about her music teacher, the cafeteria cookies, and whether or not dogs dream in color. Jungkook listened. Nodded. Threw in a “hmm” and a “tell me more” at the right beats. He’d gotten good at that, letting her talk and giving her space to be. He had learned how to be present and how to be patient. He knew how to move around any part of life without being scared or playing. He was mature enough to know how to do things right.

Back home, she ate spaghetti with too much cheese while he cleaned up the kitchen and checked a few shop messages. After she’d fallen asleep in her bed, diagonally, surrounded by stuffed animals it was almost dramatic, he showered and finally collapsed onto the couch with his phone. One new message.

Y/n: You alive or did your daughter finally kill you with Legos?

He smirked. Typed back:

Jungkook: She spared me today. You free tomorrow night?

Three dots appeared. Then:

Y/n: Sure. Your place. But hide the toys this time. Or I’m charging you for physical third-party abuse

Jungkook leaned back, smiling at the ceiling. No strings. No pressure. Just good sex, good banter, and the occasional Lego-related injury.

Perfect. For now.

so first chapter here!! i was supposed to put it out tmrw but i got excited hehehehe

WHY AM I SO NERVOUS ABOUT POSTING THIS??? guys i wrote this long ago and i edit it this week so if you see any mistake,NO you didn’t. Also:; you guys put me in so much pressure cuz why the fuck so many people wanted to read this??? anyway tell me how it was and if you guys are liking it so far pls >_<

anddd don’t quote me with my italian cuz it’s gonna be a lot more in the future hohohoh i cooka da pizza

taglist:

Content guide:

Angst (A), Yandere (Y), Fluff (F), Smut (S), Mature (M), Alternate Universe (AU), Polyamorous (PA), Threesome (T), Homosexuality or Bisexuality (Q), Violence (V), Dead Dove (DD), Cheating (C), Triggering Content that needs a warning READ THE FICS WARNINGS (TC), Multiple Members Of BTS Mentioned As Characters (MM), Drabble (D)

I do not own BTS or their likeness. These stories are only fanfictions that come from my own imagination and any depiction of BTS in any of my stories does not represent them in real life. None of this is real life, only pure fiction. None of the behaviour of the BTS member’s namesakes OR anything else that happens in my stories represents them in reality.

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JIMIN:

Series

Go to savage love links for some Jimin below on Jungkook’s list. Part One Here

One Shots

🤍 TWISTED : Here

(S) (M) (Y) (AU) (V) (DD) (TC) (T)

Best Friend Jungkook And Jimin X Reader / Y/N

When a psycho breaks into your home in a creepy purge mask and threatens you with a gun, what do you do? Especially when he starts to force you to do sinful things with your best friend Jungkook. You realise that you have no choice but to comply or get shot. But just maybe you don’t care because you have always wanted this to happen anyway, because you are already in love with your best friend. Now all you have to do is try not to show how compliant you really are, but it’s much harder to keep it hidden than you thought.

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JUNGKOOK:

Savage Love Series:

Best friend JK x OC (Alice), Cheater Jimin x OC (Alice).

Jungkook is there for his childhood best friend every time Jimin cheats on her. Her very toxic relationship with cheater Jimin is horrible and it chips away at Alice’s self esteem and confidence more each day. Alice stays in this relationship for one reason and it’s killing her inside very slowly. Jungkook absolutely hates Jimin and always goes to comfort her as her best friend, but maybe he likes her way more than just a best friend.

(S) (F) (A) (M) (AU) (V) (C) (TC) (MM)

Savage Love: here

Standing next to you: pt 1 | pt 2

Savage love drabbles:

Beginning: here

I dare you to kiss me: here

New kinks unlocked: here

One Shots:

🤍 THE HERO : Here

(S) (M) (Y) (AU) (DD) (MM) (V) (TC)

Yandere Jungkook x Kidnapped Fem You (Y/N)

You have lived in a complete hellish nightmare for what seemed like years, being tortured and twisted by your kidnapper and just when you thought that you were going to lose your mind a man called Jungkook is chucked into the cold cell with you. He protects you and hugs you at night in the cold room, tries to help you through your pain and nightmares. He also takes punishments for you and gives you extra food when you get it. He slowly becomes your everything and when you finally get rescued due to him fighting the guard and stealing his cell phone, you stay with him afterwards. You can’t even look at your old boyfriend or interact with your family, due to what you were put through. And the only person you want is Jungkook. But is he all that he seems?

🤍 PREY. . . RUN : Here | Teaser

(S) (F) (M) (AU) (TC)

Predator Hybrid Jungkook x Prey Reader (only pet names)

Hybrid Wolf Jungkook and his Deer hybrid mate decide they want to get back to their hybrid roots and are are camping in the forest. They are going to indulge in some predator and prey chase and catch role play. (Some Consensual Non Con) So when Jungkook goes into his rut, he can chase after his little Doe, pin her down and make her submit.

🤍 BULLY ME: Here

(S) (Y) (M) (AU) (V) (TC) (MM)

Jungkook x Curvy Bully OC

Jeon Jungkook’s bully is an older woman called Dria, she trips him over, laughs at him and she’s always humiliating him and calling him horrible names. The thing is, Jungkook likes it just a bit too much because when she does it she’s giving him attention. He likes what she does and regularly runs off to the bathrooms or his apartment to relieve himself. To everyone else Jungkook is a quiet studious student with only two friends, Jimin and Taehyung. But when he’s not at college he’s someone else entirely, too bad that Dria realised it just a little bit too late.

🤍 TWISTED : Here

(S) (M) (Y) (AU) (V) (DD) (TC) (T)

Best Friend Jungkook And Jimin X Reader / Y/N

When a psycho breaks into your home in a creepy purge mask and threatens you with a gun, what do you do? Especially when he starts to force you to do sinful things with your best friend Jungkook. You realise that you have no choice but to comply or get shot. But just maybe you don’t care because you have always wanted this to happen anyway, because you are already in love with your best friend. Now all you have to do is try not to show how compliant you really are, but it’s much harder to keep it hidden than you thought.

🤍 CALL ME BABY : Here

(M) (S) (F) (AU) (D)

Sexy Nerd Jungkook x Painfully Shy You / Y/N

A friend of yours at college called Jade gives you a man’s number telling you that if you are sexually frustrated he will get you off over the phone. At this point you are desperate for anything, just something that isn’t a sex toy. Because you are painfully shy and don’t want to have random hookups just because you are feeling desperate, especially when you have a huge crush on Jeon Jungkook. You are in all of his classes because you are just as much of a nerd as he is. But you are down bad for him and the way he talks to you every time you are partnered up in the lab or in class projects. He talks to you in a gentle but stern manner, looking over those wire rimmed glasses. And when he calls you Sweetheart you almost combust right then and there. But you are so sexually frustrated that you can’t help yourself, so you call the number one night.

🤍 DIRTY LITTLE SECRET: Pt 1 / Pt 2

(M) (S) (Y) (AU) (TC) (MM) (C) (T)

Yandere Taehyung x Fem Y/N, Yandere Jungkook x Fem Y/N (Mention Of Fiancé Sungmin)

Y/N didn’t mean to get caught up in a sexual relationship with Taehyung or Jungkook, especially when she’s already in an arranged engagement with Sungmin already. But Jungkook and Taehyung won’t take no for an answer and blackmail Y/N into compliance. The thing is, Y/N likes how they treat her and can’t help herself when she starts to get feelings. Maybe she doesn’t want to be a dirty little secret anymore

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TAEHYUNG:

🤍 DIRTY LITTLE SECRET: Pt 1 / Pt 2

(M) (S) (Y) (AU) (TC) (MM) (C) (T)

Yandere Taehyung x Fem Y/N, Yandere Jungkook x Fem Y/N (Mention Of Fiancé Sungmin)

Y/N didn’t mean to get caught up in a sexual relationship with Taehyung or Jungkook, especially when she’s already in an arranged engagement with Sungmin already. But Jungkook and Taehyung won’t take no for an answer and blackmail Y/N into compliance. The thing is, Y/N likes how they treat her and can’t help herself when she starts to get feelings. Maybe she doesn’t want to be a dirty little secret anymore

============================

SEOKJIN:

TBA

============================

NAMJOON:

TBA

============================

YOONGI:

TBA

============================

HOSEOK:

TBA

============================

Ot7 and Multiple Member Fic’s:

Jungkook And Jimin

🤍 TWISTED: Here

(S) (M) (Y) (AU) (V) (D) (TC)

Best Friend Jungkook And Jimin X Reader / Y/N

When a psycho breaks into your home in a creepy purge mask and threatens you with a gun, what do you do? Especially when he starts to force you to do sinful things with your best friend Jungkook. You realise that you have no choice but to comply or get shot. But just maybe you don’t care because you have always wanted this to happen anyway, because you are already in love with your best friend. Now all you have to do is try not to show how compliant you really are, but it’s much harder to keep it hidden than you thought.

🤍 SAVAGE LOVE SERIES: Part One Is Here

Jungkook And Tae

🤍 DIRTY LITTLE SECRET: Pt 1 / Pt 2

(M) (S) (Y) (AU) (TC) (MM) (C) (T)

Yandere Taehyung x Fem Y/N, Yandere Jungkook x Fem Y/N (Mention Of Fiancé Sungmin)

Y/N didn’t mean to get caught up in a sexual relationship with Taehyung or Jungkook, especially when she’s already in an arranged engagement with Sungmin already. But Jungkook and Taehyung won’t take no for an answer and blackmail Y/N into compliance. The thing is, Y/N likes how they treat her and can’t help herself when she starts to get feelings. Maybe she doesn’t want to be a dirty little secret anymore

moving in

pizza night

before 1 (while friends)

before 2 (while friends)

before 3 (while friends)

before 4 (last before while friends)

we should get a dog 🐶

buying

thank you

convenient pt 1

convenient pt 2

back off

let's go outside

swim

drunk

tell me a wish

2:30

incredibly important