#violist

Synopsis: Born into a life of perfection, you’ve spent your years mastering the violin, living up to the expectations placed on you as the talented only child everyone admires. Music is the only thing you’ve ever truly known—until the boy next door enters your life. Jungkook, a quiet yet intense pianist with inked skin and restless eyes, slowly becomes the one person who sees beyond your polished image. What begins as accidental meetings turns into late-night practices, shared melodies, lingering touches, and a love that grows deeper with every note played together. But love can be fragile. And somewhere along the way, you realize your heart isn’t whole—it’s glass. Beautiful. Delicate. And destined to shatter.

Genre: Pianist!Jungook x Violinist!Reader, S2L, Smut, Agnst, Slight Fluff.

Word Count: 27k (probably longer)

Now Playing: Vanilla Sky - Brent Faiyaz.

Warnings: Heavy Agnst, Mentions Of Depression, Jungkook is slightly an introvert while reader is a full time introvert, Smoking (Jungook claims he’s stressed 24/7), Jungkook and Reader are both 18 and seniors, happy ending (with agnst), Jungkook is a certified gentleman, Jungkook is NOT a playboi in this, Mutual Pining, Semi enemies to lovers in the beginning, Physical touch and words of affirmation is Jungkook’s love language, Explicit sex, Emotional sex, oral sex (f! Receiving), Jungkook is slightly pu$$y drunk, Forbidden love, Reader and Jungkook are slightly rebelling against their parents, Author genuinely goes MIA after this lol, Poetry literally has a hold on me, Author is sleep deprived AGAIN!

Author’s Note: Still working on part two of ‘wasteland’ so here’s something to keep you guys occupied…

Perfection had always followed you like a shadow.

At school, teachers spoke your name with admiration, parents whispered about you like you were some rare miracle they wished their own daughters could become. Girls studied the way you walked through hallways, the way your hair fell so neatly over your shoulders, the way your voice remained soft even when others were loud. Boys looked at you the way they looked at dreams they were too shy to touch.

You were the kind of girl people wrote fantasies about. The kind mothers pointed at during parent-teacher conferences.

The kind girls tried to imitate in mirrors late at night. But admiration was a strange thing.

Because none of them ever asked the question that echoed quietly inside your own mind.

Who were you…to yourself?

Your room held the answer—or at least the closest thing to it.

Soft grey walls framed photographs of Paris you had printed years ago after stumbling across a late-night TikTok video that romanticized the city like it was some sacred place where lonely girls could become something else entirely. The Eiffel Tower lit against dark skies. Café tables under warm streetlamps. Rain-speckled sidewalks and violinists standing beneath bridges like ghosts made of music.

You had recreated that dream in pieces. Posters. String lights. A small painted canvas of the Seine hanging above your bed. Your room looked like Paris if Paris had been trapped inside the mind of a teenager who didn’t know where else to put her longing.

The window beside your desk stood open, letting the cool evening air slip inside. Your curtains swayed gently, brushing the edges of the grey carpet where papers had been scattered like fallen leaves.

Study notes. Math formulas. History dates. Vocabulary words circled in red ink.

You hadn’t absorbed a single one.

Instead, you sat cross-legged in the center of the floor, violin resting against your collarbone like it had grown there.

Your fingers moved slowly along the strings. The bow glided gently.

A soft melody spilled into the quiet room—fragile, aching, almost hesitant. The kind of music that sounded like it was trying not to cry.

You closed your eyes as the sound wrapped around you. The violin had always understood things people didn’t.

It understood the tightness in your chest when expectations became too heavy. It understood the way loneliness crawled quietly into your bones, settling there like it belonged.

Another note drifted into the air. Then another.

Your shoulders relaxed slightly as the music softened the sharp edges inside your mind.

Or maybe it softened your heart. You weren’t sure which one needed it more. For a moment, everything felt calm. Perfect.

Until—Your bedroom door burst open so suddenly that the violin screeched against the strings.

“Unbelievable!” your mother’s voice rang through the room before you could even lower the instrument.

You blinked, startled, lowering the bow slowly.

Your mother stood in the doorway like a storm given human form. Her heels clicked impatiently against the hardwood floor as she crossed her arms.

“You’re still sitting here?” she asked sharply. “Your room looks like a disaster.”

You glanced at the scattered papers around you. “I was studying,” you said quietly.

She scoffed. “You call this studying?”

Your mother bent down and picked up one of the pages, scanning it briefly before tossing it back onto the carpet like it offended her personally.

“Well, you can forget about whatever this is supposed to be,” she continued, brushing imaginary dust from her blouse. “Your aunt is coming this weekend.”

Your stomach sank slightly. “My aunt?” you repeated.

“Yes,” she said, already sounding exhausted. “My sister. And she’s bringing those two little nightmares with her.”

You knew exactly who she meant.

“Rina and Sai,” your mother said with a dramatic sigh. “Those children are absolutely impossible.”

You placed the violin carefully in your lap, listening quietly as she began pacing your room.

“They scream, they run everywhere, they touch everything!” she continued, gesturing wildly. “Last time they were here, Sai nearly knocked over my glass cabinet!”

You nodded slowly, though you doubted she was expecting a response.

“And your sister—” your mother stopped herself, correcting with irritation, “—my sister does nothing. Absolutely nothing. She just sits there and lets them run wild like animals.”

She looked at you then, narrowing her eyes slightly. “So this weekend you will behave properly. Do you understand?”

You blinked innocently. “I always behave properly.”

“Yes, well,” she muttered, “make sure you behave better than usual.”

Silence lingered for a moment. Then she clapped her hands once. “Dinner will be ready soon,” she added, already heading back toward the door. “Don’t make me call you twice.”

And just like that—The storm left. Your door closed with a soft click.

The room fell quiet again.

You exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging as if someone had finally removed invisible weights from them. “…Great,” you muttered to yourself.

You placed the violin back into its case carefully, fingers lingering on the polished wood for a moment longer than necessary.

Music always made the world feel softer. But reality had a habit of crashing through doors without warning. You stood slowly, stretching your legs before moving toward the window to close it.

That’s when you noticed it. The house next door. The window across from yours was open.

And inside—Someone was sitting at a piano. You paused.

A boy.

He wore a simple black shirt and loose grey jogging pants, posture slightly hunched over the piano bench as his fingers moved across the keys.

The melody drifting from his house was… beautiful. Not perfect. But emotional. Raw in a way that felt almost dangerous.

Your hand rested against the window frame as you watched quietly. A thin trail of smoke curled into the air beside him.

A cigarette rested loosely between his fingers as he played. Your eyebrows lifted slightly.

Seriously? Your gaze drifted upward.

His hair was dark—thick curls falling messily around his face, styled into what looked like a wolf cut that seemed both careless and intentional at the same time. Some strands stuck out in different directions, giving him a slightly wild appearance.

Half of his face remained hidden behind the curtain of dark hair. But you could see the glasses resting on the bridge of his nose.

And the tattoos.

Your eyes followed the ink that climbed slowly up his right arm, disappearing beneath the sleeve of his shirt like they might continue somewhere further.

Your chest tightened slightly. He didn’t look like the kind of boy who lived in quiet neighborhoods.

He looked like the kind of boy who carried storms inside his skin. You didn’t even realize how long you had been staring.

Until—His fingers stopped moving. The music died. Slowly, he turned his head.

Your heart dropped. His eyes met yours instantly.

You flinched. Not because you had been caught staring. But because of the expression on his face.

Blank. Completely unreadable.

And yet somehow…painfully beautiful.

His brown eyes studied you quietly, dark and heavy like they were trying to figure out why you were there at all.

Your cheeks burned. “Oh my god,” you whispered under your breath. You quickly looked away, pretending to adjust the curtain.

Great. Now you looked like a creep. When you glanced back again—

He was already standing.

He moved toward the window slowly, confidence in every step like he didn’t care who watched him.

For a brief moment, you noticed more details. Broad shoulders. Tall frame. The faint glint of metal at his lips.

Piercings. Your breath caught slightly. Then—Without a word—He reached the window.

And closed it. Right. In. Your. Face.

The soft click echoed louder than it should have. You stood there frozen for a moment, staring at the now dark glass.

“…Wow,” you murmured quietly. Embarrassment crawled up your neck.

Yup. He definitely thought you were a creep. Perfect start.

From everyone else’s perspective, school was where you thrived. It was where perfection followed you like a loyal shadow.

Teachers adored you. Your grades were always flawless—exams returned with bright red scores circling the top of the page like trophies. Pop quizzes never startled you. Assignments were always turned in early, neat handwriting flowing across the paper like you had rehearsed every word beforehand.

You participated in everything. Academic clubs. Student council meetings.

Even the drama club—though you preferred standing backstage rather than beneath the burning gaze of stage lights. People whispered about you in the halls like you were something mythical.

“Did you see her presentation yesterday?”

“She’s literally good at everything.”

“I swear she’s not even human.”

Some girls admired you. Some envied you.

Some tried to imitate the way you carried yourself—shoulders straight, chin lifted slightly, voice calm even when the world around you was loud and messy. They called you things like perfect. Elegant. Untouchable.

Someone once jokingly called you the goddess of perfection.

You remembered laughing politely when you heard that. Because if perfection were a goddess—

Then she would probably be miserable too. Reality was far less glamorous.

Reality was a mother who treated perfection like religion. A woman obsessed with appearances and achievements, someone who believed flaws were things that had to be scrubbed away before the world could notice them.

Reality was a father who smiled too easily and spoke too gently.

A man who thought you didn’t notice the perfume that sometimes lingered on his shirts—scents your mother never wore.

Or the late nights at “work.”

Or the way his phone lit up with messages he never opened in front of either of you.

You noticed everything.

You just never said anything. Because sometimes silence was easier than watching your family crumble in front of you.

So you became perfect instead.

Perfect grades. Perfect posture. Perfect daughter.

If you were flawless enough…maybe the cracks around you wouldn’t matter. The school hallways buzzed with their usual chaos as you walked through them that morning.

Your uniform looked exactly the way it was supposed to.

Freshly ironed blazer. Skirt sitting perfectly above your knees. Tie neatly adjusted. Not a single wrinkle. Not a single speck of dust.

Your shoes clicked softly against the tiled floor as students parted around you like water around a stone.

Lockers slammed. Laughter echoed.

Voices overlapped in messy harmony. You glanced around casually as you walked.

A couple of seniors were practically devouring each other beside a locker, hands tangled in hair like the world might end if they stopped kissing.

Two freshmen stumbled past them awkwardly, faces bright red as a group of older students snickered behind them.

“Look at them,” one boy said loudly. “They look like lost puppies.”

The freshmen hurried away.

Further down the hall, someone shouted about a failed math test. Another group was arguing loudly about a basketball game that happened last night.

The school always felt like a circus of teenage disasters.

You exhaled quietly. Sometimes it amazed you how chaotic everyone seemed to be. Meanwhile, you just…existed.

Floating through the noise like a ghost wearing perfect grades.

But today—Today was different. Because today was special. A small smile tugged at your lips as you continued walking.

Chocolate muffins.

The cafeteria only served them once every two weeks, and for some reason they were always warm and soft with just the right amount of sweetness.

They were your absolute favorite.

Your steps slowed slightly as you imagined them. Fluffy texture. Melting chocolate chips.

Your smile widened unconsciously as your mind drifted away into the simple joy of pastries and quiet mornings.

For a moment, you probably looked ridiculous.

Walking through a crowded hallway with a dreamy little smile like you had just remembered something magical.

Someone passing by even raised an eyebrow.

“Why is she smiling like that?” a girl whispered to her friend.

“I don’t know,” the friend murmured back. “Maybe she got a hundred on something again.”

You didn’t hear them.

Your thoughts were still wrapped around chocolate muffins and the peaceful happiness they brought.

Until—Your gaze drifted forward. And your smile froze.

Leaning lazily against a locker down the hall was someone painfully familiar. Dark hair. Messy curls falling in uneven strands across his forehead.

A wolf cut that somehow looked even more careless today—as if he had run his fingers through it once and decided that was enough effort for the morning.

Your stomach tightened. The boy from the piano next door.

His uniform looked…questionable.

The blazer slightly hung loosely off his shoulders. His tie was half undone, knotted carelessly like he had started fixing it before immediately losing interest. Everything about him screamed ‘I didn’t try.’

And yet—It worked. In the most irritating way possible.

Because somehow he still looked good. Actually—He looked really good.

Your eyebrows furrowed slightly in silent frustration. How is that fair?

Then you noticed the girl pressed against him.

Her hair was dyed some strange shade of faded purple that had probably once been vibrant but now looked uneven and patchy.

She had him pinned against the locker, hands gripping his collar while she kissed him like she was trying to prove something to the entire hallway.

Your expression flattened. “…Of course,” you muttered quietly.

Her voice broke through the noise. “Jeon Jungkook,” she giggled breathlessly against his lips.

So that was his name. Jeon Jungkook.

The name lingered in your mind longer than it should have. He didn’t respond verbally. But he didn’t push her away either.

Your shoulders sank slightly as you watched them. Teenagers kissing in the halls had become such a normal sight that it barely surprised you anymore.

But still—Sometimes it felt…excessive.

You sighed. Loudly.

“Does teenagers at this school only know how to kiss?” you murmured under your breath.

And strangely—

For the briefest moment—You found yourself understanding your mother. Maybe not her cruelty. Maybe not her obsession.

But the idea that some things should remain private. Because the way those two were kissing right now looked less like affection and more like a performance.

Your sigh slipped into the air.

And that’s when it happened. Jungkook’s eyes opened. Sharp. Sudden.

Like a predator noticing movement. His gaze slid toward you instantly.

You froze mid-step. Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs. He was still kissing the girl. Still pressed against the locker. But his eyes—His eyes were locked onto you.

Unmoving. Observant. Dark brown irises studying you like he was trying to solve some strange puzzle.

Your breath caught. ‘Why is he staring?’

The girl kissing him didn’t seem to notice anything. Her hands were still tangled in his blazer.

Your brain short-circuited slightly.

He was staring at you, while kissing someone else. For some reason—That felt weirdly…hot.

Your face warmed immediately. Nope. Absolutely not. You quickly looked away and started walking faster.

Your shoes clicked rapidly against the floor as you rushed past them, praying your face didn’t look as flustered as it felt.

Behind you, the girl’s voice suddenly whined.“Wait—Jungkook?”

But you didn’t turn around.

You didn’t see the moment he gently pulled away from her. Or the confused look on her face as she was left standing there.

You just kept walking. Faster.

‘Please don’t let me run into him again,’ you thought desperately.

Or ever.

Because something about that boy—Those eyes. That quiet intensity.

Made your perfectly controlled world feel a little too unstable. And fragile things like you…

Didn’t survive instability very well.

Today was the kind of day that made you wish the earth would open beneath your feet and swallow you whole. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just quietly—like a secret the world decided it didn’t want to keep anymore.

Because today was the day of the Viremont International Youth Violin Competition, a name your mother spoke with the kind of reverence usually reserved for royalty or religion.

A competition meant for prodigies. For rising stars.

For perfect daughters who had been molded into brilliance long before they were old enough to understand what freedom meant.

You hadn’t wanted to go. You hadn’t even wanted to apply. But your mother didn’t believe in things like want. She believed in expectation.

And expectation was a blade she held firmly against your throat your entire life.

Still—she had offered you something unexpected earlier that morning.

Freedom. A small, temporary freedom.

“Go shopping,” she had said briskly while adjusting the sleeves of her blouse. “If you’re going to represent this family, you might as well look presentable.”

You had blinked at her in quiet disbelief. Shopping. Not for recitals. Not for rehearsals. Not for carefully selected dresses chosen by her own meticulous eye.

Just…shopping. So you went.

And for the first time in a long while, you bought clothes that actually felt like you.

Soft dresses in muted colors. A loose cardigan that looked like something a quiet poet would wear while writing letters they never intended to send. A pair of delicate flower hair clips you found tucked in the corner of a small boutique.

They made you smile. Not the polite smile you gave strangers. A real one.

But freedom had an expiration date.

By the time evening arrived, you were standing in the center of your room once again—except this time you looked less like a lonely girl and more like something out of a fairytale.

Your long brown hair cascaded down your back in soft waves, decorated with tiny flower clips that rested delicately among the strands. They made you look almost…royal.

Like a princess preparing for a ceremony she never asked to attend.

Your lips shimmered under the light—glossy pink with faint glitter catching the sunlight pouring through your window.

They looked soft. Full. Untouched.

The sun spilled across your face, making your light brown eyes glow warmly. For a moment you barely recognized the girl staring back at you in the mirror.

You looked beautiful. But you also looked…staged. Like a painting someone had spent years perfecting.

Your white dress flowed gently around your legs, the fabric so pure it almost seemed to glow beneath the light. Beneath the hem, silver heels rested neatly against the floor, elegant and quiet.

You looked like innocence wrapped in silk. A perfect daughter. A perfect performer. A perfect lie.

Your door burst open. Right on cue.

Your mother stepped inside, her heels clicking sharply against the floor.

She wore a long black dress embroidered with delicate Japanese cherry blossoms—pink petals blooming against dark fabric like fragile beauty fighting against night.

Her expression, however, remained unchanged. That same familiar frown. She looked you up and down slowly.

Your spine straightened automatically. A silent inspection. A quiet judgment.

Then—She nodded. “Good,” she said simply. The word landed somewhere strange in your chest.

“You look…appropriate.” Appropriate. Not beautiful. Not radiant. Just…appropriate.

“Thank you, Mother,” you replied softly.

She stepped closer, adjusting one of the flower clips in your hair with quick, efficient fingers “You must remember,” she continued calmly, “this competition will have judges from all over the world.”

You nodded. “Yes.”

“Composers. Conductors. Patrons,” she added. “This is not just a performance. It’s an opportunity.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around the violin case in your hand.

“I understand.”

“Good.” She stepped back, satisfied. “Now come. Your father is waiting.”

Your father. The man who clapped proudly at every performance.

The man who told people you were his greatest achievement.

The man whose phone buzzed with secret messages from women whose names you didn’t know.

You followed your mother downstairs anyway. Because daughters like you didn’t argue.

Outside, the expensive black car waited patiently in the driveway. Your father stood beside it, adjusting the cuffs of his suit.

When he saw you, his face lit up immediately “Ah!” he said warmly. “Look at you!”

You offered a small smile.

“You look beautiful, sweetheart.”

Your mother cleared her throat lightly. “We should go.”

He opened the car door for you.

As you slid into the seat behind them, you couldn’t help wondering if he was attending tonight out of genuine pride—

Or if he simply hoped the event would introduce him to someone new. Someone younger. Someone prettier.

The drive passed in quiet tension. Streetlights blurred past the window like fading stars.

And soon enough, the grand building hosting the competition rose before you—towering and elegant beneath the night sky.

Inside, everything glittered. Crystal chandeliers. Polished marble floors. People dressed in silk and velvet, their voices low and refined.

You were escorted backstage almost immediately. A woman with a clipboard smiled politely. “Contestants this way.”

Your parents disappeared into the crowd as you were led into a quieter preparation room.

Your heart thudded softly. You opened your violin case, running your fingers gently along the polished wood.

“Alright,” the woman said kindly. “You’ll be on shortly.”

You nodded. Practice. Just a little practice. The notes came easily at first. Your fingers knew the melody like they knew your own heartbeat.

Still—Your chest tightened with every passing minute. Millions of eyes. Judges. Critics.

Expectations. Then—A voice echoed through the room. “Next performer…Y/n L/n.”

Your breath caught. It was time. The stage felt enormous beneath the blinding spotlight. When you stepped forward, the entire room seemed to hold its breath.

Light poured down on you, making the white fabric of your dress shimmer softly. Your silver heels glinted beneath the hem, and your hair—those delicate flower clips scattered among brown waves—looked almost ethereal beneath the stage lights.

Like something unreal. You scanned the crowd instinctively. Your mother and father sat near the front. They were speaking quietly with another elegant couple.

But then—You saw him. Jeon Jungkook.

Standing beside them. Your stomach dropped. He wore a dark suit, though his posture was far more relaxed than anyone else’s. His hair remained messy even tonight, those wild curls falling across his forehead like he had never once cared about taming them.

And his eyes—His eyes were locked directly onto you. Not casually. Not politely. Deeply. Intensely. Like he wasn’t just looking at you—

He was seeing something beneath the surface. Through the perfect dress. Through the practiced smile.

Through the fragile illusion you spent years building. You looked away quickly.

Your fingers tightened around the violin. The bow lifted.

The first note rang through the hall. Silence followed instantly. As the melody unfolded, something inside you loosened.

The stage disappeared. The audience faded.

Suddenly you weren’t standing beneath bright lights anymore.

You were somewhere else. A forest. Soft sunlight filtering through tall trees. You were a little white rabbit wandering freely through endless green fields.

No expectations. No mother watching your every move. No father pretending the world wasn’t broken.

Just music. Your body began swaying gently with the rhythm.

Side to side. Back and forth. Like a princess dancing alone beneath moonlight.

Your hair moved softly behind you, strands lifting and falling with every motion—even though there was no wind. The music flowed through your veins like freedom.

And for the first time in a long time—You felt alive. When the final note faded, silence filled the hall.

Just one brief moment. Then—Thunderous applause erupted. Clapping echoed from every corner of the room.

Your ears rang with it. But strangely—The sound didn’t matter as much as the feeling still lingering in your chest. Because for those few precious minutes…

You weren’t perfect. You were free. Your eyes searched the crowd again.

They found Jungkook immediately. He was already watching you. His large hands clapped slowly. Deliberately.

And on his lips—A very small smile. Not mocking. Not amused. Just…genuine.

Heat rushed to your face. You didn’t smile back. But you definitely blushed like a girl straight out of some ridiculous romantic movie.

Hours later, when the results were announced, your name echoed through the hall once again.

You had won. Of course you had.

Your mother wasted no time introducing you to the elegant couple she had been speaking with earlier. “Y/n,” she said smoothly, “this is Mr. and Mrs. Jeon.”

You bowed politely. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

Mrs. Jeon smiled warmly. “We’ve heard wonderful things about you.”

You straightened slowly. And that’s when you noticed him again. Jungkook stood beside them quietly. He had apparently already been introduced to your parents.

Which meant—Now it was your turn. Your brain immediately replayed every humiliating moment involving him.

Watching him through your window as he played the piano while you silently admired his talent but you also looked like a creep.

Seeing him kiss that girl in the hallway during school. Him staring at you while doing it.

You wanted to disappear. Literally.

But before you could spiral any further—He stepped closer. “Jungkook,” he said calmly.

Then something unexpected happened. He gently took your hand. His grip was warm.

Steady. And before you could react—He lifted your hand to his lips. And kissed the back of it softly. The gesture was delicate.

Almost reverent. Like he was trying to soothe something fragile. Like he was kissing the wounds of a bruised dove.

Your breath caught.

When he lowered your hand again, his voice came quiet and sincere. “You played beautifully.”

Your heart skipped painfully. This boy—the one who smoked while playing the piano. The one who looked like trouble carved into human form—was somehow a severely hot gentleman.

And judging by the warmth still lingering where his lips touched your skin…

You were completely, utterly screwed.

The house was quiet. Not the peaceful kind of quiet that wrapped around you like comfort—but the heavy kind. The kind that lingered between walls like a secret waiting to be discovered.

Jungkook sat at the dining room table beneath a dim overhead light, shoulders slightly hunched as papers surrounded him in messy devotion.

Piano sheets were scattered across the wooden surface like fragments of a ritual.

Notes scribbled in dark ink. Melodies half-finished. Annotations slashed between staves like someone trying to carve emotion into silence.

Stacks of thick music books rested on either side of him like watchful guardians. Composers from centuries ago stared silently from worn covers, their masterpieces bound in fading pages.

But none of them held his attention tonight. What lay truly exposed before him was the large sketchbook opened beneath his hands.

Its pages were filled. Not with landscapes. Not with random studies. But with you.

His large hand moved slowly across the paper, the pencil resting comfortably between long fingers that were usually meant for piano keys.

Careful lines formed beneath the graphite. Your face. Again. The ninetieth time, if he were bothering to keep count. Each drawing was slightly different.

In one sketch, your hair flowed freely around your shoulders, those small flower clips nestled between the waves like fragile stars.

In another, your head tilted gently to the side as if you were listening to music only you could hear.

One captured you mid-performance—violin tucked beneath your chin, eyes half closed as if you were somewhere far away from the stage.

Another showed you smiling softly. That smile.

The one you wore when you thought no one was watching. Jungkook’s pencil paused briefly as he studied the drawing.

He wasn’t an artist. Not really. Music had always been his language. But his hands were skilled enough to shape the sculpture of your existence.

Enough to draw you exactly how he remembered you. Exactly how he saw you. His expression remained stoic as always. Calm. Focused. Too focused. Focused enough to completely ignore the voice calling from somewhere deeper inside the house.

“Jungkook!” Silence. His pencil continued moving.

“Jungkook!” A second call. Still nothing. Another soft line curved across the page, outlining the delicate slope of your jaw.

“Jeon Jungkook.” That one he couldn’t ignore.

“…Yeah.” His voice was low and distant. When he finally looked up—His mother was already standing directly in front of the table.

Her arms crossed. Her expression slightly sour “You didn’t hear me calling you?” she asked.

“I did.”

“Then why didn’t you answer?”

Jungkook shrugged lightly. His pencil stopped moving as he leaned back in the chair. “Busy.”

His mother’s eyes narrowed slightly. “With what exactly?”

Instead of answering, Jungkook calmly closed the sketchbook. But he was a second too late. Because before the cover shut—

She saw it. An entire page filled with drawings of the same girl. Different poses. Different angles. Different expressions. But all unmistakably you.

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. Jungkook slid the sketchbook aside without acknowledging what she had seen. “You’ve been smoking again,” she said instead.

Her nose wrinkled faintly. “I can smell it.” The faint scent of cigarettes still clung to his clothes like a quiet confession.

Jungkook didn’t bother denying it. Didn’t even comment. He simply leaned back in his chair, running a hand lazily through his messy curls.

“Mm.” His mother sighed. “You know your father hates that.”

“Dad’s not here at the moment.”

“That’s not the point.”

Jungkook didn’t argue. He rarely argued with his parents. There was no point. They knew he wasn’t reckless. They knew he wasn’t careless. Unlike most boys his age, Jungkook had never been interested in meaningless distractions.

No partying. No drinking. No stupid fights. His entire life had revolved around piano. Big competitions. Awards. Perfection. Just like the girl—you—next door.

Which was why the drawings surprised her. Because she had never once seen her son tangled up with a girl.

That didn’t mean he hadn’t been with one. He was eighteen. Handsome. Girls threw themselves at him more often than she cared to acknowledge. But Jungkook had never seemed interested in breaking hearts just for the thrill of it.

His focus had always been singular. Music. Success. Control. Until recently. Until the Viremont International Youth Violin Competition.

Until the night they attended simply to support the neighbors’ daughter.

Until you stepped onto that stage looking like something heaven had accidentally dropped into a room full of ordinary people.

Since then—Her son had been…different. Not drastically. Jungkook was still Jungkook. Still quiet. Still stoic. Still carrying that permanent calm expression like armor.

But something had shifted. Sometimes she caught him staring out the window longer than usual. Sometimes he looked…thoughtful.

And oddly enough—He had started going to school without complaint.

Which was new. Jungkook hated school. Always had. Yet lately—His expression looked more relaxed when he returned home. Like something there had become worth his time.

His mother exhaled quietly. Still—She wasn’t worried. Because from her perspective, you made it your life mission to avoid him.

If anything, it seemed like you were terrified of the boy. Which meant there was nothing to worry about. “Dinner’s ready,” she finally said.

Jungkook stood up slowly. “I’ll eat later.” She opened her mouth to argue.

Then stopped herself. “…Fine.”

He grabbed the sketchbook before heading toward the stairs. His footsteps were slow, unhurried. By the time he reached his bedroom, the house had returned to its usual silence.

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Jungkook dropped onto his bed immediately, stretching out across the mattress as he stared up at the ceiling. His room smelled faintly of wood polish and lingering cigarette smoke.

The quiet wrapped around him easily. One hand rested behind his head. The other tapped absently against his chest as his thoughts wandered.

Then—Movement caught his eye. He turned his head slightly. His window was open. Across the narrow distance between houses—So was yours.

And there you were. Standing in front of your dresser. Wearing nothing but a pastel pink bra and matching underwear. Your back faced the window as you rummaged through your drawers, frowning slightly while examining two different pajama sets.

One soft blue. One cream colored. You held them up thoughtfully. Tilting your head. Clearly struggling with the life-changing decision of bedtime fashion.

Jungkook blinked once. Then twice. A quiet chuckle slipped from his lips. “…Silly girl.”

You looked…unbelievably innocent.

Completely unaware of the fact that your neighbor had a perfect view of the scene unfolding. Your brow furrowed as you compared the fabrics again.

Jungkook pushed himself up slowly from the bed. He walked toward the window, reaching into his pocket as he moved.

A cigarette slid easily between his fingers. The lighter flicked once. Flame.

Smoke curled upward lazily as he took a slow drag. His eyes drifted back toward you. You were still frowning at the pajamas like the fate of the universe depended on the choice.

Jungkook exhaled quietly. Being the gentleman he was—He didn’t stare. Instead, he stepped forward calmly. Reached for the window.

And closed it gently.

The glass slid into place with a soft click. Saving you from the embarrassment you didn’t even know was possible.

Jungkook leaned back against the wall, smoke curling around him in quiet spirals. On the desk behind him—His sketchbook remained slightly open.And on the page inside—

A girl with flower clips in her hair smiled softly from the paper.

Dinner with your family had never been peaceful. But tonight felt especially chaotic. The dining room smelled of soy sauce, grilled fish, and the faint sweetness of jasmine tea steeping in delicate porcelain cups. The table was filled with dishes your mother had carefully prepared—food presented as neatly as everything else in her life.

Across from you sat your aunt.

She leaned back comfortably in her chair, swirling the last of her wine like she owned the evening itself. Unlike your mother, who carried tension in every movement, your aunt looked relaxed. Almost rebellious in the way she existed without worrying about appearances.

It was probably the reason your mother disliked her so much.

Meanwhile, at the far end of the table, your cousins were…being themselves. Rina and Sai. Eleven and thirteen. And somehow already a nightmare.

“Stop touching that!” Sai snapped as Rina grabbed the chopsticks from her plate.

“You’re not even using them!” Rina argued, shoving rice into her mouth dramatically.

“You literally broke the lamp earlier!”

“It was ugly!”

Your mother’s eye twitched. You quietly sipped your tea. Thank God they were banned from your room.

Your bedroom was sacred territory.

They had never seen it—the soft Paris decorations, the careful aesthetic you spent years building like a tiny world meant only for yourself.

If they ever stepped inside, they would destroy it within seconds. Despite their age, they were also…disturbingly boy-crazy.

Rina had spent the afternoon talking about a boy in her class who apparently had “really nice arms.”

She was only eleven. Eleven.

You stared into your tea like it might give you answers. ‘That cannot be normal.’ But you kept your thoughts to yourself.

They were your aunt’s children. Not yours. Thankfully.

Tonight, however, the conversation had taken an unexpectedly adult turn. Your aunt leaned forward with a dreamy sigh. “I met the most handsome man last week,” she said dramatically.

Your mother looked unimpressed already. “Oh?”

“Yes,” your aunt continued. “At this charity dinner downtown. Tall. Broad shoulders. Beautiful voice.”

Your mother poked at her food. “That’s nice.”

Your aunt grinned. “And he kissed me.”

Your chopsticks froze mid-air. Your mother paused too. “…He what?” she asked flatly.

“Oh, it was wonderful,” your aunt continued without shame. “We were standing outside the restaurant and he leaned in—”

“Alright,” your mother interrupted quickly. But your aunt was unstoppable.

“And then he put his hand right here—” she pressed a hand dramatically to her waist “—and pulled me closer.”

You choked slightly on your tea. Your mother shot you a glance. Your aunt, meanwhile, seemed completely delighted by her own story.

“And then he kissed me again,” she continued, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Longer this time.”

You stared at the table. Suddenly the conversation felt…painfully vivid. Like one of those forbidden romance novels you once discovered when you were fourteen.

The kind your mother immediately confiscated the moment she saw the word “love making.”

That was the day innocence died quietly inside your brain. The descriptions in those books had been… Detailed.

Too detailed. And now your aunt was speaking with the same unfiltered enthusiasm.

“It was so intense,” she continued.

Your mother visibly grimaced. “And then he took me somewhere else—”

“Okay,” your mother said sharply.

Your aunt blinked. “What?”

She turned to you immediately. “Y/n, go upstairs.”

Your cheeks burned. “Yes, Mother.” You stood so quickly your chair nearly tipped over. You escaped the dining room like someone fleeing a burning building.

By the time you reached your bedroom, the tension in your chest slowly eased. Your room welcomed you back with quiet familiarity. Soft grey walls. String lights glowing faintly.

Your violin rested patiently where you had left it earlier. You sat cross-legged on the grey carpet floor, violin resting beneath your chin.

Music filled the room once again. Soft. Melancholic. Like a lonely heart whispering secrets into the night.

Minutes passed. Maybe longer. Eventually you lowered the violin with a quiet exhale.

Satisfied. Your shoulders relaxed. The open window allowed a gentle breeze to drift inside, carrying the faint scent of night air. You stood slowly and wandered towards it.

And that’s when you saw him. Jungkook. Climbing out of his window.

Your eyes widened instantly.

He swung one leg onto the roof with casual ease, pulling himself upward like it was something he did every day.

“Wait—what?” Your heart lurched. The roof wasn’t exactly…safe.

One wrong step and he could fall straight to the ground. Your stomach twisted with concern. Without thinking, you climbed onto the windowsill.

Carefully. Slowly. Then you jumped. The grass cushioned your landing softly. Your house sat only a few feet away from his. You hurried across the small stretch of lawn before looking up.

“Jungkook!” you whisper-yelled. He paused. His head tilted downward slightly. Moonlight revealed him clearly now.

Dark messy wolf cut. Eyes hooded and heavy. A cigarette resting lazily between his lips.

His white shirt was halfway buttoned, exposing the collarbone beneath. His black tie hung loosely around his neck like he had given up halfway through dressing properly.

Your throat tightened. ‘Why does he look that good doing something that stupid?’

“Do you have a death wish?” you hissed.

He raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“You’re on the roof!”

“…Yeah.”

“You could fall!” you insisted.

“And?”

“You could break your arm! Or your leg!”

Jungkook stared down at you for a moment. Then he chuckled. Low. Warm. “You’re worried about me?”

You hesitated. “…Obviously.”

Smoke curled from his lips as he exhaled slowly. “That’s nice,” he murmured. Then he added casually, “Especially since you’ve been avoiding me like I’m contagious.”

Your face immediately heated. “I haven’t been—” He raised a brow. You sighed. “…Okay, maybe a little.”

He laughed again. “So why?”

You fidgeted awkwardly. “Well…that first time…”

“When you were watching me through the window?”

You groaned. “Yes.”

“And?”

“You closed the window in my face!” you blurted. “I thought you thought I was a creep!”

Jungkook’s laughter this time was louder. Deeper.

More genuine. He shook his head. “I closed it because I was going to bed.”

Your eyes brightened immediately. “Oh.”

He nodded calmly. “Yeah.”

Totally not because he had other…plans. But you didn’t need to know that.

By then he had already hopped down from the roof with easy grace. He landed beside you on the grass.

The two of you eventually sat there together, shoulders inches apart beneath the quiet sky. You talked about random things. School. Music. Your violin. His piano.

Hours passed without either of you noticing. The sky darkened slowly.

Stars began appearing above you like scattered diamonds. Eventually you stood. “I should go,” you said softly.

Jungkook nodded. You walked back toward your window.

That’s when you noticed the ladder leaning beside it. “…Oh.” You blinked. “That would’ve been helpful earlier.”

Jungkook smirked faintly. “Probably.”

You climbed halfway up before his voice stopped you. “Y/n.”

You looked back. “Yeah?”

He shifted slightly, face calm as ever. “Can we…hang out again?”

Your heart skipped. “…Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

You smiled slightly. “But our parents can’t know.”

He nodded immediately. “Deal.”

“My mom doesn’t like you,” you admitted.

He snorted. “Mine doesn’t like you either.”

You laughed quietly. “Well…that works.”

With that, you climbed back inside. Your window closed softly behind you. Across the yard, Jungkook disappeared into his own house.

Later that night—You lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Your face warm.

Your heart racing. Blushing like the main character in some ridiculous romantic movie. And somehow…

For the first time in a long time—The world didn’t feel quite so lonely.

Weeks passed quietly. Not loudly the way dramatic moments do in movies—no thunder, no fireworks, no grand declarations. Just time. Soft, slow time that unfolded between stolen evenings and whispered conversations beneath the quiet sky.

Somewhere along the way, the awkward tension between you and Jungkook dissolved like sugar melting into warm tea.

The nervous glances. The stuttering beginnings of conversations.

The misunderstandings. All of it faded. What replaced it was something calmer. Something…natural.

Now it was normal for you to climb quietly through your window once the house settled into silence, carefully stepping onto the ladder before crossing the small patch of grass between your homes.

Normal to see Jungkook waiting by his own window, leaning lazily against the frame like he had been expecting you all along.

Normal for the two of you to disappear into his room together like conspirators guarding a secret the world wasn’t allowed to know.

Tonight was no different. His room was dim except for the small lamp glowing beside the piano.

The soft yellow light painted shadows across the walls, stretching over scattered sheet music and the sketchbook resting half-open on his desk.

You sat near the center of the room, violin resting gently beneath your chin. Your body swayed slowly as you played. Side to side. Softly. Like a flower moving with a quiet breeze.

A melody hummed from your lips—quiet, instinctive, almost subconscious. It drifted through the room like fragile smoke.

Jungkook sat at his piano across from you.

His fingers moved across the keys with relaxed precision, weaving a completely different melody through the air. Two songs. Two separate emotions. Yet somehow they fit together perfectly.

The room filled with music. Violin strings crying softly beneath your bow. Piano notes answering in deep, warm echoes. For a while, neither of you spoke.

Silence existed comfortably between you now. Not the awkward kind. The peaceful kind. The kind that said I’m here, and that’s enough.

Eventually the music slowed. Your bow hovered above the strings. Jungkook’s fingers lingered on the last piano key.

The final note faded. Quiet returned. You lowered the violin carefully. “That sounded nice,” you murmured.

Jungkook leaned back slightly on the piano bench. “You started it.”

You tilted your head. “You followed.”

He shrugged casually. “I improvise.” You smiled faintly.

That small smile lingered for a moment before fading into something more thoughtful. Your fingers traced the polished wood of the violin absentmindedly. “Do you ever get tired?” you asked softly.

Jungkook glanced at you. “Tired of what?”

“…Everything.” The word hung in the air. Your shoulders slumped slightly as you spoke again.

“Practicing. Performing. Always having to be… perfect.” Jungkook watched you quietly.

The dim light softened the usual sharpness of his features.

“My mom acts like mistakes are the end of the world,” you continued quietly. “If I miss a note, she looks at me like I’ve ruined something important.”

You laughed weakly. “I don’t even know what she’s trying to protect anymore.”

Jungkook looked down at his hands resting against the piano keys. “My parents aren’t that different.”

You blinked. “Really?”

He nodded slowly. “Piano competitions since I was seven.”

He ran a hand through his messy hair. “Every trophy. Every performance. Every award.” His voice lowered slightly. “They say it’s because they believe in me.”

You looked at him carefully. “But?” Jungkook’s lips twitched faintly.

“But sometimes it feels like they just believe in the idea of me.” Your chest tightened.

You understood that feeling far too well. For a moment the room felt heavier.

Two teenagers sitting quietly beneath expectations that felt too big for their shoulders.

Then you spoke again. “…You’re really good though.”

Jungkook looked up. “With the piano.”

You smiled gently. “Not because they expect you to be.” Your voice softened. “But because you are.”

Something shifted in his expression. Barely noticeable. But real.

The faintest warmth touched his eyes. “…Thanks,” he said quietly.

A soft knock interrupted the moment. Both of you froze instantly.

“Jungkook?” His mother’s voice. Your heart jumped into your throat. Jungkook stood immediately. You were already halfway to the window.

“Just a second!” he called calmly. Your hands fumbled slightly as you pushed the window open.

The cool night air rushed inside. Jungkook walked over quickly.

You turned toward him, ready to climb out. But he stopped you. His hand lifted gently. And before you could react—His lips touched your forehead. Soft. Light. Barely there.

Yet somehow it felt like the entire world had paused for that one small moment. Your breath caught. You had never been kissed before.

Not even something this innocent. Not even something this gentle. His voice was quiet when he pulled away. “Be careful climbing down.”

Your cheeks burned instantly. “O-okay.” You climbed through the window quickly, heart racing wildly in your chest.

The ladder felt unfamiliar beneath your feet. Your mind replayed the moment over and over again. That soft touch. That quiet warmth. That simple kiss placed so carefully against your skin.

When you finally reached the grass below, you looked up. Jungkook still stood at the window watching you. His expression calm. Gentle.

You waved awkwardly. He nodded slightly before closing the window behind him.

You crossed the yard slowly, your hand unconsciously drifting to your forehead. The place where his lips had touched. And deep inside your chest—

Something fragile and beautiful bloomed quietly. A moment so small. So innocent. Yet you already knew something with terrifying certainty.

You would remember that kiss forever. Even if the world ended tomorrow. Even if time eventually stole everything else away. That moment—That delicate, fleeting touch—

Was something you would carry with you until the very end.

The night felt unusually still. Not peaceful—just… quiet in a way that made your thoughts louder than they should be, a hollow echo chamber in the sanctuary of your room.

You lay across your bed, the cool sheets a flimsy shield against the weight of your own mind. Your laptop open in front of you, a half-written essay blinking back like a judgmental eye, a digital metronome counting down the seconds to your failure. Words sat unfinished, sentences trailing off into nothing, mirroring the paths your thoughts refused to take.

Your phone rested on the nightstand beside you, charging, a silent vessel for a world you had temporarily disconnected from. Your violin sat abandoned in the corner of the room, leaning against the soft chair like a fallen soldier, its strings silent, its body cold. For once—blessedly, terrifyingly once—you weren’t thinking about perfection. You weren’t thinking about expectations, about the crescendo of your life that always felt just out of reach. You were just… drifting. Adrift in a sea of quiet that felt less like calm and more like the eye of a storm.

Your eyes unfocused slightly as you stared at the screen, your voice barely above a whisper as you absentmindedly sang along to a song stuck in your head. Soft. Slow. Almost like a lullaby for a soul that refused to sleep. The lyrics slipped from your lips like secrets, like confessions to the moonlight. Your white nightgown flowed gently around you, the fabric light and airy against your skin—pure, almost too pure, like something untouched by the world outside your window, a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing within.

The window—wide open. Careless. Inviting. A portal to the darkness, a welcome mat for the unknown. You didn’t notice how vulnerable it made you, how the sheer curtains danced like ghosts in the faint breeze. Didn’t notice anything at all. Not until—A soft knock. Right against the windowsill. Three sharp, deliberate raps that shattered the delicate bubble of your solitude. Your voice stopped immediately, the melody dying on your lips. Your head lifted, a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming reality. And there he was. Jungkook. Framed by the night sky like he had stepped out of it, a creature born of shadow and starlight.

His dark hair fell messily across his forehead, strands shadowing eyes that held galaxies of unspoken emotion. His shirt hung loosely, half-buttoned like he hadn’t cared enough to fix it properly, revealing the sharp lines of his collarbones and the smooth, tan skin of his chest. Grey joggers sat low on his hips, casual and effortless, yet they did nothing to hide the powerful muscle of his thighs. He looked like trouble. And something softer, hidden beneath it, a vulnerability that called to the same in you. Before you could even react—he climbed inside. Like it was normal. Like your room belonged to him too, like he was simply returning to a place he had always been meant to be.

“…Jungkook?” you blinked, your voice a fragile thing.

He smiled. Soft. Almost innocent. Which didn’t match the fact that he had just entered through your window uninvited, a beautiful, beautiful thief in the night.

“What are you doing?” you asked, standing up quickly, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he walked past you, his scent—a clean, intoxicating mix of rain and something uniquely him—filling your senses. He sat down on your bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, his attention drifting to a small keychain resting near your pillow. He picked it up, turning it slowly between his fingers, his movements deliberate, mesmerizing. Your heart beat a little faster, a frantic, panicked rhythm. You moved to close the window, your back pressing lightly against it once it shut, the cool glass a stark contrast to the fire building in your veins.

Your eyes drifted back to him. To his hands. Large. Veined. Careful. The same hands that played the piano like it was second nature, that could coax beauty from ivory and ebony. The same hands that had drawn you over and over again, capturing you on paper in ways you couldn’t capture yourself. You swallowed. Why are you staring at his hands like that? Your thoughts felt… strange tonight. Unfamiliar. Dangerous. Your gaze traveled briefly—broad shoulders. Strong build. Everything about him felt… overwhelming. A force of nature you were ill-equipped to handle. You quickly looked away. Stop.

Jungkook didn’t miss it. He rarely missed anything about you. He looked tired. That was the first thing you noticed beyond everything else. There was something heavy in his expression tonight, something… unsettled. A storm cloud behind his eyes.

“Did something happen?” you asked quietly, your voice barely disturbing the thick air.

He glanced up at you. A pause. Then—“Argued with my parents.”

Your chest tightened slightly, an empathetic ache. “…About piano?”

He huffed softly, a sound devoid of humor. “What else?”

You nodded slowly, understanding the weight of that single word. Silence settled between you again. But this silence wasn’t as light as the ones before. It carried weight. Emotion. Something unspoken, a current pulling you both under. Jungkook’s eyes shifted back to you. He noticed the way you were standing there—trying to look calm, trying to ignore the way your thoughts were clearly somewhere else, somewhere deep and dark and forbidden.

A faint smirk tugged at his lips, a predator’s smile. “…What?” you asked, slightly defensive.

“Nothing,” he murmured, but the look in his eyes said otherwise. It was a look that stripped you bare, that saw through the flimsy armor of your nightgown and the fragile composure of your stance.

His hand lifted slightly. Not demanding. Not forceful. Just… there. An invitation. A summons. Your breath caught. You hesitated, a war raging within you between caution and a desperate, aching curiosity. Then slowly—you stepped toward him. Each step felt heavier than the last, each footfall a hammer blow in the suffocating silence. Your heartbeat echoed loudly in your ears, a wild, tribal rhythm.

When you finally stood in front of him, so close you could feel the heat radiating from his skin—he looked up at you. Close. Too close. His hand found yours. Warm. Grounding. Your breath hitched softly, a pathetic, needy sound. “Y/n,” he said quietly. His voice felt different tonight. Lower. Softer. A velvet caress against your senses. “Do you trust me?”

The question settled deep in your chest, a hot stone. You didn’t even think. “…Yes.”

His thumb brushed gently against your hand, a small, simple touch. But it sent something unfamiliar through you, a jolt of pure electricity that arced up your arm and settled low in your belly. Your heart raced. Your thoughts blurred. Everything felt… too real. “Are you sure?” he asked again. His voice wasn’t teasing. It was serious. Careful. Like he needed to hear it, needed your permission to break you apart and put you back together again.

You nodded, the motion jerky. “I am.”

Something shifted in his expression. The softness in his eyes hardened, replaced by a dark, possessive hunger. He stood slowly, closing the small distance between you until you were trapped between his body and the bed. Your breath caught again. You could feel the warmth of him now, feel the quiet tension in the air, a palpable thing. And then—You moved first. Leaning forward. Closing the space. Your lips met his. Soft. Hesitant. Your first kiss.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t practiced. It was unsure and gentle and filled with something neither of you fully understood yet. But it was real. Jungkook stilled for a brief moment—then responded just as softly. Careful. Like you were something fragile in his hands. His touch remained gentle. Respectful. Grounding you instead of overwhelming you. When you pulled back, your breath trembled slightly. Your heart felt like it might burst. You looked at him—really looked at him. And something inside you shifted. Because in that moment—he wasn’t just the boy next door. Not just the pianist. Not just the boy with messy hair and quiet eyes. He was your first. Your first kiss. Your first feeling of something deeper than anything you had ever known. And maybe—something far more dangerous. Because love, you were beginning to realize—didn’t come softly. It came like glass. Beautiful. Fragile. And always one wrong move away from shattering.

But his gentleness wasn’t a lie. A beautiful, cruel prelude. His hand, the one that had held yours with such reverence, moved. It didn't go to your waist, or your back. It disappeared underneath the hem of your white nightgown, a phantom in the night. You gasped, a sharp, shocked intake of air as his warm, calloused palm made contact with the cool, sensitive skin of your inner thigh. His touch was a brand, a claim. “Jungkook,” you breathed, his name a prayer and a curse on your lips.

“Shhh,” he murmured, his other hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “I’ve got you. Let me take care of you.” His words were a balm, a poison, a promise of both salvation and ruin. His hand slid higher, a slow, torturous journey up your leg, his fingers tracing patterns against your skin that made your entire body tremble.

His confession was a key turning in a lock you didn’t know existed, opening a floodgate of pure, unadulterated need. The last vestiges of your hesitation, your fear, dissolved into a pool of liquid heat. You wanted this. You wanted *him*. More than you’d ever wanted perfection, more than you’d ever wanted the approval of a world that didn’t understand you. You wanted to be ruined by him. “Then don’t just think about it,” you whispered, the words a challenge, a surrender. “Touch me.”

A dark, triumphant fire blazed in his eyes. “Oh, I will,” he promised, his voice thick with a primal satisfaction. “I’m going to touch you everywhere. I’m going to worship this body until you forget your own name.” And then his fingers pushed aside the fabric, and he touched you where you ached the most. A strangled cry escaped your lips as his thumb found your clit, circling it with a slow, deliberate pressure that stole the air from your lungs. He watched your face, his gaze intense, drinking in every flicker of pleasure, every gasp, every tremor that wracked your body. “Look at you,” he murmured, his voice laced with awe. “So beautiful when you fall apart for me.”

He sank to his knees before you, a king bowing before his queen, his hands gripping your hips to steady you. He pushed your nightgown up, bunching it around your waist, leaving you exposed to his hungry gaze.

His words were your undoing. With a cry that was half his name, half a sob, you shattered. Your orgasm ripped through you, a violent, beautiful wave of ecstasy that left you breathless and trembling. But he didn’t stop. He lapped at your release, his tongue gentle now, cleaning you, soothing you, wringing every last tremor from your body until you were a boneless, quivering mess. He rose to his feet, his chest heaving, his lips glistening with your essence. He was a god of destruction and creation, and you were his willing sacrifice.

He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the bed, laying you down against the pillows as if you were something precious. He hovered over you, his body a cage of muscle and heat, his eyes burning with a dark, possessive light. “You’re mine now,” he stated, his voice a low, possessive growl. “Do you understand?” He captured your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue plunging into your mouth, claiming you, tasting you, marking you as his own. You could taste yourself on him, a heady, intoxicating flavor that made your head spin.

He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. “I’m going to fuck you now, Y/n,” he said, his words raw, unfiltered. “I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll feel me for days. I’m going to fill you up until you can’t think of anything but me.” He shed his clothes with an impatient urgency, his body a masterpiece of sculpted muscle and smooth skin. And when he was finally bare before you, your breath caught. He was magnificent. A testament to raw, masculine power. He was a size king, and the sheer, intimidating beauty of him sent a thrill of fear and anticipation coursing through you.

He settled between your thighs, the thick, heavy weight of his cock resting against your slick entrance. He looked down at you, his expression softening for a moment, a flicker of the boy you knew beneath the beast. “Are you ready for me?” he asked, his voice a low, gentle rumble. You could only nod, your throat too tight to form words. He guided himself to your entrance, the blunt head of his cock pushing against you, stretching you, filling you in a way that was both painful and exquisitely pleasurable. He entered you in one slow, deep thrust, burying himself to the hilt. A choked gasp escaped your lips, your body arching off the bed at the sudden, overwhelming fullness.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his head dropping to your shoulder, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. “You’re so tight. So perfect. Made for me.” He began to move, his strokes slow at first, a deep, grinding rhythm that seemed to touch every nerve ending in your body. But it wasn’t enough. You needed more. You needed the storm. “Harder,” you begged, your voice a desperate, broken plea. “Jungkook, please.”

His control snapped. With a guttural roar, he unleashed the full force of his desire. His thrusts became hard, fast, brutal, driving into you with a primal intensity that stole your breath. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, a lewd, percussive beat to the symphony of your cries and his guttural groans. His hand wrapped around your throat, his grip firm but not painful, a possessive brand that made your head spin with a dizzying rush of submission and pleasure. “You like that, don’t you?” he snarled, his voice a raw, primal sound. “You like it when I fuck you like this? When I choke you and claim you?”

“Yes,” you gasped, the word a ragged, breathy affirmation. “God, yes.”

His other hand came down in a sharp, stinging slap against your clit. The sudden, jarring pain was a shockwave of pleasure, pushing you over the edge into another mind-shattering orgasm. You screamed his name, your body convulsing around him, your inner walls clamping down on his thick cock like a vise. “That’s it,” he growled, his thrusts becoming erratic, his rhythm faltering as he chased his own release. “Come for me again. Milk my cock.”

He shifted his angle, hitting a spot deep inside you that made you see stars. He was relentless, driving you into a state of overstimulation, pushing you past the point of pleasure into a realm of pure, unadulterated sensation. You were no longer a person, you were a conduit for pleasure, a vessel for his desire. “I’m going to breed you, Y/n,” he grunted, his voice a raw, possessive claim. “I’m going to fill this perfect pussy with my cum until it takes. Until you’re carrying my child.” His words were a dark, forbidden fantasy, a primal claim that sent a final, devastating wave of ecstasy crashing through you.

With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself deep inside you, his body tensing as he came, his hot release flooding you, filling you, marking you as his own. He collapsed on top of you, his body a heavy, comforting weight, his heart hammering against your chest. You lay there, tangled together, your bodies slick with sweat, your breathing ragged, the room thick with the scent of sex and satisfaction. He was still inside you, a thick, possessive presence. He lifted his head, his eyes soft, the storm in them replaced by a gentle, loving light. He brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch tender, reverent.

“You’re amazing,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Absolutely amazing.” He kissed you, a soft, gentle kiss that was a stark contrast to the brutal passion that had just consumed you both. It was a kiss of affirmation, of love, of a connection that went far beyond the physical. You were no longer just the girl next door. You were his. And as he held you in his arms, his body a warm, safe harbor in the aftermath of the storm, you knew that you would never be the same again. He had shattered you, and in the process, he had made you whole.

The silence that followed was a living thing, woven from the ragged sound of your breathing and the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against your ear. He was still inside you, a thick, possessive anchor in the wreckage of your own undoing. You felt his release, warm and profound, a tangible claim that seeped into your very bones. For a long time, neither of you spoke. Words felt like profanities in a sacred space, clumsy and inadequate for the universe that had just been born and destroyed between your bodies.

He shifted, not to leave, but to see you better. He propped himself up on an elbow, his free hand coming to rest on your cheek, his thumb stroking the damp skin there with a reverence that brought a fresh sting of tears to your eyes. The storm in his gaze had passed, leaving behind a vast, starlit sky of raw, unguarded emotion. He looked at you not as a conquest, but as a revelation.

“Y/n,” he breathed, and your name was a poem on his lips, a benediction. He slowly, carefully, withdrew from you, the loss an immediate, hollow ache. But before the emptiness could take root, he was pulling you into his arms, rolling you both until you were lying on your sides, face to face, your bodies tangled in the sheets and in each other. Your nightgown was a ruined ribbon around your waist, a forgotten casualty. He didn’t seem to notice. He only saw you.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick with an emotion that sounded dangerously like regret. “For…for the first time. I was rough. I was…selfish.”

You shook your head, your hand coming up to cup his jaw, the stubble rough against your palm. “No,” you murmured, your voice hoarse. “Don’t you dare apologize for that. I wanted it. I wanted you.” You traced the line of his bottom lip with your thumb. “But…this is different.”

“This is everything,” he corrected, his voice cracking slightly. He leaned in and kissed you, and it was a world away from the kiss that had started this. There was no hesitation, no innocence. This was a kiss of profound knowing, of shared ruin and salvation. His lips moved against yours with a desperate tenderness, a slow, deep exploration that was less about possession and more about communion. It was a kiss that said, ‘I see you. I see all of you. And I am not afraid.’

His hands began to move, not with the frantic urgency of before, but with a slow, worshipful curiosity. They roamed your body, mapping the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, the sensitive skin of your back. He was memorizing you, not with his eyes, but with his touch, committing you to a memory more permanent than paper and ink. “You’re a masterpiece,” he murmured against your lips, his words of affirmation a balm to your soul. “Every inch of you. I could spend a lifetime learning your body, and it wouldn’t be enough.”

You felt a tear escape, tracing a path down your temple. He kissed it away, his lips soft, his touch impossibly gentle. “Don’t cry,” he whispered. “Not for sadness.”

“They’re not sad tears,” you confessed, your voice trembling. “They’re…full. I feel so full, Jungkook. Like I’m going to overflow.”

“Then let go,” he urged, his hand sliding down your back to cup your ass, pulling you impossibly closer. “Overflow for me. Let me see all of it.” He rolled you onto your back again, hovering over you, but this time there was no cage, only a canopy. He supported his weight on his forearms, creating a space for you to breathe, to feel, to simply be under his adoring gaze.

He entered you again, and this time, it was not a violent claiming but a homecoming. There was no sharp pain, only a slow, exquisite stretch as he filled you, a perfect, seamless joining of two broken halves made whole. He moved within you with a devastating slowness, a deep, rolling rhythm that was less about a destination and more about the journey itself. Each thrust was a question, each retreat a promise. It was a conversation in a language older than words, a dialogue of soul and skin.

“Look at me,” he commanded softly, and when your eyes met his, you felt it—a connection so profound it was terrifying. He was not just inside your body; he was inside your mind, your heart, your very essence. “I love you,” he said, the words not a declaration, but a simple, unshakeable truth. “I think I’ve loved you since the first time I heard you play your violin. You put all the pain in the world into something beautiful. I just… I wanted to be the one to take the pain away.”

The confession shattered what was left of your composure. A sob tore from your throat, a raw, broken sound of pure, unadulterated emotion. He didn’t stop moving. He kissed your tears, he kissed your lips, he whispered your name like a mantra against your skin. His pace never faltered, a steady, relentless tide of love that was washing you clean, scouring you raw, and rebuilding you from the inside out.

This orgasm was not a violent explosion, but a slow, cresting wave. It built from a deep, resonant hum in your core, growing steadily, filling every part of you with a light so bright it was almost painful. You didn’t scream. You couldn’t. You could only cling to him, your face buried in his neck, as a profound, soul-shattering release rippled through you, a silent, beautiful agony that left you weeping and shaking in his arms.

He followed you over the edge moments later, his own release a quiet, shuddering groan against your skin. He didn’t pull out. He stayed, his body a warm, heavy weight, his arms wrapped around you like you were the most precious thing in the universe. You lay there, a tangled, weeping, beautiful mess, your bodies joined, your hearts beating in a single, fragile rhythm.

He held you until your tears subsided, until your breathing evened out, until the tremors stopped. He held you through the aftermath, through the vulnerability, through the terrifying, beautiful silence. And in the quiet of your room, with the night sky as your only witness, you knew. This wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t just love. It was a covenant. A sacred, gut-wrenching, soul-searing poetry written in sweat and tears and whispered promises. It was the beginning, and the end, and everything in between. And as you drifted to sleep in his arms, you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that you were his. Not just for tonight, but for always.

Gang can someone shout at me to practice my violin pls

I NEED the Ballad of Serenity on solo violin and I can't find it anywhere, bro

Please, I just wanna find it so I can play it — if any of yall know where to find a solo violin for it, please tell me or send it to me

I'll forever be in your debt

My babyy

Uhh new sona for the 300th time ik yall are tired of it but ye

Silly Canadian violist necromancer. He likes bugs. And he likes bones. And being a bard, thats cool too.

I think it has silly. At least theyre silly enough to hit you with their viola case.