#wacken

“Y/N! Left lane, that’s a semi-truck!” your best friend shouted, half-laughing, half-panicking as you swerved back into the middle lane. “Relax, we’ve survived four Wackens already,” you grinned, glancing at her with your sunglasses slightly askew. “What’s one more truck?”

“We’ve survived by some miracle and sheer stubbornness,” she shot back, holding onto the armrest like her life depended on it. “And this car—this poor, exhausted soul—was not built for dragging two tents, a full-size pavilion, twelve crates of beer, a portable grill, and enough food to feed a battalion!”

“Don’t forget the gothic chandelier,” you added smugly. “Oh my god. Why did you even bring that again?”

“Because atmosphere, obviously.”

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By the time you reached the dusty fields of Wacken, your voices were hoarse from singing along to Papa Roach and Sabaton, your stomachs sore from laughing too hard about absolutely nothing, and your car looking like it had been through a war zone.

The moment you drove through the gates, the familiar wave of excitement hit you both. You rolled down your window. “This is it. Holy. Ground.” Your friend let out a dramatic gasp and pressed her hand to her chest. “Take me, Odin.”

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You were lucky this year: your spot was a dream. Not too far from the toilets (but not close enough to smell them), right near a water station (but not right next to it where everyone lined up), and you were within walking distance of the Holy Ground—Wacken’s main stages. You could practically feel the bass just waiting to rattle your bones.

It was perfect.

You parked. The moment you opened the car door, gravity seemed to give up—everything spilled out: chairs, tent poles, bags, a suspiciously large jar of pickles.

The back hatch of your car swung open with a groan, immediately followed by a soft avalanche of sleeping bags, folded tarps, and one tragically crushed bag of paprika chips. You caught it with a knee and a curse, barely dodging the edge of the heavy metal cooler as it shifted dangerously.

“I told you we overpacked,” your friend mumbled from the driver’s side, already climbing out.

You snorted. “It’s not overpacking if we use everything. That’s called ‘well prepared.’”

“It’s overpacking if we can’t see through the rearview mirror, Y/N.”

You flipped her off over the roof and popped open the tent bag with a flourish.

The campground around you was already humming with early arrivals—metalheads in all forms, from spiked vests and boots to the occasional chainmail enthusiast.

To your left, a sweet-looking older couple was already halfway done setting up their modest tent. The man raised a hand in greeting. Peaceful neighbors, hopefully.

To your right, a luxurious black camper van was parked, sleek and clearly not from the same world as your dented hatchback. The windows were tinted, the door closed, but it gleamed like something off a tech showroom floor.

“Glamping at Wacken?” your friend whispered with a smirk. “Somebody’s fancy.”

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Setting up the tents went... alright. The pavilion, however, was an entirely different story. You would forgo it, if the sun couldn’t be brutal sometimes, or the rain.

“I think this pole is backwards.”

“No, you’re backwards.”

“Your face is backwards!”

You wrestled with the stubborn frame for a few sweaty minutes before realizing you needed at least two more arms and a minor miracle. You looked around, eyeing your neighbors.

“Okay, okay,” you panted. “We need help. This thing is going to be our doom.”

You looked around. The old couple was enjoying their beer and clearly not in a state to lift anything heavier than a sandwich. That left... the camper. Silver and sleek, decked out with solar panels and tinted windows, and had definitely never seen mud. It looked like something out of a sci-fi film. You could see your own reflection in the paint job. The word luxury hovered around it like an aura.

You and your friend exchanged a glance. “Shall we?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“Let’s beg the bougie space lords,” you sighed, wiping your hands on your shorts. You approached the camper and knocked twice on the door. After a brief pause, it hissed open a moment later, revealing two men—both dressed in black, both suspiciously attractive.

The one who answered the door had shoulder-length dark hair and a sleek jacket with a subtle diamond texture. He looked like he hadn’t sweated a day in his life. The second man appeared behind him, hair falling over his eyes, wearing a loose black shirt scrawled with white letters over a tank top, leather pants like it was nothing.

Your mouth opened, closed, then opened again.

“Hi,” you managed. “Sorry to bother you—our pavilion’s waging war, and we’re losing. Any chance you could help hold a pole or two before one of us gets impaled?”

The guy with the long hair raised a brow, glanced at the other, and shrugged. “Sure.”

“Yeah, no problem,” the younger tattooed one added with a small grin, stepping out into the sun with a casual stretch. “Better than just sitting around.”

“Thanks,” your friend beamed. “We owe you a beer. Or ten.”

A few minutes later, the four of you were hunched over the mangled skeleton of the pavilion. Jungkook—though you didn’t know his name yet—held up the center post while you tried to force the crossbar into place.  “So…” he said, grunting slightly as he adjusted the pole. “You two do this often?”

“Fifth Wacken,” you said proudly, bracing one foot against the cooler for leverage. “We’re veterans.”

“This whole setup’s kind of a ritual,” your friend added, sweeping a hand at your gear, your patch-covered flag staked beside the tent, and the collapsible table stacked with pre-cooked meals.

“I like it,” Jungkook said. “We’re kind of… new to this.”

You raised a brow. “No kidding. Most people don’t roll up in a tiny house on wheels.” He laughed, dimples flashing. “Yeah, we weren’t sure what to expect.” You gestured toward the nearly-complete pavilion, sweat already beading down your neck. “This thing’s a lifesaver. Might not look like much, but once the rain hits—and it will hit—or the sun decides to turn us into roast pigs, we can still survive. Some shade. Some cover. A little windbreak. It’s not glamorous, but it works.”

Yoongi—still a mystery to you—stepped back and crossed his arms, surveying the half-standing structure. “Smart,” he said simply. “I didn’t even think about sun protection.”

“That’s because you brought the Millennium Falcon,” your friend muttered.

“I heard that,” Yoongi replied, not even looking at her. You laughed, finally clicking the last piece into place with a triumphant grunt. “You guys must be pros at something. This came together way faster with help.”

“We’re good at… logistics,” Jungkook said vaguely. “And disappearing,” Yoongi added, voice dry. “We were told this place was chaos. Thought we’d blend in.”

“You probably will,” you said, giving them both a lingering look as you hung the gothic chandelier into the middle. “Unless one of you secretly headlines the main stage.”

They both paused—just for a second.

Then Jungkook smiled again. “Nope. Just fans of loud music.”

“Well, in that case,” your friend said, cracking open a cold beer and holding it out like an offering, “welcome to Wacken.”

Despite the pavilion fiasco and the blazing sun trying to melt everyone alive, things were settling in nicely. You and your friend slipped smoothly into your usual festival routine—decades of metal shows and chaotic outdoor setups had made you two an efficient duo. While you chatted with your unexpected helpers and learned their names, you were also simultaneously:

Shoving your rolled sleeping bags into the tent with your foot.

Tossing your clothes into the corner on top of the foam mats.

Spreading an extra blanket across the bottom for comfort and insulation.

Setting up your foldable table and clicking your camping chairs into place like it was second nature.

You cracked a beer open, handed another one to Yoongi and one to Jungkook, who accepted them with surprised little smiles. The kind that said “Oh… you’re really being nice?”—like they hadn’t expected this level of relaxed hospitality from random strangers.

“Cheers,” you said, lifting your can.

“Cheers,” they echoed, clinking aluminum with hesitant amusement.

The conversation flowed easily—well, mostly on your and Jungkook’s side. He was more talkative, curious, full of little observations about the crowd and the energy of the campground. Yoongi mostly nodded, sipped his beer, and made the occasional deadpan comment that had you snorting into your drink.

Eventually, once the most important parts of camp were in order and the sun had shifted just enough to make moving less miserable, you stood up and stretched. “I’m gonna grab water,” you said to your friend, jerking a thumb over your shoulder. “Handcart’s in the car still, yeah?”

“Yep. Same place as last year.” You moved to get the little foldable cart from its place in the car, and Jungkook blinked at you. “Wait. You’re going to get water now?”

“Yeah?” You glanced back, puzzled. “Before the queues get ridiculous.”

Yoongi frowned slightly. “There’s… no water hookup?”

Your brow creased. “Not unless you pre-register for one of the premium mega-camps. They get those huge 100-liter tanks delivered, but the rest of us? Nah, it’s the refill stations or nothing.” They both stared at you like you’d just told them they had to milk a goat for hydration.

“I thought we’d just… get piping or something later,” Jungkook muttered to Yoongi in Korean, trying to keep it low. “Or pay someone,” Yoongi whispered back.

You, completely unaware of the whispering, went on cheerfully, “There’s a decent shop area just before the Holy Ground, usually with some water canisters left if you’re lucky. I can show you if you want?”

There was a pause.

Yoongi looked… quietly alarmed. Like he was calculating how many liters of water two grown men needed per day and realizing he hadn’t brought a single bottle. Your friend just stared at them both, one hand dramatically on her forehead, muttering, “Of all things not to think about... water?”

Jungkook looked at you. Really looked at you. There was a strange flicker in his eyes—like you’d just offered him shelter from a storm. His mouth tugged into a small, sheepish smile. “If it’s not too much trouble,” he said softly.

“Not at all,” you grinned. “Let’s go.”

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The two of you made your way through the chaotic footpaths between tents, dodging a guy in a unicorn onesie carrying a box of Jägermeister and a woman wearing nothing but leather straps and sunscreen. The festival was in full pre-opening chaos, with people dragging crates, testing out speakers, yelling for lost friends.

Jungkook kept close to your side, pulling the handcart while you led the way like a seasoned general. “You really come here every year?” he asked as you passed the massive Wacken entrance arch. “Yep. Rain, shine, or ankle-deep mud. Even the year everything flooded and we build a trench around the tent with a camping spoon.”

He laughed, genuinely. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious. That was the same year the refill station was about a mile away. We didn’t have this cart back then, so we had to carry our water—carry, like peasants. I had 10 liters strapped to each arm, sweating like a sinner in church.” Jungkook was grinning now, eyes crinkling at the corners. “And you still came back?”

“Oh yeah,” you said easily. “Wacken’s a pilgrimage.” He nodded slowly, and you caught him glancing at you now and then like he was trying to figure something out.

You found a shop vendor you trusted, and after some cheerful haggling (and giving up your remaining paprika chips), you helped Jungkook snag two solid 20-liter canisters.

Back on the path, you showed him how to load them into the handcart for balance. “You really know what you’re doing,” he said, impressed. You shrugged. “You learn or you suffer.”

There was a little silence. Not awkward—more thoughtful.

Then you turned to him, head tilting. “Sorry if this is weird, but… do I know you from somewhere?” you asked suddenly. “You look super familiar.” Jungkook froze mid-step. He blinked once. “Uh… I don’t think so?” You narrowed your eyes, not convinced, but let it drop.

“Huh. Weird. You’ve just got that… familiar vibe, I guess.”

He chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “Must be my face.”

“Could be,” you said lightly, letting the conversation slide back into safer territory. “So what bands are you most excited for?” Jungkook visibly relaxed. “Machine Head. And maybe Gojira, if the schedule lines up.”

“Oh, hell yeah,” you grinned. “You’ve got taste.”

And so the two of you kept chatting, dragging 60 liters of water through dust and chaos, your laughter mixing with the distant sound of someone already playing a guitar solo on a portable amp. Neither of you mentioned that strange moment again.

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As the two of you returned to camp, the sun had finally dipped behind the trees, casting the festival grounds in that warm, golden twilight that made everything look like the calm before the storm. The dust from the footpaths still hovered in the air like fog, and the low thrum of distant soundchecks vibrated through the earth beneath your boots.

When you reached your little setup, your friend and Yoongi had already taken charge of dinner, much to your surprise. “You’re back just in time,” your friend said, crouched over the camp stove, flipping something sizzling in a pan. “We’ve got veggies and noodles, and yes, I seasoned it this time.”

“Luxury,” you grinned. “How’d you get him to help?” Jungkook added, nodding at Yoongi, who was calmly chopping something with the focus of a man who cooked to survive. “I bribed him with gummy worms,” she deadpanned. Yoongi lifted an eyebrow. “And silence.”

Soon the food was served, warm and salty in the best kind of way. You all ate cross-legged around the little foldable table with mismatched bowls and tin mugs, drinking another round of beer as the camplights around you lit up the dark like flickering stars. Music blasted from a few nearby tents, competing genres and tempos overlapping in a chaotic harmony only a metal festival could love.

The atmosphere was casual, loud, ridiculous—and perfect.

You played some card games, mostly ones that didn’t require real rules. Someone nearby had a soap bubble machine going. Another guy walked by in a full suit of armor and shouted “Viking funeral at midnight!” like it was a totally normal thing.

You laughed until your cheeks hurt.

As the night deepened, your friend stretched and yawned, her eyes glassy from laughter and beer. “I’m calling it. Tomorrow’s gonna be chaos, and I need sleep if I wanna survive the beer yoga and not die.”

Yoongi was already halfway to the camper. “Same. Wake me if someone lights a flare indoors.”

“Not again,” you groaned. And just like that, it was quiet.

Only you and Jungkook remained under the canopy, the light from your camp lantern casting soft shadows across his face as he leaned back in his chair, long legs stretched out, half-finished beer resting loosely in his hand. He looked incredibly at ease—but not bored. His gaze kept flicking toward you whenever he thought you weren’t paying attention.

You stood up with a stretch, your arms reaching high above your head. “Time to do the glamorous teeth-brushing-at-a-water-station ritual,” you said, grabbing your hygiene bag and flashlight. “Ah, yes. True festival luxury,” Jungkook chuckled. “You get to do it in a camper. With a sink,” you added dramatically, mock-offended. He grinned. “I know. I almost feel guilty.”

“Don’t. You’ve earned it just by not complaining once about pulling our water wagon.” That made him laugh, and the sound was warm, low, and genuine. It did something strange to your chest. He stood too, dusting his pants off. “Well… good night.”

You hesitated for just a second. “Yeah. Sleep well, Jungkook. Thanks for hanging out.”

“Thanks for… everything,” he said quietly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Really.” There was a pause. Not awkward. Just… full. And warm. Then you turned, flashlight beam bouncing ahead of you as you walked toward the water stations, brushing your teeth to the soundtrack of someone playing Iron Maiden too loud and a couple drunkenly arguing about tent poles.

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Jungkook stayed behind, staring at where you disappeared into the dark. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He was glad you hadn’t recognized him.

When you’d tilted your head and asked if he looked familiar, his heart had stopped. But then you’d let it go, and he’d never been more grateful in his life. He liked being here like this—just Jungkook. Not the guy on stage. Not the idol. Just some dude in the dust with a cheap beer and a camp chair, talking to a girl who felt strangely magnetic from the moment he met her.

You were easy to talk to. Genuinely funny. And kind without any showiness about it. And there was something else, too.

It was how unbothered you were. How natural. Like you had no interest in pretending to be anything other than exactly who you were. That, more than anything, had caught Jungkook’s attention. He could still hear your laugh echoing in his ears as he turned and finally made his way toward the camper, the quiet crunch of gravel under his boots the only sound in the dark space between tents.

He hadn’t expected this. But he was glad he came after all.

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The morning sun spilled across your tent in streaks of gold and heat, waking you with the unmistakable sound of a hangover groan from your friend.

“Coffee… is needed,” she mumbled into her sleeping bag, barely visible aside from a dramatic hand flopped over her eyes. You chuckled and stretched before crawling out of the tent, already feeling the stickiness of dust on your skin. After some half-hearted brushing of teeth and shoving on yesterday’s hoodie, the two of you decided to hit the little farmer’s market that had popped up along the back end of the camping grounds.

It was a Wacken tradition at this point—buying fresh bread still warm from the oven, locally cured meats, spiced cheese, tomatoes so red they looked fake, and whatever strange but delicious-looking thing someone was grilling under a handmade sign.

By the time you returned to your camp hours later, the sun had shifted lower in the sky. You had bags of ingredients in your arms, plus some obscure metal band patches your friend insisted on sewing into her vest before the concerts started. Your legs were tired but your mood was light. The buzz of anticipation for the next day—the opening of the holy ground—had started crackling in the air.

As you rounded the corner to your tent, the sleek black camper next door suddenly hissed as its door swung open. Almost like it had been waiting.

Jungkook stepped out.

He looked like he’d just finished changing, a loose tank hanging off one shoulder and his dark hair still damp and curling slightly from a quick rinse. He paused mid-step when he saw you, and for a heartbeat, he looked almost startled.

“Oh—hey! You’re back,” he said, his voice a little too bright, his words overlapping slightly like he wasn’t sure which greeting to land on. You smiled, lifting your grocery bag in greeting. “Hey, neighbor. Miss me?”

He blinked, then laughed—sheepish and warm. “...A little.” You quirked a brow. Cute. Dorky and cute. “Well,” you said, dropping the bag onto your fold-out table, “since you're here and still alive, dinner together again?”

Jungkook lit up. “Definitely.”

Later, the four of you gathered again around your modest table under the pavilion. Your friend cooked while Yoongi cut more vegetables in eerie silence that somehow screamed “deep thoughts.” Jungkook helped you sort utensils and drinks, a calm rhythm to it all as twilight began to settle over the camp.

You were seated cross-legged in your chair, chewing a tomato slice, when your friend asked, “Are you guys ready for the chaos tomorrow?”

“Oh,” you perked up, grabbing your crumpled band timetable from your jacket pocket. “Let’s compare. I need to plan or I’ll miss everything.” Jungkook and Yoongi exchanged a look before digging out their own schedule, three schedules side by side, the chaos of overlapping bands and clashing stages staring back at you like a logistical puzzle.

“Okay, so I definitely want to see Rotting Dreams and Ashbone,” you said, circling two sets with your finger. “What about you? Do you guys have overlap?” Jungkook tilted his online timetable to compare. “Yeah—same here. But then I want to see August burns red during the overlap with Within Temptation. That’s gonna suck.”

“I’m skipping Within Temptation for Beyond the Black,” Yoongi muttered, tapping his phone decisively. You sat back, considering the layout in your mind. “So not all of our choices match up… but some. We could go together to the bands we all want to see.” Jungkook nodded. “Makes sense. More fun that way, too.”

“Yeah, but finding people in the crowd’s a nightmare,” Yoongi pointed out. Your friend perked up and said brightly, “Then we should just swap numbers. Makes it way easier.” She was already pulling out her phone when you noticed it—the subtle shift across the table.

Yoongi went still, his eyes flicking briefly to Jungkook. A moment passed between them, silent and compact, like they were exchanging a whole conversation with a single look. You weren’t sure what it was—hesitation? Concern? Caution?

Your brows lifted slightly, the shift in their energy not lost on you. But you didn’t want to make it awkward. “I mean,” you said lightly, offering a small shrug, “no pressure. We can always just agree on a meeting point and time beforehand. We just have to be smart about not getting swallowed by the sea of metalheads.”

Yoongi opened his mouth—you could see the polite refusal forming already, lips parting in that diplomatic rhythm—but Jungkook jumped in before he could speak.

“I’ll give you mine,” Jungkook said suddenly.

His voice was steady, but the speed gave it away. It was like ripping off a bandage—fast, slightly awkward, but committed—like he was worried the chance would vanish. His tone was calm, measured, but you noticed the faint flush creeping up his neck. “I mean… sticking to a place and time might get tricky. If one of us is running late or gets held up, it’s kind of a pain to wait around pointlessly. It’s better to just message.” There was something warm and sincere about the way he said it. Practical, sure—but also a little hopeful.

Yoongi looked at him for a long second—hard to read, but definitely calculating something.

You offered your phone to Jungkook without comment. He took it, typed his number in, then hesitated a second before giving you your phone back to save his contact.

You smiled to yourself as you saved the contact: JUNGKOOK (WACKEN WARRIOR 🤘)

He leaned forward to look. “Did you just call me a warrior?”

“Would you rather ‘Camper King’? Or maybe ‘Water Rookie’?”

That got a real laugh out of him, his eyes crinkling slightly. “Nooo. Don’t spread that story.”

“Too late,” your friend said, sipping her beer. “It’s legend now.”

That got a full laugh from him, low and warm. “I’ll take Warrior then. Sounds cooler.” Jungkook smiled, his eyes lingering on you for a beat longer than necessary. And even though your friend kept chatting, and Yoongi had returned to scribbling something on his schedule, there was a quiet charge between you and Jungkook now—something unspoken and just beginning to build.

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The first day on the Holy Ground was chaos. The best kind.

You’d had a quick breakfast with your friend, coffee steaming in mismatched mugs, cereal in plastic bowls, already buzzing with adrenaline. Jungkook and Yoongi joined you later, fresh from their camper, looking too clean, too rested, like they hadn’t been swallowed yet by the storm that was Wacken.

Together, you stepped onto the sacred dirt.

It hit them immediately. The noise. The press of bodies. The thick scent of beer, sweat, and damp earth. The sound of guitars tuning up like battle cries. Flags fluttering. Spikes glinting in the sun. Boots stomping in rhythm. The Holy Ground breathed metal.

Jungkook’s eyes were wide behind his sunglasses. Yoongi tilted his head like he couldn’t quite process what he was seeing. Or hearing.

You grinned.

They were rookies. Not just to Wacken—but to metal. You saw it in how they looked around too long. How they flinched when someone screamed “Slayer!” right next to them. How they held their beers like breakable glass, instead of as shields in a sonic warzone. You weren’t a mosher, never had been. But this? Their confusion? It was almost adorable.

Still, they had fun.

Especially Yoongi, when a band hit the stage with a vicious metal/rap fusion that had the crowd thrashing. His eyes lit up. His mouth moved with the lyrics. He was bouncing on his heels, fists clenched, nodding hard. That joy—real, raw joy—was something you weren’t expecting from the quiet one.

The day spun by in dust and distortion.

You split up before the last band block. Yoongi and Jungkook wanted to see Iron Fang. Your friend had wandered off to catch the Wacken Firefighters and get drenched in foam. You headed toward a smaller stage for a niche band you'd been dying to see.

You would meet up with them later. It was easy to have some down time here.

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By the time you found Jungkook and Yoongi again near the big stage, the sky was a bruised purple. The air buzzed with static before the lights hit. The crowd was gathering fast. It was crowded heavy, with way to many people trying to see the band.

Jungkook stepped closer, just enough that his presence was a shield. Not hovering. Just there.

He bumped your shoulder with his. “Stay close.”

So you did.

The lights exploded. The speakers roared. You let yourself be pulled into the sound, into the crowd, into the thrum of bass that shook your bones. You stood between Jungkook and Yoongi as the lights flooded the stage. The band tore into their first song, and the crowd moved like a living, thrashing sea.

You didn’t care about anything else.

The boys were fun to watch. Jungkook had this subtle bounce to his shoulders, barely noticeable unless you looked for it. Yoongi nodded along to the beat, eyes scanning the stage with quiet interest, the occasional smirk curling his mouth when something surprised him.

The three of you didn’t speak much. Just stood in the sound. Let it hold you.

After the show, the walk back to camp was calm, almost quiet—except for the wind. The temperature had dropped fast under the stars. You zipped your hoodie higher, arms wrapped around your chest. Boots crunching in the gravel, tents glowing faintly in the dark.

Jungkook watched you when you weren’t looking.

Your friend had skipped the last concert. Met up with other friends, said she’d be fine. And yeah, of course, you didn’t need to be glued together. But still. Jungkook found himself drifting closer to you as you walked. Not close enough to be weird. Just... near. Just in reach.

You and Yoongi had fallen into easy conversation—some debate about a setlist, or whether the second band of the day had botched their live mix. Yoongi was sharp, sarcastic, dry. You were more animated, gesturing with your hands, laughing when he made a face.

And Jungkook just listened. Not to the words—but to you. How your voice moved. How it warmed, even in the dark.

Back at camp, you wasted no time. Grabbed your hygiene kit and turned toward the water stations, hoodie pulled tight, your flashlight flicking on as the gravel crunched underfoot.

But before you got too far—

“Wait.” Jungkook stepped forward, hand raised. You blinked at him, confused. “What?”

“I’ll walk you,” he said, voice casual, but his eyes didn’t match. Too serious. Too still. You tilted your head, surprised. “I’m fine. Really. I’ve done this walk a hundred times.” His jaw flexed. “I know. Still. Its late.” There was something under his voice.

You hesitated. Then you nodded. “Okay.”

Yoongi, standing by the camper door, lifted a brow. A slow, knowing look. Then he slipped inside without a word. The walk was quiet at first. Lights from the tents made strange shadows, and the night air had a bite to it. Jungkook kept pace beside you, his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, head low.

A beat of silence passed. Then—

“What do you do?” you asked. “You know. When you’re not out of place at a metal festival.” He laughed—caught off guard, deep and low. “That obvious, huh?” You smiled. “Little bit.”

“I... travel a lot. Work with music,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Behind the scenes. Some writing. Producing. I guess I live kind of weird. Not a lot of nine-to-five in my life.”

“Sounds freeing.”

“It is. But... sometimes I wish I could just show up somewhere like this and be.” He didn’t say what he meant. But you could feel it. Like he wanted to tell you something just out of reach. “And you?” he asked, eyes on you now. “What do you do when you’re not fighting your pavilion and dragging rookies into mosh pits?”

You laughed. “University. Economics, believe it or not. Numbers and theories. Metal’s more fun, though.”

“Smart and metal?” he said, playful. “Dangerous combo.” Your eyes met. For a second, the path behind you and the stars above didn’t exist. Just the two of you. The breath between words. You reached the water stations.

“I’ll wait here,” he said, voice a little softer now. “Thanks, I will be quick.”

You emerged from the wash station, face clean, teeth brushed, skin chilled by the night air. Jungkook was still there, leaning against a wooden post, arms crossed loosely. He straightened when he saw you, falling into step without a word as you both headed back to camp.

The path glowed faintly under your flashlight. Tents loomed like sleeping beasts in the dark. Somewhere in the distance, someone was still blasting a leftover guitar solo, tinny and defiant against the quiet.

A soft chime broke the air. Both your phones buzzed at once.

You pulled yours out, thumb brushing the screen. “Storm warning tomorrow,” you read aloud. “Rain, maybe thunder. Be ready to shelter in your car. Or ask fellow metalheads if you don’t have one.” Jungkook glanced at his own screen. “Storm?”

You nodded, lifting your chin to gesture around you. “Open fields. Metal flagpoles. Not exactly ideal during lightning.” Realization flickered across his face. He looked around—really looked now. At the vast sprawl of tents. The sea of poles stabbing into the sky. Then to your little car by the edge of your camp. Then to his and Yoongi’s camper, and the other vehicles around them.

You smiled, half fond, half teasing. “It’s actually kinda fun. Scary too, sure. But when the rain’s pounding on the roof, and you’re stuck with people... there’s this weird calm. Like you’re sealed into a world apart.” He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you. Really looked.

His eyes were a little wide. Like he hadn’t expected that kind of thought from you. Or maybe he hadn’t expected you to smile at the storm. Softly—“You’ve done this before?” You nodded. “Two years ago. Rain hit like a drumline. We were stuck in the car for hours, watching lightning crawl across the sky. It was... kind of beautiful.”

The wind stirred your jacket. Cold brushed your skin. You reached your tent. His camper was a few meters off. “Well,” you said, stepping back, voice warm but quiet. “Good night. Sleep well.”

You hesitated, just a breath. Then stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him. Quick. Gentle. But real. He stiffened for half a second—surprised. His breath caught. You pulled away just as fast, smiling up at him. “Thanks again.”

And then you slipped into your tent, zip rustling softly in the dark. Jungkook stood there. Stunned. Your warmth still on his chest. That brief press of closeness branded into him like heat. He blinked. Looked down at his hands like they might’ve missed something. He wished he’d held onto you. Just a second longer. He turned, quietly walked to the camper. Opened the door.

Yoongi was already passed out, one arm flung over his face, the faint hum of the small fan the only sound inside. Jungkook slipped in, lowered himself onto his bed in the corner. His heart still beat a little too fast.

The tent outside was quiet.

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You'd been lucky all day. The sky had threatened—low, grey, heavy with promise—but the rain held off. Instead, the wind cooled your skin, and the clouds kept the sun from burning through your clothes. It was the kind of weather that let you dance without sweating buckets. You could breathe. You could move. You could feel the music without being drowned in heat.

After hours of noise and chaos, you finally had a break. A two-hour gap before the next band you wanted to see. You’d planned it carefully: head back to camp, get real food—something that didn’t come wrapped in foil or served with lukewarm fries—and grab your hoodie for the night.

Yoongi had peeled off already, something about catching a niche band with distorted vocals and an industrial set. Your friend was off again too, somewhere on the other side of the grounds, but she kept sending texts and blurry pictures, so at least you knew she hadn’t been kidnapped by the Vikings or accidentally joined a medieval metal cult.

Jungkook, surprisingly, hadn’t planned to leave the holy ground at all. But when you mentioned heading back, he looked at his phone, then back at you, and said—

“I’ll come with.” Simple. Like it didn’t mean anything. But it made your chest tighten just a little. The walk back was quieter. Less screaming fans. Just the soft crunch of boots over trampled grass. Jungkook matched your steps without trying. When you glanced at him, he was watching the sky.

Back at camp, the place felt almost serene.

Your car sat waiting like a loyal dog, dusted with pollen and dirt. The pavilion overhead—your pride and nemesis—stood tall. It had tried to kill you during setup, almost decapitating your friend when the wind caught it wrong. But now it stood strong, defiant against the weather.

You pulled out your tiny stove, popped the lid, poured water into the pot. The hiss of gas and the gentle roar of flame filled the silence. Jungkook dropped into a camp chair with a low sigh, stretching out his legs. He looked more relaxed than he had all day. You watched the water bubble. Steam curled into the air.

Then—plip. One drop. Then two. Plip. Plip. Plip. Rain.

You both froze for half a second. It wasn’t heavy yet. Just a drizzle. Soft fingers tapping against the canvas above. But the air shifted. The scent of wet grass and cooling earth rolled in.

“Damn,” you muttered, reaching for the ramen packs. Jungkook tilted his head up, watching the water collect and roll off the sides of the pavilion. “Good timing,” he said, voice low, almost impressed. You grinned. “This stupid pavilion was almost worth the blood sacrifice it took to get it up.”

He laughed—sharp, real, teeth showing.

The wind picked up slightly, making the plastic sides flutter. The camp felt distant from the chaos now. Just the two of you, the stove, the sound of rain tapping rhythm on canvas. For a second, it felt like the rest of the world had stepped back to give you a moment.

The water boiled. You dumped the noodles in, added seasoning, stirred with a half-melted plastic fork. Jungkook leaned in, his arm brushing yours briefly. Not enough to call it intentional. But enough that you felt it. He didn’t move away.

The rain came steady now—tapping against the canvas roof in a rhythmic pitter-patter, soft but constant. You sat beneath the shelter of your stubborn pavilion, steam from your ramen curling into the cool air like smoke signals. Jungkook sat cross-legged beside you, bowl balanced in one hand, chopsticks in the other. The world felt distant, muffled by rain and canvas. A pocket of peace.

You both ate in comfortable silence. The food was simple—salty broth, slick noodles—but it tasted like heaven after a long day of sweat, dirt, and loud music. Warmth pooled in your belly. You leaned back in your chair with a contented sigh.

Then, the wind came.

A single strong gust slammed into the pavilion like a shoulder. The table rocked hard—nearly tipping your empty bowls. You jumped, catching the edge just in time.

“Shit,” you muttered, standing fast. The wind picked up again—restless, urgent, almost alive. Jungkook was already on his feet, eyes scanning the flapping corners of the canopy. He didn’t ask questions. Just moved.

You moved, too. Fast.

You tossed the table and chairs into your tent without folding them properly—just cramming them in dry. Your stove came next, packed away with shaking fingers. The wind howled louder, tugging at everything not nailed down. You ducked low, moved quickly, began unhooking the legs of the pavilion to lower the whole thing before it flew straight into another camp.

Jungkook came up beside you without a word, grabbing the other side. His movements were strong, precise. Together, you collapsed the legs one by one, the metal groaning in protest.

And then—crack.

Thunder. It rolled deep, like the growl of some ancient beast crawling out of the sky.

A second later, both your phones buzzed at once. A notification from the Wacken app lit up your screen: ⚠️ Incoming storm. Seek shelter. Concerts paused. Stay in your vehicle or find a safe indoor location.

You looked up at the open field around you, as you closed your tent to keep the rain out. Flagpoles. Empty tents. Metal frames. “Perfect lightning rods,” you mumbled under your breath, heart kicking up a notch.

Jungkook's eyes flicked between your tent, your car, and the sky. Then without a word, he stepped closer, hand wrapping gently but firmly around your arm. Not forceful. But there was no question—he meant for you to follow.

“Jungkook, I can just—”

He tugged once, already pulling you with him toward the camper. Rain soaked the ground, turning dirt to mud as you both sprinted the few meters across the campsite. You tried not to slip, hoodie pulled low over your head, eyes squinting against the sheets of rain now falling faster, heavier.

Then—you were at the camper door.

Jungkook opened it fast and shoved you gently inside, one hand guiding your lower back. The warmth hit immediately. Dry air. Solid ground. A faint scent of citrus and something clean—maybe fabric softener. You stumbled in, breathless, heart still racing. Jungkook followed, shutting the door hard behind him. The sound of rain drummed against the roof now, angry and wild. Lightning flashed white against the tinted window. Thunder cracked close behind it.

“Thanks,” you breathed, wiping water off your face. He nodded. His hair was slightly messy from the wind but otherwise dry. He hadn't let the rain touch him much. Or you.

“I could’ve waited it out in my car,” you added, quieter. “I don’t want to bother you.” He looked at you like you’d just told him you believed the Earth was flat. “Bother?” he repeated, voice low, almost incredulous. “Why the hell would you bother me?” You blinked. Heat crawled up your neck.

Before either of you could say more, your phone buzzed again. A message from your friend.

"Safe! Sheltering with the concert group. Their car was way closer. Stay warm!! ❤️"

You smiled softly and texted back quickly. Another buzz—this time from Jungkook’s phone. He glanced at it, then said simply, “Yoongi’s good too. Found a place to wait it out.” You nodded. That was a relief. You didn’t ask where. Jungkook didn’t elaborate. He and Yoongi had booked also a hotel room, just in case. But he didn’t bring it up. To avoid showing off. He didn’t want to give you another reason to try and place his face.

And god—you had seen him before. Somewhere. A music video? A poster? An old festival lineup?You pushed the thought away. You peeled off your hoodie and shoes, setting them neatly aside. Jungkook offered you a blanket from the small overhead compartment. You accepted it with a soft thanks, settling into the cushioned bench across from him.

Warm. Safe. Dry.

Outside, the storm raged like the world was cracking in two. But in here—it was calm. Soft light. Subtle hum of power. A quiet between you. Jungkook leaned back in his seat, long legs stretched out, head resting against the side wall of the camper. He watched you for a second too long. Not creepy. Not possessive.

Just… watching.

Like he was trying to make sense of something in you.

Or in himself.

You sat tucked into the corner of Jungkook’s camper, knees drawn to your chest, wrapped in the soft fleece blanket he’d handed you. The hum of the small generator filled the silence between thunderclaps, a gentle reminder of comfort in chaos. A warm light above flickered slightly as the storm howled outside—wind screaming, rain slamming like fists on the camper roof. Lightning split the sky in wild flashes, each followed by a low, rolling boom of thunder that vibrated through your bones.

You checked your phone again. The Wacken app loaded slowly. A storm alert still sat at the top of the screen. You refreshed the weather app. It didn’t look good. The dark red blob of the storm stretched wide, unmoving.

You sighed. “I’m hope I still get to see some bands tonight,” you muttered, rubbing your face. “If not that would suck.”

“Yeah,” Jungkook replied from the opposite bench, his voice low, warm. “But you’d have been soaked in your car. Alone.” You looked at him—hair pushed back, hoodie sleeves rolled up, a faint smile playing on his lips. He wasn’t wrong. “Thanks again,” you murmured. “I’m really glad you pulled me along.” He just nodded, eyes meeting yours with something unreadable behind them. Something softer.

He grabbed the remote and flipped through a small collection of downloaded movies on the camper's screen. Basic power, basic comfort—but compared to your car? This was luxury. “Oh my god,” you laughed, sitting up straighter. “You and Yoongi are so bougie. A whole-ass camper? With power? A TV? You brought a blanket that’s softer than my bed at home.”

Jungkook snorted, glancing back at you over his shoulder. “You want to talk about bougie?” he shot back. “I saw your cooler. You brought fancy oat milk.”

“That’s survival-grade equipment,” you said, deadpan. “Not luxury.” He grinned at that. His dimple flashed. A moment passed. “Where did you guys get this camper?” you asked, eyes narrowing. “It’s suspiciously perfect. Like—too perfect.”

He shrugged. “Rented it.”

“From where? NASA?” He chuckled but didn’t offer more. You squinted at him. “You deflect like someone used to hiding expensive purchases from their parents.” Jungkook just shook his head, still smiling as he browsed through the small list of downloaded movies, head tilted, eyes scanning the titles with exaggerated seriousness.

Finally, he gave a small, satisfied nod. “This one,” he said, selecting something without much fanfare. You didn’t even check what it was. Just shifted over to the bench seat that had the best view of the camper’s little screen. It was cozy and narrow, the cushions slightly worn but warm from where you’d sat earlier.

Jungkook joined you a second later, moving with the quiet grace he always carried. He sat down beside you—not close, not far. Just there. Present. Your knees were almost touching. Without thinking much, you reached for the blanket he’d handed you earlier, and as he settled in, you tossed the corner of it over his lap. Like it was the most normal thing in the world.

He didn’t react. Didn’t joke or fidget. Just pulled it a little higher on his legs, adjusting without a word. The movie began. Some action-adventure you half-remembered. Thunder cracked overhead, a sharp burst that rattled the walls. Rain drummed on the roof, insistent and steady. Jungkook sat still beside you, arms crossed lightly, one foot tucked under the bench.

At first.

Over time—slowly, subtly—he shifted. You barely noticed it happening. One lean during a funny scene. A slow slide closer as the blanket tugged. His thigh brushed yours lightly. Then stayed. Your eyes flicked to him once, but his were on the screen. Calm. Focused. But his arm now rested just behind you, barely touching the backrest.

Warmth radiated from him in waves.

Another thunderclap. You flinched a little this time. He didn’t say anything, but his shoulder bumped yours again, more deliberate now. You let it happen.

The storm outside hadn’t let up. If anything, it had gotten worse. The wind howled like something alive—something furious—snapping at the camper’s walls and making the metal groan. Every few minutes, thunder cracked so loud it shook the cabinets. A fork rattled in the sink.

But inside?

It was warm. Safe. A soft pocket of light and breath, thick blanket shared between you, your legs brushing under the fabric. The small screen flickered with half-forgotten explosions from the movie, sound turned down to a soft hum—just enough to make the silence feel less fragile.

You weren’t watching.

Not really.

Your eyes wandered. To the condensation gathering along the camper windows. To the slow, measured rise and fall of Jungkook’s chest beside you. He sat beside you—silent, steady. He didn’t hover or push. He was just… there. His presence warm like a fire without flames. His fingers were resting on his thigh, calm, save for the gentle motion of his thumb grazing a loose thread from the blanket.

Another flash of lightning ripped across the sky—so bright it lit up the inside of the camper like a camera flash. A beat later, thunder followed. Loud. Cracking. Close.

Your phone buzzed.

Wacken App Notification:⚠️ All remaining concerts cancelled for the day. Storm conditions expected to continue through the night.

You stared at the screen, jaw tight. Your stomach sank. Three bands you'd been dying to see—gone. Canceled. You’d been waiting all year to see one of them. Disappointment curled in your chest like smoke—but under it was something else. Heavier. Dread.

But that wasn’t the worst part. Your thoughts went to your car. The cramped back seat. Cold air leaking in through the doors. Windows fogging up. Rain hammering on the roof as you tried to sleep half-curled in damp clothes. Thunder jerking you awake every time. Alone.

You hadn’t even said anything yet—hadn’t made a move to get up—when Jungkook’s voice cut through the quiet. “You can just sleep here.”  He said it softly. Without looking at you. Like it was nothing. Like it made perfect sense , like he hadn’t just offered you something huge.

Your head turned toward him, blinking.

He wasn’t watching the screen anymore—his gaze rested somewhere near the corner of the small camper, far off. Casual. But there was something in the way he spoke. Calm, but sure. The way someone offers something they’ve already decided they want to give.

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

At that moment, Jungkook’s phone lit up too—just briefly. A message from Yoongi. He read it, locked the screen. Didn’t mention the hotel room Yoongi had decided to crash in. Didn’t say they’d booked it months ago—just in case the camping experience wasn’t for them. Didn’t tell you they’d dropped more on that hotel than some people paid for their entire week at Wacken.

Instead, he said simply, “Yoongi found a place to crash too. He’s good.” Nothing more. No flex. No explanation. Just reassurance. Another flash of lightning. Another snarl of thunder, this one close enough to make your bones feel it.

And then—buzz.

Your phone again. This time, your friend. “People I watched the show with are letting me stay in their van for the night. Looks like no more concerts anyway 💀 stay safe!!”

You exhaled, tension bleeding from your shoulders. Relief hit hard and fast. She was safe. Thank god. “Thanks,” you murmured, turning slightly to face him. “For letting me stay.” Jungkook gave a faint nod. “It’s no trouble.” He nodded, almost like he didn’t trust himself to say anything more back.

Without really thinking, you leaned in. Rested your head gently against his shoulder.

The fabric of his hoodie was soft beneath your cheek—worn, warm, and carrying the faint scent of rain and something that was just… him. For a second, he froze. You felt it immediately—the subtle way his body stiffened, the slight hitch in his breath. Your heart stuttered.

Shit. Had you misread this? Gone too far?

You shifted, ready to pull back—But before you could move an inch, Jungkook’s arm came around you. Steady. Sure. Drawing you in. Not possessive. Not hesitant. Just close. And you let yourself go. Your body curved into his like it belonged there.

Outside, the storm tore at the sky—lightning splitting it open, thunder cracking like the earth itself was breaking. Jungkook’s hand rested lightly at your waist, fingers warm through the blanket. Your breaths matched. Slow. Careful. The movie flickered, forgotten. The thunder could scream all it wanted.

You weren’t moving.

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By the time the movie faded into end credits, you were asleep. Your head had slipped from his shoulder down to his chest, cheek pressed right over his heartbeat. A small puff of your breath warmed the fabric of his hoodie with every exhale. One hand had curled loosely against his side, fingers twitching slightly in sleep. You looked peaceful. Soft. Completely unguarded.

Jungkook glanced down at you and chuckled under his breath. God, you were cute. Cool, too—quick-witted, sharp-eyed, grounded in a way he rarely saw. You didn’t fawn over him, didn’t ask weird questions, didn’t treat him like some walking idol. You just… existed. Real. Warm. Completely yourself.

He liked that. More than he probably should.

Your friend had been fun earlier too—friendly, chaotic in a good way—but with you… it was different. Something about the way you talked, moved, looked at him without that flicker of recognition or pressure. Something about the way you trusted him now, curled up beside him like you’d known him for years. Something just clicked.

The storm outside still hadn’t let up. If anything, it sounded worse. Rain pounding the camper roof like it wanted in. Wind pushing hard enough to rattle the frame. Jungkook frowned slightly. For your sake, he hoped your tent would survive the night. The thought of you waking up to soaked clothes and a collapsed canopy made something tug in his chest.

You shouldn’t stay out here on this tiny bench. You deserved the real bed.

Carefully, Jungkook shifted, readjusting his arm beneath you. One hand moved gently across your back, the other curling around your legs to lift you. You stirred just as he shifted to lift you. His arm moved to brace your back, but your fingers lightly caught the fabric of his hoodie.

“Mmm…?” Your voice came out low and scratchy, sleep-rough. You blinked up at him, eyes heavy, confused but not alarmed.

“Hey,” he said softly, almost whispering. “Movie’s over. Let’s get you ready for bed, yeah?” You hummed again and stretched like a cat, arms above your head for a moment before flopping back against him. “’M fine here,” you mumbled.

Jungkook chuckled. “You’ll cramp up on that bench. I’ll lend you some clothes. Bed’s more comfortable.” You yawned, rubbing at your eyes. “Clothes would be great. Thanks…” He got up, reluctantly peeling himself away from your warmth, and dug into a small cabinet near the back. A few seconds later, he came back with a faded black shirt and soft gray sweatpants.

You took them without hesitation.

“Perfect,” you said, already tugging your hoodie over your head. Jungkook blinked.

You weren’t stripping completely—of course not—but your casualness caught him off guard. Confident. Comfortable. Like this wasn’t a big deal. Tank top. Then the hoodie off. Pants next. You turned slightly to the side for modesty, but you didn’t hide. Like sharing space like this with him was… natural.

It shouldn’t be a big deal. It was a festival. Privacy was a myth out here. But still—watching you so at ease in your skin made Jungkook’s throat go dry. He turned around fast, ears burning. “Warn a guy, maybe?” His ears went red. You laughed. “You offered the clothes. Don’t get shy now.” He made a noise somewhere between a scoff and a groan, face still hidden as you pulled the shirt on.

When you were done, you flopped down on the bed, testing the mattress with a lazy bounce. “This yours?”

“Yeah.”

You yawned again, half-asleep already. “We will both fit, right?” Jungkook’s brain short-circuited.

“We—what? I mean—uh—you don’t mind?” he stammered, standing awkwardly with a blanket still in his hands. You cracked one eye open, frowning faintly. “Didn’t mean to kick you out or anything. It’s your bed. You offering was sweet, but I thought… I mean, it’s not weird to share a bed, right?”

He was blinking at you like you’d just suggested skydiving together. “I just… I thought you’d want space. Privacy.” You tilted your head, clearly amused. “Where? In the luxury four-by-four closet? And force you to sleep where—no.” He sputtered. “I—okay, fair.”

You laughed, then caught the look on his face—eyes wide, ears pink, expression flustered. You realized what you’d said—how it sounded. Your face lit up in a rush of heat. “Oh.” You paused, suddenly sheepish. “Did I… misread that?” Jungkook opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

He burst out laughing. The tension cracked wide open. “No, no—I got it,” he grinned. “You just have a very casual approach to bed-sharing.” You buried your face in your hands, groaning. “Kill me.”

“Absolutely not,” he said, still laughing, still red in the face. “It’s fine. Really. It’s… kinda nice.” You peeked at him through your fingers. “You sure?” He nodded. “Yeah. We’ll fit.” He clicked off the lights, leaving only the soft glow from a battery-powered lantern on the counter. The storm still roared outside, thunder rolling endlessly, but in here it was calm. Steady.

You both crawled under the blanket—awkward at first, trying not to bump knees, too aware of every brush of fabric and skin. But it didn’t take long before you settled again. The way you had on the bench. Easy. Warm. Real.

Jungkook lay on his side, arm tucked under his head. You shifted closer. He didn’t stop you. Eventually, your forehead brushed his shoulder. And he smiled. Quiet. Content. Outside, lightning split the sky again. The camper rattled in the wind.

His heartbeat echoed in his ears. You shifted, curled into him with a little sigh.

He exhaled slowly.

You had melted against Jungkook’s chest like you belonged there. Wrapped in the soft hush of his shirt, surrounded by the scent of cedar, faint soap, and something warm and masculine underneath. Each breath you took was slow. Steady. You felt… safe. Anchored.

Jungkook’s arm curled around you—hesitant at first, almost unsure. Then firmer. Secure. Like instinct.

His fingers began to move. Slow. Gentle. He traced aimless shapes on your back through the shirt he’d given you—swirls, lines, little touches that had no meaning but carried weight all the same. Slow, lazy patterns that lulled you deeper into peace.

You hummed softly. A sound of comfort. Of surrender. Your hand flexed where it rested on his chest, clutching a small fistful of his shirt. He felt it.

Each pass of his fingers made your shirt inch upward. Just a little. Enough for the cool air of the camper to kiss the strip of skin exposed near your lower back. Enough that when Jungkook’s knuckle brushed bare skin—accidentally—he froze.

His fingers stilled mid-gesture. His breath caught. The soft rise of your spine under his palm made something catch in his throat. He hadn’t meant to—but he didn’t pull away either.

Had that been too far?

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t stop him. Instead, you pressed closer. Not shy. Not startled. You let your forehead sink deeper into his chest, nuzzling the soft fabric like it soothed something in you.

Jungkook let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

And then he moved. Bold this time. A quiet choice. A quiet risk.

With a flick of his wrist, his hand slipped under the hem of your shirt. Heat met skin. His palm was broad, warm in a way that made you shiver. His fingers danced directly against your skin. He dragged slow strokes across your bare back—up the ridges of your spine, then down again, curving around your sides. Warm. Deliberate. Intimate.

Your breath hitched.

The sound was soft—but it cut through him. And then you gripped his shirt tighter. Jungkook swallowed hard, lips parted, heartbeat thunderous in his chest. He tilted his head, his voice drop low, lips brushing your hair as he murmured low, “Does this feel nice?” A whisper only meant for you.

The words sank into your skin like warmth in cold water. He felt your answer more than he heard it—your temple burrowed deeper into his chest, lips barely moving. Then you whispered, breath brushing his skin: “Very.”

That single word cracked something open in him.

Jungkook’s hand moved again—this time with intent. Desire. Need. Wonder. No more laziness in his touch. He pressed deeper, mapped more of you. The curve of your waist. The slope of your spine. He caressed upward, gliding from your hip to your shoulder blades and back down again. Slow, firm strokes that left fire in their wake. He was exploring now. Learning the map of your back like he meant to memorize every inch.

Your skin responded to every touch—warming beneath him, drawing his hand like a magnet. You didn’t pull away. If anything, you leaned in. Every pass of his hand ignited something deeper in you. A want that curled like fire low in your belly. Then his hand slowed. He reached your neck.

His fingers paused there, spread wide, thumb just below the base of your skull. He tilted his hand slightly—just enough to nudge your chin up, a subtle, unspoken ask. And you let him. Your head tipped back, lashes low, lips slightly parted.

Jungkook looked down at you—eyes dark, searching, hungry and hesitant all at once. You could see everything in his expression. The way his lips parted slightly. How his brows twitched like he couldn’t believe this was real. You felt breathless. Weightless. Anchored only by the steady pressure of his hand on you.

The distance between you shrank, like gravity made the final call. You weren’t sure who moved first. It didn’t matter. The thunder outside faded into static. The wind disappeared. There was only him. Because the moment his lips met yours, the rest of the world vanished.

The taste of him—warm and soft and a little shy. Not just the heat of his mouth but the way he kissed—careful but deep, like he’d been waiting. Like he didn’t want to rush but had to taste you. like he was still afraid to ask too much. You answered with a tilt of your chin, a soft press back.

That was all it took. Jungkook deepened the kiss.

His hand on your back tightened, pulling you flush against him until there was nothing left but breath and heat and want. His other hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb grazing just beneath your cheekbone. Grounding you. Holding you there, like you were something precious. Like he wasn’t ready to let go.

And god, it felt good. Not rushed. Not demanding. Just good. Deep and slow and curling in your belly like fire finding fuel. You sighed into his mouth. Or maybe you moaned—it blurred together. The sound slipped past your lips like it had been waiting for him, and Jungkook didn’t hesitate.

His mouth opened wider, and his tongue met yours—slow and hot and curious. He tasted you. Explored you. The brush of him against you was soft at first, but it built—growing bolder, more intense. A rhythm. A pull. You tried to match him. Tried to keep up with the push and slide and drag of him. But each time you found your footing, he kissed you harder. Deeper. And your thoughts vanished entirely.

You gripped his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth. The fabric bunched in your fist, stretched tight across his chest, but it wasn’t enough. You needed more.

Your free hand slid up his torso, feeling every inch of muscle beneath cotton. His body was unreal—firm, warm, alive. His chest was solid under your palm, his heartbeat thunderous. Your fingers climbed higher, brushing over his pecs, his collarbone, until they threaded into the soft hair at the back of his neck.

You curled your hand there. Held him close. Held him to you. Kissed him like you were afraid he might disappear. He moaned into you. The sound vibrated against your mouth—needy, low, his. It punched through your chest, dark and low, raw and needy.

And then—with your next breath—you were on your back.

Jungkook hovered above you, eyes burning, mouth kiss-swollen, chest rising in sharp, shallow breaths. His hand stayed at your throat—not squeezing, just there, firm and grounding, his thumb brushing the skin beneath your jaw as he angled you perfectly for him and looked down at you like you were something he could devour.

His other hand gripped your hip, fingers spreading wide, holding you in place like he owned you. Possessive. Protective. One of his legs had slid between yours. Solid. Heavy. Pressed firm against your thigh. Close—but not nearly close enough.

Not where you needed him. Not where your body burned for him.

Still, it made your breath hitch. The ache in your body bloomed—slow and consuming. Your legs shifted restlessly around his thigh, needing more friction, more of him. And Jungkook—he just watched. Breathing hard. Lips parted. His tongue darted out to wet them, catching briefly on the silver hoop in his lip—the glint of it dizzying up close. The contrast of soft skin and cold metal made your stomach flip.

He leaned down—lips brushing yours, breath hot and trembling against your skin—and whispered, voice low and wrecked. “Tell me if I go too far.” You arched into him, chest heaving, thighs tightening around his leg. “Not even close.”

And then—his mouth was on yours again. Hotter. Deeper.

This kiss wasn’t tentative. It was need, distilled. Wild. Like he’d been waiting to taste you properly and now couldn’t stop. His hand on your hip moved—up, under the soft cotton of the shirt he’d lent you. The fabric lifted inch by inch with every pass of his fingers, revealing skin to the storm-warmed air. His touch was slow but deliberate, like he wanted to memorize you.

He kissed you relentlessly, tongue sliding over yours, pulling soft gasps from your lips as his hand explored the curve of your waist, then higher—up your ribs. Then he found your breast. You moaned into his mouth as he cupped it, but the thin fabric of your bra still kept him from really feeling you. You shifted beneath him, growing impatient, the ache spreading wider now.

Your hands fumbled between your bodies, fingers working fast at the clasp behind your back. You barely broke the kiss, desperate to give him more. As the bra snapped free, Jungkook’s breath caught.

You didn’t wait. Your hand immediately moved to his shirt, riding it up his torso, palms grazing his warm skin, the lines of muscle tightening under your touch. You felt everything—the dip of his waist, the sharp cut of his abs, the softness at his sides. Your breath hitched.

He growled softly against your lips.

With your bra loose, his fingers slipped beneath the cups, finally touching you without barrier. Skin to skin now—nothing in the way. Nothing stopping him from touching, from learning. His hands were big, warm, careful—but confident. He squeezed gently, rolling his thumbs over your nipples with expert pressure. You whimpered. The pleasure coiled low and fast in your belly.

Then he pinched—firm, teasing.

“Jungkook—” It came out broken. More exhale than word. His name on your tongue like prayer. He grinned against your mouth. You could feel it—the shape of his lips stretching into a smug curve. His lip ring caught your skin as he kissed you again. Cool metal. Hot mouth. A jolt to your spine.

And then—he shifted.

His thigh wedged between yours, the pressure maddening. He pressed himself against you, rutting slightly for relief. Even through layers, you could feel the hardness of him, thick and hot and aching. The friction sent sparks through your nerves. You gasped, rocking into him, needing more. The promise of more a whisper against your core.

You gasped. Your hips moved on instinct. Chasing that pressure. He groaned into your mouth. Low. Ruined. “You sound…” He broke the kiss, barely an inch away. “God, you sound so good.” You were too far gone to answer. All you could do was nod, kiss him harder, pull him closer.

Your hand trembled as you grabbed his shirt as you pulled it higher, bunching it toward his chest. Tugged it up over his ribs. You needed him bare. Needed skin. Heat. Him. He chuckled, breath hitching. That soft rasp buzzed against your lips.

Then he sat back. Just enough. Hooked his arms behind his head. Pulled the shirt off in one fluid motion. And god—he was beautiful. Lean muscle, golden skin, tattoos dancing across his chest and arms. Your eyes drank him in. Every inch. Every detail. He caught you staring and smiled.

You blinked up at him, dazed and hungry.

“You too,” he said, tugging at the shirt you wore—his shirt. “Fair’s fair.”

He peeled it off you slowly, revealing your bare chest. The fabric smelled like him. Felt like him. You hesitated for just a second, “Guess it’s only right.” then let him tug it off in one smooth pull. His hands brushed your sides, soft and reverent, thumbs grazing your ribs. His eyes darkened as he took you in, but there was a softness to it too—like he wasn’t just looking at your body, but you.

You were bare beneath. Exposed. Breathing hard. He stilled. Eyes dark. Lips parted. His hands came to your sides. Soft. Like he didn’t want to startle you. His thumbs brushed your ribs. Then slid up. His gaze never left your face. “God,” he breathed. “You’re... you’re beautiful.”

You bit your lip, still breathless, flushed all the way to your ears under the weight of his praise. But the smile tugging at your mouth wouldn’t go away. “I liked wearing that shirt,” you murmured, voice low, teasing. “Technically, it’s mine now.” Jungkook huffed a laugh, warm and crooked. “Yeah? I’ll allow it.” He leaned in, nose brushing yours. “But I might steal it back… if you wear it in my bed again.”

You didn’t get the chance to reply. He kissed your cheek. Your jaw. Lower. His lips ghosted over your neck—soft, then a sudden nip of teeth. You gasped. Then his chest met yours again.

Bare skin on bare skin.

He settled over you, a slow, careful weight. All lean muscle and quiet strength. His hand returned to your hip, thumb brushing over bone, grounding you. His thigh pressed higher between yours—closer. Close enough to make your breath stutter. Still, his kiss stayed gentle. Tender. Like he wanted you to feel everything. And you moaned straight into his mouth.

That sound— It cracked something open in him.

A deep, low groan rumbled from his chest, straight into yours. Then his hips rolled, slow and deliberate, right into you. The pressure made your back arch. A firm press, not quite where you needed, but close enough to steal your breath. You whimpered his name, desperate, breathless.

“Jungkook—” His kisses trailed lower. Down your neck. Across your collarbone. To the swell of your breast. His mouth was reverent. Curious. Devoted. You shivered as he kissed a path over your collarbone, down to the swell of your breast. His hand stayed firm on your hip, pressing you down into the mattress as your body tried to chase more—more friction, more of him.

His mouth closed around one nipple. You gasped.

He took his time. His lips, warm and plush. His tongue, slow. Careful. His teeth grazed lightly, just enough to make you arch. Then he flicked his tongue, pulling your nipple between his lips and sucking just hard enough to make you mewl. He groaned in response. “God, you’re so responsive,” he murmured hot against your skin. “So pretty like this.”

He gave your other breast the same attention—maybe even more. His hand pinned you down by the hip, steady, unmoving. And god, you needed to move—needed friction—but he held you still. Just to feel you strain beneath him. Just to hear that helpless whimper catch in your throat.

Your hips tried to lift, to grind into him, but his palm flattened, steadying you. His strength made you ache in the best way. Jungkook chuckled low in his throat, lips trailing lower still. “You’re already trying to move?” he teased softly, mouth still on your skin. “So impatient.”

You could only moan in reply.

His kisses moved lower. Over your ribs, your stomach. Slow. Intentional. Worshipful. Down to the curve where the sweatpants—his sweatpants—hung low on your hips. His breath tickled your skin, hot and humid. He pressed a kiss to your hip. Smirked. “These also technically yours?” You huffed, breathless, your fingers tangled in his hair. “Yes,” you said. “But… you can have them back… for now.”

“Oh,” he hummed, amused, dragging his lips along the waistband. “So generous.”

Your breath hitched. One hand gripped the sheets. Your other hand threaded through his hair. Needing him. Pulling him. You didn’t know what you were begging for anymore—you just wanted more. His pretty fingers, decorated with soft tattoos and calloused pads, toyed with the waistband, slow, like he had all the time in the world. His eyes flicked up, watching your face the whole time.

You helped him. Pushed the sweats down, exposing your thighs to the cool air. A sharp contrast to the heat blooming between you. His eyes followed the motion like a man starved. Through the thin fabric of your panties, it was obvious. How much you wanted him. How ready you were. When he saw the sheer wetness darkening the front of your panties, he nearly groaned. His jaw flexed.

His lips parted like he wanted to say something—maybe a compliment, maybe a tease—but you beat him to it. “On second thought…” Your voice was raspy, playful. “You want to borrow my panties too? I don’t think I need them right now.”

Jungkook blinked. His jaw dropped for half a second. Then he grinned. That stupid, adorable grin you were starting to love. He looked absolutely wrecked with affection. And lust. And disbelief.

God, he was beautiful. A dork. A gorgeous, flustered dork with a body sculpted by the gods.

He let out a low laugh, leaning in. “Sure. If they’re causing you any trouble… I’d be happy to help.” You laughed, breathless. “Please.” His touch turned reverent again. He slid them down—slow, careful, his fingers brushing your thighs. He kissed the inside of one, and then the other. You trembled. Your heart pounded against your ribs like it was trying to reach him first.

He looked up at you through his lashes. Tender. Hungry. Spellbound.

Then he slid back up. Jungkook guided your legs gently apart, one hand to each thigh, not forcing—just inviting. Positioning himself between your thighs just enough so he could settle between them. The closeness was dizzying. His breath, his hands, his eyes—every inch of him was focused on you. Worshipful. Intent.

He hovered there. One hand framing your face. The other resting beside your hip. “You’re sure?” he asked, voice low, rough with restraint. “You still want this?” You cupped his face, eyes searching his. “I want you, Jungkook.”

That was all he needed. Jungkook hovered above you, breath mingling with yours, his weight braced on one arm as the other stayed anchored at your hip. He looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. His hand moved. Slowly. Intentionally. Down. Over the curve of your waist. The dip of your lower belly. Then lower still—until his fingers brushed between your legs.

You startled, instinctively twitching at the first contact. But he stilled, eyes never leaving yours. You relaxed. Opened to him. Trusted him. He let out a breath—relieved, maybe. Or reverent. You couldn’t close your thighs with the way his hips were nestled between them. And you didn’t want to. You just gripped his bicep, grounding yourself as the pressure of his touch grew.

Then finally—He found you. Warm. Soft. Soaked.

Jungkook’s breath stuttered, chest rising as his fingers slipped through the slick heat between your thighs. His touch was light at first, almost reverent. Slow. Careful. Watching every flicker of reaction cross your face.

A low, guttural sound escaped him—half growl, half praise. He pressed his forehead to yours for a heartbeat, like he needed a second just to process it. “Fuck,” he whispered. “You’re already this wet for me?”

You bit your lip, face burning, but you couldn’t look away from him. Not with the way his eyes were locked on yours—dark, wide, almost stunned. He chuckled, breathless. “God, that’s so hot.” Then his fingers moved—just slightly—and the sound that followed made your spine arc. His touch was unhurried, testing, sliding through everything you gave him with devastating care.

When he finally slipped one finger inside, you gasped. Your walls fluttered around him, eager and welcoming. Jungkook moaned. Not softly. Not shyly. Deep and full, like he felt it in his chest. “Damn,” he murmured, his voice rough as gravel. “You’re perfect. You feel—fuck, you feel incredible.” Your hands scrambled for him, curling into his biceps, needing something to hold on to as he pulled out… then pushed in again, just a little deeper this time.

The sound of your wetness filled the space between you—intimate, obscene, beautiful. It made your breath hitch, made your thighs tense instinctively. He didn’t let you close them. His hips stayed planted between yours, spreading you wide, keeping you open.

“Jungkook—” you whimpered, already shaking, already lost. He watched you—closely. Eyes flickering from your parted lips to the flush on your cheeks, to the slight tremble in your body as he added another finger. The stretch made you moan. Louder this time. Unfiltered. Your back arched just slightly, seeking more friction, more pressure, more of him.

And Jungkook looked wrecked.

“Fuck,” he whispered again, leaning down to kiss the corner of your mouth, then your temple. “You like that? Hm?”, but it wasn’t really a question. He could see it written all over your face. Still, he wanted to hear it. You tried to answer, but your thoughts were falling apart—dripping between your fingers like water. Your breath stuttered as you struggled to form words. You nodded frantically, panting. “Yes. So good. Please, Jungkook—more.” That got his attention.

He raised an eyebrow. His lips twitched. “More?” he teased, his thumb brushing slow, deliberate circles over your clit now—light but maddening, perfectly timed with the rhythm of his fingers moving inside you. “More fingers? Or faster?”

The touch made you jolt—hips twitching, thighs straining—but he kept you open, his body locked between your legs, grounding you. Your voice caught in your throat. Words felt distant. Everything narrowed to that—his fingers curling inside you, his thumb dragging sparks through your nerves like fire catching dry grass.

You hesitated, overwhelmed by the feeling of his hand inside you, moving so deliberately, so gently it felt like torture. And then—he curled them again. Just a little. Just enough. A broken moan clawed its way out of you.

“Faster,” you begged, the word trembling off your tongue. “Please… Jungkook—just—faster.” He groaned against your neck, the sound low and warm, like thunder rolling through your bones. And then he smiled—Dark. Devoted. Hungry. Like he’d been waiting for you to ask.

His pace shifted. Faster. Deeper. Precise. Each stroke was intentional, measured, like he was playing a melody only your body could hear. His thumb brushed lower, circling with maddening care, and your whole body jerked, breath catching in your throat. The wet sound of movement filled the quiet between you, between hitched breaths and your name—falling from his lips like he needed it to breathe.

Jungkook watched you like he couldn’t get enough—eyes fixed on your face, taking in every gasp, every flutter of your lashes, every arch of your back. Like every twitch of your hips, every helpless gasp, was proof he was doing something right. His eyes were heavy-lidded, dark with hunger, but filled with something softer too—something worshipful.

You clung to him, fingers digging into his back, then curling into his hair as pleasure swelled like a wave rising fast, stealing every thought, every breath, until all you knew was him. You needed him close. Grounded.

Then—he found it. That spot deep inside that made your hips jolt, made your whole body lock against his, straining toward him. He didn’t stop. Just stayed right there, relentless and perfect, until you broke.  “God,” he murmured, voice hoarse against your throat. “You’re so beautiful like this.” He was prepping you. Opening you. Worshipping you with his hands and mouth and eyes. And all you could do was feel. Burn. Breathe him in. This was a promise. That he’d ruin you completely.

The pleasure overwhelmed you, crashing like a wave. Your eyes rolled back. You shattered around him with a cry, burying your face in his shoulder, riding out the crest as it rolled through you. Your nails dragging down his back. Your body trembled, legs quivering on either side of his hips.

He held you through it—slow strokes, grounding breath, whispered words you couldn’t even process yet. You trembled. Chest rising and falling fast. But his fingers… His fingers slowed, yes—but didn’t leave. Didn’t stop.  You expected him to stop. To let you breathe. He didn’t.

“Jungkook?” your voice was shaky, confused. Your body was oversensitive and slick with heat. But he just hummed like he hadn’t just wreckedyou moments ago. His fingers still moved—gentle, coaxing, too much and not enough all at once. He hummed against your neck, unfazed. Gentle. “Still with me?”

Your breath hitched. “Jungkook, wait—I just—” Your legs tightened around him instinctively, holding him close, unsure if you were trying to stop him or pull him in deeper. “It’s… too much. I don’t know if I can…” His gaze softened. His voice was warm. “Is it painful, or just intense?” he asked softly, the pads of his fingers still stroking. You hesitated, breath trembling. “It’s not pain. Just… a lot.”

Jungkook’s smile was soft but mischievous. Tender, but greedy. “Then I am sure you can,” His fingers moved again, slower this time, but deep—certain. “But tell me if you need me to stop.” You nodded, dazed. Your grip on him never loosened—legs still tight around his hips, your hand locked in his hair.

He didn’t wait. He pressed his mouth to yours—soft and grounding—while his fingers worked between your thighs, determined and loving, like he already knew this second wave would break you harder than the first. And when it did, he was there to catch you.

His fingers moved with greater intent now—steady, relentless, coaxing your body like it was an instrument he was born to play. And then he shifted, slowly lowering himself, slipping through your trembling hands, mouth trailing heat down your stomach. You felt his breath first. Hot. Teasing. Right between your thighs.

You gasped, back arching, as his lips met you. His tongue parted you softly—then with bold purpose. He licked between your folds like he needed to taste you. The contrast of his mouth and his fingers working in tandem made your entire body jolt. You were already so close—already too far gone—and now you were unraveling all over again.

Your head fell back, your spine curving with the overwhelming rush. You were sure your thighs clenched too tightly around his head, but Jungkook didn’t mind. Didn’t pause. He growled into you—devoured you—like this was what he came here for.

He licked you again. Then again, slower. Deeper. And still, his fingers moved inside you, curling with practiced precision. You whimpered his name, words falling from your lips like broken glass. “Too much… Jungkook… I—I don’t know… what to—” You were shaking. Legs trembling. Hands clawing for something—anything—to hold on to. But Jungkook was listening. Even through your incoherent pleas, he was tuned to every breath, every flutter of resistance, every sound of bliss.

He was watching you. Listening for pain. But hearing none. Only pleasure. Only need.

Another long, languid lick. Then a precise curl of his fingers that hit just right—deep and perfect. You cried out, one hand flying to his hair, not just anchoring—pulling. You dragged him closer. You wanted more. Needed him there—against you, in you—his mouth and hand working together like he was trying to break you open just to put you back together again. Hips lifting off the bed, chasing his mouth with a raw, aching need. Your thighs caged his head. Your body pulsed against his lips, slick and hot and trembling.

Jungkook groaned—deep and rough—at the feel of your hands in his hair, your thighs squeezing around him, your body giving in. He lost it. Not his rhythm, no. That stayed—fast, deep, mercilessly skilled. But inside, he was crumbling. You rutted into his face, shameless and soaked. He felt every twitch, every grind, every heartbeat through your cunt. The way you clung to his hair, pulled him deeper, used him to chase the high still clawing up your spine—it undid him.

He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating through his tongue and into you. He needed the taste of you. Needed to give this to you. But he was struggling. Down between your legs, hidden in the heat of you, Jungkook rocked his hips into the mattress. Slow at first—seeking friction, seeking anything—as the ache in his cock grew sharp and near unbearable. The pressure had been building from the moment his fingers slipped inside you, but now? Now he was leaking into his boxers, rutting down with a quiet grunt every time you whimpered his name like a plea.

He was losing control.

You were so wet. So wet for him—his chin coated in it, his fingers sliding effortlessly inside you as your body clamped around him. Your scent. Your taste. Your voice. Your need. It was enough to make him shake. He could feel his own orgasm taunting him, threatening to tear through without a single touch to his cock. And the more you gave in—the more you took from him—the closer he got.

“Fuck,” he groaned into you, fingers curling hard, tongue dragging up your center with shameless hunger. His hips bucked into the bed again—rougher now, desperate—as your thighs squeezed tighter. You cried out, voice cracking around his name, grinding harder into his face. And Jungkook snapped. He needed you to come. Now.

His hips ground down, stiff and erratic, chest heaving between your thighs. His fingers plunged deeper, stroked harder—searching for that spot that would wreck you completely. Your body tensed. Your grip in his hair tightened. Your voice—high, shattered, divine—rang through the room as your second orgasm tore through you, raw and sharp and all-consuming.

Jungkook moaned, the sound ragged with the power, the feeling of your body trembling under him.. His eyes fluttered as you came on his tongue, and he let you. Let you drown him. Your release flooded his tongue, your walls clenching around his fingers so tight it stole his breath. As you hold him there. Letting your body take what it needed. His eyes rolled back, fists clenching in the sheets beneath you. He was so close—just from this. Just from you.

But he held back. Barely. Because this was for you. All of it.

He didn’t stop until your body sagged, limp with release, breath shaky and raw in your chest. And when he finally pulled his mouth away, his lips were swollen, his face slick, his chest rising like he’d run a marathon. He looked ruined—and proud. He looked up at you like you were something holy. Something he would kneel for again and again. And the hunger in his eyes said clearly:

He wasn’t done yet.

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You were wrecked. Breathless. A trembling heap of sensation and heat, nerves still firing with aftershocks. You didn’t even know what planet you were on—only that you were here, with him. Jungkook sat between your trembling thighs, sweatpants low on his hips, chest rising and falling with ragged breath. His chin still glistened with you, lips pink and swollen, eyes dark with something primal. Something reverent. His fingers gently traced the inside of your thighs in slow, soothing motions, grounding you even as you floated.

But it was his face—the way he looked at you—that made your breath catch again. His expression was open. Raw. Awed. And god, his eyes. Dark. Hooded. Desperate. Like he’d die if he didn’t get to feel you now. You swallowed hard, tried to clear your throat, but your voice came out low and wrecked.  “Jungkook…” His name was a whisper. A plea.

You reached for him—fingers skating up his stomach, tracing the firm lines of muscle that jumped beneath your touch. He twitched under your fingertips, his breath stuttering.

You looked down.

His sweatpants were a mess. The outline of his arousal strained tight, painfully hard against the weight of his need—and darkened with a wet spot that had spread wide and deep. He had been rutting into the mattress beneath you while he worshipped you, hips grinding into the sheets, chasing even a whisper of relief.

God, you wanted to taste him. To return every aching second of what he gave you. “Jungkook, I want you in my mouth,” you whispered, voice shaking with want. “I want to taste you.” His eyes slammed shut. He groaned—raw, wrecked. His hand flew to his cock, gripping himself tight at the base through his sweats with a force that made his arm shake. The tension in his jaw said everything. He was close. He was barely holding on. He hissed your name like a curse, like a prayer.

“I—fuck—I can’t, I need to be inside you,” he groaned. “If you touch me like that… I won’t last. I want it—God, I want your mouth—but not yet.” You nodded. Weakly. Wantonly. Every inch of you screaming yes. You were still trembling, still soaked in the echo of your second high, and your body was barely keeping up with the pleasure it had already endured.

But that didn’t mean you didn’t want him. Especially not after how good he was to you. You saw the way he looked at you, hovering just above—equal parts restraint and desperation. His fingers gripped his own waistband, trembling with the effort not to rush.

You nodded again. That’s all he needed.

In one fluid motion, Jungkook pushed his sweatpants down a single desperate motion, his cock springing free. The sight of him made your breath stall. He was flushed, thick, beautiful—and clearly aching for you.

He hovered above you, strong arms caging you in, his chest brushing yours as he searched your eyes. He paused. Took you in. The flush of your cheeks. The sweat at your brow. The dazed shine in your eyes as you looked up at him like he was salvation. His lips parted like he was going to speak—but all that came out was a ragged breath. “I won’t stop,” he whispered, voice wrecked with hunger. “If I’m inside you—if you let me—I won’t stop.”

“I don’t want you to,” you breathed. His lips ghosted over yours. “You sure?” You pulled him closer with your legs, hips rising instinctively to meet the thick heat of him as he lined himself up. “Please.” That was all it took. The last of his restrain snapped. Or bloomed.

And then he kissed you—slow, deep, devastating.

With a groan torn from deep in his chest, Jungkook pushed forward. Stretching you. Filling you. Inch by devastating inch. He bottomed out in one slow, brutal push. You gasped. A groan tore from his throat—raw, helpless. “Fuck. You feel—” his voice broke, hips stuttering, “—too good.”

He wasn’t going to last. Not like this. Not when you clenched around him like you were made for it. The feeling was overwhelming—too much and not enough, hot pressure blooming deep as your nails dug into his back. He buried his face in your neck, panting, every muscle in his body trembling with the effort of holding back. Letting you feel every part of him. Letting you adjust.

“Fuck,” he whispered against your skin. “You feel so good. So tight. So warm. I—I can’t…”

And then—he moved. Fast. Hard. Unrelenting. The rhythm was sharp from the start. No easing in. Just need. Pure, primal need. He was panting above you, his muscles tense with the effort to hold himself back—but his pace betrayed him. Wild. Ruthless. He needed you too much to be gentle now.

He shifted—pushed himself up on one arm to watch. Watch how your breasts bounced with every snap of his hips. Watch how your mouth fell open, gasping. How your eyes fluttered back like you couldn’t handle it.

“Yeah,” he growled. “Take it. Just like that. Look at you.”

You tried—you really did—to obey. To keep up. But every thrust had you shaking. Crying out. Your body clenching down on him like it wanted to drag him even deeper. And Jungkook loved it.

His gaze dropped to where you took him, where his cock disappeared inside you over and over again, slick and swollen and so fucking tight. He groaned—deep, guttural. “God, I see myself in you and I—fuck—I need you to come again. Need to feel it.”

“I—I don’t know if I can,” you choked out, overwhelmed, pleasure spinning through you like static. He snarled—a sound nearly angry, animalistic. “Yes, you can.” Then his hand was between you. Thumb snapping to your clit, rubbing with firm, practiced flicks. Fast. Targeted. No mercy. You gasped, body jolting beneath him.

And when you fluttered around him—tight, pulsing—his rhythm faltered for just a second. “Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “You’re gonna—oh, fuck—”

And you did. Your orgasm tore through you like lightning. Back arching. Eyes rolling. One leg kicked out, sharp and uncoordinated—reflex, raw instinct. He caught it mid-thrust, fingers digging into your thigh, and shoved it to the side.

Pinned you open. Pinned you down. Kept pounding through your high like it was the only thing keeping him alive. “Shit—I’m,” he gasped, hips slamming into you once—twice—Then he was gone.

Coming hard with a broken sound in his throat. Hips bucking. Muscles shaking. His face contorted in something close to pain, close to bliss, as he emptied himself deep inside you. Your name fell from his lips like a prayer. And then he collapsed—chest heaving, body trembling, still buried in you.

Silence. Only your breathing. His sweat dripping onto your skin. Your hearts racing in sync. You were ruined. And he—he was still holding you like he’d never let go.

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Jungkook’s breathing was still ragged. Hot puffs against your neck. Yours had just started to steady. Your chest rose and fell beneath him, slick with sweat, heart still racing beneath the haze.

He didn’t move right away. Didn’t speak. He just pressed his mouth to your skin—soft kisses to your neck, your jaw. Each one slow. Reverent. His weight hovered over you, arms shaking slightly from the come-down, but he still held himself up. Careful not to crush you.

His body was warm. So warm. He still hadn’t pulled out, and your bodies trembled with every little twitch, every aftershock. But your leg— The one he’d pinned and forgotten—was aching now. Cramped and trembling at the awkward angle. You turned your head, lips brushing his temple. “Kook,” you whispered, voice hoarse. “My leg.”

He froze. Then immediately released it, hands gentle and apologetic as he smoothed down your thigh. “Shit, I’m sorry.” His voice cracked—still breathless, still wrecked. “Did I hurt you?” You shook your head, stroking his hair. “No. Just sore.”

That made him move. Finally—slowly—he eased himself out of you with a low, broken groan. The wet drag of it made both of you wince, your bodies too raw, too sensitive. You clenched around the absence, already aching for more, even as you trembled overstimulated. He sat back on his heels. His eyes—wide, reverent, a little dazed—dragged over every inch of you like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just done. What you’d let him do to you.

“Let me,” he whispered, already reaching.

His arms wrapped around you as he helped you sit up, cradling you against him like something precious. Then he moved, reaching for a towel, dampening it with warm water, his touch steady despite the aftershocks still shaking through his limbs. The Campers simple luxuries.

You spread your legs for him, tired but trusting. And Jungkook… he was so gentle it nearly broke you open again. He cleaned you first—slow, soft strokes between your thighs, dabbing at the mess he’d left behind. His cum leaked from you, thick and warm and unmistakable, and he caught it tenderly, careful not to press too hard. His knuckles brushed over your folds, your clit—swollen, tender—and you flinched.

“Sorry,” he murmured, kissing your knee. But you weren’t sorry. Not for any of it. You watched him work, too quiet to speak. His brow furrowed in focus. His tongue tucked into his cheek. His thighs trembling from effort. And that’s when you saw it.

His cock—still flushed, still half-hard—gave a twitch as he wiped your cum-slick skin. The sight of you still ruined, still dripping with him, was enough to stir him again. Not fully. But he throbbed in the open air, heavy and wet and aching, like he could never quite get enough of you.

Your breath caught. God. He was beautiful like this. Wild and undone. His strength wrapped in tenderness He didn’t rush, even though his own thighs trembled and his cock still sat heavy between his legs, glistening with your slick. When he finally finished, wiped himself down. Still kneeling between your legs. Still looking at you like you’d just undone him completely. The towel discarded, his fingers smoothed over your thigh absentmindedly, as if reassuring himself you were still there. Still his.

You leaned back on your elbows, legs still loose around his hips, and tilted your head. The storm outside had dulled to a soft patter against the camper roof, a lullaby of rain and wind-blown peace. “Lie down, Jungkook,” you whispered, reaching out to trace his forearm with lazy fingers.

His brows lifted, lips parted. Still breathless, still caught in the fog of everything you’d just done. “Yeah?” You nodded, voice silk-slick and low. “I want you on your back. Let me touch you.” His Adam’s apple bobbed hard.

He obeyed, shifting beside you until he was on his back, hair mussed and chest rising slow and deep. He stretched out across the sheets—long, beautiful, undone. His chest rose and fell with each shaky breath, hair wild, damp at the temples. Eyes tracking every move you made like he couldn’t believe this was real.

You slid closer, straddling one of his thighs carefully.

Testing your legs. Your inner muscles still fluttered with the echoes of him, still sore and stretched. But this time, you moved at your own pace.

Jungkook looked up at you, eyes wide with wonder. You ran your palms down his chest, feeling every twitch of his abs, the flex under your touch. He was so sensitive—still half-hard, but eager. Waiting. You raked your nails lightly down his torso, watching him twitch, watching his cock jerk in anticipation.

Then your voice—soft, dangerous—cut through the quiet. “You said I could taste you later.” Jungkook sucked in a breath. Sharp. Audible. You leaned forward, brushing your mouth over his sternum. A slow kiss. Then another. “Its later.” His head tipped back. A shaky moan slipped out of him, like he couldn’t hold it in. “You—fuck…” You kissed down the center of his chest, tongue flicking lightly at the sweat cooling there. Your hands smoothed over his abs, and they tensed under your touch. Twitching. Obedient. Yours.

“I want to feel you fall apart,” you whispered, mouth ghosting lower. “Want to feel you in my throat. Want to hear you beg.” His hips lifted off the bed with a sharp, involuntary jerk. His knuckles were white where he gripped the sheets, already so close to breaking.

Then you leaned down, kissing over his chest. Your lips dragging across his skin like silk, breath warm and slow. His nipple pebbled under your tongue, and Jungkook hissed. “God—Y/N.” Jungkook was fully hard again. Achingly so.

You hadn’t even touched him properly. Just words. Just the promise in your voice. And he was ready to explode. His chest heaved. His eyes burned into yours. “Sweetheart,” he warned, low and shaking. “I won’t last.” You didn’t blink. “That’s the point.”

Your hands trailed lower, slipping over his stomach. His hips arched slightly off the mattress. He was already leaking again, the tip of his cock flushed red, twitching. “I’m gonna take care of you now,” you whispered. Your voice, syrup-thick. Intent.

And the way he looked at you—utterly undone, desperate and trusting—made your stomach twist with heat. You kissed your way down his body. And this time, he was the one trembling.  Your tongue dragged slowly across the tip of him—hot, wet, deliberate. Jungkook choked on a moan. His hips bucked violently, caught between instinct and restraint.

You took him in—inch by inch, slow and cruel. Until your lips stretched wide around him, your throat tightening. And he groaned. Loud. Filthy. “Fuck—yes. God, your mouth. So good. You’re so good at this.” You hummed around him, and he shuddered.

You pulled back just slightly, your lips still wrapped around the flushed tip of him, tongue flicking slow. Then you let go of him entirely. One hand rested on his thigh, the other came up to your own head—fingers threading loosely through your hair.

You looked up at him, voice husky, breathless. “If you want…” you whispered, licking the corner of your mouth, “you can fuck my throat.” Jungkook stilled. Eyes wide. Mouth parted. Every muscle in his body froze, straining against the flood of want that hit him like a truck.

“What?” he breathed, stunned. You nodded, slow. Daring. “Put your hands in my hair. Guide me. Take what you need.” A shudder racked through him, like his body couldn’t decide if it wanted to come or collapse. He groaned, long and broken. His hands found your head instantly—gentle at first, like he couldn’t believe you meant it. Like he was scared to hurt you. Pushing some strands behind your ear.

But you leaned into it. Moaned low. “Don’t hold back, Jungkook.” And just like that—he snapped. Fingers tightened at your scalp. Hips flexed. The thick weight of him slid over your tongue, deeper now, pulled in with force and need. “Fuck—fuck, Y/N,” he growled, voice shaking. “You’re gonna ruin me.” And god, that was exactly what you intended.

Jungkook's hips stuttered, jerking up into your wet, willing mouth, and for a moment—he swore he saw stars. His hands tangled deep in your hair now, knuckles white from how tightly he gripped. Each thrust grew more reckless, more unhinged, the muscles in his thighs flexing beneath your touch. His breath hitched on every exhale, uneven and raw.

Gone was the Jungkook who teased and smirked. Gone was the boy with swagger and restraint. This was need, stripped bare. And you—God, you were loving every second of it. One of your hands crept lower, cupping his balls with gentle fingers, massaging just right. Jungkook’s whole body seized. He cursed loud, voice breaking. “Y-You’re gonna make me—fuck, I’m gonna—”

But just as his body tensed to let go, you pulled off him with a slick, obscene pop. Your hand gripped him tight at the base—firm and unforgiving. Jungkook collapsed back into the mattress, groaning from deep in his chest. It wasn’t frustration. It was torment. Glorious, wrecked torment.

“Are you serious?” he rasped, eyes wide and dark as his head dropped back. One hand flew into his own hair, yanking hard. His abs flexed beneath your mouth. As he tried to control his breathing. “What the fuck—you’re evil.” But he wasn’t mad. He couldn’t be. Not with you looking at him like that.

Your lips were shiny with him. Your eyes, half-lidded, burning with wicked heat. You smiled—slow and smug—before leaning in to kiss his stomach, open-mouthed and hot. His muscles jumped under your tongue. You dragged your kisses up, over the cut lines of his abs, tasting sweat, skin, want.

He twitched violently in your grip—his cock so hard it felt like steel wrapped in velvet. Throbbing. Leaking. Aching. From his denied orgasm. Then you shifted. His cock trapped perfectly between your soaked folds, not inside, just there —just nestled there, sliding through your wetness, hot and thick and twitching. So close it was torture.

Jungkook choked.

His hands flew to your hips, holding you in place like his life depended on it.

“You gonna let me take care of you?” you whispered, your lips brushing the sweat-slicked skin just under his ribs. He swallowed hard, voice shaky. “You said you were sore. Are you okay?” You nodded. Then—slowly, deliberately—you rocked your hips. And Jungkook saw stars.

You weren’t riding him. Not yet.

But your slick heat dragged over him with every slow grind. Wet and messy and slow. Your folds kissed his length, his tip catching against your clit, sending shocks up your spine. Jungkook’s whole body locked. His mouth dropped open.

“F-Fuck… don’t—don’t do that unless you want me to lose my mind,” he begged, voice ragged. But you did it again. And again. You were soaked, every movement a mess of heat and friction. Each pass sent sparks through your body, each stroke teasing the edge of too much.

He gasped as your slick lips glided over him, as if you were molded to his shape. Then his tip caught just right—and you flinched. Gasped. “Shit,” he moaned, dragging a hand up your back to your neck. “You’re so fucking wet… I can feel everything. Like this. Just like this. Please…” His voice was high, tight, raw. Barely holding on. And so were you.

You felt empty. Desperate. Your walls fluttered—clenching around nothing. But Jungkook could feel it, too, with how close you were pressed together. “F-Fuck,” he groaned, frantic now. His hands roamed like he didn’t know where to hold, what to cling to—your hips, your waist, your thighs, your face.

“Please, Y/N. Please. Let me—let me in. Let me feel you. Please.”

You were shaking, breath uneven, your legs barely steady under you. “Jungkook… I…” You nodded, even as your body trembled. And the second you did, he moved. He guided your hips up just enough, his other hand wrapping around himself, lining up. The head of him kissed your entrance, and both of you moaned at the contact.

Then—you sank. All the way. In one slow, devastating push.

Both of you gasped. Jungkook’s head slammed back. You clenched around him immediately—so tight, so warm, so full it stole the air from both of your lungs. You bottomed out—hips flush, chest heaving. He was inside you, buried to the hilt, and it felt like he was everywhere.

“Holy shit,” he panted, gripping your waist with shaking hands. “Y/N… are you okay? Can you move? Please—fuck—I’m gonna lose it.”

You couldn’t speak. You could barely breathe. You tried to answer, to move—but your body trembled too hard. Every muscle tensed, your hands splayed across his chest for balance. “I… I can’t,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Jungkook—I’m—”

That was all it took.

With a growl, he flipped you—fast, but careful—keeping himself inside you the entire time. One moment you were straddling him, the next you were beneath him, head pressing into the pillows, his breath hot on your mouth.

He braced himself with one hand. The other found your throat, not squeezing—just holding you there. Grounding you. Claiming you.

Then—he thrust. Once. Hard. Deep.

The second thrust ripped a cry from your chest. Your body shattered—walls pulsing around him, coming undone before you could stop it. Your back arched. Your legs logged around his waist. Your whole body convulsed.

You hadn’t meant to come. Not yet. But it was too much. Too deep. Too sensitive.

Jungkook froze above you, eyes blown wide. “Did you just—” Jungkook stared down at you like he’d just witnessed something holy. You were still trembling beneath him. Chest rising fast. Lips parted in shock. Your body still spasming around him, fluttering in tight pulses that made him curse through his teeth. He was mesmerized.

“You just… fuck,” he whispered, breath caught in his throat. “You came that fast? That hard? Just from that?” He looked stunned. Wrecked. Like you’d taken the air out of his lungs. And then something shifted in him.

His hips drew back—slow. Dangerous. Your walls fluttered around him as he did. Then he slammed forward, hard enough to jolt the breath from your lungs. He set a rhythm that made your head spin—deep, rough thrusts that must have the camper rocking and your thighs quivering.

He was lost in it. In you. But your orgasm took the edge off him. Let him focus. Let him last.

His hand tightened at your throat—not choking, just holding, grounding, claiming. The other gripped your waist, dragging you up to meet every thrust like he needed you closer. Your body, still sensitive from the last orgasm, lit up again—each stroke like a live wire. You moaned helplessly, fingernails clawing down his arms.

“You’re unreal,” he groaned. “So fucking tight. You came so fast—fuck—I can't believe how good you feel.”

But then— You let out a small sound. A breathy huff. Almost like a whimper. And it didn’t sound like just pleasure.

Jungkook froze instantly. His hand slipped from your throat to your cheek. His eyes were wide, frantic, scanning your face. “Hey. Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” You blinked up at him, cheeks flushed, lips parted. “I’m okay. Just…” You swallowed hard, voice soft. “You’re so big. There’s just… so much of you inside me.”

He paused. Then—he grinned.

A low, breathless laugh escaped him. “Ohh. So that’s it, huh?” You hid your face in his shoulder, embarrassed. His lips brushed your ear. “Is it the soreness?” You nodded. Shy. Small. And just like that—his pace changed. Gone was the brutal tempo. The hungry rhythm. Instead, he rocked into you slow. Deep. Controlled. And still, he kissed you like you were sacred. Touched you like you were breakable. Ruined you like you were his.

He pulled out nearly all the way, then slid back in with agonizing grace, dragging every inch along your soaked walls. It made you gasp. Clench. Moan low and long into his skin. “There we go,” he whispered. “That better, sweetheart?”

You nodded again, wrapping your arms around his back. His muscles rippled under your touch. He moved like water over fire—fluid and hot, making you melt with every stroke. Now you had space to feel him. The way his back flexed under your fingers. The curve of his shoulder. The tremble in his thighs from holding back. How his jaw tightened every time you pulsed around him.

You couldn’t stop touching him. You were in awe. Your hands explored every inch you could reach. Up his arms. Across his chest. Through his damp, dark hair. You traced the sweat-slick lines of him like a worshiper at the altar.

And still—he kept fucking you slow. Deep. Drawing it out. Teasing you with every stroke, letting you feel the full weight of him. The stretch. The fill.

Jungkook groaned into your neck, voice cracking. “You feel too good. Too warm. You keep fluttering around me like that and I—fuck—I’m not gonna last.” Your walls pulsed again. Pure instinct. His breath hitched. He cursed.

Then—you felt it. The sharp thrust. The stutter in his hips. The gasp he couldn’t hold back.

“Shit—I’m—” His body slammed into yours one last time, and he spilled into you with a broken cry. His whole frame tensed—thighs locked, muscles drawn tight, face twisted in something close to agony. Heat flooded you. His cock twitched, buried deep, his moans falling into your shoulder.

And as he came, the pulse of it—his body giving in to yours—ripped another sound from you. A strangled, breathless sob. Not another orgasm. Just—too much. Overwhelmed. Wrung out. Full in every sense of the word.  Jungkook collapsed on top of you, panting, his heart racing against yours.

“Shit,” he whispered, lips against your jaw. “You ruin me.”

Jungkook was still panting against your neck when your quiet chuckle vibrated beneath him. A low, breathless sound that made his lips curve before he even pulled back.

“You’re saying I ruined you?” you whispered, brushing sweaty strands of hair from your face. “Jungkook, have you seen yourself?”

He snorted, chest rising with a ragged laugh. “Touché.” The grin he gave you was crooked. Loose. Completely wrecked. And maybe a little smug. But then his eyes softened again. Concern flickering behind all that post-orgasm haze. “You okay?”

You nodded, still dazed. “Yeah. Just… used. In the best way possible.”

His smile faltered—only to come back gentler, deeper. Like you’d just handed him something fragile and he wanted to hold it right. He leaned in and kissed your forehead. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth. Tender, unhurried.

“You did so good,” he whispered, brushing his nose along your temple. “Took all of me… every bit.” You hummed, letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. You were floating—body buzzing, boneless under the weight of his affection.

Eventually, the heat between your legs made shifting unavoidable. Jungkook finally stilled, then gently eased himself out of you with a soft hiss, as if the separation physically hurt. You winced a little too, the aftershocks of everything making your legs tremble.

“Shit,” he murmured, immediately checking your expression. “Too much?”

“I’ll survive,” you whispered, voice hoarse. “But maybe… help me clean up before I turn into roadkill?”

He snorted again and got up, tugging on a fresh boxer before helping you sit up. Everything was warm and tender now. No teasing. Just soft sighs and quiet laughter as he dabbed you gently with a wet towel, murmuring apologies when you flinched.

“You know,” you said sleepily as he tossed the used towel to the side and climbed back into bed, “you have this whole ‘ruined me six ways to Sunday’ thing going on…” Jungkook paused mid-crawl, eyes squinting at you. “Me? You broke first. I barely did anything.”

You raised a brow.

He grinned, catching himself. “Okay, fine. I maybe did… a lot.”

You snuggled under the thin blanket with a wince. The camper didn’t exactly offer luxury accommodations, but at least it was warm and better than your tent. Jungkook pulled you in instantly—pressing his chest to your back, nosing into your hair like a bear curling into hibernation.

And, true to form, one of his hands—without hesitation—found your breast and settled there like it was second nature. You barked a soft laugh, craning your head just enough to glance at him. “Really?”

“What?” he mumbled into your hair. “That’s where your hand goes? After everything?” He groaned sleepily. “It’s my comfort spot.”

“You’re incorrigible,” you muttered.

Everything ached. Deep. Sore in places you hadn’t even known could feel pleasure. And Jungkook, the smug, overachieving menace curled around you like he belonged there, had the nerve to cup your breast like it was his God-given right.

Voice husky and rasped from every moan he’d ripped out of you, you muttered, “Swear to me you’re gonna give me at least eight hours. Minimum. I need time to walk again. “You are dramatic,” he murmured. But there was something in his tone—softness, reverence—that curled into your bones like heat.

Then his lips found the delicate skin behind your ear. A kiss so tender it made your lashes flutter. “Deal,” he whispered, the words grazing your skin like a promise. “Eight hours. Scout’s honor.”

“Liar,” you breathed, but your lips curved into a smile anyway.

The camper around you had settled into silence, save for the soft pitter-patter of rain against the roof—gentle now, like the sky itself had exhaled. No more thunder. No wind. Just the quiet, tender rhythm of storm’s end.

And slowly, your muscles began to unwind. You melted into the mattress, into the warm circle of his arms, and let the fatigue pull at your edges. You listened to the sound, your body sinking deeper into his hold. His breath slowed against your neck. The hand on your breast stayed exactly where it was—possessive, familiar.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, everything felt still. Safe. Warm. Because no matter how wrecked you felt—your body sore and used, your soul stretched wide open—right here, in Jungkook’s arms, you wouldn’t change a thing.

But something kept you tethered to the moment. Not his hands, not the soreness blooming between your legs. His tattoo. Your gaze flicked down, half-lidded and bleary, to the back of the hand still cupping your chest like he couldn’t help himself. The ink was faint in the low light, just shadows and shapes—but you knew that symbol. Even if you weren’t a fan.

You weren’t deep into the K-pop scene or anything, but you’d heard the songs—on radios, in passing cars, the occasional playlist. Some of them were annoyingly catchy. Some stuck with you more than you cared to admit.

And that logo…

That was BTS. Big. Global. Ubiquitous. Impossible to miss once you knew it.

Your brows knit, with curiosity. You didn’t know exactly who Jungkook was. Not yet. But you were starting to have a damn good guess. With his tattooed hand now so close to you. And just before the pull of sleep dragged you under, you made a mental note: Ask him in the morning. Ask why someone with hands that ruined you so thoroughly… also had the most recognizable band inked on his skin.

The thought danced in your mind—half curiosity, half awe. But it faded as warmth overtook you, heavy and sweet. And finally, you let go. Let sleep take you. Your eyes fluttered shut. Tucked beneath the sound of soft rain. You were raw. Your body used and shaken, sore in the best way. Your throat dry from gasping his name. Your skin still damp with sweat, kissed with bruises and love. But none of it mattered.

Held in arms that felt far too good to be real.

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You woke to a sound so absurd, so wrong, it nearly made your soul leave your body.

Not screeching guitars. Not deep bass growls. Not the aftermath-of-a-storm kind—though that had its own weight—but something far worse in its own way: But bubblegum pop. Something sugary, chirpy, offensive—blasting from a nearby speaker.

You groaned, dragging the blanket higher over your head. Jungkook groaned too, rolling toward you, face buried in your shoulder. His arm flung around your waist like it belonged there. “Who the hell is playing that?” he mumbled against your skin, voice gravel-rough with sleep. “Make it stop.” You snorted, face buried in the pillow of his arm. “We’re cursed.”

Still tangled together in your makeshift camper bed, you melted into the warmth of him. His skin was soft and sticky from sleep, his breath slow. The camper was warm with shared body heat, tangled limbs, and the lingering scent of sex and rain. The storm had stopped sometime in the night—you’d felt the quiet settle over you as you drifted off. Now, only the soft rustle of wind moved the canvas outside, punctuated by the occasional splatter of water dripping off the awning.

Jungkook curled closer, nuzzling into your hair. His arm pulled you tighter against his chest like he couldn’t help it, and for a second you just… exhaled. And you smiled. You’d thought it might be awkward. Worried, briefly, as your eyes fluttered open. Wondered if there’d be tension or embarrassment between you.

But it wasn’t. Not even a little.

All you felt in the silence was peace—just comfort. A slow, sleepy kind of gentle closeness that wrapped around you like the worn blanket half-tangled at your feet. A lazy morning unspooled before you—slow kisses, warm touches, quiet laughter that felt like it belonged to something real.

Eventually, reluctantly, you pulled yourselves up and out. The world was soaked. Soft. Damp earth and fallen leaves. The sky was still gray, but it was a calm gray. Gentle. Forgiving. All in all, your little camp had survived better than expected. The damage from the storm wasn’t bad. Not really.

Your tent still stood, stakes holding firm. The pavilion—blessedly— had made it through, too. The extra effort you and Jungkook scrambling put in together—half-laughing, half-panicking in the rain—had paid off. It flapped now in the breeze, soaked but standing proud.

Together, with lingering hands and wordless glances, you and Jungkook got to work setting things back up with easy teamwork. You brushed past him once, and he caught your wrist briefly—his thumb smoothing along your pulse, his eyes dark with memory. Neither of you said a word.

Then—familiar voices in the distance.

“Yooo!”

Your friend’s voice rang out through the trees, followed by Yoongi’s dry tone, “You’re alive. Good to know.” They appeared on the muddy path, looking a little tired, a little smug, and entirely pleased with themselves. Your friend let out a victorious whoop the moment she saw the camp intact. “Hell yes! I don’t have to rewash everything!”

You all ate together—hot instant oatmeal and coffee made on a camp stove, bread slightly soggy but edible. The four of you sat in a circle, the chill in the air slowly warming with the sun, and plans for the day began to form: what shows to see, what vendors to hit, where the cleanest porta-potties might still be. Conversation bounced easily.

But your eyes kept drifting. Again and again, to Jungkook. You couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t help the pull. You caught yourself staring more than once. There was something there. In his face. In the curve of his lip, the cut of his jaw. In the way his tattoos shifted when he pushed his sleeves up, the ink across his hand catching the sun now that you had a proper look.

Your eyes lingered. The delicate calligraphy. The tiny symbols. The logo. You knew it.

You weren’t a fan—not in the hardcore sense. But you’d heard a song or two. And now… now it scratched at your memory like a locked door someone had cracked open. Once. Twice. You caught Jungkook staring, grinning back at you, as your gaze lingered. And each time, that grin—boyish and bright—spread across his face like he’d caught you stealing something.

You smiled back every time. Dumbly. Powerlessly. Couldn’t stop that either.

He was so... dorky. So easy to like. A man who had blown your mind in bed, yes—but also someone who laughed with you. Touched you gently. Looked at you like you mattered. And right now—sitting in the morning light, hoodie sleeves pushed to the elbows, legs stretched out lazily in front of him, eyes crinkling as he teased Yoongi about something—you couldn’t stop watching.

You didn’t want to. Your heart fluttered once, then again, sharper. Harder this time.

Who was he?

You fumbled for your phone beneath the table, careful to keep it hidden from your friend and Yoongi. Then, with a few quick taps, you sent him a message. “Hey… can we talk later? Just the two of us?” You didn’t add more. Didn’t need to.

Across the camp, Jungkook’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it, brow arching in surprise. You watched the shift in real time. First confusion. Then curiosity. Then something else entirely—his expression dimming just slightly, lips parting like a quiet breath had caught in his chest.

He looked up. Found your eyes. You smiled, small but reassuring. Jungkook smiled back, but it didn’t reach all the way.

Because now his heart was thudding. He’d hoped—maybe—that you were just flirting. Maybe planning round two. His thigh bounced slightly where he sat, hopefully. Another kiss. Another hour wrapped up in him. But then... his smile faded as he really looked at your reassuring smile.

Now he wasn’t sure. A small knot twisted in his chest. Did you… know? Did you recognize him? The tattoos. The voice. That logo etched into his skin. Panic whispered at the edge of his mind. He wasn’t just a guy at a festival anymore. Wasn’t just the man who held you through a storm.

His fingers flexed. Would this change everything? He didn’t know yet. Still, he typed back.

"Yeah. Of course. Whenever you want."

Then he looked up. Met your eyes across the table. And smiled. A little nervous. A little shy. But still that same grin. The one you were already falling for.

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The sun had begun to sink low, casting everything in that warm, golden hue that made even the mud-glazed festival grounds look almost romantic.

You’d spent the whole day with your friend and the boys, laughing through sets, dancing until your legs ached, screaming lyrics you barely knew. There hadn’t been much time to be alone with Jungkook. But it didn’t matter. He was there—brushing against you when the crowd surged, catching your eye when something funny happened, tugging you gently closer when a slow song played like it might carry you away without warning.

Still, by evening, you craved a moment with him. Craved him. You stretched with a groan and casually announced, “I’m kind of snackish. Gonna grab something.” It was barely a full sentence, but Jungkook had stood up immediately. “I’ll come.”

You exchanged no glances. Said nothing more. Just walked—quiet at first—side by side through the thinning crowds, past flickering string lights along a gravel path littered with paper cups and crushed plastic and the dull hum of bass from a nearby stage.

A breeze tugged at the edge of your jacket. The buzz of the day settled into your bones like warmth after a fire. Then Jungkook broke the silence, voice soft but laced with something nervous. “You… said you wanted to talk.” You glanced up, heart stuttering.

He cleared his throat, keeping his eyes forward. “Everything good? With us?”

Us. He said it like a question, not a statement. Like he didn’t want to assume, but hoped. Like maybe—for the length of this festival, at least—he wanted there to be an us. That little swell in your chest pulsed warmly.

You nodded fast, too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re good. I just…” You flushed, eyes darting to your feet as you walked. “It’s not about last night. I liked— I mean, really liked it. I didn’t want you to think…” At that, a blush touched your cheeks. The memory of his hands, his mouth, the way his body moved with yours—it flashed in vivid color behind your eyelids. You cleared your throat, flustered. Jungkook glanced at you. A small smile tugged at his lips.

You tried not to get distracted.

You sucked in a breath and forced the words out. “You said you work in the music industry. Producing, right?” His posture stiffened slightly, caught off guard his eyes flicked away. He cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he said, after a beat. Low. Careful. But he didn’t deny it.

You nodded slowly. Then quietly, almost shy, you tilted your chin toward his hand—the one with the tattoo. Your voice dropped to a murmur. “That’s BTS logo, right?”

The moment froze. He stopped walking. Jungkook didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just looked at you.

You stopped walking, only a step ahead, and turned to face him fully. Your heart fluttered against your ribs like a moth in a glass jar. The moment stretched long between you, your breath caught in your throat. His eyes searched yours, unreadable. You chewed your lip, nerves twisting tight. You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, heart picking up.

“Listen,” you began, suddenly sheepish. “If I… if I googled the band… I mean, this is stupid. Forget it.” You sighed, annoyed at yourself. Eyes darting everywhere but at him. Was it even important? Who he was? He had been nothing but kind. Soft. Gentle even when he’d held you down, filled you up, made you see stars. If he was a diehard fan—or even if he was someone—you weren’t sure it changed anything.

Still. The thought tumbled through you like a slow avalanche.

Jungkook watched it all play across your face. The doubt. The nervousness. The way your bottom lip caught between your teeth like you were trying not to say something you needed to.

And then—softly, almost more to himself—he said, “No. It isn’t stupid. Please. Just ask.”

Your eyes snapped back to his. His face was so open now. Not panicked. Not cold. Just—honest. Like he owed you that much. You still weren’t sure what answer you wanted.

Your voice trembled. “Are you…” You hesitated, fingers curling at your side. “If I googled BTS… would I see you?” He swallowed once. A small motion. Barely visible. Then he nodded. Slow. Gentle. Honest. Your breath caught.

It was like staring at someone you thought you knew—and realizing there was an entire other world behind their eyes. You blinked. You weren’t sure what you felt. Shock. Surprise. Stupidity. The image of him—sweaty and loud and laughing with you—didn’t quite line up with the dazzling, hyper-polished world you’d imagined for an idol. But now you could see it. The voice. The eyes. The tattoos.

“Why,” you breathed, “are you even at a metal festival?”

A ghost of a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “New inspiration,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Plus… it’s not really our scene. So, people don’t really expect to find us here.” You stared at him.

And then stepped a little to the side—away from the crowds, finding a quieter corner near the back of a merch tent where the lights faded and the crowd thinned. The grass was a little trampled, and the smell of sweet fried things lingered in the air.

You stopped, half-laughing, still trying to catch up with your own thoughts. “Okay,” you said, eyes wide. “So… that was a bit of a reveal.” Jungkook rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah,” he said, chuckling lightly. “Kinda dropped that one, huh?”

You snorted, your head shaking. “I mean, I did ask.”

“Still,” he said, voice soft, “sorry I didn’t say anything earlier.” You waved it off without hesitation, grinning. “You don’t have to apologize. It’s not like there’s a rule about announcing your global fame before sharing a beer and dancing like an idiot to death metal.” Jungkook laughed at that—really laughed, head tilting back for a second. The sound warmed your chest.

You looked up at him, squinting slightly. “You’re really in BTS. Like, that BTS. The biggest band on the planet after ACDC?” He made a face like he wanted to downplay it but couldn’t exactly deny it. “Only on certain days,” he said with a shrug.

You gave him a look.

“Okay,” he admitted, smiling again. “Most days.” You took a moment, let it sink in. “Wow. So that makes… Yoongi?” Jungkook nodded. “Yep.”

“And here I was thinking he just had really cool producer energy.”

“He’d be flattered,” Jungkook said, amused.

You paused for a beat, glancing out over the festival grounds—the blur of lights, the chatter, the echo of bass. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. Just full—with questions, with feeling, with what could come next.

“So…” you began, glancing down at your shoes before forcing yourself to meet his gaze, “what does that mean now?”

Jungkook blinked. “What do you mean?”

You bit your lip, flushing. Then you smiled, small and embarrassed. “I liked you,” you admitted. “Still do. I just… You know… I kind of hoped we’d stay in touch after the festival. Maybe?”

He turned to you, brows raised. “You did?”

You nodded, a little shy but still smiling. “If you wanted to. I—Yeah. I mean, you’ve been fun to hang with. But…” you shrugged. Your eyes found his, nervous. “But now I know who you are. Well now I do. And I figured maybe that kind of thing—this kind of thing—doesn’t work —”

You cut yourself off, biting your lip again. You felt foolish. Like maybe you were asking too much from someone who lived in a different world. Who wasn’t just a guy at a festival, but someone known.  Jungkook looked at you for a long, quiet moment.

There was a softness in his expression then. His voice dropped just a little. “I like you too.” He stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the heat of him even without touching. And then, softly, he smiled. “I’d like to stay in touch too,” he said simply. “Really.”

Your breath hitched. Your eyes searched his. You both stood there for a second in that cozy pocket of space—no pressure, no big declarations, just two people a little surprised by how much this fleeting festival moment had started to mean.

“I don’t care if it’s three days or three months,” Jungkook said, voice steady but hopeful. “If you want something after this… if you want to see where this could go—then I’m down to try.” Your heart gave a full, aching thud in your chest.

He looked at you like he wasn’t just waiting for an answer, but giving you room to choose, no pressure in his gaze—just quiet sincerity. And it floored you. Your lips parted in a soft breath, a smile teasing your face. “You sure? I mean… I might have to go through four layers of management just to text you.”

Jungkook let out a breathy laugh, shoulders easing. “Nah,” The rest of the world faded, the sounds of music and shouting dulled like they were behind glass. It was just him now. Just the way his hand reached up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. The way his eyes flicked to your mouth. The way his voice dropped to a whisper meant for only you. “I’ll make it easier for you. I promise.”

The air shifted—gentler, thicker, sweet with something unspoken.

His fingers brushed your wrist, then slid up, slow and deliberate, until they found your hand. His thumb grazed your knuckles.

You raised an eyebrow, smirking as you bumped his shoulder. “Okay, but—serious question… do I have to go to your concerts?” His brows lifted. “What?”

“I mean,” you grinned, biting back laughter, “I’m more headbanging and screaming guitars than glitter and choreography. No offense, but I’m not sure my metal soul can survive the sparkly fan light experience.” Jungkook let out a real laugh this time, full and bright. “You secretly want to see me on stage.” You narrowed your eyes, lips twitching. “Excuse me?”

“You do,” he grinned, voice low and teasing. “You’re curious. I can see it. You wanna know, curious little metalhead, wondering what I look like in a silk shirt under stadium lights.” You scoffed, but it was useless—you were already smiling. “Please, not exactly my scene.”

“Mm-hm,” he hummed knowingly. “Keep telling yourself that. I bet I can make you lose your mind.” You huffed a laugh and leaned into him just a little. “You showed me yesterday how to lose my mind without any clothes at all.” That made his grin spread wide—mischievous and proud.

You tilted your head, still smiling but letting a sliver of genuine curiosity into your voice. “Should I be worried? Do you make every girl lose their mind like that?” Jungkook’s cocky expression softened just slightly. “No,” he said without hesitation. “I only intend to do that with you.” Your stomach fluttered. God. The way he said it—like it wasn’t even a question. Because there was something in his tone, light but sure, teasing but real.

You nudged his arm, trying to defuse the warm ache in your chest. He nudged you playfully back. “Besides, you didn’t seem too upset about it.” You scoffed, nudging him again. “I’ll need written confirmation that your goal is not to ruin me completely.”

“No promises,” he whispered with a smirk, then leaned in to kiss you.

Your mouths met in a kiss soft enough to make your stomach flip, but full of the kind of promise that rooted deep. His lips moved with yours like he already knew the rhythm, and your fingers curled in the hem of his shirt, pulling him just a little closer. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t showy.

It was real.

And when you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested gently against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the fading festival noise. You smiled against him. “Fine,” you whispered. “But just because I really want to try.”

Masterlist

A/N: Hi! Just wanted to mention that I use ChatGPT and DeepL to clean up grammar and spelling in my writing. English is my second language, and this tools help me share stories the way I imagine them, without spending hours double-checking every word. Writing is just a hobby I enjoy after a full workweek—I’m not trying to make money from it.

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