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cdllevantae · 6 days ago

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after you, there was him | 전정국 (sequel)

summary. she found peace in arms that weren’t his. he found regret in the space she left behind.

pairing: music producer! jungkook x (fem)! reader

genre: angst, hurt/comfort, lovers to exes au

warnings: mentions of past cheating, emotional cheating (in flashbacks), heartbreak, regret and longing, healing oc, jealous jk, moving on, loss, tension, distance, forgiveness, acceptance, yearning, change, bittersweet ending

total word count: 3K+

a/n: okay sooo remember that anon who asked for a sequel to the last time he lied where oc heals and ends up with a new, wonderful man while jk sits in his regret?? 😌 well… here it is bestie. after you, there was him is finally out in the world 🥹✨ this one’s for you, anon — hope you’re ready for all the angst, flashbacks, and a sprinkle of bittersweet closure

masterlist ✧ taglist ✧ playlist

one.

You never planned on falling in love again. After Jungkook, love had been something you avoided the way you avoided touching a bruise — you didn’t want to test if it still hurt. The breakup had left a quiet crater inside you, the kind of emptiness that didn’t make noise but was always there, shaping everything around it. You told yourself you were fine alone. You told yourself that people could live entire lives without being in love again.

But then there was Minjae.

He wasn’t the kind of man who burned like a wildfire; he was the kind who felt like steady sunlight, the kind you didn’t realize you needed until you were standing in it. He remembered your coffee order after only hearing it once. He noticed when you switched your earrings because the first pair had been too heavy. He held your hand not to claim you but to reassure you that you were there together. With him, there were no games, no lingering doubts about where you stood.

It had been almost a year now. A year of quiet mornings, of dinners that ended in easy laughter, of not wondering if you were enough. You’d stopped measuring yourself against someone else’s love. You’d stopped waking up to the ghost of a text that never came.

But the universe, in its cruel sense of timing, decided to place him back in your orbit that day.

It was a Saturday, late afternoon, and the café was buzzing with the low hum of weekend chatter. You were at the corner table with Minjae, scrolling through your phone to show him a picture of the neighborhood cat that had taken up residence outside your building. You didn’t notice him at first. You didn’t hear the sound of his voice at the counter, didn’t catch the way he shifted from one foot to the other while waiting for his order.

Jungkook noticed you before you noticed him.

You looked the same, but different. The same eyes, the same curve of your smile — but the way you carried yourself was new. Your posture was straighter, your laugh was fuller, and there was a softness around you that hadn’t been there when you were with him. His gaze caught on the hand resting comfortably on your shoulder — Minjae’s hand, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your sweater like he’d done it a thousand times.

It was a casual, quiet claim. And it gutted him.

Because in his mind, you were still the girl in that small apartment kitchen, sitting on the counter with bare legs dangling as you stirred sugar into your tea, smiling up at him like he was your favorite part of the day.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” you had asked back then, laughing.

“Because you’re mine,” he’d said without thinking, leaning forward to kiss you, tasting honey and warmth.

But even then, even in those moments, he hadn’t realized what it meant to have you. He thought love could survive the lies if they were small enough. He thought your loyalty would forgive him for making you second.

The memory twisted inside him as he stood there in the present, watching you lean into Minjae’s side.

When you finally looked up and saw him, there was a flicker of recognition, but not the sharp, breathless ache he’d been hoping for. Your gaze didn’t catch on him like it used to; it passed over him, landed, acknowledged, and then steadied.

“Do you know him?” Minjae asked, sensing something in the air.

“Yeah,” you said, and your voice was level. “From a long time ago.”

Jungkook’s feet moved before his mind caught up, carrying him closer until he was standing at the edge of your table. His voice was low when he spoke. “Hi.”

“Hey,” you replied, polite, as Minjae sat a little straighter beside you. You didn’t introduce them. You didn’t offer him a way in.

“You look… happy,” Jungkook said, and the word almost broke in his throat.

“I am.”

The two words landed like stones in his chest. He glanced at Minjae again — the way he was looking at you like you hung the moon, like nothing else in the café existed but you. It reminded him of how he used to look at you before his own carelessness dulled it, before the lies eroded the trust until it collapsed.

Another flash of the past hit him without warning: the night you found out, standing in the doorway with your coat still on, your voice trembling as you asked him why. You hadn’t yelled. That was what haunted him most. You had looked at him like you wanted him to tell you it wasn’t true, to give you any reason to still believe. And he had lied, one last time.

Now, standing in front of you in the café, he realized there was nothing left to say. No sorry that would matter, no confession that would rewrite the ending.

“Take care of yourself, Jungkook,” you said, and you meant it. You truly meant it. But there was no lingering hope in the way you said his name.

He nodded, swallowing around the tightness in his throat. “Yeah. You too.”

You turned back to Minjae without another glance, smiling as he leaned in to murmur something against your temple. Jungkook watched you walk out together, the two of you stepping into the soft afternoon light like you belonged to a world he no longer had access to.

He sat in his car for a long time afterward, his coffee untouched, the air around him thick and heavy. The truth settled in slow and sharp: you hadn’t just moved on. You had been loved better.

And for the first time, he realized he wasn’t mourning what you had. He was mourning what he threw away.

⸻

Jungkook

The coffee had gone cold in his hands long before he realized he hadn’t even taken a sip. He was still sitting in the driver’s seat, parked a few blocks away from the café. He had watched you walk out with him — Minjae — and the image kept looping in his head like a film reel with no end.

It was the way you leaned into the man’s touch. Not shy, not hesitant, just… safe. Like you knew there was no chance he would let you fall. Jungkook used to think he gave you that. He used to think the warmth between you was permanent, unshakable.

But you looked different now. Not physically — though your hair was a little longer and you were wearing colors you never used to gravitate toward — but there was a lightness in you that hadn’t been there when you were with him. And the worst part? That lightness didn’t include him anymore.

He leaned back against the seat, closing his eyes. But closing his eyes only made the memories come faster.

He remembered the night you stayed up with him until 3 a.m. because his head was too crowded to sleep. You sat cross-legged on the bed, talking about nothing and everything, fingers idly tracing the tattoos on his arm.

“Do you ever think we’ll get tired of each other?” you had asked, half teasing.

But there were other nights too — nights he didn’t come home when he said he would. Nights he silenced his phone because answering your calls felt like facing a truth he didn’t want to deal with. He told himself they were harmless nights. White lies. He thought he could have both — the thrill of something forbidden and the comfort of coming back to you.

He didn’t realize that every time he lied, a piece of you stopped believing.

Jungkook opened his eyes and stared at the steering wheel like it could answer for him. He wanted to tell himself he was different now. That he wouldn’t make those same mistakes again. But if that was true, why did it feel like it was too late to prove it?

He gripped the wheel tighter and drove. Not home — he didn’t want to sit in his apartment surrounded by the ghosts of you. He ended up at the convenience store near your old place without even thinking.

The old place.

He had only been inside once since you left, when he came to drop off the last of your things. You hadn’t even opened the box in front of him. You just said “thanks” and shut the door. He’d stood there for a long time, staring at the peeling paint of your doorframe, wondering how something so solid between you could just… vanish.

Another memory surfaced, uninvited.

You were cooking, hair tied up, sleeves pushed past your elbows. The kitchen was a mess — spices, chopping boards, bowls everywhere. He leaned against the doorway, just watching you.

“What?” you asked when you caught him staring.

“Nothing,” he’d said, grinning. “Just thinking how lucky I am.”

You smiled then. That real, soft smile that made him feel like the rest of the world could disappear and he’d be fine.

If he had known that night that he was going to ruin it all, maybe he would’ve paid more attention. Maybe he would’ve memorized the way your voice sounded when you hummed along to the song playing in the background. Maybe he would’ve stopped taking the way you loved him for granted.

By the time he made it home, the sun had dipped low, painting the walls of his apartment in the kind of gold light that made everything look almost beautiful. But it wasn’t. It was just empty.

He tossed his keys on the counter and sat on the couch without turning the lights on. He didn’t need them. The quiet felt heavier in the dark.

And then — because he hated himself a little — he picked up his phone and found himself scrolling back through your old photos. He hadn’t deleted them. He didn’t have the strength.

There you were, sitting on the hood of his car, wind in your hair, laughing at something he said. Another one — you in one of his hoodies, mug of coffee in your hands, eyes still puffy from sleep. And then a video — your voice saying, “Stop filming me,” while you tried to hide your face, but he kept the camera on you anyway because he wanted to remember you exactly like that.

He could’ve sworn he felt something physically ache in his chest.

He thought about the look in your eyes at the café earlier. You didn’t hate him — that would’ve been easier to live with. You were… indifferent. You had healed past him.

He wondered if Minjae knew the whole story. If you had told him about the lies, about the nights you cried yourself to sleep while waiting for a door to open. If you had told him how hard it was to believe someone again.

The thought of Minjae holding you through all of that made Jungkook’s stomach twist. Not because Minjae didn’t deserve you — he probably did — but because he was the one who should have been there. He should have been the one who stayed when it got hard.

Jungkook didn’t cry that night. He thought maybe he would — but the tears didn’t come. What came instead was the slow, suffocating realization that regret doesn’t fix anything. That no matter how many times he replayed it in his head, he couldn’t rewrite the ending.

The last time he lied to you had been the last time you looked at him like he was home.

And now? You had a new home. One he couldn’t step into.

He leaned back, closing his eyes again, letting the darkness swallow him whole. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t try to fight it.

⸻

The air smelled like rain, though the streets were still dry. You were just leaving the bookstore, a paper bag of novels tucked under your arm, when you heard it — your name, spoken low, hesitant, like it was afraid of being said out loud.

You turned.

Jungkook was there. Hair longer now, fringe falling into his eyes, a dark hoodie pulled over his head like he was trying not to be recognized. He looked different — not just older, but worn. Not broken, exactly. Just… tired in a way you recognized all too well.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The city moved around you — footsteps, conversations, the distant hum of traffic — but it felt muted, like you were caught in a pocket of time no one else could see.

“Hi,” he said finally.

You nodded, shifting the weight of the bag in your arms. “Hi.”

You should’ve kept walking. You had somewhere to be, and standing here would only open doors you’d locked a long time ago. But something about his expression — the way his jaw clenched and unclenched, the way his fingers fidgeted in his pocket — made you pause.

“Do you have a minute?” he asked. His voice was careful, almost fragile.

You thought about saying no. You thought about telling him that whatever conversation he wanted to have, it was too late for. But then again, maybe it wasn’t about giving him closure. Maybe it was about giving yourself permission to stop carrying the weight of the unsaid.

“Okay,” you said.

You ended up at the small park down the street. The benches were wet from last night’s rain, but you sat anyway, the cold seeping through your jeans. Jungkook sat beside you, not too close, but close enough that you could feel the tremor in the air between you.

“I saw you the other day,” he said, eyes on the ground. “At the grocery store. You didn’t see me.”

You stayed quiet.

“You looked… happy.” He swallowed, the word sounding heavy in his mouth. “I’m glad.”

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t sharp either. Just… heavy.

“I lied to you a lot,” he said finally, voice low. “And I know sorry doesn’t change anything. I just—” He broke off, exhaling hard. “I wish I could go back and be better for you. I wish I’d realized you were the only thing that actually mattered before I… before I ruined it.”

You stared at the bare trees lining the park path. “I know,” you said quietly. “But you didn’t. And I had to learn how to stop wishing for a version of you that never showed up.”

He flinched — not because you were cruel, but because you were right.

There was a flash in your mind — not the fights, not the tears, but the night you both fell asleep on the living room floor after binge-watching a series until dawn. His hand had been resting over yours, his breathing slow and even, and you’d thought, This is home.

Funny how you’d been wrong about that.

“I’m not asking for another chance,” he said, almost to himself. “I know you’ve moved on. I just… I didn’t want the last thing between us to be the sound of a door closing.”

You looked at him then. Really looked. He was still the same Jungkook in so many ways — the curve of his mouth, the way his eyes searched yours for something to hold on to — but there was distance now. Distance time had built, and you had no desire to dismantle.

“I forgave you a long time ago,” you said. “Not for you. For me.”

Something in his shoulders loosened, like he’d been holding his breath for months.

When you stood, he stood too. You gave him a small, polite smile — the kind you give to someone you used to know, not someone you still love.

“Take care, Jungkook,” you said.

He nodded, but as you walked away, you could feel his gaze on your back until you disappeared into the crowd.

And that was it.

The last time you spoke. The last time he looked at you like he still believed in miracles.

#bts fanfic #bts jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook imagines #jungkook scenarios #bts x reader #jungkook x reader #jungkook angst #after you there was him #jungkook #cdllevantae

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cdllevantae · 7 days ago

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to those who asked me to make a part 2 of ‘the last time he lied’, well..your wish is my command 🫶🏻😚

#𓆩⟡𓆪 iah tells #fic announcement ੈ♡˳#the last time he lied #teaser #A SEQUEL THANK YOU

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cdllevantae · 9 days ago

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hello, loves! i just wanna share that i’ve been working on this for a while now, and I’m so excited to finally share it with you guys 🥹 The first chapter will be dropping 3rd week of August (mark your calendars!!).

this is my first series AU, so expect lots of build-up, tension, and all the feelings — from those shy glances to the moments that will break your heart just a little. 🏀❤️‍🔥

stay tuned and maybe keep your playlist ready… this one’s gonna feel. 🎧

Headlines & Heartlines | 전정국 ( masterlist )

You weren’t there to fall for an athlete.

You were there to tell the story right.

As a courtside reporter trying to make a name for yourself, your job is to stay objective. Observant. Unbiased. Jeon Jungkook is just another rising star—talented, media-trained, and used to people asking all the wrong questions.

But he surprises you.

He listens. He remembers. He notices.

And somehow, he starts asking you the questions off the record.

What starts as passing glances and guarded interviews turns into something quieter, something slower—shared coffees after games, long walks to the parking lot, moments where neither of you says the thing you’re both thinking.

He’s not the story you were supposed to chase.

But maybe he’s the one that stays with you when the cameras are off.

pairing: bball!player jungkook x (fem) courtside!reporter oc

genre: fluff, angst, slowburn, strangers to lovers au, workplace romance, sports au, slice of life, emotional realism, mutual pining, smut (?), forbidden romance

rating: 18+, MDNI!

word counts: TBA

warnings: slow burn ( like real slow ), lots of internal monologues, layered character growth, fluff-heavy but rooted in realism ( expect soft moments, emotional pacing, and a looooot of unsaid things ), eventual smut ( clearly marked when it happens ), lots of angst, emotional tension, and late-night breakdowns, features workplace tension, media pressure, identity, and ambition

masterlist ✧ taglist ✧ moodboards ✧ playlist

✭ teaser — 128

✭ chapter one : first impression aren’t always final — ( soon ! )

more chapters to be released soon!

#𓆩⟡𓆪 iah tells #bts fanfic #jungkook fanfic #headlines & heartlines #coming soon #mark your calendars y’all!!#cdllevantae

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cdllevantae · 9 days ago

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I DID NOT REALIZED THAT YOU WROTE THE LAST TIME HE LIED AAAAAA IT'S ONE OF FAVORITE ANGST FICS (read it from my reader account) YOU'RE AN AMAZING WRITER BABEEE

OMG STOP 😭💖 hearing that from you means the world to me!! The fact that one of my fave authors enjoyed my work?? I’m actually screaming 😭 thank you so so much for reading it (and for making my day/week/month omg). I’m so honored and a little emotional rn huhu 🫶✨

#𓆩⟡𓆪 iah tells #answered

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cdllevantae · 10 days ago

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reflected sins | 전정국 ( oneshot )

summary. Jungkook likes three things — making you come, making you beg, and making you watch. Tonight, he does all three… in front of a mirror, with the door unlocked, just to see if you’ll fall apart before someone walks in.

pairing : jungkook x (fem)! reader

genre : smut, friends with benefits au

warnings : smut, rough sex, mirror sex, oral (f!receiving), fingering, cunnilingus, squirting, unprotected sex, degradation, exhibitionism, orgasm control, auralism, katoptronophilia, voyeurism, hair pulling, throat grabbing, face press, dirty talks, public risks, aftercare

rating : 18+, MDNI!

word count : 5K

a/n : okay… so this one got way out of hand 😭 this started as a thought and ended as pure filth lol😔😔 and pls read the warnings bc this is dirty dirty. minors do not even breathe here. n ee ways, enjoy! 🤭👀

✧ masterlist ✧ taglist

The low hum of Seoul’s nightlife bled in through the half-drawn curtains, neon lights from the street casting fractured colors on the cream walls. It wasn’t even your hotel room — and that made it worse. Or better. Depending on how you looked at it.

You’d tagged along after the group’s afterparty, not because you planned to, but because Jungkook had leaned close in the car and said, low enough for only you to hear, “Don’t go home yet.”

And of course, you didn’t. You never did.

The room was spacious, all sleek black panels and gold accents, but what caught your eye immediately were the mirrors. One above the headboard. Another full-length one opposite the bed. A third panel stretching along the side wall, angled just enough to catch every movement. It was deliberate — not some decorative afterthought.

Jungkook tossed his jacket onto the armchair without looking at you, rolling his shoulders like the fabric had been suffocating him all night. His dress shirt was half-unbuttoned already, tattoos peeking through. He didn’t rush, but you felt every second stretch as he tugged his hair tie loose, shaking out dark strands.

“You’re staring,” he said, voice flat but with that sharp curl of amusement.

You lifted your chin. “You wore that shirt on purpose.”

His eyes flicked to yours, something dangerous slipping in. “Maybe I did.”

There it was again — the push-and-pull that had kept this going for months. You never defined it, never talked about it. Just nights like these, unplanned and inevitable, where your body made the decisions your mind pretended not to want.

He stepped closer. Not touching yet, just close enough that the heat of him sank through the air between you. His gaze dropped to your mouth, and you could feel the shift — the moment he stopped thinking about anything but what he was going to do to you.

“Go look in the mirror,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “Why—”

“Did I ask for a reason?” His tone wasn’t loud, but it hit low in your stomach.

Something in you responded instantly — maybe the same thing that kept you coming back. You turned toward the long panel by the bed, catching your own reflection. You weren’t prepared for how vulnerable it felt to see yourself like that, waiting, with him behind you.

He came up behind you slow, hands sliding over your hips before gripping hard enough to make you shift your weight. His breath brushed your ear. “You see that?” His eyes in the reflection were sharp, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “That’s mine tonight.”

Your stomach flipped. You should have said something snarky, should have kept the upper hand. But the way his fingers dug into your hipbones made your words catch.

One hand drifted up your side, fingertips brushing under the hem of your top. He didn��t pull it off yet — he liked dragging things out. “We’re gonna make sure you watch everything.”

He stepped forward so you could feel the outline of him pressing into you from behind, and your pulse jumped. His mouth dropped to your neck, warm and biting, and you tilted without thinking, giving him space to mark you.

“You know,” he murmured, low enough that your knees felt weak, “half the fun is imagining someone could walk in. Room’s not locked.”

The thought made your breath hitch, and he heard it. Smirk. “Oh, you like that.”

You hated that he was right.

His hands slid lower, under your skirt now, palms warm against the bare skin of your thighs. “Stand still,” he said, but his tone made it clear this wasn’t a suggestion. His fingers toyed at the edge of your panties, pulling them taut before letting the elastic snap lightly against your skin.

Your eyes stayed locked on the reflection — the way his tattooed hand looked against your hip, the way his head was bent to your neck, jaw working slowly as he mouthed at your skin.

“Keep your eyes open,” he said when you started to glance down. “If I catch you looking away, I’ll stop.”

You believed him. You hated that you did.

The first real touch came without warning — his fingers sliding past the thin barrier of fabric, knuckles brushing you open. Your breath caught, chest pressing forward involuntarily. His smirk in the mirror deepened.

“So warm already,” he said, like he was cataloguing facts. His voice had dropped lower, almost a growl. “You’ve been like this since the car, haven’t you?”

You didn’t answer fast enough. His other hand gripped your jaw, tilting your head so your eyes stayed on the mirror. “Say it.”

Heat flared in your cheeks. “Yes.”

“Good girl.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

Jungkook’s fingers were unhurried at first — maddeningly so.

You could see it in the mirror: his gaze fixed on your reflection like he was studying every twitch, every breath. The pads of his fingers slid in slow circles over your clit, barely enough pressure to relieve the ache he’d stirred up, but just enough to keep you strung out.

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “You look so fucking pretty when you’re trying to behave.”

Your thighs pressed together instinctively, but his hand wedged between them, forcing them apart again. “None of that,” he murmured. “If I want you shaking, you’re going to stay open for me.”

His other hand trailed from your jaw down to your throat — not squeezing, just resting there, thumb brushing idly over the hollow as his fingers kept working you. Every movement was deliberate, calculated to make you aware of exactly how much he controlled the pace.

You caught your own expression in the mirror — half-lidded, lips parted, the beginnings of something needy curling in your gut. You almost looked embarrassed. Jungkook noticed.

“Keep looking,” he said, tone sharpening. “I want you to see exactly what I’m doing to you.”

Your breath stuttered when he finally pushed two fingers inside without warning, the stretch sudden and filling. Your reflection jolted, and his eyes in the glass locked on that exact moment.

“Fuck, look at you,” he said with a dark laugh, curling his fingers in a way that made your knees threaten to give. “So easy to read. You’re already soaking my hand.”

The heat in your cheeks burned hotter — and you hated how much that humiliation made your pulse race.

He set a rhythm, slow and deep, curling up into that spot that made you clench around him. Every time your body tensed in anticipation, he’d pull back just enough to make you whimper.

“Already close?” he teased. “Don’t even think about it. Not until I say.”

You nodded quickly, because the alternative — coming without permission — would mean the night ending in denial. He’d done it before.

A sound outside the door made you freeze. Footsteps. Slow, dragging down the hall.

Jungkook’s smirk sharpened.

“You hear that?” he whispered, fingers never stopping. “Could be someone from the party. Maybe they’ll hear you if you’re not quiet.”

The thought made your stomach flip — and then your pulse jumped harder when there was a light knock at the door.

You stiffened. “Jungkook—”

“Shhh.” His palm covered your mouth, muffling the sharp inhale that almost escaped. His gaze in the mirror was steady, unbothered, like he was enjoying this.

Another knock. Louder this time.

His pace inside you didn’t falter — if anything, it got slower, drawing out every slick drag of his fingers, making it impossible not to squirm.

“They’ll leave,” he murmured into your ear, lips curling. “Unless you make a sound.”

The knock came again, followed by a faint male voice. “Hey, you in there? I think you left your—”

Jungkook pressed harder against your clit, forcing your eyes wide in the mirror. “Quiet,” he mouthed, eyes glinting.

The voice faded, footsteps retreating. The tension in your chest barely eased before Jungkook’s hand left your mouth, gripping your chin instead.

“You liked that,” he said. Not a question. His tone was smug, certain.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your body betrayed you, hips pressing back against him. His laugh was low, rough in your ear.

“You’d let them see, wouldn’t you?” His gaze dropped briefly to where his hand was buried between your thighs. “If I told you to get on your knees right here, in front of this mirror, with the door cracked—”

“Jungkook—” The warning in your voice came out breathless, pathetic.

“Don’t pretend you wouldn’t.” His pace picked up suddenly, the wet sounds of his fingers filling the air, and your thighs trembled. “Fuck, you’re shaking. Say it.”

You swallowed hard, eyes glued to your reflection. “…I would.”

He groaned like the admission did something to him, his hips pressing into you from behind. “That’s my girl.”

The words had your walls fluttering around his fingers, and he felt it.

“Oh, no. Not yet,” he said, pulling out completely before you could tip over. The sudden emptiness made you gasp, but before you could protest, he was pushing you toward the bed.

“On your knees,” he ordered, jerking his chin toward the edge of the mattress. “Facing the mirror.”

You sank to your knees in front of the bed, the plush carpet sinking under you. The mirror stretched across the wall to your right, catching the angle perfectly — you, kneeling, skirt bunched around your hips, hair already a mess.

Jungkook stood behind you for a moment, just watching. You could see him in the reflection — shirt hanging open, belt already undone, dark eyes fixed on you like he was planning exactly how far to take it tonight.

“Spread your knees wider,” he said, voice low but firm.

You did, heat rushing to your cheeks at the obscene gap it created between your thighs.

His hand came down on your ass suddenly — not hard enough to hurt, but sharp enough to make you jolt. “Arch,” he added, and you obeyed without thinking, pushing your hips back.

“Look at you,” he murmured, moving to kneel behind you. His tattooed arm wrapped around your waist as the other hand slid down your front, parting your folds in full view of the mirror. “You’re dripping. For what? A few fingers?”

The humiliation twisted in your gut, molten and addictive.

He shifted lower, lips brushing over the swell of your ass before his mouth dipped between your thighs. The first drag of his tongue made your head snap back, a gasp escaping before you could swallow it down.

“That’s it,” he said against you, voice muffled and hot. “Let me hear you.”

You tried to hold still, but the way his tongue flicked over your clit — deliberate, slow, paired with the rough glide of his fingers pressing inside again — made it impossible. Your hands gripped the edge of the mattress for balance as he built the pace, tongue and fingers working together until the heat pooled so tight in your stomach you could barely breathe.

“Please—”

He pulled back just enough to speak clearly. “Please what?”

“Let me—” Your voice broke, hips shifting desperately.

“Say it,” he ordered, curling his fingers inside you until your thighs shook.

“Let me come,” you gasped.

A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. “Not yet.”

He eased back, leaving you empty again. Your whine was half frustration, half need.

“You’re not getting off until I decide you’ve earned it,” he said, rising to his feet. “Get up.”

Your legs wobbled as you stood, and he guided you toward the full-length mirror by the wall. He sat down on the edge of the low armchair, pulling you to stand between his knees.

“Hands on the glass,” he said.

You did as told, palms pressing flat against the cool surface, your own flushed reflection staring back at you. He pushed your skirt higher, baring you completely, and his hand came up to rest lightly on your throat from behind.

“Look,” he said in your ear. “Watch what you look like when I ruin you.”

His free hand slid back between your thighs, fingers finding you again — not slow this time, but rough, precise, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit with each thrust. The mirror showed everything: the way your mouth fell open, the way your chest rose and fell too fast, the wet drag of his fingers disappearing inside you.

“Fuck, I can feel you clenching already,” he said. “You’re close.”

You nodded frantically, hips moving against his hand without shame now.

“Beg.”

The word punched through the haze in your head. “Please, Jungkook—”

“Louder.”

“Please, please, let me come—”

His grip on your throat tightened just enough to make your voice hitch. “You sound so desperate,” he said with a low laugh. “And you look even worse. Bet you’d let me keep you here all night, just to watch yourself fall apart in this mirror.”

The image burned into you — his hand between your legs, your own helpless face — and the heat threatened to spill over.

“Not yet,” he repeated, pulling his hand away again. Your knees nearly buckled.

“Jungkook—”

“You’ll come when I’m in you,” he said, standing and turning you to face him. His mouth was on yours before you could speak again — rough, demanding, tasting of you. His hands slid down to your thighs, lifting you effortlessly and walking you backward toward the bed.

He laid you down on the bed with your head angled toward the full-length mirror. From here, you could see everything — the rumpled sheets beneath you, the flushed mess of your own body, and Jungkook’s broad frame towering over you, shirt hanging open, belt loose at his hips.

“Spread,” he said, voice rougher now, like his own control was starting to fray.

You obeyed, and he stepped between your thighs, hand wrapping around himself. The sight alone — his fingers stroking lazily over his length while he stared at you — sent another sharp pulse of heat through you.

“Look at you,” he murmured, lining himself up. “Been making a mess of my hand all night. Now you’re going to make a mess of my cock.”

The first push had you arching — thick, slow, filling you so deep you couldn’t stop the gasp that slipped out. Jungkook’s head dropped forward, jaw tight as he bottomed out, holding there for a beat like he wanted to memorize the way you clenched around him.

“Fuck,” he groaned, looking up at the mirror. “Watch how you take me.”

He started to move — slow at first, dragging all the way out before snapping back in with enough force to make the bed frame creak. The wet sound of your bodies meeting filled the room, every thrust pushing you further up the mattress.

“See that?” His voice was a low growl in your ear as he leaned over you, one hand gripping the back of your thigh to open you wider. “Look how deep I am.”

You couldn’t look away — from the way your body yielded to him, from the dark focus in his eyes as he watched the same thing.

His pace picked up, sharp and relentless, each thrust angled to hit exactly where you couldn’t take it. Your nails dug into the sheets, your breath breaking into helpless moans that only made his smirk widen.

“You sound like you’ve been starving for this,” he said. “Is that it? Needed me to fuck you stupid?”

“Yes—” The word was a gasp, unfiltered, and his laugh was low and pleased.

“Good girl.”

He shifted suddenly, pulling out just enough to drop to his knees. Before you could catch your breath, his mouth was on you again, tongue flicking over your clit with ruthless precision while two fingers thrust deep.

The combination was brutal — your back arched hard, a sharp cry spilling from your lips before you could stop it.

“Keep looking,” he ordered, voice muffled against you. “I want you to see exactly what you look like when you fall apart for me.”

Your vision blurred in the mirror as he pushed you higher, the pressure building so fast you couldn’t hold it back this time.

“Jungkook—”

“Do it,” he growled. “Come for me. Right now.”

The release tore through you, hard and sudden, your thighs trembling as wet heat spilled over his hand. His groan was filthy, satisfied. “That’s it. Fuck, you just squirted all over me.”

You barely had a second to catch your breath before he was back above you, sliding into you again with a groan. The overstimulation had you twitching, gasping, but his grip on your hips kept you pinned.

“Not done,” he said through gritted teeth. “You’re going to give me another one.”

His pace turned punishing, hips slamming into yours in a relentless rhythm that made it impossible to think. Every time you started to drift toward the edge again, he’d press his thumb to your clit, forcing the heat to flare until you shattered a second time, crying out into the sheets.

“God, you’re a mess,” he panted, pulling out and stroking himself over your stomach. “Look at yourself.”

Your reflection was wrecked — hair tangled, lips swollen, skin marked where his mouth had been. You looked ruined, and you loved it.

With a low curse, he spilled over your skin, the heat stark against the cool air. His breathing was ragged, chest heaving as he watched the last of it drip down your stomach in the mirror.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then Jungkook leaned down, brushing his mouth over your ear. “Next time,” he murmured, “I’m leaving the door open.”

The room was heavy with heat and the faint hum of the city outside. You lay there catching your breath, legs still trembling, skin cooling under the faint brush of the AC.

Jungkook was the first to move, slipping away just long enough to grab a damp towel from the bathroom. He didn’t say anything as he came back, but the way his hands were gentle — carefully wiping you clean, making sure not to press too hard where you were still sensitive — said more than he’d ever put into words.

You watched him in the mirror as he worked. His hair was damp with sweat, a strand falling into his eyes. The sharpness in his expression had softened, replaced with something quieter.

“You good?” he asked finally, voice low.

“Yeah,” you said, though it came out more like a sigh. “Legs might not work for a while, but…”

His mouth quirked. “I’ll carry you if I have to.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was a flicker of warmth in your chest you didn’t want to examine too closely.

He tossed the towel aside and slid into bed next to you, lying on his side so you faced each other. His arm came to rest casually over your waist, not pulling you closer, but not letting you drift away either.

For a few moments, it was quiet — just the sound of your breathing settling, the muted throb of music somewhere far below.

“You really would leave the door open next time,” you said eventually, not quite a question.

He smirked, eyes glinting. “You’d like it.”

You didn’t answer, but the heat that rushed up your neck was answer enough. His grin widened, and he leaned in just enough to brush his lips over your temple.

“Next time,” he murmured again, and you knew he meant it.

You also knew you’d let him.

#bts fanfic #bts jungkook #bts x reader #jungkook imagines #jungkook scenarios #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #bts smut #smut #friends w/ benfits au #reflected sins #bts fic #bangtan smut

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cdllevantae · 12 days ago

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Headlines & Heartlines | 전정국 ( masterlist )

You weren’t there to fall for an athlete.

You were there to tell the story right.

But he surprises you.

He listens. He remembers. He notices.

And somehow, he starts asking you the questions off the record.

He’s not the story you were supposed to chase.

But maybe he’s the one that stays with you when the cameras are off.

pairing: bball!player jungkook x (fem) courtside!reporter oc

genre: fluff, angst, slowburn, strangers to lovers au, workplace romance, sports au, slice of life, emotional realism, mutual pining, smut (?), forbidden romance

rating: 18+, MDNI!

word counts: TBA

masterlist ✧ taglist ✧ moodboards ✧ playlist

✭ teaser — 128

✭ chapter one : first impression aren’t always final — ( soon ! )

more chapters to be released soon!

#bts fanfic #bts jungkook #jungkook angst #jungkook fanfic #jungkook imagines #headlines & heartlines #bts x reader #jungkook scenarios #jungkook x reader #bts fluff #jungkook fluff #jungkook masterlist #bts masterlist #cdllevantae

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cdllevantae · 12 days ago

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the last time he lied | 전정국 (oneshot)

synopsis. you loved him with a heart too open. He loved you with hands too full. And when he dropped you — it shattered everything.

pairing: music producer! jungkook x (fem)! reader

genre: angst, heartbreak, betrayal, hurt/comfort, post-breakup healing

warnings: cheating/infidelity, emotional heartbreak, realistic confrontation scene, gaslighting, mental health issues (crying, spiraling, slow emotional healing, implied therapy), mature languages (light swearing, emotionally raw)

word count: 4K

A/N: SUPRISE! tbh i don’t even know how to intro this fic because… yeah. this one hurt. like writing-through-a-lump-in-my-throat kind of hurt. i’ve always wanted to write a cheating story that wasn’t about revenge or some dramatic second chance, but something quieter — the kind of heartbreak that sticks in your ribs and makes you question everything you gave to someone who didn’t protect it.this isn’t about getting even. this is about walking away with nothing but your name and slowly learning that it’s enough. and i don’t definitely consider CHEATING guys.. if you’ve ever had to heal from someone who hurt you and then tried to look you in the eye like they didn’t — this is for you. 🤍thank you for reading. please take care of your heart. also, if you want a part where the reader does fall in love again (maybe with someone soft, slow, and kind)… send me an ask 👀 i’m always thinking about her healing arc

music recos to listen: hard sometimes- ruel, from the dining table - harry styles, let it all go - birdy & rhodes

The first sign wasn’t the way he came home late.

It wasn’t the new cologne or the three-second delay before he answered “I love you too.”

No — it was the lipstick.

Scarlet red.

Pressed against his collar.

And it wasn’t yours.

You stared at it for a full minute, heart thudding so loud it drowned the quiet hum of the refrigerator behind you. Your fingers didn’t shake — not yet. They just hovered, suspended in disbelief.

“Jungkook.” Your voice cracked like ice underfoot.

He looked up from where he was kicking off his shoes. Hair tousled. Jacket thrown over one shoulder. Smile lazy — until he saw your expression.

Then it dropped.

And for a second, he looked… afraid.

“Y/N…”

You held up the shirt. No questions. No raised voice. Just the silent, damning red mark between his buttons.

His mouth opened, then closed. You watched him scramble for a lie, a reason, an excuse you’d be stupid enough to believe. You almost wished he’d say something ridiculous — like a fan hugged him too tight. Like the stylist made a mistake. But he didn’t.

Instead, Jungkook exhaled.

And said the worst thing possible.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

There it was. Confession, soaked in cowardice.

Your breath hitched. “How long?”

“Two months.”

A whisper.

Two fucking months.

You staggered back like the words slapped you across the face.

“And all this time… you looked me in the eyes. Touched me. Slept next to me. You kissed me like I was the only one.”

“I was confused,” he said too quickly. “I didn’t want to lose you, Y/N—”

“You already did.”

His silence was worse than anything he could’ve said. He just stood there, fingers twitching, jaw clenched like he wanted to cry but didn’t have the right to.

Because he didn’t.

You turned away.

He reached for you. “Please, just talk to me—”

You flinched. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

Your voice broke this time. It finally cracked all the way through, and with it, so did you. You grabbed your bag with shaking hands, pulling it open and stuffing things blindly.

He didn’t stop you.

Maybe he knew he couldn’t.

“Was she worth it?” you asked without looking at him. It was the only question that mattered.

No answer.

You left before he could lie again.

It had been 43 days.

Not that you were counting.

But it was hard not to when everything around you still whispered his name.

The extra toothbrush you hadn’t thrown away yet, the half-empty cologne bottle sitting on your shelf like it didn’t poison the air, the hoodie you couldn’t bring yourself to touch — the one he said he didn’t want back.

“Keep it. It smells like you.”

Liar.

Now it smelled like smoke and regret.

You’d moved out of the apartment the week after. Your best friend had shown up at your door, lips pressed together, no questions asked.

“Pack what you need,” she said softly, hugging you with arms stronger than your own. “You don’t have to stay here another night.”

And just like that — you didn’t.

⸻

Healing wasn’t linear. People said that. But no one warned you how humiliating it could be.

One week, you’d be making coffee and humming a song you forgot you liked. The next, you’d catch a glimpse of a tattooed hand in a crowd and spiral like it just happened yesterday.

Some nights you were okay. Other nights you missed him like breathing — not because you still loved him, but because your body hadn’t caught up with your heart.

It still expected him to walk through the door.

To kiss your temple.

To call you “mine.”

He was someone else’s now.

And yet… his ghost lingered in all your quiet spaces.

You didn’t block him.

Maybe you should’ve. But part of you — the soft, naive part that still believed in old promises — needed him to see you move on.

Or at least pretend to.

Your Instagram became a highlight reel of fake smiles and blurry photos. Sunset shots. Candles. A new hair color you weren’t sure suited you — but everyone commented how “powerful” it looked, so you kept it.

Jungkook liked a few of them.

You didn’t like any of his back.

But you saw them all.

Especially the one where he was smiling in a studio, a girl’s hand visible at the edge of the frame.

Not yours.

You zoomed in anyway.

Then you cried in the shower until the water ran cold.

⸻

It wasn’t until the night of Yoongi’s listening party that you saw him again.

You weren’t going to go. You supposed not to.

You even typed out the message:

“Hey, something came up. Can’t make it tonight. Hope it goes well 🖤”

But you didn’t hit send.

Instead, you walked out in a dress you used to wear when you felt beautiful, heart beating like thunder in your chest.

He was already there when you arrived.

Of course he was.

Jungkook stood near the back, hood up, drink in hand, laughing at something Taehyung whispered into his ear. He looked good. He always looked good. That had never been the problem.

He hadn’t seen you yet. But Jimin had.

His expression changed the second your eyes met — a flicker of guilt, then something gentler. Protective.

You gave him a tight-lipped smile.

“Didn’t think you’d come,” he said, hugging you.

“I didn’t either.”

He didn’t ask how you were. Maybe he already knew. Maybe he knew too well.

“You want me to keep him away?” Jimin offered lowly.

You shook your head. “Let him come.”

Jimin nodded once — then walked away.

You didn’t look at Jungkook again.

But he looked at you.

More than once.

You felt his gaze like static on your skin. Every time he moved, it tugged at the old wound you’d sewn shut with thread too thin.

An hour passed. You laughed with Hoseok. You took photos with Jin. You cheered for Yoongi.

And then, somewhere between the last beat and the last drink, a shadow stepped beside you.

His voice was a whisper.

“Can we talk?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Your glass was half-full. Your heart was half-empty.

“Now?” you said flatly.

He nodded.

You stared at him. At the eyes you used to trust. The mouth that used to kiss you like forever.

“All right,” you said. “Let’s talk.”

You didn’t smile.

This wasn’t that kind of reunion.

⸻

You followed him to the rooftop.

The city lights blurred behind glass. Music from the party pulsed faintly through the floor. But up here — it was quieter. Colder. Just the two of you and the echo of everything left unsaid.

Jungkook kept his distance.

For once.

He leaned against the railing, head down like he didn’t know how to start.

You didn’t help him.

Let him feel what it’s like to search for words in a mouth full of guilt.

Finally — he spoke.

“You look good.” you raised a brow. “That’s what you open with?”

“I didn’t mean— I just…” He sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “You look strong.”

“Maybe because I had to be.”

His jaw tightened.

You watched him carefully. Same dark eyes. Same trembling fingers when he was nervous. He wasn’t the man who broke your heart — not exactly. But he wasn’t the man who loved you, either.

Not anymore.

“Why am I here, Jungkook?”

He swallowed. “Because I owe you more than what I gave you that night.”

You were in disbelief. “You mean the night you confessed you cheated on me like it was a scheduling conflict?”

“That’s not fair.”

You tilted your head. “You want fair? I gave you my loyalty. My trust. My body. My time. You gave me her lipstick on your shirt.”

Silence.

You weren’t yelling. That somehow made it worse.

“I don’t want excuses,” you continued, voice steady. “Just tell me why.”

Jungkook didn’t look at you right away. His eyes were locked on the skyline, as if the right answer might be hiding in the spaces between buildings.

“I was losing myself,” he said slowly. “In the music. The pressure. I felt… suffocated. Like everyone needed something from me, and I didn’t know who I was outside of it all.”

You blinked. “So you slept with someone else to remember who you were?”

“I didn’t go looking for it,” he said, voice soft. “It just… happened.”

You laughed — bitter, humorless. “Right. Because betrayal is an accident. You just tripped and fell into her bed?”

His eyes flashed. “I made a mistake.”

“No, Jungkook. A mistake is missing our anniversary. A mistake is saying the wrong name once.” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t stop. “What you did? That was a choice. Two fucking months, Jungkook. And you made it more than once.”

He said nothing.

You stepped forward, close enough to smell the cologne you used to bury your face into.

Close enough to see the tears forming.

“I loved you,” you whispered. “God, I loved you so much I couldn’t breathe without you. And you killed that version of me. You killed her the moment you touched her like she was worth more than everything we built.”

His face crumpled. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s the truth.”

“I never stopped loving you.”

You froze.

He said it like it meant something. Like it could reverse the clock. Like his love still had weight after everything it cost you.

“Then why wasn’t it enough?” you whispered.

He looked at you then, eyes red, throat working around words that didn’t want to be said.

“I didn’t know how to be the person you deserved.”

“You could’ve told me. We could’ve worked through it. But instead—” Your voice broke, just slightly. “Instead, you lied. You smiled. You held me and then went to her. You let me believe we were okay.”

“I was scared,” he admitted. “Scared you’d leave. Scared I already broke too much of us.”

“So you broke the rest instead?”

His silence was answer enough.

The night wind picked up. You crossed your arms, but not from the cold.

From the ache of seeing him cry and knowing it wasn’t yours to comfort anymore.

You should’ve walked away.

But your heart had one more question.

“Do you love her?”

Jungkook blinked. “What?”

“The girl you cheated with. Is she the one now?”

He shook his head. “No. I ended things with her. It wasn’t real.”

That almost made you angrier.

“So you destroyed us for something that meant nothing?”

He winced. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“No. You were. You just weren’t thinking about me.”

He took a step toward you. “Y/N—”

“No. I’ve had enough.” you held up a hand.

There were tears in your eyes now, too. But you weren’t ashamed of them. You had every right to grieve what he took from you.

“I’m not here for closure,” you said. “I’m here to remind myself why I left.”

His face shattered.

You looked at him one last time — the boy you loved. The man you lost. The person who let your heart slip through his fingers and didn’t even notice until it hit the floor.

“I hope you figure yourself out someday,” you whispered. “But I won’t be waiting at the end of that journey.”

And then you turned.

And this time — he didn’t stop you.

Six Months Later

Healing didn’t look the way the movies said it would.

It wasn’t a dramatic haircut in front of the bathroom mirror.

It wasn’t a spontaneous trip abroad or a montage of dancing barefoot in a new apartment while sunlight filtered through linen curtains and acoustic music played softly in the background.

No — healing was quieter than that.

And grittier.

More honest. More exhausting.

It was dragging yourself out of bed on days when the air felt too heavy to breathe. It was sitting across from a therapist and forcing your mouth to form words when your throat felt like it was lined with glass. It was learning to tell the truth out loud: “He hurt me. And I still miss him sometimes. And I hate that I do.”

It was avoiding the places you used to love together — not because you couldn’t go alone, but because you weren’t ready to see his ghost sitting across from you, smiling like nothing ever changed.

It was saying no when friends tried to set you up with someone “nice” because you didn’t want nice. You wanted quiet. Peace. Stillness. Because for the first time in a long time, you were trying to figure out who you were when you weren’t surviving someone else’s storm.

Healing was learning how to fill your own silence without reaching for his voice.

It was grocery shopping without imagining what he’d want in the cart.

It was realizing the world kept spinning — and you hadn’t been pulled under like you thought. It was waking up one morning and realizing you hadn’t thought of him the night before. It was going four days without checking his Instagram — then five — then eventually forgetting what his username even was.

And when you remembered it again, months later, the urge to search was gone.

There was nothing there you needed anymore.

You didn’t hate him anymore.

And that — that was the scariest part.

Because hate still meant you were holding on.

Still meant he lived somewhere inside you. Still meant he had real estate in your heart, even if the lease expired long ago.

But now?

Now, he was a memory you no longer visited.

No anger. No ache.

Just… quiet.

Like a story you once told yourself. Like a version of love you outgrew.

And that, in its own strange way, was the most powerful healing of all.

⸻

You were living in a smaller place now.

Smaller, but quieter.

Yours.

The kind of space that didn’t echo with someone else’s footsteps or carry the weight of conversations that once ended in silence. There were sunlit windows that caught the golden hour just right.

Secondhand furniture you actually liked — not things you compromised on because someone else “didn’t like mid-century legs.”

There were mismatched mugs that didn’t match a set, but matched you.

Your couch had a permanent dent in the middle where you curled up with a book and a blanket that smelled like lavender. Your phone lived on Do Not Disturb most mornings — and somehow, the world didn’t end.

You had more plants than you knew how to care for. Some of them were thriving, stretching toward the windows like they were reaching for their next life. Some were barely hanging on, but you watered them anyway.

It felt like poetry, in a way. Watching things grow even when they weren’t perfect.

Even when you weren’t perfect.

Your friends started teasing you about how peaceful you looked — not the fake kind of peace you wore like a mask in the months right after, but the kind that settled into your skin slowly.

The kind you earned.

“Like a retired poet who only writes when it rains,” Jimin joked over brunch one day, watching you stir sugar into your coffee with that soft little smile you hadn’t worn in months.

You grinned over your mug. “Maybe I’ll dye my hair gray next.”

He gave you a look. “You already had your heartbroken glow-up. Don’t tempt fate.”

Hoseok leaned in dramatically. “One heartbreak per era, please.”

You laughed.

For real.

Not the forced, polite kind you gave people when they asked, “Are you okay now?”

Not the one that trembled at the corners of your mouth when you tried to pretend you weren’t still hurting.

No — this one bubbled up naturally, like your body remembered how to feel joy again.

And it felt good.

Honest.

Undeniably yours.

And for the first time in a long time, you weren’t waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You were just… here.

Alive.

At peace.

And learning, slowly but surely, how to live without flinching at your own happiness.

⸻

You didn’t expect to see him again.

Not here.

Not in your aisle.

Not when your fingertips had just grazed the edge of that poetry collection — the one that lived in your old apartment, dog-eared and underlined, filled with notes in the margins in both your handwritings. The one he used to read aloud to you in bed, voice quiet and steady like a promise.

Of course.

Of course it was that book.

Your fingers brushed.

You froze. So did he.

Time didn’t slow down, not exactly — but it folded in on itself, just for a second. Just long enough for your stomach to drop, for your breath to catch, for your heart to remember what it used to do around him.

Jungkook.

Hair a little longer now, pulled back in that lazy half-up style he used to wear when he was too tired to do anything else. A few strands hung loose around his face. He looked softer somehow — not in a way that made you ache, but in a way that told you the storm had passed, even if it left debris in its wake.

He looked tired, yes — but not in the way he did when he was breaking you piece by piece.

No, this was the kind of tired that came with growth.

The quiet fatigue of someone who’d been forced to look in the mirror and sit with what they’d done.

His eyes met yours.

Soft. Sad. Searching.

“Hey,” he said, almost breathless.

You stared at him for a beat. Blinked once.

“Hey.”

No pain. Just that.

Just a quiet, full-circle ache.

He stepped back half a pace, hands tucked in his coat pockets, like he didn’t trust them to stay still.

“You look…” he started, eyes dragging over you like he was trying not to linger. “You look happy.”

You tilted your head slightly, lips pressing into something that wasn’t quite a smile — but wasn’t far from it either.

“I am.”

He nodded once. Slowly. As if the answer settled somewhere heavy in his chest.

He looked like he wanted to say more. Like his tongue was balancing on a dozen words. But he didn’t speak. Just held the book out to you.

The very same copy.

Worn edges. Familiar weight.

“This was always your favorite,” he murmured.

You took it from him without hesitation. Your fingers didn’t shake this time. Not like they did when you first let him go.

“Thanks,” you said.

Polite. Simple. Unbreakable.

He lingered.

You felt it — the way his eyes flicked to your mouth, to your hands, to the space between your bodies. Like he was searching for something he lost and only now realized wasn’t coming back.

Like he might ask to talk.

Like he wanted to see if there was still a version of you who might want to hear him out — hear whatever it was he didn’t say that night on the rooftop when the air between you snapped and your silence finally screamed louder than his guilt.

But that version of you was gone.

She died the night he handed her a half-truth wrapped in lipstick and cowardice.

And you weren’t about to dig her back up just because he looked like a memory you used to miss.

So you smiled.

Gentle. Measured. Distant.

“I hope you’re doing better.”

His throat bobbed. He looked like he hadn’t expected your kindness.

“I’m trying,” he said, voice low.

“That’s good.”

The silence that followed was full. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just full. Like a room still holding the echoes of a conversation that had already ended long ago.

You stepped back.

He didn’t follow.

Didn’t call your name. Didn’t reach for your wrist. Didn’t ask for another chance.

He just stood there, watching, as you turned the corner — the book in your hand, the story still unfinished, but your heart finally intact.

You didn’t look back.

You didn’t need to.

Because this time, he was the one left behind.

⸻

That night, you lit a candle.

It was lavender and sage — one of those scents that felt like clean slates. You’d been saving it for a night that felt like closure, even if you hadn’t realized it until now. The flame flickered softly, casting shadows across your living room walls, making the space feel even warmer, even quieter.

You poured yourself a glass of wine.

The kind you used to share with him on slow Sundays, back when you still believed forever was something he meant. You didn’t hesitate this time. No shaking hands. No flinching at the taste. Just a quiet sip, followed by a deeper breath than you’d taken in weeks.

And then you opened the book.

Your book. The one you found together. The one you lost to him for a while. The one you just reclaimed like a stolen piece of yourself.

You let your fingers flip through its soft, worn pages — stopping every so often when you saw his handwriting in the margins. Faint pencil strokes. Tiny notes like “this one’s so you” or “read this when I’m not around.”

They didn’t hurt anymore.

They were just echoes now. Faded voices in a story that had already turned the page.

And then — near the end, tucked in a poem you must’ve skipped a hundred times — you found a line that hit you square in the chest:

“Some people are chapters. But I am the whole story.”

You froze.

Let the words settle over you. Into you.

It was quiet.

No dramatic swell of music. No tears. Just stillness. Like something long-winded inside you had finally gone still.

And for the first time in a long time — you believed it.

Not in a desperate, trying-to-heal kind of way.

Not in a fake-it-til-you-make-it mantra.

But in a soft, solid, truthful way.

You were the whole story. You always had been.

His betrayal didn’t erase that. His absence didn’t define that. His guilt didn’t get to rewrite the parts where you learned how to love yourself again — slowly, painfully, beautifully.

You leaned back on your couch, glass of wine half-full, the book resting on your lap, the candle still burning beside you like a quiet promise.

And you whispered, just to yourself —

“There’s so much life left — and now, I’m finally ready to live it.”

And you meant it.

281 notes · View notes

cdllevantae · 13 days ago

Text

underneath the spotlight | 전정국 (oneshot)

summary. beneath stage lights and silence, two people who’ve been hiding in the shadows finally fall apart — and back into each other.

pairing: idol! jungkook x (fem) staff! reader

genre: angst, smut (explicit), emotional hurt/comfort, idol au, forbidden romance, slow burn (with payoff), secret relationship, soft ending

warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), idol x staff power imbalance, vaginal fingering, unprotected vaginal sex, rough sex, dirty talk, emotional intimacy during sex, overstimulation, possessiveness, crying during sex (emotional), soft dominance, implied consent + clear verbal consent, emotional aftercare, angst, confessions, secret relationship, career-related risks, emotionally charged confrontation

word count: 4,100

ratings: 18+, MDNI!

A/N: don’t ask how this turned into 4k of angst and tension and soft smut bc i don’t even know 😭 they just do something to me. hope u like it 🖤

The dressing room door slammed shut.

You didn’t mean to — it just happened. The frustration had been mounting for days, and the moment Jungkook glanced at you again across the stage with that unreadable look — cold, hard, like you were a stranger — something inside you snapped.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you muttered, arms crossed, leaning against the wall as if it could hold you together.

Jungkook didn’t respond at first. His black hoodie clung to his body, still damp with sweat from rehearsal, his chest heaving from exertion. He didn’t even look at you — just dropped into the couch, running a hand through his damp hair.

“We’re at work,” he said finally. “I’m not supposed to treat you differently.”

Bullshit.

You knew that tone — too casual, too practiced. The kind of voice he used in interviews. Not the one he used with you that night two months ago, when his lips traced apologies down your collarbone. When he said he didn’t care if it ruined his reputation.

You stepped closer. “And what was that? Just a mistake you’re trying to forget?”

His eyes darkened. “I never said that.”

“But you’re acting like it.”

His jaw clenched. For a moment, the silence threatened to suffocate both of you.

It wasn’t supposed to happen. You were just a hair and makeup artist — a staff member he saw almost every day. But then one night, after an award show, he stayed behind while everyone else left. You offered to help him remove his stage makeup. That turned into wine, silence, and glances that lingered a little too long. That turned into tangled sheets in a hotel room neither of you could truly claim.

And now?

You were nothing again.

“I can’t do this with you,” Jungkook said, finally standing. “Not when I’m always being watched. It’s not fair to you either.”

“Don’t pretend this is about protecting me,” you snapped, voice rising. “This is about you being scared.”

He flinched, just barely.

“I’m not scared of you,” he said, low. “I’m scared of what this would do to you. To me. You know how this ends — I get to keep performing, and you lose your job.”

You hated that he was right. Hated it even more that he cared enough to say it.

But your voice broke anyway. “Then why’d you kiss me?”

Jungkook was in front of you in two strides. He didn’t touch you — not yet — but his presence was overpowering. You could see the pulse in his neck. The tremble in his fingers.

“Because I couldn’t not kiss you,” he whispered. “Because you looked at me like I was more than just an idol. Because for once, I didn’t feel like I was performing.”

You swallowed.

“Then why are you pushing me away now?”

His hand reached for your face, but hovered inches from your cheek, hesitant. “Because if I start again… I won’t stop.”

“Then don’t stop,” you whispered.

That was all it took.

Jungkook’s restraint shattered in an instant.

He surged forward, pressing his mouth to yours with the desperation of someone drowning. His hand cupped your cheek now, firm and shaking slightly, thumb dragging over your skin as his lips moved over yours — rough, wanting, conflicted.

You gasped, and he took advantage of it, tongue sliding in to taste you like he’d missed it — like he’d missed you. And he had. You felt it in the way his body leaned into yours, every inch of him trembling with tension he couldn’t hide anymore.

His hands dropped to your waist, gripping tightly as he backed you up against the dressing room wall. His hips pressed into yours, and the unmistakable hardness against you made you both gasp.

“This is wrong,” he muttered against your lips. “So fucking wrong.”

But his hand was already slipping beneath your shirt, hot and hungry.

You grabbed at his hoodie, pushing it off his shoulders, your breath catching as you felt his bare skin underneath. His chest was still damp from the show, muscles flexing under your touch. He hissed as your nails scraped down his sides.

“Don’t stop,” you echoed again, more breathless this time.

He growled low in his throat. “You think I can stop when you say shit like that?”

He lifted you in one swift move, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He carried you across the room — not to the couch, but the vanity table, where brushes and palettes scattered to the floor with a loud clatter.

“Jungkook—”

“Tell me to stop,” he said, forehead resting against yours. “Right now. If you say it, I’ll stop.”

Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging hard. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

That was all he needed.

He kissed you again, rougher this time — less hesitant, more desperate. His hand slid between your thighs, fingers moving beneath your waistband with practiced ease. He growled when he found you already wet.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You’re soaked.”

You moaned into his neck, biting down on his skin as he began to circle his fingers against your clit, slowly, deliberately — a punishment and a reward at once.

“I thought about this,” he said lowly, voice hoarse with control. “Every fucking night. But I didn’t come near you. Not once. I’ve been good.”

You whimpered, grinding against his fingers.

“You think I didn’t see you?” he continued. “Walking around in that tight little skirt, bending over near my chair. Were you trying to drive me insane?”

“I wasn’t trying,” you gasped. “You were already gone.”

He chuckled darkly. “You’re right.”

And then his fingers dipped into you, two at once, and your whole body arched forward. You clung to him, panting as he worked you open with slow, measured thrusts. His thumb never left your clit, rubbing tight circles while his mouth trailed down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone — teeth grazing skin he had no right to miss this much.

You were trembling when he pulled back just enough to drag your pants and underwear down your legs. His eyes raked over your exposed skin like a starving man.

“I need you,” he said, almost broken. “I need to be inside you.”

“Then take me.”

That’s all it took.

He unzipped his pants and freed himself, hard and thick in his hand. You watched, breathless, as he stroked himself once, twice — then lined up with your entrance.

The moment he pushed in, both of you groaned.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “You feel…”

You cut him off with a cry, because he didn’t wait. He thrust into you fully, bottoming out in one deep, aching stroke. The vanity mirror rattled behind you, your hands scrambling to hold onto his shoulders as he began to move.

Each thrust was brutal, deep, deliberate — like he was trying to erase the space that had been growing between you. You clung to him, legs wrapped tight, the sting of stretch and pleasure making your eyes blur.

“Say it,” he groaned into your ear. “Tell me you missed me.”

You whimpered. “I missed you. Fuck, Jungkook — I missed you so much.”

He fucked you harder, hips snapping into yours.

“You think I didn’t wake up every night thinking about you under me again? Screaming my name like you used to?”

You couldn’t answer — your moans were too loud, incoherent. You felt yourself nearing the edge, body coiled so tightly you thought you might snap.

“I’m gonna—” you choked out.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, hand gripping the back of your neck as he kissed you fiercely. “Come for me.”

And you did — hard, legs shaking, nails digging into his skin, mouth falling open in a silent cry as your orgasm crashed over you.

Jungkook groaned, burying his face into your neck, thrusts stuttering as he followed you over the edge. You felt him spill into you, warmth flooding, his body trembling with release.

He stayed like that for a moment — chest pressed against yours, bodies slick and tangled, breath ragged. You didn’t move.

Not until his hand came up to cradle your cheek again, this time softer. Like you were something breakable.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that — your body limp, still wrapped around him, the mirror behind you fogged from heat and breath.

But eventually, Jungkook slowly pulled out, murmuring a soft “I’ve got you” when your legs trembled. He caught you when you sagged against him, arms circling your waist with a tenderness that cracked something deep in your chest.

“I’m gonna clean you up,” he whispered, brushing a kiss against your temple. “Okay?”

You nodded silently, cheeks warm and throat tight.

Jungkook moved carefully around the room, grabbing a clean towel from a drawer and dampening it under the sink. The mood had shifted — the tension still lingered, but now it felt like exhaustion, like regret pulling gently at your limbs.

He returned and knelt between your legs, cleaning you delicately, like you might break if he touched you too hard. His gaze didn’t waver from the task — jaw tight, lips pressed in a firm line, lashes shadowing his eyes.

When he was done, he helped you dress again. Pulled your underwear up, smoothed your shirt down, fixed your hair with careful fingers. It was all so… quiet. Reverent.

You watched him as he cleaned himself up next — shirt discarded somewhere on the floor, belt undone, expression unreadable as he avoided your gaze.

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

“You always do that,” you said softly.

He looked up. “Do what?”

“Act like we didn’t just give each other everything.”

He exhaled sharply and sat beside you on the vanity table, close but not touching. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“You’re pulling away again, Jungkook. You always do.”

The silence stretched. You heard the faint thud of bass outside the door — the others were still at rehearsal, completely unaware of the storm unraveling inside this room.

“I’m scared,” he admitted finally.

Your breath caught.

“I’ve spent my whole life controlling my image. Every part of me has been scrutinized, filtered, twisted by headlines,” he said, voice raw. “But when I’m with you… I lose control. And I like it too much.”

You blinked, throat closing.

“Then why does it feel like I’m the only one paying the price?”

His head dropped into his hands. “Because you are.”

You stared at him, at the man who the world thought they knew — golden, perfect, untouchable. And yet here he was, unraveling right in front of you, spine curled in defeat, hands shaking.

“I hate that I made you feel disposable,” he said. “You’re not. You’re… fuck. You’re the only thing that’s felt real in a long time.”

The ache in your chest cracked wider.

“You kissed me like it mattered,” you whispered. “You touched me like it meant something.”

“It did.” His voice was sharp, urgent. “It does.”

You shook your head, lips trembling. “Then why are we pretending this is temporary? Why are you still choosing fear over me?”

He reached for your hand then — tentative, desperate — and laced your fingers together.

“Because if I lose you, I won’t survive it.”

You couldn’t help it. The tears came, slow and hot. Jungkook pulled you into his arms immediately, letting you bury your face into his chest.

He held you so tightly it hurt.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again. “I’ve been hurting you because I thought I was protecting you.”

“I never asked you to protect me,” you mumbled. “I just wanted you to choose me. Even if it was messy.”

He pulled back to look at you, hands on either side of your face now.

“I’m not ready to go public. I’m not even ready to tell the others. But I’m ready to stop pretending like you don’t mean everything to me.”

You stared at him, heart pounding.

“You mean that?”

“I do,” he whispered. “Let me do it right this time. No more running. No more pretending. I don’t care if we keep it quiet — I just don’t want to keep you quiet anymore.”

His voice cracked slightly. “I want to be yours.”

The tears returned — not from sadness this time, but from the weight of finally being seen.

You nodded, smiling through it.

“Then I’m yours too.”

Later, once the air had settled and your breathing matched his again, Jungkook tugged a spare hoodie over your frame — his, oversized and warm, still smelling faintly of sandalwood and sweat.

You stood in front of the vanity mirror, watching as he gently fixed your smudged eyeliner with a makeup wipe. His fingers were careful, like he was afraid of breaking the fragile peace between you.

“You’re not just some secret I’m ashamed of,” he said quietly, meeting your eyes through the reflection. “I need you to believe that.”

“I do.”

“I just…” He paused, exhaling through his nose. “I’m still learning how to be this version of myself. The one who doesn’t push you away when things get hard.”

You turned around to face him fully, your hands reaching up to cup his face. “Then let me be here while you learn.”

His eyes softened, lashes low, lips parting slightly — like your words were something he never thought he’d deserve.

“You’re too good to me,” he murmured.

You kissed him, slow and sure, with none of the earlier desperation — just quiet understanding. A beginning, not a goodbye.

When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“I can’t promise this’ll be easy,” he said.

“I don’t need easy,” you replied. “I just need honest.”

He nodded, almost to himself. “I want to see you outside of here. Not in hiding. Not just in dressing rooms and after-hours.”

“You’re an idol,” you whispered. “And I’m on staff. There’s rules.”

“Then we break them. Quietly. Carefully.” His smile was small but real. “We find a way.”

The knock on the door startled you both.

“Hyung says we’re needed back on set in ten!” a voice called from outside. Probably one of the staff runners.

Jungkook glanced at the door, then back to you.

The moment fractured — the bubble of the dressing room breaking open, reality filtering back in.

But this time, he didn’t let go of your hand.

He didn’t retreat.

Instead, he pressed one last kiss to your forehead, tender and grounding. “I’ll see you after rehearsal.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His smile widened. “Not at your apartment, or mine. Somewhere new. Somewhere that’s just ours.”

You bit your lip, grinning despite yourself. “Sounds risky.”

He leaned close, voice a whisper only for you. “So are most good things.”

You fixed his collar. He tucked your hair behind your ear. And when he finally opened the door, his fingers brushed yours one last time before he stepped out — not with guilt, not with fear.

But with quiet promise. With hope.

And as the door closed softly behind him, you realized something:

For once, you weren’t just someone he met behind closed doors.

You were someone he was finally ready to walk toward — in the open.

Even if it had to be one soft, stolen moment at a time.

171 notes · View notes

cdllevantae · 13 days ago

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전정국 | Back to Friends | 03

you and jungkook were each other's "almost." the kind of connection that never had a proper beginning but felt too real to be just a phase. those late-night calls, sharing playlists, lingering eye contact, soft touches that never crossed the line-you were everything but official.

but when feelings started to complicate everything, you both silently drifted apart.

Now, two years later, fate pulls you back together. You're both in the same university again-him majoring in Music Production, and you in Digital Arts. A mutual friend ropes you into a collaborative multimedia project. You didn't expect him to be part of it. He didn't expect you to still wear the same perfume.

It's awkward at first. The small talk. The jokes. The unspoken weight in the room.

He plays a song one night in the studio, unfinished but familiar.

"How can you look at me and pretend, I'm someone you've never met" he sings.

You freeze. It's your story. Your story with him.

And slowly, it all comes back.

pairing: singer!jungkook x (fem) digital artist!oc

genre: ANGST!!, almost lovers to emotional exes au (situationship au), slowburn romance, slice of life

word count: 5K

rating: 18+

warnings: ANGST!! (for real), hurt/comfort, unresolved feelings, timing and miscommunication, unspoken love, bittersweet ending (oopsies) >_< swearing, heavy emotional themes, unresolved tension, past vs present flashbacks, crying, breakdowns, regrets, pain, a kiss that's not really a kiss (you'll see what i mean), bittersweet goodbye energy, heartbreak (but make it quiet), final closure (or is it?), lastly...tissues are recommended...

A/N: okaaay.. so this is it. the final chapter. i'm actually a little emotional typing this lol..back to friends has lived rent-free in my head for WEEKS and finally letting these two go feels like saying goodbye to a version of yourself that still believed in what almost was. this story was always meant to be soft, sad, and real — about timing, silence, and all the little moments we wish we could rewind. and if it broke you a little bit... well same :(( thank you all so much for reading, for sending asks, for feeling every line with me. whether you rooted for them or wanted them to shake them both — you were here. and that means everything. see you on my next au! love lots 🫶🏻🤭

Three: The Final Show

The festival lights are brighter than you expected — too bright, almost. Strings of neon bulbs flicker above the crowded walkways, casting moving shadows across the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, the bass from the main stage trembles through the air like a second heartbeat. People laugh loudly, someone screams with joy from the carousel ride, and everything smells like kettle corn and chaos. It’s loud, colorful, alive — everything you used to love about nights like these.

But all you can feel is the silence building inside your chest, heavy and hollow, like something inside you has stopped moving.

You’re standing by the edge of the digital hall, tucked half into the shadows, headset snug over your ears, tablet held tightly against your chest. Your thumb keeps tracing the corner of the screen, an unconscious habit, grounding yourself while your team runs the final diagnostics on the visual loop for the closing set. His set. This is it — the moment you’ve both been working toward for months. The first time both your works will debut together. His music. Your visuals. Intertwined. Synced. Sharing the same stage, the same spotlight.

And yet harmony isn’t the word you’d use for what’s inside you now.

The tablet buzzes with a ping. Then you hear Minjae’s voice through the headset, a little rushed, slightly breathless. “_____, Jungkook’s asking if the render’s locked. He wants to do a timing check before they start letting the crowd in.”

Your mouth opens, but your voice gets caught somewhere behind your ribs. You swallow hard, try again. “Yeah,” you say, barely above a whisper. “Tell him I’m coming.”

You cut through the side of the tent, ducking under tangled light cables and skirting past volunteers busy taping down wires and adjusting cameras. Your steps feel strangely distant from your body, each one louder in your ears than the last. You tell yourself to breathe. Just walk. Just get through it.

And then you see him.

Jungkook’s by the sound panel, black cap pulled low over his eyes, headphones snug over his ears. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, revealing the curve of his forearm, veins flexing subtly as he adjusts the sliders. He’s calm, focused, in control — or at least, he looks it. But you notice the slight twitch of his jaw. The way his fingers fidget a little too long over the same dial. He’s holding something back. You know the signs. You always have.

He glances up when he senses you approaching. There’s no smile, no softening in his gaze — just a short nod. “You ready?”

You don’t answer immediately. Just plug in the USB and pass him the cable. “As I’ll ever be,” you mutter, even though you’re not sure if you mean it.

The screen hums to life. Your final visual composition fills the projection wall, silent and haunting in the low lighting. It’s stripped back, intimate — two faceless figures moving through space, always circling, reaching, missing. They touch the glass between them again and again, only for the wall to shift and thicken. A choreography of almosts. A story told in distance.

He watches it with a stillness you don’t trust.

Then the music begins.

It starts soft — just a guitar and a whisper. Then builds slowly into something fuller, deeper, harder to ignore. You know every note. You helped balance the mix. But hearing it now, in this empty rehearsal space, with him standing just feet away… it hits different.

He doesn’t look at you as he sings. His gaze stays locked on the empty chairs, the lighting rig, the farthest wall. But somehow, it still feels like he’s singing to you. Or worse — about you.

“It was last December…”

Your hands tremble around the tablet, but you don’t dare move.

“You were laying on my chest..”

The visuals behind him mirror every beat. The figures press against the glass. Mouths open in screams you can’t hear. Reaching. Reaching. Failing.

“I still remember.. I was scared to take a breath, didn’t want you to move your head..”

You suck in a breath, but it’s too late. It’s already sinking its teeth into you — the memories, the guilt, the ache. You feel it crawl up your spine and settle in your throat. And then the chorus played.

“How can we go back to being friends, we we just shared a bed..��

“How can you look at me and pretend, I’m someone you’ve never met..”

The last chord hangs in the air, vibrating softly as if the song itself doesn’t want to let go. And for a long moment, neither do you.

When it finally fades to silence, you’re gripping the edge of the booth just to stay upright. Your knees feel hollow. The lights from the screen flicker across your face, casting shadows over the tear tracks you didn’t realize had formed.

Jungkook turns toward you, pulling off his headphones. This time, he does look at you — really look. And his expression is raw. Unpolished. Honest in a way it never used to be.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and cautious, like he’s scared your answer might break them both.

You nod before you can think. An instinct.

You lie.

And he knows it.

But neither of you says a word.

—————————

It was a week before the campus closed for the break — the kind of cold, quiet night when the city felt far away, and the sky looked too big above the dorm rooftops. Most of the campus was emptying out, but the media lab lights still burned behind the windows. You and Jungkook were both running on too much caffeine and not enough sleep, sprawled across opposite ends of the editing room couch, laptops perched on your knees.

You were supposed to be syncing your visuals to a sample track for his soundboard test.

But your mind had wandered hours ago — distracted by the way his hoodie sleeves bunched around his forearms, or the way he chewed the inside of his cheek when he concentrated, or the occasional laugh he gave when your commentary got too weird for him to ignore.

You weren’t dating. It wasn’t official.

You weren’t even really sure what you were.

But you had started spending nearly every evening together — sharing playlists, editing drafts, swapping ideas, accidentally falling asleep beside each other on borrowed blankets, always waking up an inch too close and pretending you didn’t notice.

Tonight felt no different.

Except it did.

Jungkook was sitting on the floor now, back leaned against the couch, scrolling through a sound file as you rested sideways with your legs tucked under a throw blanket. The air between you buzzed with that familiar tension — the unspoken kind that you both learned to live with. Comfortable. Close. But never quite enough.

“Play it again,” you murmured, eyes half-lidded as the instrumental looped softly through the speakers. “That part at the 45-second mark. I like how it builds.”

He tapped the spacebar, nodding. “It’s meant to mimic a heartbeat.”

Your brows lifted. “You never told me that.”

He shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Didn’t think I had to. You always get it anyway.”

Your chest clenched at the way he said it — like he knew you in a way that went deeper than music and art and unspoken glances across crowded rooms. Like you were his favorite secret.

You turned to face him. He was watching the screen again, but his shoulders were stiff — guarded. Like he was waiting for something. Or maybe afraid you’d notice how much he was holding back.

“I think,” you said, voice quieter now, “sometimes I forget how easy it is with you.”

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

“This,” you said, motioning vaguely between you. “Us. It’s like… we’re just two pieces of the same song sometimes.”

He didn’t reply right away. And maybe that’s what made your heart race — the pause, the silence that stretched just a little too long. Until finally, he turned his head to look at you.

“You ever wonder what would’ve happened,” he said, “if we hadn’t met through the project? If it was just you and me, not… deadlines and drafts and group chats?”

Your breath caught. Because you had wondered. So many times.

“I think we still would’ve found each other,” you whispered.

Jungkook’s expression shifted — something soft, something raw. His gaze dipped to your mouth for just a heartbeat before snapping back up.

“Sometimes,” he said, voice low and deliberate, “I wish I could just press pause. Stay in this moment. Before we mess anything up.”

You sat up, your knees now just brushing his shoulder. His face was so close — too close — and yet you didn’t move.

“I wouldn’t mind that,” you said. “Staying here. Just a little longer.”

His lips parted like he wanted to say something more. But instead, he reached up — hand hovering near your cheek, hesitant, trembling just a little.

And then — the door opened.

The spell broke.

A classmate poked their head in, asking about a camera battery, and you both sprang apart like fire meeting air. The moment collapsed, unfinished. Like a sentence left hanging mid-thought.

You never talked about it afterward.

But the memory stuck.

Not because of what happened.

But because of what didn’t.

—————————

Hours later, the main hall is packed to the edges — buzzing with electricity, a crowd of hearts waiting to be moved. You stand just behind the curtain, headset pressed tight to your ear, though the cue calls fade beneath the sound of your own pulse roaring in your head.

This is the moment.

The one you’ve both been building toward — separately, together. A final act stitched from the wreckage of almosts and what-could-have-beens.

It’s not just a performance anymore.

It’s the graveyard of everything you never said.

The emcee’s voice rings out across the darkened room, introducing him like he’s just another artist on the lineup. Like he hasn’t lived in your memories for months. Like this isn’t going to carve you open.

“Visuals cued… ready in 3… 2…”

The lights fall. The screen glows.

The first quiet strum of his guitar sends a tremor down your spine.

He walks into the spotlight, shoulders set, jaw tight, eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his cap. From the outside, he looks composed. But you know that look. He’s holding it together by a thread.

And then — he starts singing.

You freeze.

Because the song? It’s not just part of the show.

It’s not just lyrics and chords.

It’s you. It’s him.

And it’s everything you never had the guts to say.

The room is hushed — hanging on every word — but your ears are ringing with memories:

The first time you almost kissed. The night you both stayed quiet when it would’ve been easier to scream. The slow drift from “something” to “nothing,” like watching fire turn to ash in your hands.

And then comes the line that guts you:

“The devil in your eyes…Won't deny the lies”

Your knees go weak.

The visuals behind him flicker through memories too — your visuals — silhouettes moving in and out of light. Two figures chasing each other in loops. Always reaching. Never catching.

You had designed it like a dream.

He turned it into a confession.

And then, the change you didn’t plan.

You trusted him with the final frame — told him to do what felt right. You didn’t ask what he added. You didn’t think you needed to. But now, as the figures nearly touch for the first time — fingertips trembling in the light — the entire screen glitches.

Flickers.

Goes black.

And in the silence that follows, one line fades in:

“You've sold, I'm holding on too tight”

Your breath leaves your lungs like a gut punch.

Because you almost asked. Because he almost did too.

And now it’s too late.

The song ends. The lights fade.

The applause explodes through the venue, people around you cheering, clapping, some already crying. But you can’t move. Can’t breathe. Because all you can hear is the static in your ears and the hollow ache blooming in your chest.

He looks toward backstage, eyes searching through the dark. They find yours.

And in that look is everything:

The version of you he still carries. The words he never said out loud. The goodbye that came years too soon.

You nod once — the kind of nod that says, I heard you.

Even if it’s too late to answer back.

You find him sitting on the cold floor just outside the supply room — half-hidden behind the stacked crates and tangled extension cords. His head is bowed, earbuds still in, arms resting on bent knees. The hallway is empty, except for the hum of a vending machine and the ghost of his voice still echoing in your chest.

You whisper his name.

He hears you, even through the music. He lifts his head slowly — like he already knew you’d find him here. Like he’d been waiting.

And for a moment, the noise of the festival fades. The light overhead flickers. And it’s just you and him again — like before everything fractured.

Your voice wavers. “Was that really the ending you wanted?”

His eyes search yours. Tired. Brimming. “It’s the only one I could live with.”

You step closer, then sink down beside him. The space between your shoulders buzzes with things unsaid. The silence stretches, but it’s not empty — it’s heavy. Familiar. You both carry it like an old scar.

You stare ahead, then ask softly, “Why didn’t you say anything? Back then?”

He exhales through his nose — sharp, bitter. “Because you mattered more than anyone ever did. And I was terrified.”

His fingers twitch in his lap. “I thought… if I told you, I’d ruin it. I’d lose the only thing that ever felt real.”

A tear slides down your cheek. You don’t brush it away. “And now?”

He lets out a laugh — cracked at the edges. “Because I loved you in all the ways I knew how — I just never learned how to love you loud enough to make you stay.”

There’s nothing to say to that. Because it’s true.

You both sit with the weight of it. The truth that took too long. The love that never got its timing right.

Your hand curls into a fist on your lap. “You know,” you say, voice thick, “I put everything I couldn’t say into the visuals. Every ache. Every almost.”

He turns his face to you. “I know. I saw it. Felt it.”

“And you… you sang it all.”

“I tried,” he says quietly. “I tried to make it beautiful. Even if it broke me.”

Your eyes flicker toward him. He’s not crying — but his eyes are red-rimmed, glassy. As if he’s been grieving this for longer than you knew.

“Do you still love me?” you ask suddenly, before you can stop yourself. The words tear out of you like a wound reopening.

He blinks. The question slices through him.

Then — slowly, surely — he nods.

“Always,” he whispers. “Even when I didn’t know how to show it. Even when it was too late.”

You press a hand to your chest. It’s not metaphorical — it literally hurts. That sharp, breathless kind of pain. Like your ribs are too tight around a heart that keeps breaking open.

“It still hurts,” you whisper. “Even now. Even after all this time.”

“I know,” he murmurs, voice barely audible. “I’m sorry.”

For a second, you look at each other. Like maybe there’s still time. Like maybe if you both said one more thing, it would all come undone and start again.

But that’s the lie, isn’t it?

Some stories don’t get a second act. Some love isn’t meant to stay.

“So what do we do now?” he asks. And it sounds so much like the boy you used to know. Hopeful. Helpless.

You blink slowly. Swallow the lump in your throat.

“We grieve it,” you say.

He nods, once. The kind of nod people give when they’re agreeing to let go of something they’ve held too long.

The silence returns — but this time, it’s not heavy.

It’s soft.

Mourning, not regret.

You don’t touch. You don’t try to fix it.

You just sit there, side by side, in the quiet aftermath of what almost was — and will never be again.

And maybe — just maybe — this is what closure looks like.

Not a kiss. Not a promise.

But a shared silence. A shared sorrow.

A shared goodbye.

It’s the day of the Campus Multimedia Festival.

You wake up with your heart in your throat.

It’s not the alarms, or the endless checklist you’d scribbled onto a crumpled notepad last night. It’s not even the pressure of the festival — though that alone should be enough to make you crumble.

It’s the ache in your chest. That sharp, familiar pulse of unfinished conversations and unspoken words.

Outside your window, the sky is thick and colorless, hanging heavy like it, too, is waiting for something to fall apart. Humidity wraps around the morning like static. You can feel it on your skin before your feet even touch the floor.

You scroll through your phone: texts from your team, reminders about render queues, backup drives, light transitions, sound re-syncs. Everything buzzing with urgency.

But your fingers hover over the one name that never came through.

Jungkook.

He hasn’t messaged. Hasn’t called.

Hasn’t said a word since the studio — since he let that final version of the track play, sitting across from you in the half-lit room, like it didn’t mean anything.

But it did. You know it did.

That song was more than production.

It was a memory wrapped in melody. A goodbye disguised as chords.

You remember the way he sat — shoulders tense, headphones slung around his neck, eyes trained on the floor. The track played and filled the air between you like smoke. Thick. Slow. Suffocating.

When it ended, he didn’t say a word. He just nodded once, stood up, and left the room like he hadn’t just bled into a song you both knew was about you.

And now here you are — on the morning of the biggest creative moment of your university life — and all you can think about is how everything you made together is about to be unveiled…

…while you pretend it means nothing.

You’re going to stand beside your art, and he’s going to stand beside his music.

And you’re both going to lie.

With your posture. With your smiles. With your silence.

Because if you tell the truth — even now — it might ruin everything. Again.

Or worse.

It might not change a thing.

10:27 a.m.

The backstage area is alive — but not in a good way.

It’s chaos wrapped in fluorescent light, tangled wires, and caffeine-fueled panic. Someone is shouting from across the LED rig about a corrupted file, someone else is halfway in tears because a visual clip won’t load, and Minjae is on the ground with a projector that died five minutes before tech run. She’s armed with duct tape, a screwdriver, and what might be the last of her sanity.

“Try restarting the board again,” you call out, trying not to scream over the tangled noise. “From the main line this time, not the backup.”

Your voice is steady. Trained.

But inside, your lungs feel like they’re collapsing one inch at a time.

You keep your tablet clutched to your chest like armor, moving through bodies, blinking through the strobe test lighting as if everything isn’t breaking down in real time. As if you aren’t breaking down in real time.

Because this — the Festival, the closing act, the visuals — was supposed to be a victory. A showcase of everything you’d worked for. Everything you and Jungkook ever created.

But somehow, it feels like a funeral.

A final show before it all ends.

Then—

“Hey.”

You freeze before the voice fully registers.

Jungkook.

He appears beside you, slightly breathless, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, his laptop clutched in one hand like a lifeline. His hair is a little messy — probably from running between the main hall and the audio booth — and his eyes scan your face for a moment too long before flicking away.

“Soundcheck’s moved up,” he says. “They want us ready in fifteen.”

You nod. Swallow the lump in your throat.

“I’ll tell lighting.”

You turn to walk, but he doesn’t move.

He lingers.

Like there’s more he wants to say. Like he’s still holding something behind his teeth.

You don’t look at him.

Because if you do, if you let yourself meet his eyes, even for a second — you might unravel. Right here, between the buzzing cables and busted screens, you might say everything you swore you wouldn’t.

Instead, you step away. You keep your gaze on the floor and your heart inside your chest, even as it threatens to spill out.

Because this is what you both asked for, isn’t it?

To finish strong.

To put the art first.

To say nothing — even when there’s everything left to say.

2:43 p.m.

You sit alone in the AV booth, shoulders curled in, your body folding around itself like it’s trying to vanish. The final visual is looping on the main monitor — a slow, haunting sequence you’ve seen a thousand times but still can’t watch without something clenching in your throat.

Two silhouettes. A glass wall. Always reaching. Never quite touching.

You press pause mid-frame. The motion freezes into something agonizing — hands suspended inches apart, light flaring between them like a wound. The stillness of the image feels louder than the audio ever could.

On the dark screen, your own reflection stares back at you. Hollow-eyed. Pale.

“You did this to yourself,” you whisper to no one.

Behind you, the door clicks softly.

You don’t flinch. Don’t turn.

But you know it’s him.

You always do.

“Hey,” Jungkook says, his voice like a bruise you’ve pressed too many times. Soft. Familiar. Worn down to its most human edges.

You stare straight ahead, the paused image blurring at the corners of your vision.

He steps inside. Doesn’t speak right away. Just lets the door close with a soft thud — final, like a chapter ending.

“I just…” he starts, clearing his throat. “I wanted to say good luck. For tonight.”

You nod, slow and small. “You too.”

The silence stretches. It’s almost cruel, how heavy it feels.

Then, quietly: “You look tired.”

You let out a breath of laughter — if you can call it that. It’s dry, brittle, cracked down the middle.

“I haven’t slept,” you admit. “Not really.”

Still, he says. “You’re glowing.”

That makes you look at him — against your better judgment. Against the version of yourself that’s sworn to stay neutral, professional, untouchable.

But you turn anyway.

And there he is.

Cap in hand. Shoulders tense. Eyes dimmer than you remember, but holding something devastating beneath them — like regret that’s been fermenting for too long. Like he’s seeing a ghost he once begged not to leave.

It’s the look that breaks you.

Because despite everything — despite the silence and the years and the missed chances — your heart still makes room for him. It still leaps toward him like it doesn’t know better.

You hate that. You hate that you still hope.

That some part of you still wonders if it could’ve ended differently.

But instead of saying any of that, you whisper:

“Why are you really here, Jungkook?” His lips part, but no sound comes out at first. He shifts his weight, as if bracing for something.

“I don’t know,” he says finally. “Maybe I wanted to see if you’d look at me the way you used to.”

You blink. Once. Twice.

“I don’t,” you lie.

But the ache in your chest gives you away.

6:00 p.m. the festival begins.

The doors open, and the world spills in like a tidal wave.

Students, professors, strangers with clipboard passes. Judges with sleek cameras and narrowed eyes. Laughter and camera flashes echo off every wall. The air is thick with energy — all nerves and caffeine and the sharp hum of expectations.

You’re crouched behind the digital console, double-checking the projector calibration for the tenth time. Your team flits around you like sparks — adjusting cables, toggling screens, speaking in shorthand.

But you can’t hear them.

All you hear is the thump-thump-thump of your own heartbeat, the low pulse of bass from the main stage, and then—

Footsteps.

Measured. Unhurried. Too familiar.

You don’t need to look up to know it’s him.

Jungkook.

You feel him before you see him — like your skin remembers the weight of him walking into a room. He’s dressed in black tonight — hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows, headphones slung around his neck, his lanyard swaying with every step.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t pause.

But as he passes, his fingers brush yours.

Barely. A second at most.

A ghost of contact — so faint you could almost pretend it didn’t happen.

But you don’t. You don’t flinch, don’t move, don’t breathe.

And still—it burns.

Like the memory of a fire you once lived inside.

He keeps walking, and the moment splits open in his wake. Like something invisible just snapped in half between you. You stay still, staring at the projector screen, heart pounding louder than the music.

That one second tells you more than any of his songs.

He didn’t have to touch you.

But he did.

And in that one second, he said all the things he still doesn’t have the courage to say out loud.

The performance ended. The kind that shakes walls, that makes your chest reverberate from the outside in.

The kind you used to dream of — standing in front of your work, soaking in the praise, knowing you made something that mattered.

But now?

Now, your ears are ringing for a different reason.

Not from the sound, but from the silence that follows. The silence between beats. Between words. Between hearts that used to move in sync.

You slip away before the crowd disperses, ducking under cords and past open doors. The hallway backstage is narrow and dim, the buzz of the crowd muffled like it’s happening in another world. You find a spot — cold linoleum, next to the supply closet — and sit down.

And then…

You break.

Your shoulders shake before you even realize you’re crying. And once it starts, it doesn’t stop.

You cry quietly. Ugly. The kind of tears you only allow yourself in solitude.

You cry for everything — for what you almost had, for what you both ruined, for the way your love was always stuck somewhere between timing and fear.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been like that when you hear the softest sound: footsteps, a breath, the subtle creak of someone sitting down.

He’s beside you now. Jungkook.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He doesn’t have to.

His presence is louder than any apology he could give.

You wipe your face roughly with the sleeve of your hoodie, still unable to meet his eyes.

And then, with your voice soft and cracked open, you whisper:

“You still make me feel like I can’t breathe.”

He exhales sharply, like the words knocked the wind out of him.

“I wanted you to be proud of the song.”

You turn to him, eyes rimmed red.

“I am,” you say.

And you mean it. The song was beautiful. Honest. It felt like both a gift and a goodbye.

But your next words come out bitter, broken at the edges:

“But I wish you didn’t have to write it.”

He finally looks at you. Eyes glassy. Voice low. “It was always about you.”

There’s a long, stretched silence. The kind that hums beneath your skin.

Then, softer still:

“I never stopped.”

You blink.

“Loving me?”

He nods, barely. His voice breaks on the next word. “Is that pathetic?”

You shake your head slowly. A tear slips down your cheek. “It’s the realest thing you’ve ever said.”

And there it is.

Not a fix. Not a beginning.

But maybe — just maybe — a truth that can live between the wreckage.

The host’s voice echoes across the venue, too polished to carry the weight of what this moment actually means.

“And now, closing the show, the original soundtrack and visual art collaboration of Jeon Jungkook and ______ — Back to Friends.”

Polite applause fills the room.

You walk to the sound booth, your fingers cold against the panel, pretending your hands aren’t shaking. Across the stage, Jungkook emerges from the side wings, steps steady, shoulders squared. He doesn’t look for you.

But you look for him — out of habit, out of hope, out of something you won’t name.

A single spotlight hits the center of the stage. But tonight, there’s no mic stand. No guitar slung over his shoulder. No earpiece, no humming, no music in his hands.

He isn’t here to sing.

He stands in the light, and the silence spreads like mist.

Behind him, your animation begins. A slow fade-in of color — two faceless silhouettes drawn in thin, delicate strokes. They begin apart. Step toward each other. Stop. Step away.

Then again.

Again. Endlessly.

Your work fills the screen with motion and ache. Every detail a memory. Every frame something you never said aloud.

The crowd watches, transfixed, unaware of how many confessions are stitched between those frames.

Jungkook doesn’t say a word.

Not a lyric. Not a note. Not tonight.

You know why.

Because there’s nothing left to sing that won’t unravel him on stage. There’s no line in the melody that doesn’t taste like goodbye.

So instead, he just stands there. Still. Silent.

His presence is the last verse.

And it’s enough.

The final scene fades to black — two hands reaching through glass, nearly touching. A flicker of light. Then nothing.

The screen goes dark.

No music. No applause at first.

Just the quiet.

Then — slowly — the audience begins to clap. Hesitant, then stronger.

But you don’t hear any of it. You’re gripping the console, staring at him under the lights, wondering if it’ll ever stop hurting to see him like this.

He doesn’t move until the screen fades fully.

You stood by the far edge of the lot now, away from the stage, hands stuffed in your hoodie pockets, the wind curling through your sleeves like it was trying to hold you together.

It was over.

Not just the festival — but everything you’d built around it. All those late nights spent editing render loops, brushing shoulders in shared silence, walking past each other like strangers who remembered the same song. The project had been the last thread holding your orbits in sync. Now, even that was untethered.

Jungkook had already left the stage. No encore. No words. Just the quiet setting down of his headphones on the table. He hadn’t sung again — wouldn’t. That final track was the last thing he gave you. Or maybe it was the only thing he could.

You found him behind the supply tent, the one with the broken zipper flapping like a heartbeat. He was sitting on a crate, hoodie up, eyes toward the sky.

He didn’t look surprised when he saw you. Just tired.

Not the kind of tired you could sleep off. The kind that lived in your bones.

You stood there for a while before speaking.

“I thought you left.” He shook his head. “I almost did.”

The silence between you was dense — not awkward, just heavy. Like the space between words you never got to say.

“I didn’t want to go without saying goodbye,” you said softly.

He glanced at you. “That would’ve made it easier.”

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t cry. Not this time.

“I know,” you said.

He looked away, pulling his sleeves over his hands. “You did great tonight. The visuals… I felt everything.”

“I hope you did,” you replied. “I bled for those.”

He chuckles tiredly. “I could tell.”

Another pause. The wind carried music from another part of campus, but it felt like it belonged to someone else’s story now.

“I didn’t sing again,” he said eventually. “Didn’t think I should.”

You nodded. “You already said everything.”

He blinked slowly, and when he looked back at you, it felt like a goodbye had already curled behind his eyes.

“I didn’t want to ruin it,” he whispered. The words caught you off guard. “Ruin what?”

“What we were,” he said. “What we almost were. I thought if I said something back then, we’d fall apart.”

You sat beside him on the crate. “But we already did.”

He nodded. “Yeah. We did.”

A beat passed. Then two.

You looked at him — really looked. There was no anger left. Just an ache. A dull, familiar weight you’d grown used to carrying.

“You know,” you said, “for a while, I kept hoping we’d circle back. That maybe time or distance or fate would bring us around again. Like we were a song stuck on pause.”

He tilted his head. “And now?”

You sighed. “Now I think some songs aren’t meant to be played twice.”

That hurt him. You saw it — the way his jaw clenched, the flicker in his eyes. But he didn’t fight it.

“I’ll probably write about you for the rest of my life,” he said quietly.

You swallowed. “Then make it honest.”

He smiled, small and sad. “I always do.”

Another gust of wind passed through, and you let it fill the silence.

You didn’t touch. Didn’t hold each other. Didn’t reach for what once felt so close.

It would’ve broken the spell.

Instead, you stood. He did, too.

“I hope the next person you write about chooses you back,” you said.

“I hope the next person you design for stays,” he answered.

The streetlights buzzed above you, flickering like tired stars.

This was it.

Not a breakup — because you were never really together. But not nothing either. It was some strange in-between where your hearts had once reached for each other across a line neither of you dared cross.

And now, it was too late.

“I’ll walk the other way now,” you told him, half-smiling.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

But you both stayed still for one last second longer. Just enough to memorize the way this felt — not sweet, not cruel. Just final.

You turned first. Didn’t look back.

And as you walked away — no promises, no glances back —Jungkook stayed still beneath the dying lights, knowing that some endings don’t need a final word… just the quiet acceptance that love once lived here, and that was enough.

taglist: @nikkinikj @k4rl41980 @somehowukook @forbiddenprototypesepulcher @sadiayn @bhonbhon @whatthefsposts @bleumornings @yungies @ancagab16 @amarawayne @butterymin

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cdllevantae · 13 days ago

Text

underneath the spotlight | 전정국 (oneshot)

summary. beneath stage lights and silence, two people who’ve been hiding in the shadows finally fall apart — and back into each other.

pairing: idol! jungkook x (fem) staff! reader

genre: angst, smut (explicit), emotional hurt/comfort, idol au, forbidden romance, slow burn (with payoff), secret relationship, soft ending

word count: 4,100

ratings: 18+, MDNI!

A/N: don’t ask how this turned into 4k of angst and tension and soft smut bc i don’t even know 😭 they just do something to me. hope u like it 🖤

The dressing room door slammed shut.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you muttered, arms crossed, leaning against the wall as if it could hold you together.

“We’re at work,” he said finally. “I’m not supposed to treat you differently.”

Bullshit.

You stepped closer. “And what was that? Just a mistake you’re trying to forget?”

His eyes darkened. “I never said that.”

“But you’re acting like it.”

His jaw clenched. For a moment, the silence threatened to suffocate both of you.

And now?

You were nothing again.

“I can’t do this with you,” Jungkook said, finally standing. “Not when I’m always being watched. It’s not fair to you either.”

“Don’t pretend this is about protecting me,” you snapped, voice rising. “This is about you being scared.”

He flinched, just barely.

“I’m not scared of you,” he said, low. “I’m scared of what this would do to you. To me. You know how this ends — I get to keep performing, and you lose your job.”

You hated that he was right. Hated it even more that he cared enough to say it.

But your voice broke anyway. “Then why’d you kiss me?”

Jungkook was in front of you in two strides. He didn’t touch you — not yet — but his presence was overpowering. You could see the pulse in his neck. The tremble in his fingers.

“Because I couldn’t not kiss you,” he whispered. “Because you looked at me like I was more than just an idol. Because for once, I didn’t feel like I was performing.”

You swallowed.

“Then why are you pushing me away now?”

His hand reached for your face, but hovered inches from your cheek, hesitant. “Because if I start again… I won’t stop.”

“Then don’t stop,” you whispered.

That was all it took.

Jungkook’s restraint shattered in an instant.

His hands dropped to your waist, gripping tightly as he backed you up against the dressing room wall. His hips pressed into yours, and the unmistakable hardness against you made you both gasp.

“This is wrong,” he muttered against your lips. “So fucking wrong.”

But his hand was already slipping beneath your shirt, hot and hungry.

“Don’t stop,” you echoed again, more breathless this time.

He growled low in his throat. “You think I can stop when you say shit like that?”

“Jungkook—”

“Tell me to stop,” he said, forehead resting against yours. “Right now. If you say it, I’ll stop.”

Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging hard. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

That was all he needed.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You’re soaked.”

You moaned into his neck, biting down on his skin as he began to circle his fingers against your clit, slowly, deliberately — a punishment and a reward at once.

“I thought about this,” he said lowly, voice hoarse with control. “Every fucking night. But I didn’t come near you. Not once. I’ve been good.”

You whimpered, grinding against his fingers.

“You think I didn’t see you?” he continued. “Walking around in that tight little skirt, bending over near my chair. Were you trying to drive me insane?”

“I wasn’t trying,” you gasped. “You were already gone.”

He chuckled darkly. “You’re right.”

You were trembling when he pulled back just enough to drag your pants and underwear down your legs. His eyes raked over your exposed skin like a starving man.

“I need you,” he said, almost broken. “I need to be inside you.”

“Then take me.”

That’s all it took.

He unzipped his pants and freed himself, hard and thick in his hand. You watched, breathless, as he stroked himself once, twice — then lined up with your entrance.

The moment he pushed in, both of you groaned.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “You feel…”

“Say it,” he groaned into your ear. “Tell me you missed me.”

You whimpered. “I missed you. Fuck, Jungkook — I missed you so much.”

He fucked you harder, hips snapping into yours.

“You think I didn’t wake up every night thinking about you under me again? Screaming my name like you used to?”

You couldn’t answer — your moans were too loud, incoherent. You felt yourself nearing the edge, body coiled so tightly you thought you might snap.

“I’m gonna—” you choked out.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, hand gripping the back of your neck as he kissed you fiercely. “Come for me.”

And you did — hard, legs shaking, nails digging into his skin, mouth falling open in a silent cry as your orgasm crashed over you.

Jungkook groaned, burying his face into your neck, thrusts stuttering as he followed you over the edge. You felt him spill into you, warmth flooding, his body trembling with release.

He stayed like that for a moment — chest pressed against yours, bodies slick and tangled, breath ragged. You didn’t move.

Not until his hand came up to cradle your cheek again, this time softer. Like you were something breakable.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that — your body limp, still wrapped around him, the mirror behind you fogged from heat and breath.

“I’m gonna clean you up,” he whispered, brushing a kiss against your temple. “Okay?”

You nodded silently, cheeks warm and throat tight.

When he was done, he helped you dress again. Pulled your underwear up, smoothed your shirt down, fixed your hair with careful fingers. It was all so… quiet. Reverent.

You watched him as he cleaned himself up next — shirt discarded somewhere on the floor, belt undone, expression unreadable as he avoided your gaze.

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

“You always do that,” you said softly.

He looked up. “Do what?”

“Act like we didn’t just give each other everything.”

He exhaled sharply and sat beside you on the vanity table, close but not touching. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“You’re pulling away again, Jungkook. You always do.”

The silence stretched. You heard the faint thud of bass outside the door — the others were still at rehearsal, completely unaware of the storm unraveling inside this room.

“I’m scared,” he admitted finally.

Your breath caught.

You blinked, throat closing.

“Then why does it feel like I’m the only one paying the price?”

His head dropped into his hands. “Because you are.”

You stared at him, at the man who the world thought they knew — golden, perfect, untouchable. And yet here he was, unraveling right in front of you, spine curled in defeat, hands shaking.

“I hate that I made you feel disposable,” he said. “You’re not. You’re… fuck. You’re the only thing that’s felt real in a long time.”

The ache in your chest cracked wider.

“You kissed me like it mattered,” you whispered. “You touched me like it meant something.”

“It did.” His voice was sharp, urgent. “It does.”

You shook your head, lips trembling. “Then why are we pretending this is temporary? Why are you still choosing fear over me?”

He reached for your hand then — tentative, desperate — and laced your fingers together.

“Because if I lose you, I won’t survive it.”

You couldn’t help it. The tears came, slow and hot. Jungkook pulled you into his arms immediately, letting you bury your face into his chest.

He held you so tightly it hurt.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again. “I’ve been hurting you because I thought I was protecting you.”

“I never asked you to protect me,” you mumbled. “I just wanted you to choose me. Even if it was messy.”

He pulled back to look at you, hands on either side of your face now.

“I’m not ready to go public. I’m not even ready to tell the others. But I’m ready to stop pretending like you don’t mean everything to me.”

You stared at him, heart pounding.

“You mean that?”

“I do,” he whispered. “Let me do it right this time. No more running. No more pretending. I don’t care if we keep it quiet — I just don’t want to keep you quiet anymore.”

His voice cracked slightly. “I want to be yours.”

The tears returned — not from sadness this time, but from the weight of finally being seen.

You nodded, smiling through it.

“Then I’m yours too.”

Later, once the air had settled and your breathing matched his again, Jungkook tugged a spare hoodie over your frame — his, oversized and warm, still smelling faintly of sandalwood and sweat.

You stood in front of the vanity mirror, watching as he gently fixed your smudged eyeliner with a makeup wipe. His fingers were careful, like he was afraid of breaking the fragile peace between you.

“You’re not just some secret I’m ashamed of,” he said quietly, meeting your eyes through the reflection. “I need you to believe that.”

“I do.”

“I just…” He paused, exhaling through his nose. “I’m still learning how to be this version of myself. The one who doesn’t push you away when things get hard.”

You turned around to face him fully, your hands reaching up to cup his face. “Then let me be here while you learn.”

His eyes softened, lashes low, lips parting slightly — like your words were something he never thought he’d deserve.

“You’re too good to me,” he murmured.

You kissed him, slow and sure, with none of the earlier desperation — just quiet understanding. A beginning, not a goodbye.

When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“I can’t promise this’ll be easy,” he said.

“I don’t need easy,” you replied. “I just need honest.”

He nodded, almost to himself. “I want to see you outside of here. Not in hiding. Not just in dressing rooms and after-hours.”

“You’re an idol,” you whispered. “And I’m on staff. There’s rules.”

“Then we break them. Quietly. Carefully.” His smile was small but real. “We find a way.”

The knock on the door startled you both.

“Hyung says we’re needed back on set in ten!” a voice called from outside. Probably one of the staff runners.

Jungkook glanced at the door, then back to you.

The moment fractured — the bubble of the dressing room breaking open, reality filtering back in.

But this time, he didn’t let go of your hand.

He didn’t retreat.

Instead, he pressed one last kiss to your forehead, tender and grounding. “I’ll see you after rehearsal.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His smile widened. “Not at your apartment, or mine. Somewhere new. Somewhere that’s just ours.”

You bit your lip, grinning despite yourself. “Sounds risky.”

He leaned close, voice a whisper only for you. “So are most good things.”

You fixed his collar. He tucked your hair behind your ear. And when he finally opened the door, his fingers brushed yours one last time before he stepped out — not with guilt, not with fear.

But with quiet promise. With hope.

And as the door closed softly behind him, you realized something:

For once, you weren’t just someone he met behind closed doors.

You were someone he was finally ready to walk toward — in the open.

Even if it had to be one soft, stolen moment at a time.

#bts fanfic #bts jungkook #bts x reader #bts smut #jungkook smut #jungkook imagines #jungkook scenarios #jungkook angst #jungkook fanfic #underneath the spotlight #jungkook x reader #jungkook x female reader #jungkook #jungkook fluff #cdllevantae

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cdllevantae · 14 days ago

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hi loves! you may drop your @ here to be added on my permanent taglist! 🤍

#𓆩⟡𓆪 iah tells #.・。.・゜✭・. iah’s taglist #permanent taglist ⁂#bts taglist

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cdllevantae · 15 days ago

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last part of back to friends, OUT NOW! 🤍

#𓆩⟡𓆪 iah tells #fic announcement ੈ♡˳#back to friends #back to friends part 3 out now!

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cdllevantae · 15 days ago

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전정국 | Back to Friends | 03

but when feelings started to complicate everything, you both silently drifted apart.

It's awkward at first. The small talk. The jokes. The unspoken weight in the room.

He plays a song one night in the studio, unfinished but familiar.

"How can you look at me and pretend, I'm someone you've never met" he sings.

You freeze. It's your story. Your story with him.

And slowly, it all comes back.

pairing: singer!jungkook x (fem) digital artist!oc

genre: ANGST!!, almost lovers to emotional exes au (situationship au), slowburn romance, slice of life

word count: 5K

rating: 18+

Three: The Final Show

But all you can feel is the silence building inside your chest, heavy and hollow, like something inside you has stopped moving.

And yet harmony isn’t the word you’d use for what’s inside you now.

Your mouth opens, but your voice gets caught somewhere behind your ribs. You swallow hard, try again. “Yeah,” you say, barely above a whisper. “Tell him I’m coming.”

And then you see him.

He glances up when he senses you approaching. There’s no smile, no softening in his gaze — just a short nod. “You ready?”

You don’t answer immediately. Just plug in the USB and pass him the cable. “As I’ll ever be,” you mutter, even though you’re not sure if you mean it.

He watches it with a stillness you don’t trust.

Then the music begins.

He doesn’t look at you as he sings. His gaze stays locked on the empty chairs, the lighting rig, the farthest wall. But somehow, it still feels like he’s singing to you. Or worse — about you.

“It was last December…”

Your hands tremble around the tablet, but you don’t dare move.

“You were laying on my chest..”

The visuals behind him mirror every beat. The figures press against the glass. Mouths open in screams you can’t hear. Reaching. Reaching. Failing.

“I still remember.. I was scared to take a breath, didn’t want you to move your head..”

“How can we go back to being friends, we we just shared a bed..”