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kooppss · 7 days ago

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Did I just ignore my adult life responsibilities and the fact I need to make dinner and my giant reading list in order to read ofl chapter one?

Yes, yes I did.

And I don’t care if you judge me for it!!!! It was worth it, OKAY??

So what?!?! I’ll starve to death. At least I got to read Taehyung saying “Started with an M, ended with her screaming his name, details irrelevant.”

I hate him so much. And I hate football.

God I want him.

Kiki, come make me food. This is your fault. You know my husband can’t cook.

OUT OF LINE | 01

“gominola”

"Some people are immune to charm, allergic to arrogance, and completely uninterested in your particular brand of expensive chaos. Today you meet one of them."

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↦author's note : Okay. Okay. I really went and did it with this one. And I regret absolutely nothing. First of all. Just had to make that clear up front. No apologies will be issued at this time, thank you for your concern. Second of all—and this one's been cracking me up for days—I've been texting Vani like "I'm so sorry. I fear this is my Wattpad fic." Because... it is. Like, it really is. I've gone full ✨she's unimpressed, he's cocky✨ and I need you all to understand: I am aware. I see the trope. I live the trope. And I embrace the trope. This is not innovative. It's not genre-defying. It is what it is, and I'm standing ten toes down in it. Sometimes life sucks and you deserve to indulge in a fuckboy right-back getting stonewalled by a girl in a hoodie and a death glare. Guilty pleasures are called pleasures for a reason. Let me live. That said... this is still a Kiki fic. So yeah, it's Wattpad-coded, but it's also packed with trauma, psychological complexity, and enough repressed emotion to make a therapist cry. Because I can't write fluff. I can't write people who fall in love cleanly. I can only write emotional warfare and painfully specific coping mechanisms. So if you're looking at Taehyung like "he's insufferable," just know that's the point. He is! He's also deeply lonely, emotionally stunted, and addicted to being wanted because he thinks admiration equals worth. (Spoiler: it doesn't.) And her—god. She is not here for the male ego parade. She's grown up in Spain, she's grieving, she's displaced, and she has zero energy for Real Madrid's locker room of dopamine-deficient mascots. That hoodie isn't just a hoodie. It's distance. It's defiance. It's a tether to a home she was pulled from too fast, and a warning sign to anyone trying to get too close. Don't get me started on the symbolism because this will get way too long. Vani knows firsthand. Now. Leo? Oh, Leo. He's the Real Madrid maknae and a walking cautionary tale. He wants to belong so badly he'll mirror whatever's around him. Which, unfortunately for him, is Taehyung and Marco. He's twenty. Impressionable. Already being warped by the dynamic of party-first, care-later. I love him. I want to save him. I might not. Also, let's talk about Jesús—because I had to sneak that conversation in. Chapter 1 is heavy on Taehyung's POV, which means you get all his projection and testosterone-induced decisions and derailed internal monologue. But the dad scene was non-negotiable. I needed you to see her from the inside. The quiet way she's holding herself together with routines, ferrets, gominolas, and the desperate need for control. She's not cold. She's scorched. And her dad? He's trying. He's trying so hard. And maybe that's the saddest part of all. Also—linguistics side note because I'm annoying—I very intentionally wrote her dialogue with Jesús in Spanish (with translations) because I will die on the hill of language realism. It would make zero sense for them to speak English to each other at home. She's grown up in Spain. Her dad's Spanish. That's their intimacy language. Meanwhile, the Real Madrid players default to English—the club is international, and not everyone speaks Spanish fluently (Taehyung included). So yes. In this fic, she's the one speaking a different language. And yes. He's going to learn. Because nobody does language kink intimacy like I do. 🫦 So yes. He's awful. Intentionally. Aggressively. Satirically. This is not a "he's so cool because he's toxic" situation. This is "I am raw-dogging you his character flaws on a silver platter so you can watch him fumble in real time." Let's all unpack that together. Anyway. Welcome to Out of Line. Vani's Between the Lines sister story. My trauma-coded cliché monster. My ode to messy boys and girls who pretend they're fine until they implode. Please buckle your seatbelts. Hold each other's hands. Consider investing in therapy. I know I am.

The new physio better be hot.

That's the first coherent thought Taehyung has after forty-five minutes of mindless drills. Not that he's complaining about the mindless part—muscle memory's doing all the work while his brain checks out, cataloguing last night's blonde (Marta? Maria? Started with an M, ended with her screaming his name, details irrelevant).

The September sun's brutal on the pitch, turning the grass into a furnace, and Coach keeps barking orders like they haven't run this same formation a thousand times.

"Fucking hell," Marco grunts beside him, bent over with his hands on his knees. "If I have to do one more suicide drill, I'm actually going to commit one."

Leo laughs—that nervous kind of laugh he does when he's not sure if Marco's joking. Kid's still too green, still thinks there's some magic formula to fitting in. Taehyung remembers being twenty and giving a shit about what the older players thought. Now he's twenty-four and the only opinion that matters is his own.

And right now, his opinion is that training's boring as fuck.

"New physio starts today," Leo offers, like that's supposed to make the sweat stop pooling in uncomfortable places. "Jesús something. From Barcelona."

So… A man. Boring.

Marco spits on the grass. "Great. We now got a Barça prick to tell us we're stretching wrong."

Taehyung's about to add his own commentary—something about how Barcelona's medical staff couldn't fix their players' egos, let alone their hamstrings—when movement in the bleachers catches his eye.

Hello.

There's someone up there. Female someone, from the shape. Not unusual—girlfriends, agents, journalists, they all hover around the complex like expensive flies.

But this one's different.

This one's got nose in a book (okay, miss 'not like other girls'), completely ignoring the show on the pitch.

And that's…

Interesting.

He shifts his stance, trying to get a better angle without being obvious about it. Hair pulled back, oversized university hoodie despite the heat, legs crossed at the ankle. Can't see your face from here, but the way you're sitting—spine straight, pen moving across the page in quick, efficient strokes—suggests you're not here for the view.

Which is fucking absurd, honestly.

He's shirtless. Marco's shirtless. Hell, half the team's shirtless, and you're more invested in whatever's on that page than twenty-two professional athletes in peak physical condition.

"Oi." Marco's elbow catches him in the ribs. "You checking out the competition or planning to actually train today?"

"Who's that?"

He doesn't point—he's not twelve—but tilts his head toward the bleachers.

Marco squints, then grins. That specific grin that means he's already mapping out his approach strategy.

"Oh shit. That's the new physio's daughter."

So a man—with a daughter.

The information slots into place like a puzzle piece.

Barcelona physio. Daughter in tow. Probably forced to tag along while daddy gets settled into his new job, bored out of your mind, killing time with—he squints—whatever the fuck that textbook is.

"Dibs," Marco says automatically.

"You can't call dibs on people," Leo protests, still adorably convinced that ethics apply to their world.

"Watch me." Marco's already running a hand through his hair, activating what he calls 'the panty-dropper smile,' which Taehyung's seen work on models, actresses, that prosecutor who definitely should've known better. "I give her two days before she's begging for a private tour of the facilities."

Taehyung watches you turn a page, pen tapping against your bottom lip. The gesture is unconscious, academic, completely unaware of the attention you're drawing.

Something about it makes his mouth quirk up.

"Hundred euros says she doesn't even give you her number."

"You're on." Marco's already moving, that swagger in his step that says he's never met a woman who didn't eventually cave. "Watch and learn, boys."

But Taehyung's not interested in watching Marco crash and burn. He's already moving, cutting his friend off with the kind of casual interception that works just as well off the pitch as on it.

Marco's protests fade into background noise—something about fair play and bro code and other shit that stops mattering the second Taehyung gets a clear view of your face.

You're pretty.

Not Instagram pretty, not 'done up for the cameras' pretty. Just… pretty. The kind of face that probably looks the same at 6 AM as it does at midnight. No makeup that he can see, just skin and eyes and a mouth that's currently frowning at whatever you're reading.

He leans against the barrier separating the pitch from the stands, letting his weight settle into the metal. Close enough now to smell something sweet—not perfume, something else. Candy, maybe. The artificial cherry kind kids eat.

You don't look up.

He's standing three feet away, shirtless and sweaty and radiating that post-workout testosterone that usually has women tripping over themselves, and you don't even glance his way.

What the fuck.

He raises an eyebrow, even though you're not looking to see it.

Clears his throat.

Nada.

You make another note in the margin of your textbook, and he catches a glimpse of the page—medical terminology, diagrams that look like someone exploded a knee joint and tried to map the debris.

A physio's daughter studying what looks like physio stuff. Following in daddy's footsteps. Cute.

He waves a hand in front of your face. Not aggressive, just enough movement to break your concentration.

And finally—finally—you look up.

Your eyes are darker than expected, the kind that turns black when annoyed.

Which, judging by the expression on your face, is exactly what you are right now.

He smirks. Can't help it. It's automatic at this point, the expression that says 'yeah, I'm that guy, you're welcome.'

"Hey."

You blink at him. Once. Twice. Then go back to your book.

What.

"Studying?" He tries again, because maybe you're one of those delayed reaction types.

Maybe the neural pathways from eyes to brain to mouth need a second to fire up.

Nothing.

He glances at the textbook again.

The words swim in front of him—Spanish, mostly, medical Spanish at that. His comprehension tops out at ordering beer and asking where the bathroom is. Carmen tried to teach him once, spent hours conjugating verbs while naked in his bed, but all he remembers is that 'cama' means bed and 'más' means more.

"I guess you already know my name."

He leans harder against the barrier, angling his body to block the worst of the sun from your page.

See? Thoughtful.

"But it's Kim. Taehyung. First name Taehyung."

You raise your eyes from the textbook. Slow, like it's costing you effort. The look you give him is so flat it could resurface a parking lot.

"And I should care because…?"

It's not quite a question because you clearly don't expect an answer. Or want one. You're already turning back to your book, dismissing him as efficiently as a referee's whistle.

He blinks. Opens his mouth. Closes it.

"Tae!" Marco's voice cuts across the pitch. "Coach wants us back!"

But Taehyung's still processing. Still standing there like an idiot while you scribble another note in that incomprehensible textbook.

You've got a red pen now, underlining something like nothing else matters in the world—not even him.

That makes him frown.

The barrier digs into his forearms but he doesn't move. Can't quite figure out why you're not looking.

You're just… sitting there. Ignoring him. Like he's furniture.

Sweaty, expensive furniture that you have zero interest in purchasing.

"Taehyung!" Marco again, louder this time. "Unless you want extra laps—"

Right. Training. The thing he's paid millions to do.

He pushes off the barrier, but not before catching one last detail—a small bag of those candies peeking out from your hoodie pocket.

"Any day now, princess," Marco calls, and that gets a laugh from the others.

Taehyung flips him off, and he knows, technically, the smart thing would be to walk away. Get back to training. Forget about the physio's daughter who clearly has better things to do than stroke his ego.

But Taehyung's never been particularly smart about these things.

"You know," he says, loud enough to make sure you hear him, "most people at least pretend to be interested when someone introduces themselves."

Your pen stops moving. Just for a second. Then continues its path across the page.

"Most people," you say without looking up, "introduce themselves when there's a reason to."

It's so casual, so dismissive, that it takes him a second to realize you've just called him irrelevant to your existence.

Him. Taehyung Kim. Real Madrid's starting right-back. A hundred and thirty-six million Instagram followers. Face of three luxury brands and that unfortunate cologne campaign his agent swears was artistic.

Irrelevant.

"Taehyung, I swear to god—"

"I'm coming!" He shouts back at Marco, then his eyes move back to you.

He glances at your hoodie pocket again, at the candy, sweet-shaped things you're chewing.

"What's that?"

You look up slowly, like you're completely done with this, and he kind of likes the little groove appearing between your eyebrows.

"What's what?"

He nods at the small red jellybean thingy between your fingers.

"That."

"It's called gominola," you say, flat as concrete, like you're explaining colors to a toddler.

Gominola. Spanish word.

He's heard it before, maybe, but Spanish flows past him like water most days.

"Right." He nods like he totally knew that. "Gominola."

You're already deep in your textbook again, like the last two minutes didn't happen. Like he didn't happen.

He runs his tongue over his teeth, tasting salt and something sour. When he finally turns back to the pitch, Marco's wearing that shit-eating grin that means he watched the whole thing.

"So," his friend says as Taehyung jogs back to formation. "How's that hundred euros looking?"

"Shut up."

"No, really. I want to know what kind of flowers to send to your funeral. Roses? Lilies? Something that says 'here lies Taehyung Kim, murdered by a girl who didn't give a fuck'?"

Leo's trying not to laugh and failing. Even Diego looks amused from his spot near the goal, and Diego hasn't been amused by anything since 2018.

"She's playing hard to get," Taehyung says, grabbing his water bottle and taking a long drink.

The sun's turned brutal while he was standing there like an idiot, and his shoulders are probably fried.

"Right." Marco stretches the word into three syllables. "And I'm playing hard to get with Scarlett Johansson."

"Different game entirely."

Taehyung caps the bottle, eyes drifting back to the bleachers. You're highlighting something now, yellow marker moving in precise lines.

"Trust me."

"Oh, this is gonna be good." Marco's practically bouncing on his toes. "Taehyung Kim, rejected by the physio's daughter who'd rather read about—what was that, tendons?—than talk to him."

"I wasn't rejected."

"You literally just stood there while she acted like you didn't exist."

"She was just busy."

"That's what we're calling it?"

Taehyung grins, and it's the one that usually makes Marco nervous. The one that appears right before he does something spectacularly stupid and somehow makes it work.

"I'm calling it round one."

Because here's the thing—he's been bored. Genuinely, mind-numbingly bored.

Same training, same parties, same faces in his bed.

Madrid's full of women who know his name before he opens his mouth, who laugh at jokes that aren't funny and pretend to be fascinated by stories they've already heard from three other players.

But you? You looked at him like he was blocking your light.

So he spends the rest of training with one eye on the bleachers, and you don't look up once, not even when Leo completely botches a penalty kick and Marco screams creative Italian profanity at the sky.

You just keep reading, occasionally popping one of those gominolas into your mouth, completely absorbed in a world that has nothing to do with the spectacle fifty feet away.

By the time Coach calls it, the sun's turned the pitch into a sauna and everyone's dragging.

Taehyung grabs his shirt from the bench, pulling it on while trying to look like he's not watching you pack up your things.

You move like you have all the time in the world—book into bag, pens into case, everything in its place.

Then you're walking down the bleachers, taking the steps two at a time like you've got somewhere better to be.

"So what's the plan?" Marco appears at his shoulder, following his line of sight. "Flowers? Jewelry? Groveling?"

"Don't need a plan."

"Everyone needs a plan."

"No," Taehyung corrects, watching you disappear through the exit without a backward glance. "Everyone else needs a plan."

Marco laughs, but it's the kind that suggests he thinks Taehyung's lost it.

"She didn't even tell you her name."

True.

But he noticed the way your fingers tapped against the book when you were thinking.

Noticed the three different colors of highlighter in your bag, organized by size.

Noticed how you bite your lip on the left side when concentrating, leaving the faintest indent in the pink.

Details.

The kind that matter when you're mapping out a challenge.

"She will," he says, and means it.

Because Taehyung Kim doesn't do rejection.

He does persistence, charm and strategy wrapped in a smile.

And you, with your medical textbooks and gummies and complete inability to give a fuck about his existence?

Oh. You're gonna be fun.

Nube’s stealing your socks again.

You watch her drag the pink cotton across the hardwood floor of your bedroom, tiny paws working overtime to claim her prize.

She’s gotten bold since the move—probably stress-induced kleptomania.

Can’t blame her. You’ve been stress-eating pikotas like they’re a food group.

"That’s my good pair," you tell her, but she’s already disappeared under the bed with her treasure.

Hari’s less ambitious in his criminal endeavors. He’s sprawled across your stomach like a furry hot water bottle, occasionally chittering when you stop petting him. The sound vibrates against your ribs—small, warm, alive.

Better than the silence that fills this house most days.

Your phone’s face-down on the nightstand because checking it leads to Barcelona rabbit holes, and Barcelona rabbit holes lead to wondering what Dani had for breakfast or whether Jungkook’s figured out how to use the coffee machine without flooding the kitchen.

Pointless thoughts. Dangerous thoughts.

The knock on your door is soft, tentative. Dad’s signature.

Mom used to say he knocked like he was apologizing for existing.

"¿Sí?" (Yeah?)

"¿Puedo pasar?" (Can I come in?)

Hari perks up at your father’s voice, whiskers twitching. Traitor. You scoop him up anyway, settling him against your shoulder before nodding toward the door.

"Adelante." (Come in)

Dad enters like he’s entering a crime scene—careful, observant, ready to back out if needed. His hair’s still damp from the shower, smelling like that medicinal soap he uses. The scent of competence and sterile environments, you figure.

"¿Cómo van los estudios?" (How’s the studying going?) He settles into the chair by your desk, the one that’s supposed to be for studying but mostly holds laundry you’re too lazy to put away.

"Bien." (Good) You scratch behind Hari’s ears, feel him melt against your palm. "La anatomía es anatomía. Da igual si estás en Barcelona o en Marte." (Anatomy’s anatomy. Doesn’t matter if you’re in Barcelona or Mars)

He smiles at that, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Never does anymore.

Not since the move.

Not since Mom.

"Bien. Eso está bien." (Good. That’s good.) His fingers drum against his thigh—nervous habit he developed after Mom died. "Oye, sé que este cambio ha sido… difícil. Para los dos." (Listen, I know this change has been… difficult. For both of us.)

Here we go. The conversation you’ve been avoiding for three weeks. The one where he apologizes for taking the job, for moving you from everything familiar, for choosing survival over sentiment.

"Papá—" (Dad—)

"No, escúchame." (No, listen to me.) He leans forward, elbows on knees. The posture of a man confessing sins. "Sé que no querías irte de Barcelona. Sé que esto te parece una traición." (I know you didn’t want to leave Barcelona. I know this feels like betrayal.)

Betrayal’s too strong a word. Abandonment fits better.

But you don’t say that because he already carries enough guilt for both of you.

"No pasa nada." (It’s fine.)

"Sí que pasa." (It’s not fine.) His voice gains edge, that firmness he uses with players who claim they’re not injured when they’re obviously limping. "Pero era necesario. Y a lo mejor… a lo mejor es bueno. Cambio de aires. Nuevas perspectivas." (But it was necessary. And maybe… maybe it’s good. Change of air. New perspectives.)

New perspectives. Right. Because what you really needed was exposure to Madrid’s particular brand of arrogance and entitlement.

Hari shifts against your shoulder, tiny claws pricking through your shirt.

Even he’s unconvinced.

"¿Y los jugadores?" (And the players?) The question comes out careful, as if he were asking about your opinion on the weather rather than your thoughts on his new colleagues. "¿Qué te parecen?" (What do you think of them?)

You consider lying. Consider diplomacy. Consider all the ways you could soften the truth to make it easier for him to swallow.

Instead, you shrug.

"Pues qué voy a pensar, papá. Son gilipollas." (What would I think, dad? They’re jerks.)

He barks out a laugh—sharp, surprised. The first genuine one you’ve heard from him since you got here.

"Joder, hija." But he’s grinning now, shaking his head. "No te cortes." (Shit, sweetie. Tell me how you really feel.)

"Me has preguntado." (You asked.)

"Es verdad." (That’s true.) He sobers slightly. "¿Todos?" (All of them?)

You think about it. Really think about it.

Xavi seems decent enough—quiet, professional, treats staff like humans rather than furniture. Diego’s got that aggressive competence thing going on, but he’s respectful. Even Marco, for all his obvious fuckboy tendencies, at least has the decency to say please when he wants extra ice.

Then there’s… him.

Taehyung.

With his lazy smirks and designer everything and complete inability to understand that the world doesn’t revolve around his stupid abs.

"La mayoría." (Most of them.) The admission feels like charity. "Algunos son simplemente… más gilipollas que otros." (Some are just… bigger jerks than others.)

Your phone buzzes against the nightstand. Face still down, but the vibration makes both you and Hari jump slightly.

Ignore it.

It’s probably Instagram telling you Dani posted another story, or your university group chat discussing assignment due dates, or some other notification designed to pull you back into a world you’re trying to navigate without drowning.

It buzzes again.

"¿No vas a mirar?" (Won’t check?)

"No es nada." (It’s nothing.)

But your dad’s looking at you with that expression. The one that says he knows you better than you know yourself, and lying to him is like lying to a mirror.

You flip the phone over.

@𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐨: BOMBAZO: 𝙱𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚊𝙱𝚊𝚛𝚋𝚒𝚎 𝚢 𝙱𝚕𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚂𝚌𝚘𝚝𝚝, ¿𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚟𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚓𝚊? 𝙻𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚊́𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚕 𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 (BOMBSHELL: BarcaBarbie and Blake Scott, new couple? The pictures that confirm the romance)

The thumbnail is grainy, paparazzi-quality garbage, but unmistakably them. Blake’s hand around Barbie’s waist, pulling her close. Her face is hidden by her hair, falling between them and the camera.

They’re close. Too close.

The kind of close that could be a kiss or could be an almost-kiss or could be nothing at all, but the angle makes it impossible to tell and that’s exactly what sells magazines.

You stare at the screen longer than necessary. Feel something twist in your chest that you refuse to name.

It’s not jealousy. It’s not longing. It’s just… surprise.

Because Blake is a Barcelona player, and Barbie is Dani’s sister—and the implications are already enough without you having to explicitly connect the dots.

Your thumb hovers over Dani’s contact. The urge to text him hits like muscle memory—does he know about this? how’s he taking it? is he okay?—but then your heart does that thing. That stupid, treacherous thing where it speeds up just thinking about typing his name.

Because he has a girlfriend now.

Carla. Sweet, pretty Carla who met him with a press badge slung around her neck and a voice recorder in hand. Who writes match reports and profile pieces that are perfect and looks genuinely happy in her soft-filtered couple photos.

Of course he would fall for her.

Of course she’s the kind of girl who gets the story and the guy.

Carla who never had to compete with a dead woman’s memory or a teenage crush that should have died years ago.

You swallow the impulse. Bury it under three layers of rationalization and practical thinking.

Instead, you open Jungkook’s chat.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍? 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙱𝚊𝚛?

You wait 2 seconds max before the response makes its way through the chat. Well, of fucking course. It’s no secret Jungkook's always been surgically attached to his phone.

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚗𝚊𝚑𝚑𝚑 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚜

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚜

Relief floods your system before you can stop it.

Which is stupid.

Why should you care if Barbie and Blake are together? It’s not like their relationship status affects your life in Madrid.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚘𝚠’𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚒? 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕?

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕

The response comes quick. Too quick. Like he’s trying to move past the topic before you can dig deeper.

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚋𝚝𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠’𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚍?

And there it is. The subject change.

Jungkook’s always been good at reading minefields and stepping around them.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚍?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚘𝚘𝚏

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜?

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, because…

You could tell him about Taehyung. About the smirk and the shameless showing off and the way he looked genuinely confused when you didn’t fall over yourself to talk to him.

But that would require admitting you noticed him at all.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢’𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛? 🤔

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚜

Despite everything, you smile.

Because he’s not wrong.

Barcelona players at least have the decency to look good while being insufferable.

"¿Todo bien?" (All good?) Your dad’s voice pulls you back to the room, to Hari’s warm weight against your shoulder, to the conversation you abandoned to spiral over Barcelona gossip.

"Sí. Solo… amigos siendo amigos." (Yeah. Just… Friends being friends.)

"¿Amigos de Barcelona?" (Barcelona friends?)

The question lands heavier than it should.

Because yes, Barcelona friends. The ones you left behind.

The ones who are moving on and coupling up and living their lives while you’re stuck in Madrid petting ferrets and avoiding eye contact with shirtless footballers.

"Sí." (Yes.)

He nods, understanding more than you wish he did.

"Está bien echarlos de menos. Es normal." (It’s okay to miss them. It’s normal.)

"Lo sé." (I know.)

"Y está bien… hacer nuevos amigos aquí. Aunque sean gilipollas." (And it’s okay to… to make new friends here. Even if they’re jerks.)

You look at him then, see the worry lines around his eyes, the way his shoulders carry tension like a physical weight.

He’s trying so hard to make this work. To make this place feel like home instead of just a house where you happen to sleep.

It’s not fair to him, to make it feel like it’s all his fault.

"Tal vez algunos sean menos gilipollas que otros," you concede. (Maybe some are lesser jerks than others.)

He smiles. "Sí, tal vez." (Yeah, maybe.)

Your phone buzzes again.

More Barcelona updates, probably.

More reminders of the life you’re not living anymore.

You let it buzz.

Because right now, in this sterile Madrid bedroom with your stress-thieving ferrets and your guilt-ridden father, you’re exactly where you need to be. Even if it feels like exile.

Even if every instinct tells you that Madrid players are trouble, and certain shirtless right-backs are the worst kind of trouble.

Even if your heart still does stupid things when you think about blue and red jerseys and boys who used to treat you like family.

"¿Cena?" (Dinner?) Your dad stands, stretching joints that probably ache from years of fixing other people’s bodies. "Estaba pensando en pedir de ese sitio argentino de la calle." (I was thinking of ordering from that argentinian place down the street.)

"¿El de las empanadas?" (The one with the empanadas?)

"Ese mismo." (The very one.)

Hari chirps at the mention of food, because ferrets are basically tiny, furry garbage disposals with boundary issues.

"Vale. Pero mañana cocinas tú. Esto de la comida a domicilio se está poniendo caro." (Okay. But you’re cooking tomorrow. This takeout thing is getting expensive.)

"Trato hecho." (Deal.) He pauses at the door, hand on the frame. "Y cielo…" (And sweetheart…)

"¿Qué?" (What?)

"Dale una oportunidad a Madrid. Solo… una pequeñita." (Give Madrid a chance. Just… a small one.)

You scratch Hari’s head, feel him purr against your palm. Outside your window, the sun’s setting over a city that still feels foreign, painting everything in shades of gold and possibility.

"Ya veremos." (We’ll see.)

It’s not a yes. But it’s not a no either.

And for now, that’s enough.

Twenty-two minutes and she hasn't cum yet.

Not that he's counting. Except he is, because Marco's got a thousand euros riding on twenty minutes max, and Taehyung doesn't lose bets. Especially not when the evidence is currently wrapped around his cock, lips stretched wide, dark eyes looking up at him through thick lashes like she knows exactly what she's doing to him.

Fuck.

Her tongue does this thing—this swirl around the head that makes his thighs tense—and he threads his fingers through her curls. Not pulling. Guiding. There's a difference, and he's not an amateur. The curls are soft, springy, wrapping around his fingers like they belong there.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand. Screen lights up with Marco's name and some emoji combination that probably means he's balls deep in his own conquest downstairs.

Good for him. Great. Love that for him. Now fuck off.

He swipes at the notification with his free hand, types back without looking. Whatever he sends, it's probably not words. Doesn't matter. Marco speaks fluent 'leave me the fuck alone' by now.

She hums around him and his hips jerk. Shit. He tosses the phone somewhere—bed, floor, shadow realm, who gives a fuck—and gets his other hand in her hair. Both hands now, cradling her head like she's precious cargo. Which she is. Absolutely fucking is when she's doing that thing with her tongue again.

"That's it," he breathes, helping her with shallow thrusts.

Nothing too deep. He's not trying to choke her. Not unless she asks, and even then—

The phone buzzes again.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He ignores it. Focuses on the wet heat, the way her nails dig into his thighs when he hits the back of her throat.

She's good at this. Really good.

Like, 'might actually get her number after this' good. The kind of good that makes him forget about—

Another buzz. Another. The screen keeps lighting up like a fucking disco.

She pulls off with an obscene pop, lips swollen and shiny.

"Popular tonight?"

"Always am."

He guides her back down before she can respond, and she goes willingly. Eager, even. Takes him deeper this time, nose almost touching his pelvis, and he has to close his eyes.

Close, close, close—

The orgasm hits like a penalty kick to the gut. He spills down her throat with a grunt that's probably too loud for a hotel room with thin walls, but that's what they get for booking cheap venues for these sponsor parties.

He wipes it away with his thumb (gentle, see? he's a gentleman), and she catches his wrist, sucks the digit clean.

Yeah. Definitely round two with this one.

The phone starts actually ringing this time. Marco's ringtone—some reggaeton bullshit that makes him want to throw the device out the window.

"You need to get that?"

She's already climbing onto his lap, straddling his thighs like she owns them. Her dress rode up during the festivities, bunched around her waist.

No underwear. Smart girl.

"Nah."

He grabs her hips, pulls her closer. She's warm and soft and smells like coconut oil and that floral perfume every girl in Spain seems to own.

"Got better things to do."

She grins, reaching between them to wrap her fingers around his cock. Still sensitive, but already showing interest again. Twenty-four years old and blessed with the recovery time of a teenager.

Thank fuck for good genetics.

"Another round already?" She strokes him slowly, base to tip, twisting her wrist on the upstroke.

He smirks up at her, lazy and satisfied. She's gorgeous like this—dark skin gleaming with a light sheen of sweat, curls wild from his hands, lips still swollen.

The belly dancing show earlier didn't do her justice. All that hip movement on stage was just advertising for this, for the way she rolls her body like water.

"Hmm." He nips at her shoulder, tastes salt and coconut. "Think you can handle it?"

She laughs, breathy and confident, already reaching for the condoms on the nightstand. His mouth finds her shoulder, teeth grazing the skin as she rolls the latex down his half-hard cock. Already getting there. Give him two minutes and—

The phone buzzes again. Then again. Then—

"Jesus fucking Christ." He snatches it up, ready to block Marco's number permanently.

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝙲𝙾𝙳𝙴 𝚁𝙴𝙳

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝙲𝙰𝚁𝙻𝙾𝚂 𝙸𝚂 𝙿𝙸𝚂𝚂𝙴𝙳

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

She's positioning herself over him, one hand braced on his shoulder, the other guiding him to her entrance. Wet. Ready.

Twenty-three minutes and counting, but who's keeping track?

"Ignore it," he mutters, tossing the phone aside again.

His hands find her waist, her lower back, steadying her as she sinks down.

Tight. Fuck, she's tight. Or maybe he's just bigger than her usual.

Either way, the way she gasps and digs her nails into his shoulders suggests this is working for both of them.

"Fuck," she breathes, bottoming out. "You're—"

"I know." He rolls his hips up, cutting off whatever compliment she was about to give.

Doesn't need to hear it. Knows exactly what he's working with.

She starts moving, slow at first, finding her rhythm. He lets her set the pace initially, hands roaming her back, her ass, her thighs. Cataloging reactions.

She likes it when he grips her hips. Loves it when he scrapes his teeth across her nipple.

Mental notes. He's nothing if not a student of the game.

The phone won't stop buzzing.

Fuck Marco, fuck Carlos and fuck the universe, honestly.

Change of plans.

"Gotta make it quick."

He grabs her hips, flips them in one smooth motion. Her back hits the mattress with a soft gasp, legs automatically wrapping around his waist. Better angle anyway.

He braces one forearm next to her head, uses the other hand to push her thigh back toward the mattress. Opens her up just right. Deep. The way he likes it.

"Oh fuck—"

She arches under him as he starts moving. None of that gentle buildup shit. They're twenty-four minutes in and he's got places to be, apparently.

He finds his rhythm quick. Hard, deep thrusts that have her gasping with each one. The headboard's probably banging against the wall but that's what happens when you book the cheap rooms for overflow guests.

Should've sprung for the suite.

One of his hands slides between them, finds her clit. Circles it with his thumb in time with his thrusts.

"Come on," he mutters against her neck. "Come on, come on, come on—"

She's close. Can feel it in the way her pussy flutters around him, the way her breathing goes ragged. Her nails rake down his back, probably leaving marks his physio will question tomorrow.

Whatever. Battle scars.

"Tae—" She can't even finish his name, too busy falling apart underneath him. Her whole body goes taut, cunt clenching around him like a vice.

Twenty-five minutes.

He'll tell Marco nineteen.

He fucks her through it, chasing his own release. Three more thrusts and he's done, spilling into the condom with a groan that's mostly relief.

Mission accomplished. Everybody wins.

No time to bask in it. He pulls out, ties off the condom, and makes the perfect throw into the trash can across the room.

Three points. Still got it.

"I gotta—"

"Yeah, I figured," she says, already reaching for her dress.

No hurt feelings, no "will I see you again?" Just a woman who got what she came for and seems pretty satisfied with the transaction.

He loves Madrid.

He's dressed in record time. Shirt half buttoned but who's checking? Shoes untied. Wallet, phone, keycard. The holy trinity of hasty exits.

The elevator ride down is a lesson in personal grooming. He tries to fix his hair in the mirror, gives up. Checks his phone instead.

Fifteen texts from Marco. Three from Carlos. One from his brother asking if he's seen the news.

What news?

The elevator dings at the lobby and Xavi's right there, still in his training kit because he's Xavi and probably sleeps in it.

"Bro." His teammate's eyes go wide. "Carlos is pissed. Like, nuclear pissed."

"Yeah, I got that from the fifty fucking texts." He's already moving toward the conference room Carlos commandeered for these lectures. "What's his problem now?"

"Check your Instagram."

"What?"

"Just check it."

He pulls up the app while walking.

A ferret account pops up on his discovery page first—weird? Then he checks his last IG story—mirror selfie, hair slightly wet at the tips after showering, navy sweater, gold and white make-shift belt around the loops as a wink to his team—has blown up.

Then his notifications, DMs…

@𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞: 𝚋𝚘𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝙸𝚖𝚊𝚘𝚘

Taehyung flicks his eyes upwards, seeing the story attached in the group chat he has with Marco and Leo in their private accounts.

Some girl from the party, video of him in the background. He's clearly drunk, clearly has his hands on C-something's ass, and clearly doesn't give a fuck who sees.

But that's not the worst part.

The worst part is the red lipstick mark on his neck that's visible in HD clarity. The same one he's sporting right now. The same one that makes it very fucking obvious what he's been doing while Carlos texts and calls and slowly loses his mind.

He swipes at his neck, fingers coming away red.

"Fuck's sake."

"Yeah, it's not looking too good, disappearing from your own sponsor event to—" Xavi gestures vaguely at Taehyung's everything. "—whatever this is?"

"It's called having a good time." He spots the hotel bar, makes a beeline. "Maybe you should try it sometime."

"I have a good time. With my fiancée. Singular. Who I've been with for eight years."

"Boring."

"Stable."

"Same thing."

Marco appears from nowhere, blonde still attached to his arm like a designer handbag. His best friend takes one look at him and whistles low.

"You're fucked."

"Thanks for the insight." He nods at Marco's companion. "Mind if I borrow him?"

She pouts but detaches, wobbling away on heels that should require a license to operate. Marco watches her go with the satisfied expression of a man who's had a very good night.

"Isabella know about your extracurriculars?" Taehyung asks, still trying to rub the lipstick off his neck.

"Isabella knows what Isabella needs to know." Marco produces a tissue from somewhere—the man's always prepared. "Here. You look like you got mauled by a Sephora display."

"Fuck off."

"I'm serious. Carlos is going to have an aneurysm. Something about brand image and Nike and I stopped listening after he mentioned lawyers."

Great. Fantastic. Another lecture about representing the club and thinking about his future and all that shit that goes in one ear and out the other.

He's twenty-four, not forty. If he can't fuck random chicks at hotel parties, what's the point of being famous?

"How bad?"

"Scale of one to ten?" Marco grins. "Fifteen. He used your full name. Twice."

Shit.

"Did you at least win the bet?"

Taehyung grins. "Nineteen minutes."

"Bullshit."

"You don't know how to count."

"I have a fucking engineering degree."

"From where, clown college?"

The conference room door is closed but he can hear Carlos pacing inside, the aggressive click of designer shoes on marble.

Taehyung takes a breath, straightens his collar, and tries to look less like he just railed someone into a mattress.

"Good luck," Marco says, already backing away.

"Fuck you."

"Love you too, princess."

He pushes open the door to find Carlos mid-rant on his phone. His manager—all 5'9" of stress and designer suits—spins around and actually growls.

"Finally! Do you have any idea—" Carlos stops, takes in his appearance, and closes his eyes like he's praying for patience. "Is that lipstick?"

"No?"

"Kim Taehyung, I swear to God—"

"Okay, yes, but—"

"Sit. Down."

He sits. Carlos continues pacing, phone clutched like a weapon.

"Do you know what I've been doing for the past hour? Damage control. Do you know why? Because my client—my professional footballer client who makes seven figures a month—decided to get filmed grabbing ass at a party where half of Madrid's press was in attendance."

"It's not that bad—"

"Nike called." Carlos cuts him off. "They're concerned about your 'brand alignment.' Do you know what that means?"

"That they're uptight?"

"It means," Carlos says slowly, like he's explaining to a child, "that they pay you three and a half million euros a year to be a role model, not Madrid's most notorious fuckboy."

Fuckboy seems harsh. He prefers 'socially active'.

"I'll do an apology post," he offers. "Something about focusing on football and growth or whatever."

"No, you won't. Because that admits wrongdoing. We're going with 'private moment taken out of context.' Maria is drafting it now."

Of course she is. Carlos has contingencies for his contingencies.

"Fine. Can I go?"

"We're not done." Carlos finally stops pacing, fixing him with that look that means a PowerPoint presentation is coming. "This is the third incident this month. The referee thing, the Instagram live disaster, and now this."

"The referee deserved it."

"That's not the point!"

"Then what is the point?" He's getting irritated now, the post-orgasm calm evaporating. "I'm not breaking any laws. I'm not missing training. I'm playing the best football of my career—"

"The point," Carlos interrupts, "is that you're one scandal away from losing everything. Nike, TAG Heuer, the Korean skincare deal—they all have morality clauses. And you keep pushing boundaries like you're trying to find the limit."

He doesn't respond to that. Mainly because it's true.

"I need you to be smarter," Carlos continues, voice softer now. "I know you're young. I know you're having fun. But this isn't sustainable."

"Noted."

"I'm serious, Taehyung."

"So am I." He stands, ready to end this conversation. "I'll be more careful. Scout's honor."

Carlos doesn't look convinced, but he waves him off with a sigh that's more a cry for help than anything.

"Go. And for God's sake, wash your neck. You look like a crime scene."

He escapes before Carlos can launch into lecture phase two.

The hotel bar's still going strong—Madrid doesn't sleep, just shifts into different versions of awake.

He needs something to wash down the taste of Carlos's disappointment. Not whiskey though—that’s what old men drink when their wives leave them.

Vodka and tonic. Clean. Sharp. Doesn't linger.

The bartender's already pouring before he reaches the counter. Benefits of being recognized everywhere—people anticipate your needs, or at least pretend to.

He knocks back half of it in one go, ice cracking against his teeth.

There's a brunette at the end of the bar. Legs for days, red dress that he bets would look amazingly good on the floor of his bedroom.

She's been tracking him since he walked in—he can feel it without looking, the weight of female attention.

He's already mentally prepping—three minutes of conversation, five if she plays hard to get… His place or hers? Hers, probably. Easier to leave when—

"Tae!"

For fuck's sake.

Leo stumbles out of the elevator looking like someone killed his puppy. No, worse—like someone killed his puppy and posted it on TikTok. The kid's got his phone clutched in both hands, that specific brand of panic that only comes from relationship drama.

Why. Why can't the universe let him get his dick wet in peace? Just once. Just one fucking night without—

"Bro, I need your help." Leo shoves his phone in Taehyung's face. "Sofia saw—there was this brunette—someone posted—"

Instagram story. Leo with his tongue down some brunette's throat, hand up her skirt, zero subtlety. 47 views and counting.

He takes another sip of vodka, holds up a finger to the red dress at the bar—one second—and turns to Leo with what he hopes passes for sympathy.

"Breathe."

"I can't breathe! She posted a story. There's a hand. On her thigh. In a car. A man's hand!"

Leo shoves his phone in Taehyung’s face again.

Instagram story. Some girl’s thigh in a car, masculine hand placement that’s definitely not Leo’s. Caption: upgrade season 💋

"Okay."

"It's not okay! And the girl from tonight, she wants breakfast. Breakfast, Tae. Like, together. In public. She's talking about some place that does açaí bowls."

Christ. Açaí bowls. The official food of women who think one hookup equals a relationship contract.

"And Sofia's probably with that guy right now, and if she finds out I'm getting breakfast with—"

"You're not getting breakfast with anyone." He smiles to the brunette with gritted teeth. "Rule one: never do breakfast."

"But I already said—"

"Rule two: your word means nothing after 2 AM."

"That's fucked up."

"That's reality."

The brunette’s definitely listening now.

Great. Nothing kills the mood like babysitting a teammate through his first real fuckboy crisis.

He catches her eye, mouths "work emergency" with an apologetic shrug. She smiles. Understanding. Patient.

Fuck, she’s perfect, and he’s stuck playing guidance counselor to Spain’s most panicked midfielder.

The bartender slides him a fresh drink. Stronger pour this time. Bless.

"Where is she?"

"Room 412. She wants to leave at nine for this place in Malasaña that apparently has the best—"

"Stop." He's getting a headache. Or maybe that's just the vodka hitting an empty stomach. "You're going to go up there—"

"I can't, man. I can't face her. What if she cries?"

Jesus. Was he ever this young? This fucking soft?

"She texts asking where I am every five minutes." Leo shows him the screen—twelve messages, escalating from casual to concerned to the early stages of psycho. "What do I say?"

He looks at Leo—really looks at him. Sees himself at twenty, before he learned that feelings are just chemicals and breakfast is just carbs.

Before he figured out that the only way to win is to always play defense.

"Give me your room key."

"What?"

"Your key. I'll handle it."

"You'll—how?"

"Just trust me." He stands, checks his reflection in the bar mirror. Lipstick's gone but he still looks freshly fucked. Perfect. "What's her name?"

"Natalia."

Of course it is. It's always Natalia or Valentina or some other name that sounds like a telenovela character.

"You owe me." He grabs Leo's shoulders, makes sure the kid's paying attention. "You owe me so fucking big."

"Anything, man. Anything."

"In five minutes, you go wait in the lobby. And try to look heartbroken."

They need Marco. Marco’s good at this shit—turning disasters into comedy, making women laugh when they should be throwing drinks.

So he texts him.

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚋𝚊𝚛. 𝚗𝚘𝚠. 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏𝚏, 𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚢

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚕𝚎𝚘 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙. 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: …𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚊𝚍?

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕 𝚋𝚊𝚍

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝚓𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚜. 𝟸 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜

Marco appears exactly 4 minutes later (see, he can’t count for shit)—shirt half-buttoned, hair suggesting recent activities.

He takes one look at Leo’s face and laughs.

"Breakfast? Really?"

"Her name’s Natalia," Leo defends weakly.

"They’re all named Natalia." Marco claps him on the shoulder. "Alright, wait in the lobby. Look heartbroken."

"That’s exactly what Taehyung said."

Marco lifts his eyebrows and then smiles at him.

"Great minds think alike."

Room 412 is four floors up.

They take the stairs because Marco insists—‘builds character’—but really it’s to workshop the lie.

By the third floor, they’ve got it sorted.

"Family emergency," Marco’s saying, taking the steps two at a time. "Classic. Timeless. Nobody questions sick grandmothers."

"Too heavy." He’s already winded. When was the last time he took stairs? "She’ll want to comfort him. Send flowers or some shit."

"Work emergency?"

"At 5 AM?"

"Good point." Marco pauses at the landing, finger to his lips like he’s contemplating world peace. "Ex-girlfriend."

"That’s what I was thinking."

"Specifically, ex-girlfriend in the lobby with new boyfriend. Leo sees them, gets emotional, can’t possibly do breakfast while having a mental breakdown."

Sometimes he forgets why he keeps Marco around, but then shit like this happens, and it all makes sense.

The knock on 412 is soft, nothing about it screams ‘your hookup sent his boys to break your heart.’

She answers in a hotel robe, hair already curled for this breakfast that’s never happening. Of course she’s exactly what he pictured—pretty in that forgettable way, hopeful in that dangerous way.

"Leo?"

Her face falls when she sees them.

"Where’s Leo?"

"Downstairs." Marco’s got his concerned friend face on. Oscar-worthy. "Having a bit of a moment."

"A moment?"

"His ex." Taehyung leans against the doorframe, lets exhaustion sell the story. "She’s here. With her new guy. Showed up right as we were leaving and just… yeah."

"Oh." Her expression shifts from confusion to sympathy.

Incredible, how women always want to fix broken men.

"Oh god, is he okay?"

"He’s…" Marco glances at him, perfect comedic timing. "Processing."

"He wanted to come up himself," Taehyung adds, "but he’s not really in a state to see anyone. You know how it is. First love and all that."

She nods like this makes perfect sense. Like Leo—sweet, fumbling Leo—is the type to have dramatic ex-girlfriend encounters at 5 AM.

Though, considering the whole Sofia bullshit, that might not be too far-fetched.

"Should I go down? Talk to him?"

"No." Too quick. Marco softens it with a sympathetic head tilt. "He’s embarrassed. Grown man crying in a hotel lobby isn’t exactly his finest moment."

"Tell him…" She’s twisting the belt of her robe, searching for words. "Tell him I understand. And last night was really special."

Special. What a powerful word. One that turns hookups into expectations.

"We’ll make sure he gets the message," Marco promises, already backing away. "So sorry about this."

They maintain the bullshit until the elevator doors close.

Then Marco breaks, laughing so hard he has to brace himself against the wall.

"Did you see her face? ‘Last night was special.’" He wipes his eyes. "Fucking hell, Leo really stepped in it."

"He owes us."

"He owes us his firstborn. His kidney. His—" Marco stops. "Is that brunette from the bar still down there?"

"Probably." He checks his phone. 5:23 AM. The night’s officially crossed into morning, that grey area where bad decisions start looking like destiny. "Why?"

"Because you’ve got that look."

"What look?"

"The ‘I’m going to salvage this night if it kills me’ look."

Is he that predictable?

Don’t answer that.

The lobby’s thinned out—just the diehards and the professionals now. Leo’s slumped on a couch, still clutching his phone.

"Natalia?" Leo jumps up when he sees them.

"Sorted," Marco says. "Told her you’re emotionally compromised. She sends her understanding."

"You’re both lifesavers." Leo looks between them like they’ve just cured cancer. "I don’t know how to thank—"

"Learn from this." He claps Leo on the shoulder, harder than necessary. "Next time, no names. No promises. And definitely no fucking breakfast."

"But what if I actually like—"

"Then you’re in the wrong profession."

He can see the exact moment Leo’s moral compass realigns. The kid straightens up, nods like he’s just learned something profound.

Another one corrupted. Madrid’s finest at work.

"Thanks, guys. I mean it."

"Don’t thank us." Marco’s already eyeing the exit. "Thank Sofia for posting that thigh pic. Girl did you a favor."

Leo’s face falls. "Shit. Sofia."

"Tomorrow’s problem," Taehyung says firmly. "Tonight, you go home. Alone. Post nothing. Like nothing. Become invisible."

"But—"

"Go." He sighs. "Now."

Leo goes. Thank fuck. One crisis managed, one brunette to salvage—

She’s gone.

The barstool’s empty except for lipstick traces on her glass. When the fuck did she leave? He was watching her the whole—

No. He was playing mentor to Madrid’s most incompetent Romeo.

"Brutal." Marco murmurs at his shoulder. "She was hot too."

"There’ll be others."

"Always are." Marco stretches, joints popping. "I’m out. Got a hot thing waiting who thinks I’m getting ice."

"It’s been thirty minutes."

"I’m a very thorough ice-getter." He winks and disappears, leaving Taehyung alone with the growing certainty that tonight’s cursed.

But he’s Kim fucking Taehyung. He doesn’t accept defeat.

He spots her immediately—the blonde from earlier? No. Different blonde. Taller. Legs for days in a silver dress that catches light like a disco ball.

She’s typing on her phone, bottom lip caught between her teeth.

He doesn’t think. Just moves.

"Lost?"

She looks up. Blue eyes, the kind that photograph well. Her smile’s immediate, recognition flooding her features.

"Just waiting for my Uber." American accent. Of course.

They always love the accent combo—Korean face, Spanish lifestyle, English to make promises he won’t keep.

"Cancel it."

"Bold assumption."

"Safe bet." He leans against the pillar beside her, close enough to smell her perfume. That floral thing again. "Unless you’ve got somewhere better to be?"

She studies him for a long moment. He knows what she sees—designer clothes, professional athlete build, trouble written in every line. Her thumb hovers over her phone screen.

"I don’t even know your name."

Lie. She knows exactly who he is.

But he plays along because that’s part of it. The dance. The pretense that this is spontaneous rather than inevitable.

"Taehyung."

"Sarah." She cancels the Uber. "So what now?"

"Now?" He grins, the one that usually seals deals. "Now we get better drinks than whatever shit they were serving upstairs."

By 7 AM, he’s learned three things: Sarah’s flexible, she’s got a tongue piercing, and she looks fantastic in his sheets.

He’s also confirmed what he already knew—he’s still the best at this. Even when the universe tries to keep him in line, he finds a way.

She’s tracing patterns on his chest, already talking about breakfast, when he deploys the usual.

"Early training. Coach will kill me if I’m late."

"On a Sunday?"

"Every day during season." He kisses her forehead. Gentle. Final. "I’ll call you."

He won’t. They both know it.

But she gets dressed anyway, calls her own Uber, leaves with the kind of dignity that makes him almost respect her.

The sun’s coming up, painting his bedroom gold.

Two hours until he has to be human again. Two hours to sleep off whatever tonight was.

He’s already drifting when his phone buzzes.

𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨🍗: 𝚂𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛

𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨🍗: 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚢𝚎𝚜?

He doesn’t respond. Leo will figure it out. Or he won’t.

Either way, that’s tomorrow’s problem. Tonight—this morning—whatever the fuck this is—he’s done.

Won a black girl, played mentor, lost a brunette, found a blonde, maintained his record.

The universe tried to knock him off his game and failed.

Because he’s Kim Taehyung.

And he’s simply the best at everything.

next | index

—taglist @cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @jimineepaboya @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @jkrailme @rpwprpwprpwprw @mar-lo-pap @jeontae @whothefuckisthishoe @mikrokookiex @minniejim @btstrology @vialattea00 @curse-of-art @mellyyyyyyx @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @dltyum @dailynnt @sashakittyct @bjoriis @hemmosfear @bettytta @impossiblecopoaffire @ilikekpop-c @yuyu0y11 @amarawayne @haru-jiminn @calmyourtitts7 @sstass

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

#dangerous #read with caution #jungkoode <3 #ofl #out of line #Taehyung #taehyung fic #taehyung x reader #taehyung smut

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kooppss · 7 days ago

Text

Jinshi on all fours after getting cockblocked for the tenth time might be the funniest anime frame ever.

#no one yearns like him #I feel you jinshi #jinshi #jinmao #the apothecary diaries #kusuriya no hitorigoto

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kooppss · 8 days ago

Text

I’m so scared that you’re falling in love with him….

Oofff you’re going to LOVE next chapter! We have a lot of tae and y/n interactions and jungkook crack 🙃

And I have to clarify! I wrote this chapter and their dialogue about a year ago! I didn’t know that the question “do you live alone?” is going to be problematic. Taehyung didn’t mean it like that 🥲

Love you my kels ❤️❤️ your support means everything to me 😍

Not a Date

Starry Night series masterlist

You and Taehyung are smart, capable, grounded people. So how is it that you both keep ending up with the wrong person, in the wrong place? Maybe it’s bad timing. Maybe it’s denial. Maybe you just have bad taste. Or maybe… it’s something neither of you is ready to admit just yet.

warnings: unhealthy use of alcohol, implied sex.

word count: 4.4k

a/n: My blog turned one this week, so of course I had to celebrate somehow🍾 Enjoy this chapter with these two idiots. As always, I’d love to hear your thoughts ❤️

Thursday, July 18th

The week went by fast.

You had a lot of work with the upcoming launch and preparing your presentation for the quarterly meeting in between.

So luckily, you didn’t have much time to think about your plans for lunch on Thursday.

You haven’t had any contact with Taehyung since last week.

Obviously you didn’t.

It makes sense.

You two work at totally different departments with close-to-zero integration.

You spent most of your time at your desk, too busy to even go on your usual rooftop breaks.

And it’s easy to assume that his first weeks of work were as hectic as well.

[11:59 pm] Taehyung Kim: lobby in 10?

[11:59 pm] y/n l/n: give me 15

[11:59 pm] Taehyung Kim: 👌

You wrap up what you were working on quickly and head to the elevators.

You check yourself in the elevator mirror. You chose to wear high-rise, wide-leg dark blue denim that you like how they sit on you, paired with a white knitted sleeveless top and trendy vintage-looking sneakers.

You like your outfit, and you have a good hair day.

It’s a bit more well-dressed than your usual baggy jeans and cotton t-shirt attire. You tell yourself that’s because Taehyung is a fashionable guy, and you don’t want to look bad next to him. Or something like that.

You see Taehyung next to the entrance in the sunny lobby, talking with some good-looking woman.

He’s wearing loose black pants with a white polo shirt tucked in. He has a thin black belt with a small gold buckle and black loafers with gold ornaments on them.

He looks stylish and trendy but still classic.

He smiles and brushes his hand through his hair, and you think he looks like he's out of a commercial or something.

You head in his direction, and when he sees you, he smiles at you brightly.

“Y/n! Ready for launch?”

You smile back and nod. “Yeah, hope you didn’t wait too long.”

He shakes his head. “Na, I just got here a few minutes ago.”

“This is Olivia. She’s a project manager in my department.” Taehyung gestures to the lady standing next to him.

“Hi, nice meeting you. I hope your new manager doesn’t give you too much work,” you say to her with a wink.

She laughs, “Oh, he does. But that’s okay, he has some good ideas.”

“Some good ideas?” Taehyung says dramatically.

“I think that all my ideas are good.” He pouts.

And it’s adorable.

Of course.

“Well, time will tell,” you laugh, and he starts to laugh with you.

You turn to Olivia. “By the way, I’m y/n. I’m from the software engineering department.”

“Oh, umm yeah, I know,” she says, and it’s... a bit awkward.

You don’t know what to say, and there’s a moment of silence.

“Let's go?” Taehyung looks at you with a smile.

“I’ll see you at the fall collection launch meeting,” he says to Olivia like a question, and she nods.

You wave and say goodbye to her as you head out of the lobby with Taehyung.

“Olivia is not coming with us for lunch?” you ask when you’re out.

“No, I don’t need you to embarrass me more in front of my new employees,” Taehyung says while laughing. “Where are we going? I still don’t know many places around here.”

“Some nice cafe. It’s close by.”

You realize you don’t know if he lived in the city before starting to work here. Among all the other things you don’t know.

“Are you new to the city?”

“Yeah, I just moved here like a month ago. My apartment is actually not so far from the office—it's about a 20-minute drive without traffic.”

“Mine as well, but there's always traffic,” you laugh. “Get used to it.”

He winces. “Not like I have a choice.”

You walk for a couple more minutes, pointing out your favorite spots on the way, until you get to the cafe.

You chose to sit outside, it’s warm but not unbearable, and there’s enough shade.

You quickly order and return to your conversation. You’re not usually this chatty during lunch, but there’s something about Taehyung that makes it feel easy. Effortless, even. He talks about HR systems and jokes about being confused 80% of the time, and you laugh a bit harder than necessary.

"You’ll get used to the chaos," you say. "Eventually, you even learn to enjoy it—like a weird, toxic relationship."

He grins. "So you’re saying I should lower my standards?"

You raise an eyebrow, playful. "No, I’m saying you should stop fighting it. Embrace the corporate dysfunction. It builds character."

He laughs again, and you notice the way his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. It makes something flutter in your chest, which you immediately scold yourself for.

You somehow end up telling him about your secret spot on the rooftop. It’s not something you share. And you don’t know why you’re telling him.

“You can see the sunset from up there on really bad days,” you say, poking your fork through your pasta. “I go when I need to breathe.”

“That sounds like something out of a movie,” he says. Hi continues, his tone is somewhere between overly dramatic and dreamy. “You, standing on the rooftop, thinking deep thoughts and looking beautiful against the sky.”

Your hand freezes briefly around your fork, caught off guard by the compliment. Is he... flirting? You laugh to deflect.

“I’m usually sweating and internally screaming about deadlines, but sure, let’s go with beautiful.” He laughs as well, and you think it’s a bit awkward. Like he himself blurted something he didn't want to. Your stomach does a weird little twist. You tell yourself it’s the coffee.

You pause, then shift the topic to safer ground.

“So… new apartment. Do you like it?”

“Yeah, it’s nice. Quiet. I’m still unpacking, though. Still feels like I’m barely halfway moved in.”

“Sounds familiar.” You nod. “It took me a while to feel familiar with my place. To make it feel like home. It was weird. Like my life didn’t fully land yet.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Exactly. It’s like… you’re physically there, but the rest of you is still in transition.”

You’re surprised by his depth, the way he puts things into words you’ve never said aloud.

Everything about him is surprising.

Yet, he’s still surprisingly comforting, it feels easy, and light. Like you’ve always been friends.

Taehyung feels like he hasn’t stopped smiling since seeing you in the lobby.

You are smart and witty, and he enjoys talking with you.

When you walked side by side to the restaurant, he could catch your scent a few times.

You smell like flowers, like jasmine and water lilies. Like something fresh and sweet. And it intoxicates him even more than he is.

The weather is nice, and sitting outside with you, talking about whatever feels easy.

He has a warm feeling in his chest that he hasn’t felt for a long time.

And he wants to learn more about you, so he gently tries to divert the conversation to more personal matters.

“For how long have you lived here?” Taehyung asks.

“In the city?” You ask mid bite and he nods. You swallow and continue. “You can say that since I moved out to college. My college was in the city, and after that, I always worked here. But I moved to my current place about.. A year ago.”

“You like it here?”

“I do. I have my friends here, my apartment, and my job. And I lived here long enough that it feels like home.”

No mention of a man so far.

But he wants to be sure.

“Do you live alone?”

Oh, real smooth Taehyung.

He feels like an idiot. It sounds creepy.

But you don’t seem to mind. You chuckle.

“Umm, yeah. I definitely lived after college at shitty roommates' apartments. Thankfully, I have a much nicer place now.”

Okay.. so no kids or a man you live with…

But he still doesn’t know for sure if you’re single, and he doesn't want to ask directly.

“What about you?” you ask him.

“If I like it here?” he asks. You nod as you take a sip of water.

He still doesn’t feel like it’s his home. But right now he feels like it might.

“Well, it’s early to tell, but so far, I think that I do?” he says the last part like a question.

“Do you know people that live here?” you ask, and he’s endeared by you, that you care. Why would you care about him, even? You’re too good.

“Yeah, I have Jungkook–you remember Junkgoog? Tall, big eyes, kind of crazy.”

You laugh and nod, “Yeah, I remember him. He had tattoos and drove a bike while I still had to ask permission to go to a friend's house.”

Taehyung laughs, “Yep. Same Jungkookie. But he has more tattoos. And probably a bigger bike.”

You laugh.

And it’s perfect.

He’d thank Jungkook and his stupid bike, but he’ll never tell him that.

“We also have friends from college who have also moved to the city. It’s nice to live close by to everyone,” Taehyung adds.

You just nod and smile beautifully. He feels like you’re really happy for him, which makes him happy.

“Have you kept in touch with someone from high school?” he asks.

“Yeah, with most of the girls. It’s kind of hard now that everyone lives in different places and has work, family, and life. But we still try to meet every few months—or at least when we all visit our parents' house for the holiday and so on.”

“Do your parents still live in the same house?” Taehyung blurts.

You nod, and he freezes.

The mention of the place reminds him of what happened between you two the last time you were there. He also feels some awkwardness from your side at the slight reminder of the elephant in the room. The one you both avoided talking about.

But you snap out of it before he does, and you resume what you talked about.

“Remembers Gabby?”

He does. She was your closest friend. You were always a package deal.

So he nods, not sure of himself, not to say more stupid things.

“She also lives in the city.”

“Also, remember Michelle?” You don’t wait for him to answer as you continue. “She lives close to the city. She has the cutest child, Alex. He’s two years old.”

“Do you have any?” Taehyung blurts.

“What? Kids?” you ask, and he nods.

“Oh no, no, I-I’m single,” you stutter.

You blush slightly and move your eyes lower to your plate.

“Me too,” Taehyung adds without you even asking. He tries to hold in his smile when you look back up. He feels the electricity in the air subtly shift. Like something’s been said without fully being said.

“Well… sucks for us, I guess.” You say with a sad smile and raise your glass of water.

He chuckles at that.

You clink your glass gently with his. His eyes hold yours for a second too long. And he feels his heart beating in his ears.

You continue to talk about some random things after that.

Taehyung doesn't ask more personal questions. He’s not sure what he’ll do with the information, and he’s still trying to process everything he got.

You’re single. And you live here too. And you’re still the coolest, sweetest person. He doesn’t know what to do with all that.

And this isn’t a date.

So he keeps the conversation at a surface level, just enjoying spending time with you.

When the bill arrives, you move to pay. You open your mouth, probably to tell the waitress the amount.

“I’ve got this,” Taehyung says and puts his phone on the card reader.

“I can pay for my own lunch, you know,” you cock a brow at him.

“Yeah yeah, I know,” he waves his hand as the payment is processed. “Just let me pay for lunch. As a thank you for showing me around,” he tells you with a smile.

You smile shyly back.

“Thanks.”

He’ll pay for every lunch if you’d let him, just to see you smile like that at him.

On your way back to the office, you tell him about more places around.

When you mention another restaurant, Taehyung immediately jumps at the opportunity.

“We can go there next Thursday.” He doesn’t say it like a question.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” he can tell you’re a bit surprised.

But you come to your senses quickly, a teasing smirk grows on your lips, “but next time, I’m paying.”

Friday, July 19th

Friday night Taehuyng decided to stay at home..

He should be tired from the week, and he needs to rest today. He told Jungkook that tomorrow he’d go out with them.

But somehow, he’s not tired. For the first time in a while, he feels motivated.

His phone buzzes in his back pocket, and he sees Jungkook's face on the screen.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Can’t you handle one day without me?”

“Oh, you know that I can’t, baby,” Jungkook answers in an exaggerated sultry voice.

Taehyung chuckles. “What do you want, idiot?”

“To make sure that you don't want to come- what are those noises?! Why are you panting like that?!”

“If you are busy fucking or something, please don't answer my calls,” Jungkook adds in a disgusted tone.

“Gross. No. I just hung some shelves, and I’m moving the boxes that I haven’t opened yet.” He sighs loudly. “I’m really out of shape,” Taehyung says as he goes to the kitchen to get water.

“Oh. Only if your BEST FRIEND had a GYM, and he’d be a professional TRAINER,” Jungkook yells at him.

“I’ll ask Jimin if he wants to become a trainer,” Taehyung laughs.

“Oh, fuck you,” Jungkook says bitterly.

“Anyway, sure you don’t want to come with me and the boys?”

“Yeah, I’ll keep my energy for tomorrow.”

“You still hadn’t told me how your lunch date was yesterday.”

“It was fine. Nothing special to tell.” Taehyung says flatly as he goes back to his office, where he moved the boxes. He opens one and starts to place the books on the unit shelf.

“And it wasn’t a date,” he adds.

For good measure.

“So… is she taken?” Jungkook asks carefully.

“No.” Taehyung answers without elaborating.

“Okay,” Jungkook says it with a hum, like he’s thinking about Taehyung's answer.

“Did you pay for lunch?”

“I did.”

“But, I don’t see why it matters.” Taehyung adds quickly before Jungkook could say something annoying, “I paid as a thank you for showing me around.”

“Oh, so it was just a platonic lunch of two single, attractive people. And you invited her. And paid for it. Aha. I see.” Jungkook pauses and does this annoying hum again, like he’s processing something complicated.

“Does she know it wasn’t a date?”

Taehyung rolls his eyes so hard, he’s sure Jungkook can hear it. “Yeah, it was a completely innocent friendly lunch.”

“Will you go on another innocent friendly lunch with her?” Jungkook asks in the most annoying tone Taehyung has ever heard.

“Yes,” Taehyung says quietly.

“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow then. Bye.” And Jungkook ends the call.

Saturday, July 20th

It’s late, it might be Sunday already

They’re at some bar, but it feels more like a party.

Taehyung thinks he’s too old for this.

Jimin left an hour ago after receiving a booty call, and Namjoon just said goodbye. He doesn’t blame him for leaving.

Jungkook has been attached to a friend he met at the gym, and Taehyung has been assigned to entertain her friend, Maddie.

She’s actually nice and objectively very attractive.

He hasn’t stopped drinking for the past hour.

He doesn’t know why, but you keep penetrating his thoughts. He can’t stop comparing the woman at his arm to you.

She can’t really compare.

And every time you come to the forefront of his mind, he downs a shot as if it could help.

So he’s very drunk.

He's too drunk.

Again.

And that’s how he finds himself in the Uber back to his apartment with her.

Maddie.

Not you.

Grayson texted you again out of the blue on Thursday evening.

He said he wanted to try to set up a date and suggested Saturday night.

You actually prefer to spend your weekends with your friends, but you don’t have plans for Saturday night.

And he’s a nice chill guy.

And he’s handsome.

And you haven’t been on a date for three months.

You think.

Maybe it was more.

The last one was a while ago, either way.

So you said yes.

At the time, it seemed like a good idea to spend Saturday night with a good-looking guy, eat something, and get drinks.

Now that you are actually getting ready to head out, you wish you could stay home.

But you can’t.

You take a big breath and call an Uber.

It’s a fancy trendy restaurant, but the atmosphere feels more like a bar. The lights are dim, and the music is loud.

You sit very close to Grayson so that you can hear each other.

You are even having a nice time talking with him.

You have a couple of drinks, and you order food.

The food is amazing. When you eat the pasta, you let out a little moan. Because you have to be embarrassing.

Grayson chuckles at your reaction. “I did well choosing this place?” he smiles proudly.

You swallow the huge bite of pasta in your mouth and smile back at him, with all the grace you can muster after you inhale the carbs, “Oh, most definitely. I can eat this pasta every day.”

“But it’s too loud, since when does a restaurant put on such loud music?” you say as you frown.

“Since it’s Saturday night?” Grayson laughs, “Come on, you're not old enough to complain about the music—even though you're a big shot manager.” He nudges you with his elbow.

This is kinda.. cringy.

You chuckle a bit awkwardly, “I’m not a big shot. It’s just a job.” You shrug.

“Fine,” he says as if he doesn’t believe you. “How’s work going?” he says in between bites of food.

“Going good. It’s been hectic for the past month, but I can’t complain, I love what I do.”

“I get that. I also love working in the firm.” He sighs, “But sometimes I think it takes all the focus from other aspects of life,” he says more seriously. And it’s like this thought deflates him.

You just take another bit of your pasta and nod. You understand.

“How you manage to balance your work and life and friends and everything?” he asks, even tho you think he knows the answer.

You laugh in response, but it’s dry and bitter. “Well, I don’t. I just try to do my best. Do you manage?”

“Oh, definitely not,” he rubs the back of his neck.

You both start to laugh, and after that, the conversation returns to lighter subjects.

Later that night, after you finish the food and dessert and have some more drinks, Grayson leans in your direction and looks into your eyes.

“I’m really glad that we finally got on a date.”

You return a small smile but don’t say anything. He lays a bit more, and as you don’t move, he closes the gap, and your lips connect.

The kiss is nice and soft. Grayson is a fine man, and you enjoy this. Like the physical aspect of it. Or whatever. But the kiss doesn’t do anything to you. It’s just a good kiss.

You don’t feel your heart rate increase, and you don’t feel as excited as you did while only talking with Taehyung.

Oh.

That’s a weird thought.

Why are you thinking about Taehyung all of a sudden?

You’re startled a little, and you jerk back from the kiss.

This thing with Greyson doesn’t really have a future. Doesn’t it?

Well, fuck.

He looks at you with a worried face.

But before he can say anything, you ask him,

“Do you want to go back to my place?”

Sunday, July 21st

You don’t know what time it is, but you can see that there’s light between the blinds in your bedroom.

For a second, you don’t remember that you came home with someone yesterday.

You get up quietly from the bed and grab an oversized shirt from your closet.

You need coffee.

The first sip of coffee feels like you got life back into you.

What happened last night plays back in your head. You don’t regret it.

The sex was good. Not the mind-blowing, rocked-your-world kind of sex. But it was good, and Grayson is gentle and considerate.

You’re startled when you hear someone from behind you.

“Good morning,” Greyson says with voice grouf from sleep.

You haven’t heard him coming into the kitchen. He’s already dressed up in what he wore last night.

“Hi, coffee?” you ask him, and he nods.

He sits quietly on the bar stool as you pour him some.

You sit beside each other, sipping your coffee silently for a few minutes.

Grayson clears his throat before he turns his head in your direction.

“So.. last night was great.”

Before you can say anything, he continues, “But I assume that you don’t really see us continuing this.”

You didn’t expect him to say it.

“I guess I realized that you inviting me over means you don’t see us–me– in a serious way,” he says as he rubs the back of his head.

“I-I’m sorry,” you look down at your cup. Not finding the courage to look up at him.

“That okay, I get it,” he reassures you.

He takes a final sip from his coffee. “But if you ever change your mind, call me.”

You just nod, don’t know what to say.

At that, he gets up and heads out of the kitchen.

You walk with him to the door and wait as he puts on his shoes.

As he stands up, he looks back at you, smiling, “Goodbye, y/n,” and giving you a gentle kiss on the cheek.

“Goodbye,” you call quietly after him.

You flop on the couch, with heaviness.

Why do you have to be fucked up like that?

Why do you have to know that it won’t work before it even starts?

Taehyung woke up from a noise. His head is pounding, and his throat is parched.

He looks to his side, and he sees a woman standing turned away from him, getting dressed.

Maddie.

At least he remembers her name.

He sits up and pulls the sheet to cover his bottom half.

“Good morning.”

Maddie turns her head to him, “Good morning,” and she turns back to finish buttoning her jeans.

“Do you want me to make some coffee?” Taehyung stretches as he asks.

“Oh, umm.. No, I'm okay. I’ll head out.”

He’s silent for a moment before he asks, “Can I at least call the Uber for you?”

Maddie frowns.

She comes to sit on the bed edge, “Last night was really good, amazing even. But it’s nothing serious, you know?”

Taehyung doesn’t say anything. He feels like shit. He probably looks like shit, because Maddie continues. She sighs, “You’re acting better than most one-night-stand dudes, anyway. Don’t feel bad.”

She looks at her phone in her hand, “And my Uber is already here.”

She leans to give him a quick kiss on the lips and leaves the room.

Leaving Taehyung lying naked and alone.

Monday, July 22nd

Monday mornings are tough.

You barely bothered getting dressed. You just threw on baggy, loose jeans, an oversized shirt, and Crocs.

That’s fine, you tell yourself.

Crocs are trendy now.

And they’re black.

It’s like formal Crocs.

You get out of your car in the underground parking and go to the elevators.

Holding your laptop in one hand and a huge coffee in the other.

The elevator stops at the entrance floor, and you sigh.

Really not in the mood for an elevator small talk.

The doors open, and in front of you stands Taehyung.

He looks tired, but unlike you, he’s dressed nicely in dark denim, a white shirt, and a black blazer. His hair also looked styled and combed back nicely.

When he sees you, he smiles and greets you with a small wave, “Morning.”

His scent fills the elevator when he steps in. He smells like he just took a shower, a clean, fresh scent. But also somewhat manly. It takes over all of your senses. It’s too much for your tired, fogged brain. It’s too early for this.

You manage to put on a small smile and say, “Morning,” barely over a whisper.

“Rough morning?” Taehyung asks.

“Yeah, not a morning person. Especially on Mondays.”

He chuckles, “Noted. How was your weekend?”

You sigh internally.

You had another date that would lead to nothing and meaningless sex, and apart from that, you just chilled at home and went to your usual coffee shop.

That’s lame.

You definitely can’t tell him that.

You compromise on, “It was nice. Pretty basic. How was yours?”

He lowers his head and rubs the back of his neck, like he’s replaying in his head what happened on the weekend.

“Same. Nice. Basic.”

The elevators ping, announcing you arrived on the 16th floor.

You step forward and turn your head to Taehyung, “Have a good week.”

He nods, “You too.”

“Y/n,” you hear him call, and you turn to see him holding the elevator doors open.

“Lunch on Thursday. Yes?”

You smile, “Yeah, sure.”

He steps back into the elevator, “See you then.”

And you see his big boxy smile as the elevator doors close.

Maybe this isn’t such a rough morning.

Back to series masterlist

#kelsy 💕#not a date #starry night #taehyung #taehyung fic #taehyung x reader #taehyung fluff #taehyung smut #bts

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kooppss · 10 days ago

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It’s very weird for someone your age to be writing about high school kids sex

Then block me

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kooppss · 10 days ago

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Me when

my favorite genre of bearded vulture images is middle aged people cradling them like babies

#should I make this a birds blog with occasional fic posts #bird #birdlr

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kooppss · 10 days ago

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DO IT.

the sound i let out broke the sound barrier EVERYBODY SAY THANK YOU USER UARMYHOPE!!!

#write that damn fic #I’m begging you #I daydream about it too much #at this point I basically have a multiverse of plots in my mind

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kooppss · 11 days ago

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Please this is not funny anymore. Someone HAS to write this guitar teacher yoongi fic or I’ll cry.

the sound i let out broke the sound barrier EVERYBODY SAY THANK YOU USER UARMYHOPE!!!

#i’m manifesting #guitar teacher yoongi #yoongi

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kooppss · 11 days ago

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Kiki is spoiling us with smut from Jungkook’s pov. Thank you god 🙏🏻

since pov reversal requests are open… can we get chapter 8 (when he eats her out) in jungkook’s POV? i’m so curious bout his thought process there… 🥺 🫶🏻 ilu thanks mother of goblins

Fuck Me Up; Chapter 8, Jungkook’s POV.

warnings: cunnilingus, smut, explicit themes, jungkook being smug, past toxic relationships reference / past abuse implied.

pairing: jungkook x f!reader | rating: 18+ | genre: roommates, fwb, e2l

wc: 5,6k words | main story index | wattpad | taglist | AO3

It’s nagging at him.

Has been all fucking night, actually. Like a splinter under his skin that he can’t quite dig out, working its way deeper every time he tries to ignore it.

Jungkook stares at the ceiling of his room, jaw clenched tight as the realization gnaws at him with relentlessness.

He didn’t eat you out yesterday.

The thought makes him groan into his pillow because what kind of fucking amateur move was that? What kind of—Christ, he’s better than that. He knows he’s better than that. But somehow, in all the heat and desperation of having you pressed against that window, he’d completely forgotten one of the most important parts.

The first part.

His mind drifts back to January—that first night when he’d had no idea who you were, when you were just some girl with an attitude and the kind of legs that made him want to do stupid things. But fuck, the second he’d gotten his mouth on you? The second he’d tasted that slick heat between your thighs?

You’d been so goddamn responsive. Warm and wet and perfect, your back arching off his mattress as you’d grabbed fistfuls of his hair and told him exactly how good he was making you feel.

And afterward, when you were both catching your breath, you’d looked at him with those sharp eyes and said something that had burned itself into his memory.

“That's—ah—what happens when you eat someone out properly,” you’d murmured, all breathless and satisfied.

And he had chuckled, had said: "I’ll keep that in mind."

But had he kept that in mind yesterday? Had he fucking hell.

Jungkook drags both hands through his hair, tugging at the strands in frustration because he’s an idiot. A complete and utter idiot who got so caught up in the moment—in the way you’d looked at him, in the heat of your body against his—that he’d skipped right over the thing he knew women loved most.

The thing he’d been craving for months.

Because that’s the real problem here, isn’t it? It’s not just that he forgot. It’s that he’s been thinking about it ever since January. Thinking about the way you’d tasted, the way you’d felt against his tongue, the sounds you’d made when he’d found that perfect rhythm. It’s been driving him half-insane, living in the same apartment as you, smelling that vanilla scent everywhere but not being able to do anything about it.

Until yesterday, anyway. When all his self-control had finally snapped and he’d gotten to touch you again, to hear those sounds again, to feel you fall apart in his arms.

But he’d rushed it. Gotten too eager, too desperate to be inside you, and now that oversight is eating at him like acid.

He rolls over, pressing his face into the pillow as another wave of frustration crashes over him. Because it’s not just about the sex, is it? It’s about doing it right. About proving to himself—and maybe to you—that he’s not the same guy who used to let Mia walk all over him. That he knows what he’s doing now, knows how to make you feel good, knows how to—

God, he’s pathetic.

Jungkook sits up abruptly, running his hands over his face as he tries to shake off the spiral of thoughts. But they keep coming anyway, relentless and insistent, reminding him of every detail from that night in January. The way you’d looked at him afterward, satisfied and a little surprised.

He wants that again. Wants to see that look on your face, wants to hear you tell him how good he is, wants to prove that yesterday was just a fluke and he really does know what he’s doing.

The clock on his nightstand reads 8:47 AM, and Jungkook finds himself wondering if you’re still asleep. You probably are—it’s Saturday, after all, and you’ve never been much of a morning person. You’re probably curled up in that bed of yours, hair messy and face soft with sleep, completely unaware that he’s been lying here for the past hour thinking about all the ways he wants to wake you up.

The thought makes his dick twitch with interest, and he has to bite back another groan because this is getting ridiculous. He’s a grown man, not some teenager who can’t control himself. But something about you just gets under his skin in the worst possible way, makes him want things he shouldn’t want and think things he definitely shouldn’t be thinking.

Like how much he wants to knock on your door right now. How much he wants to see if you’ll let him fix his mistake from yesterday.

But that would be crazy, right? Showing up at your door at nine in the morning just because he can’t stop thinking about the way you taste?

That’s the kind of thing Mia used to do—boundary-pushing, manipulative shit that always left him feeling off-balance and guilty.

Except… this isn’t the same thing, at all because there’s no control or manipulation in his thoughts.

In all honesty this is just about wanting to make you feel good. About wanting to do better than he did yesterday.

At least, that’s what he tells himself as he gets out of bed and pulls on clothes. That’s what he tells himself as he makes his way down the hall toward your room, heart hammering against his ribs with something that might be nerves or excitement or both.

Griffin appears from somewhere, winding around his ankles with a soft meow, and Jungkook scoops him up automatically.

“Come on,” he murmurs to the cat, who purrs and settles against his chest. “Let’s go wake up Phoenix.”

Because if he’s going to do this—if he’s really going to show up at your door like some kind of horny morning person—he might as well have an excuse ready. Something that sounds reasonable and normal instead of I’ve been lying awake for an hour thinking about eating you out.

Yeah. Griffin’s a good excuse. Griffin’s perfect.

The door to your room is cracked open just enough for him to slip inside without making noise. Griffin jumps down from his arms immediately, padding over to investigate something under your desk, and Jungkook finds himself standing there like an idiot, just… looking at you.

You’re sprawled across the bed on your stomach, one leg kicked out from under the covers, hair a complete disaster across the pillow. And your mouth—Christ, your mouth is hanging open just slightly, soft little puffs of air escaping with each breath.

It’s ridiculous. You look absolutely fucking ridiculous, and he has to bite his lip to keep from laughing because if you could see yourself right now, you’d probably murder him just for witnessing it. Miss Sarcastic-Comment-For-Everything, passed out like a drooling mess at nine in the morning.

But even looking ridiculous, even with your hair sticking up and that little spot of drool on the pillow, you still smell incredible. That vanilla scent is stronger in here, concentrated and warm, and it hits him like a punch to the gut. Makes his mouth water and his dick take interest because fuck, he remembers exactly how that scent tastes.

Sweet. Warm. Perfect.

His brain supplies the memory before he can stop it—the way you’d tasted that night in January, slick and ready and so goddamn responsive under his tongue. The way you’d grabbed his hair while your stiletto dug in his back; the way you’d arched your back and made those sounds that had him harder than he’d ever been in his life.

Yeah. He definitely needs to fix yesterday’s oversight.

Jungkook moves closer to the bed, and Griffin chooses that exact moment to meow—loud and demanding, like the attention-seeking little shit he is.

“Shh,” Jungkook whispers, but it’s too late.

You stir slightly, face scrunching up in that way it does when you’re annoyed about something, even in sleep. Your mouth closes, and you make this little grumbling sound that shouldn’t be as hilarious as it is.

Time for the wake-up call.

“Finny,” he tries first, because it’s cute and he knows it’ll irritate you.

Nothing. You’re still dead to the world, completely oblivious.

“Nexus.”

Still nothing, though your eyebrows draw together slightly like you’re having some kind of dream. Probably about strangling him, knowing you.

“Phoenixa.”

A slight shift, your leg moving under the covers, but you don’t wake up.

Stubborn even in sleep.

“Nyx.”

This time you twitch, and he grins because he’s getting somewhere.

“L’Oréal Paris?”

That does it. Your eyes fly open, and you jolt upright so fast you nearly launch yourself off the bed.

The look of complete confusion and outrage on your face is priceless—hair sticking up everywhere, eyes wide and unfocused, mouth still soft from sleep.

“What the actual—” You scramble to sit up, yanking your covers around you like they’ll somehow protect you from his presence. “Why are you in my room?!”

And there it is. That sharp edge to your voice, that immediate defensive response that makes his dick twitch with interest.

Because Christ, even first thing in the morning, even looking like you just survived a tornado, you still manage to sound like you want to eviscerate him.

It’s honestly impressive.

“Just came to get Griffin,” he says easily, settling onto the edge of your mattress like he belongs there. “But decided to wake you up since I was already here.”

You groan into your pillow—actually groan like he’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to you—and try to smother yourself with it. Like that’ll somehow make him disappear.

It won’t. He’s not going anywhere until he gets what he came for.

(Unless you actually kicked him out and didn’t want him there because he understands the concept of boundaries, but something tells him that’s not what’s gonna happen.)

“Also,” you mutter, turning just enough to glare at him through strands of messy hair, “L’Oréal Paris? Seriously?”

He grins because he’s actually pretty proud of that one. “What? Thought it was clever. You know, since I called you Nyx, and it’s a makeup brand, and—”

“I got it.” You roll your eyes so hard it looks painful. “You’re not as witty as you think you are.”

But you’re fighting a smile—he can see it in the way your lips twitch, the way you try to hide your face in the pillow.

You think it’s funny, even if you’d rather die than admit it.

“I don’t know, Phoenix.” He lets his voice drop just a little, watches the way your breathing changes at the shift in tone. “You seemed pretty impressed with my wit yesterday.”

The flush that crawls up your neck is immediate and telling, and Jungkook has to adjust his position on the bed because watching you get flustered is doing things to him.

Especially when he knows exactly what you’re remembering—the way he’d talked to you yesterday, the things he’d said while he was buried inside you, the way you’d responded to every filthy word.

“Get out of my room,” you mumble into the pillow, but there’s no real heat behind it.

“No can do.”

You peek at him from under the pillow, eyebrow raised in question, and he grins because he’s got you curious now. Got you engaged instead of trying to hide from him.

“Where even is Griffin?” you ask, and Jungkook glances over the room to find him—to no avail. He isn’t here.

“Oh, he left like five minutes ago. Guess he got bored waiting for you to wake up.”

You whip the pillow off to stare at him, and the look of pure indignation on your face makes him want to laugh. “So why are you still here?”

He shrugs, aiming for casual even though his heart is hammering against his ribs. “Stuff.”

“…Stuff.” You stare at him like he’s lost his mind. “Literally leave me alone.”

But you don’t actually try to make him leave. Don’t throw anything at his head or physically push him toward the door. You just faceplant back into the pillow with a dramatic sigh that makes him want to grin.

“Come on, Nini.” He tests out the new nickname, watches for your reaction. “It’s Saturday. Nine AM. There’s so much to do. Enjoy the day.”

“The day can enjoy itself without me.”

You burrow deeper into your sheets like you’re trying to hibernate, and something about the stubborn set of your shoulders, the way you’re so determined to stay in bed when he wants you awake and responsive, makes something click into place in his chest.

This is it. This is his chance to fix yesterday’s mistake.

“Ah ah, none of that.” Before he can second-guess himself, he’s grabbing your sheets and yanking them away.

The yelp you make when the cold air hits you is satisfying as hell, and when you lash out with your foot—trying to kick him like some feral cat—he’s ready for it. His hand wraps around your ankle, and he uses your own momentum against you, pulling you down the bed toward him in one smooth motion.

Now you’re flat on your back beneath him, staring up with wide eyes as he cages you against the mattress. Your sleep shirt has ridden up, giving him a glimpse of smooth skin, and this close he can see the rapid flutter of your pulse in your throat.

This position—Christ, this position is doing things to him.

Reminds him of January, of the way you’d looked when he’d had you pressed against that mattress. The way you’d felt under his hands, warm and pliant and perfect.

“Well,” he murmurs, letting his voice drop as his eyes flick over your face. “This feels familiar.”

It does. It feels like exactly where he wants to be—hovering over you, watching the way your pupils dilate, feeling the subtle shift in your breathing as awareness kicks in. You’re trying to play it cool, trying to maintain that sharp edge, but he can see right through it.

You want this just as much as he does. You’re just too stubborn to admit it.

“Rogue, what are you—” The words die in your throat as he dips his head down, mouth finding your nipple through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt.

The sharp intake of breath you make goes straight to his dick, and he has to resist the urge to grind against you because that’s not what this is about.

This is about fixing his mistake. About proving to himself that he knows what he’s doing.

About getting his mouth on you properly this time.

“C’mon,” he murmurs against the damp fabric, feeling the way you arch slightly beneath him despite your efforts to stay still. “You gave me only one last night. You can do better than that.”

It’s a direct callback to January, you both know it.

When you’d come apart three times with him—one under his tongue, two on his dick.

He’d loved it. Loved the satisfaction afterwards, the way you had genuinely enjoyed it.

Had slept like a baby, too.

“What makes you think I can—”

“Three.” The word comes out rougher than he intended, loaded with memory and want. “You gave me three that night, Phoenix. You’re crazy if you think a guy would forget that.”

The way you go perfectly still beneath him tells him everything he needs to know.

You remember too. Remember exactly how good it had been, how he’d made you shake and gasp and beg for more. The memory is written all over your face, in the way your pupils dilate and your breathing goes shallow.

Good. He wants you to remember.

“Come on,” he coaxes, moving to your other nipple, letting his teeth graze just enough to make you gasp. “I’ll make it quick. Promise it won’t take more than five minutes.”

It’s cocky as hell, and he knows it.

But he also knows he can deliver on that promise, especially with how responsive you are, especially with that vanilla scent making his mouth water and his hands shake slightly with want.

“You’re too sure of your—” You cut off with a strangled sound as he bites down just a little harder, and the broken noise you make is perfect. Exactly what he wanted to hear.

“C’mon, yeah?” His voice has dropped lower without his permission, gone rough with need because being this close to you, smelling you, touching you—it’s doing things to his control. “Say yes.”

He can see the war playing out across your face. The way you want to say no on principle, want to maintain that sharp edge you always keep between you.

But you also want this—he can see it in the way you’re looking at him, can feel it in the subtle shift of your body beneath his.

“…Okay,” you finally grumble, and the grin that splits across his face feels like winning the lottery.

Because that’s it. That’s all he needed. Permission to fix this nagging feeling, to do what he should have done yesterday, to get his mouth on you properly and prove that he remembers exactly how to make you fall apart.

The anticipation is already making his hands unsteady as he settles between your legs, hooking his arms under your thighs to pull you exactly where he wants you.

And Christ, you smell incredible from here—vanilla and warmth and that underlying scent that’s just you, just Phoenix, just everything he’s been craving for months.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips because his mouth is already watering, and he catches the way your breathing hitches as you watch him.

Yeah. This is exactly what he should have done yesterday. This is exactly what’s been driving him insane all night.

“Take these off,” he says, voice already gone rough with want as he looks up at you through his lashes.

But instead of complying, your hand shoots out to grab his hair, pushing his forehead back. “Hold up, I just woke up—”

The confusion that crashes over him is immediate and sharp. “And?”

You’re looking at him like he’s insane, like he’s missing something obvious, and it takes his brain a second to catch up.

Self-consciousness. You’re worried about—

“It’s been like, nine hours since I showered, let me just—”

You try to wiggle away, but his grip on your thighs just tightens automatically because no. Absolutely not. He’s not waiting another second for this, not when he’s been thinking about it all night, not when you’re right here and willing and perfect.

“Stop being weird about it,” he says, and he means it.

Because what the hell does he care about showers or time or any of that bullshit? You’re here, you’re warm, you smell incredible, and he’s been craving this for hours.

“Rogue,” you tug his hair harder, trying to make him back off, “I’m literally all sweaty, I need to—”

He yanks your hand away from his hair, pinning it to the mattress beside you because he’s done with this conversation. Done with delays and excuses and overthinking.

“So?” The word comes out rougher than he intended, loaded with want and impatience. “I like my breakfast marinated.”

The look of pure shock that crosses your face is priceless—eyes wide, mouth falling open slightly, a flush crawling up your neck that tells him exactly how his words affected you.

And fuck, the way you’re looking at him now, scandalized and turned on despite yourself, makes his dick throb with interest.

“You’re disgusting,” you manage to choke out, but your voice is breathless, aroused, telling a completely different story than your words.

Perfect.

“Mhm. Now take them off.”

His fingers are already hooking into the waistband of your shorts before you can protest again, and this time you don’t fight it. Don’t try to stop him as he drags the fabric down your hips, over your thighs, until you’re bare and spread out in front of him like his own personal feast.

“That’s better,” he sighs, and it is.

It’s so much better, having you like this—naked and waiting and his to touch however he wants.

The soft chuckle that escapes him is pure satisfaction as he leans in to press his lips to the inside of your thigh. Soft at first, testing, but when you don’t pull away he lets himself really taste you. Salt and warmth and that underlying sweetness that’s been haunting him for months.

His thumbs rub slow circles into your skin as he works his way higher, pressing kiss after kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, and he can feel the subtle tremor that runs through your body with each touch.

And then he pauses, just long enough to look up at you through his lashes, to catch your eyes and hold them as his tongue flicks out to wet his lips.

The first taste of you—that long stripe up your slit—makes both of you gasp. You, because it’s sudden and electric and perfect. Him, because Christ, he’d forgotten how incredible you taste.

Your hands fly to his hair immediately, fingers tangling in the strands like you’re trying to anchor yourself, and the slight sting of it just makes him want more.

He hums against you in appreciation—can’t help it, really, because this is exactly where he wants to be. Exactly what he’s been thinking about all night.

The vibration makes you jerk slightly, makes your grip in his hair tighten, and he grins against you because he can already tell you’re trying not to make noise.

Stubborn girl. He’ll fix that.

“What’d I tell you yesterday about holding your sounds?” he asks, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, that challenging eyebrow raised.

Your response is immediate, that sharp defiance he’s grown addicted to: “You’ll have to earn it then.”

Perfect. Fucking perfect.

The grin that spreads across Jungkook’s face is wicked and entirely too pleased with itself as he dips back down without another word.

Because that’s exactly what he wanted to hear—that challenge, that stubborn refusal to make this easy for him.

It’s what makes the victory so much sweeter when he finally breaks you.

And he will break you. He knows exactly how.

The tip of his tongue brushes against your clit in the lightest possible touch, barely there, just enough to make you aware of what’s coming. He keeps his eyes locked on yours as he does it, watching for that subtle shift in your breathing, that tiny flutter of your lashes that tells him you’re already fighting the urge to react.

There it is.

Your pupils are already dilating, that sharp focus in your eyes starting to blur around the edges as he traces lazy circles around your clit with the tip of his tongue. Never quite touching it directly, never giving you enough pressure to actually get you there, just teasing until your hips start to shift restlessly beneath him.

He can feel the tension building in your thighs where his hands are gripping them, the way your muscles clench and release as you try to stay still. Try to maintain that control you’re so desperate to keep.

And the best part? Yoongi won’t be back from his early studio session for hours. Which means you can be as loud as you want. Can scream his name if he does this right—and he’s definitely going to do this right.

His tongue flattens against you, dragging a slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, and the way your breath hitches—sharp and surprised—makes his dick throb in his jeans.

The second hum of satisfaction that vibrates against you is involuntary—he can’t help it when you taste this good, feel this perfect under his tongue. His mouth is already watering for more.

Your grip in his hair tightens at the vibration, fingernails scraping against his scalp in a way that makes him groan softly against your skin. The slight sting of it just spurs him on, makes him press closer, lets his tongue delve deeper.

He starts a rhythm then—slow, deliberate circles around your clit that have you trying to press closer to his mouth, your hips shifting despite your best efforts to stay still.

Your breathing is getting shallower, little puffs of air escaping your lips as you fight to stay quiet, and Jungkook finds himself getting lost in the sounds.

The tiny gasps you can’t quite suppress, the way your breath catches when he hits a particularly sensitive spot, the soft whimper you try to muffle by biting your lip.

It’s all going straight to his dick, making him grind unconsciously against the mattress as he works you over with his tongue.

Because this—this is exactly what he’s been craving. The taste of you on his tongue, the feel of you coming apart beneath him, the knowledge that he’s the one making you feel this good.

His tongue speeds up slightly, flicking over your clit with more ambition now, and he watches as your eyes start to flutter closed. But no—he wants you to look at him. Wants to see the exact moment when you break.

The soft sound of frustration you make when he pulls back slightly—just enough to make you chase his mouth—is perfect. Makes your eyes snap open and focus on him with desperate, needy heat. And the way you immediately lock onto his gaze without hesitation makes something smug and possessive curl in his chest.

Jesus. Even without words, you know what he wants.

He rewards you by latching onto your clit properly this time, sucking gently while his tongue continues those maddening circles. The combination has you arching off the bed, a strangled moan finally escaping your throat despite your best efforts.

There’s the sound he’s been waiting for.

His tongue works faster now, alternating between broad strokes and precise flicks, building a rhythm that has your thighs starting to tremble around his head. He can feel you getting wetter, slicker, your body responding to him in ways you can’t control no matter how hard you try.

And you are trying.

He can see it in the way you’re gripping the sheets with one hand while the other stays tangled in his hair. You’re still fighting it, still trying to maintain some semblance of control even as he systematically destroys it.

But your eyes—Christ, your eyes are telling a completely different story. Dark and desperate and so fucking hungry as you watch him work between your legs. Like you can’t decide if you want to push him away or pull him closer.

He knows which one you really want.

His tongue finds that perfect rhythm—the one that made you come so hard in January that you actually screamed—and he watches as recognition dawns in your expression. Watches as your mouth falls open and your breathing turns ragged and desperate.

The broken gasp that escapes you makes his dick pulse with need, but you don’t finish whatever you were going to say because he doubles down, tongue working your clit relentlessly while his hands grip your thighs hard enough to leave marks.

He’s not gentle about it anymore—can’t be, not when you taste this good, not when you’re responding like this.

Your back arches off the bed completely now, head thrown back as you fight a losing battle against the pleasure building in your core.

And Jungkook—Jungkook is in his element. This is what he’s good at, what he was born to do. Making you fall apart with nothing but his mouth and his stubborn determination to prove he remembers exactly how to wreck you.

He can feel you getting close—the way your thighs start to shake, the way your breathing turns sharp and desperate, the way your grip in his hair turns almost painful.

You’re right there, right on the edge, and he knows exactly what you need to tip over.

But first—first he needs to see your face when you realize he’s got you. Needs to see that moment when you understand you’re about to come apart completely and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

So he glances up, catching your gaze as his tongue continues its relentless assault on your clit. And when he sees you looking back—sees the desperate need in your eyes, the way your lips are parted and your face is flushed with arousal—he smirks.

Smirks knowingly, tongue never faltering as he holds your gaze and lets you see exactly how satisfied he is with your reaction. Like he’s saying gotcha without words. Like he’s saying I told you I’d make you fall apart and look how right I was.

The effect is immediate and devastating.

Your whole body goes rigid, thighs clamping around his head as you cry out—loud and desperate and completely unguarded. The orgasm hits you like a tsunami and Jungkook works you through every second of it, tongue never stopping as you shake and gasp and grab at his hair like you’re trying to ground yourself.

But he doesn’t let up. Doesn’t give you a chance to come down or catch your breath. He keeps going, keeps sucking and licking at your oversensitive clit because he’s greedy for it. Greedy for your sounds, for your reactions, for the way you’re completely at his mercy right now.

He can feel you trying to push his head away, your hands weak and shaky against his scalp, but he just grips your thighs tighter and continues his assault.

Because it’s not too much. It’s exactly what you need, exactly what you’re craving even if you can’t handle it. He can tell by the way your body responds, the way you keep getting wetter even as you tremble, the way your hips still cant up to meet his mouth despite your oversensitivity.

He wrings every last aftershock from your trembling body, every last gasp and whimper, until you’re completely spent and boneless beneath him. Only then does he finally pull back, finally gives you mercy.

His lips and chin are wet with you, and he wipes them with the back of his hand as he looks up at your fucked-out expression.

Your eyes are unfocused, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath, and there’s something deeply satisfying about seeing you like this.

“Told you I’d make it quick,” he says, voice rough and smug as he sits back on his heels.

The self-satisfied grin on his face is probably insufferable, but he can’t bring himself to care.

Because he did exactly what he set out to do. Fixed his mistake from yesterday, proved that he remembers how to make you fall apart, tasted you properly the way he’s been craving for months.

Mission accomplished.

He stands up, running a hand through his disheveled hair as he adjusts the obvious bulge in his jeans.

Not because he needs relief—though Christ, he’s hard enough to cut glass—but because seeing you like this, knowing he did this to you, is satisfaction enough for now.

This was about you. About doing it right this time. About proving that some things are worth the wait.

And judging by the way you’re still trying to catch your breath, still looking at him like you can’t quite believe what just happened, he’d say mission fucking accomplished.

The bulge in his jeans is just a side effect he can ignore. He came here to eat you out, and he did. Simple as that.

You scramble for words, still catching your breath, and he can see the exact moment confusion overtakes the post-orgasm haze.

“You… Huh…”

“Nah,” he shrugs casually. “Just had a craving.”

The chuckle that escapes him is soft, satisfied, as he shrugs one shoulder. Because that’s exactly what it was—a craving he needed to satisfy.

And now that it’s satisfied? He feels fucking fantastic.

“Good now,” he adds simply, and means it completely.

That restless, nagging energy is gone. Replaced by pure contentment and the kind of smug satisfaction that comes from a job well done.

He got what he came for, proved what he needed to prove, and fixed what needed fixing.

The fact that you’re staring at him like you can’t comprehend what just happened is just the cherry on top.

“What… is wrong with you?” you finally manage to croak out, voice still shaky and breathless.

He grins—actually grins, because nothing is wrong with him. Everything is exactly right.

“Didn’t eat you out yesterday. Felt off.”

Your face burns redder, and he has to bite back another chuckle because yeah, you get it now. You understand exactly what this was about, why he showed up at your door at nine AM with some bullshit excuse about Griffin.

“Get out of my room.”

“Already going,” he says, backing toward your door with that same satisfied grin.

Because he is. No reason to linger now that he’s gotten what he came for. The nagging is gone, the craving is satisfied, and he feels like he could take on the world.

“Got what I wanted.”

And he did. Exactly what he wanted. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Piss off.”

“Mhm.”

He pauses at the doorway, hand on the knob as he throws one last look over his shoulder. Not because he wants anything else, but because the view of you—completely wrecked, hair a disaster, still trying to catch your breath—is pretty fucking spectacular.

“By the way?” He grins wider, that smug satisfaction practically radiating off him. “You taste better in the morning.”

And then he’s gone, closing the door behind him with a soft click, leaving you to process what just happened while he goes about his day feeling like a man who’s just accomplished exactly what he set out to do.

No regrets. No second thoughts. Just pure, uncomplicated satisfaction and the knowledge that he’d fixed yesterday’s oversight perfectly.

Sometimes the simplest solutions really are the best ones.

#life is worth living #jungkoode <3 #fmu #fuck me up #jungkook smut #jungkook #jungkook fic

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kooppss · 14 days ago

Text

Congrats to my baby’s baby 🥹❤️

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏

↪︎𝒔𝒚𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒊𝒔: "if you could curse one day of your life, it would be the day you met him. because him—he's fucked up fucking for you, forever."

↪︎𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆: roommates, smut, fwb, fuck buddies, angst, fluff, slow burn ↪︎𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: here ↪︎𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: jungkook x reader ↪︎𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒔: ongoing | 𝒘𝒄: 202k+ | 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔: 26/? ➜ estimated: 60+ ↪︎𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒔: ao3 | wattpad | taglist

⋆｡°✩ chapters ✩°｡⋆ | * = smut

#01 | #02 | #03 | #04 | #05 | #06 | #07* | #08* | #09 | #10 | #11 | #12* | #13 | #14 | #15 | #16 | #17 | #18* | #19* | #20 | #21 | #22 | #23 | #24 | #25* | #26

⋆｡°✩ plot ✩°｡⋆

When your search for affordable NYC housing leads you to apartment 6B, you think you've hit the jackpot. That is, until you realize your new roommate is the guy from that one wild night on January - the one who ruined you for anyone else. Now you're stuck sharing walls with the living embodiment of your worst mistake, and the sexual tension is thick enough to choke on. Between his emotional damage and your trust issues, this arrangement is a disaster waiting to happen.

But hey, at least the hate sex is phenomenal.

⋆｡°✩ drabbles ✩°｡⋆

➵ that first night: her POV* ➵ that first night: his POV* [WIP] ➵ rules of engagement (yeji meets irya) ➵ griffin’s survival guide on stupid humans ➵ the great coffee war ➵ whiteboard chronicles ➵ polaroid memories (tae and jk)

⋆｡°✩ extras ✩°｡⋆

✧ playlists: • fmu the soundtrack • songs fmu!jk plays on his 🎸 ✧ moodboards: general | characters | relationships | drawings ✧ floor plans: layout • jungkook's bedroom • 6B visuals (vid) ✧ asks : ask the disasters (open) | asks about the fic ✧ readers’ requests ➜ through asks! ⤷ pov reversals (requests: open) ⤷ drabbles (requests: open)

✧ d͟i͟s͟c͟l͟a͟i͟m͟e͟r͟ ✧ please be reminded that members are purely used with visual purposes. this is a work of fiction merely written for entertainment purposes.

#jungkoode <3 #go show her some more love #fuck me up #fmu #jungkook #jungkook fic #jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #jungkook angst

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kooppss · 16 days ago

Text

Not a Date

Starry Night series masterlist

warnings: unhealthy use of alcohol, implied sex.

word count: 4.4k

a/n: My blog turned one this week, so of course I had to celebrate somehow🍾 Enjoy this chapter with these two idiots. As always, I’d love to hear your thoughts ❤️

Thursday, July 18th

The week went by fast.

You had a lot of work with the upcoming launch and preparing your presentation for the quarterly meeting in between.

So luckily, you didn’t have much time to think about your plans for lunch on Thursday.

You haven’t had any contact with Taehyung since last week.

Obviously you didn’t.

It makes sense.

You two work at totally different departments with close-to-zero integration.

You spent most of your time at your desk, too busy to even go on your usual rooftop breaks.

And it’s easy to assume that his first weeks of work were as hectic as well.

[11:59 pm] Taehyung Kim: lobby in 10?

[11:59 pm] y/n l/n: give me 15

[11:59 pm] Taehyung Kim: 👌

You wrap up what you were working on quickly and head to the elevators.

You like your outfit, and you have a good hair day.

You see Taehyung next to the entrance in the sunny lobby, talking with some good-looking woman.

He’s wearing loose black pants with a white polo shirt tucked in. He has a thin black belt with a small gold buckle and black loafers with gold ornaments on them.

He looks stylish and trendy but still classic.

He smiles and brushes his hand through his hair, and you think he looks like he's out of a commercial or something.

You head in his direction, and when he sees you, he smiles at you brightly.

“Y/n! Ready for launch?”

You smile back and nod. “Yeah, hope you didn’t wait too long.”

He shakes his head. “Na, I just got here a few minutes ago.”

“This is Olivia. She’s a project manager in my department.” Taehyung gestures to the lady standing next to him.

“Hi, nice meeting you. I hope your new manager doesn’t give you too much work,” you say to her with a wink.

She laughs, “Oh, he does. But that’s okay, he has some good ideas.”

“Some good ideas?” Taehyung says dramatically.

“I think that all my ideas are good.” He pouts.

And it’s adorable.

Of course.

“Well, time will tell,” you laugh, and he starts to laugh with you.

You turn to Olivia. “By the way, I’m y/n. I’m from the software engineering department.”

“Oh, umm yeah, I know,” she says, and it’s... a bit awkward.

You don’t know what to say, and there’s a moment of silence.

“Let's go?” Taehyung looks at you with a smile.

“I’ll see you at the fall collection launch meeting,” he says to Olivia like a question, and she nods.

You wave and say goodbye to her as you head out of the lobby with Taehyung.

“Olivia is not coming with us for lunch?” you ask when you’re out.

“No, I don’t need you to embarrass me more in front of my new employees,” Taehyung says while laughing. “Where are we going? I still don’t know many places around here.”

“Some nice cafe. It’s close by.”

You realize you don’t know if he lived in the city before starting to work here. Among all the other things you don’t know.

“Are you new to the city?”

“Yeah, I just moved here like a month ago. My apartment is actually not so far from the office—it's about a 20-minute drive without traffic.”

“Mine as well, but there's always traffic,” you laugh. “Get used to it.”

He winces. “Not like I have a choice.”

You walk for a couple more minutes, pointing out your favorite spots on the way, until you get to the cafe.

You chose to sit outside, it’s warm but not unbearable, and there’s enough shade.

"You’ll get used to the chaos," you say. "Eventually, you even learn to enjoy it—like a weird, toxic relationship."

He grins. "So you’re saying I should lower my standards?"

You raise an eyebrow, playful. "No, I’m saying you should stop fighting it. Embrace the corporate dysfunction. It builds character."

He laughs again, and you notice the way his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. It makes something flutter in your chest, which you immediately scold yourself for.

You somehow end up telling him about your secret spot on the rooftop. It’s not something you share. And you don’t know why you’re telling him.

“You can see the sunset from up there on really bad days,” you say, poking your fork through your pasta. “I go when I need to breathe.”

Your hand freezes briefly around your fork, caught off guard by the compliment. Is he... flirting? You laugh to deflect.

You pause, then shift the topic to safer ground.

“So… new apartment. Do you like it?”

“Yeah, it’s nice. Quiet. I’m still unpacking, though. Still feels like I’m barely halfway moved in.”

“Sounds familiar.” You nod. “It took me a while to feel familiar with my place. To make it feel like home. It was weird. Like my life didn’t fully land yet.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Exactly. It’s like… you’re physically there, but the rest of you is still in transition.”

You’re surprised by his depth, the way he puts things into words you’ve never said aloud.

Everything about him is surprising.

Yet, he’s still surprisingly comforting, it feels easy, and light. Like you’ve always been friends.

Taehyung feels like he hasn’t stopped smiling since seeing you in the lobby.

You are smart and witty, and he enjoys talking with you.

When you walked side by side to the restaurant, he could catch your scent a few times.

You smell like flowers, like jasmine and water lilies. Like something fresh and sweet. And it intoxicates him even more than he is.

The weather is nice, and sitting outside with you, talking about whatever feels easy.

He has a warm feeling in his chest that he hasn’t felt for a long time.

And he wants to learn more about you, so he gently tries to divert the conversation to more personal matters.

“For how long have you lived here?” Taehyung asks.

“You like it here?”

“I do. I have my friends here, my apartment, and my job. And I lived here long enough that it feels like home.”

No mention of a man so far.

But he wants to be sure.

“Do you live alone?”

Oh, real smooth Taehyung.

He feels like an idiot. It sounds creepy.

But you don’t seem to mind. You chuckle.

“Umm, yeah. I definitely lived after college at shitty roommates' apartments. Thankfully, I have a much nicer place now.”

Okay.. so no kids or a man you live with…

But he still doesn’t know for sure if you’re single, and he doesn't want to ask directly.

“What about you?” you ask him.

“If I like it here?” he asks. You nod as you take a sip of water.

He still doesn’t feel like it’s his home. But right now he feels like it might.

“Well, it’s early to tell, but so far, I think that I do?” he says the last part like a question.

“Do you know people that live here?” you ask, and he’s endeared by you, that you care. Why would you care about him, even? You’re too good.

“Yeah, I have Jungkook–you remember Junkgoog? Tall, big eyes, kind of crazy.”

You laugh and nod, “Yeah, I remember him. He had tattoos and drove a bike while I still had to ask permission to go to a friend's house.”

Taehyung laughs, “Yep. Same Jungkookie. But he has more tattoos. And probably a bigger bike.”

You laugh.

And it’s perfect.

He’d thank Jungkook and his stupid bike, but he’ll never tell him that.

“We also have friends from college who have also moved to the city. It’s nice to live close by to everyone,” Taehyung adds.

You just nod and smile beautifully. He feels like you’re really happy for him, which makes him happy.

“Have you kept in touch with someone from high school?” he asks.

“Do your parents still live in the same house?” Taehyung blurts.

You nod, and he freezes.

But you snap out of it before he does, and you resume what you talked about.

“Remembers Gabby?”

He does. She was your closest friend. You were always a package deal.

So he nods, not sure of himself, not to say more stupid things.

“She also lives in the city.”

“Also, remember Michelle?” You don’t wait for him to answer as you continue. “She lives close to the city. She has the cutest child, Alex. He’s two years old.”

“Do you have any?” Taehyung blurts.

“What? Kids?” you ask, and he nods.

“Oh no, no, I-I’m single,” you stutter.

You blush slightly and move your eyes lower to your plate.

“Well… sucks for us, I guess.” You say with a sad smile and raise your glass of water.

He chuckles at that.

You clink your glass gently with his. His eyes hold yours for a second too long. And he feels his heart beating in his ears.

You continue to talk about some random things after that.

Taehyung doesn't ask more personal questions. He’s not sure what he’ll do with the information, and he’s still trying to process everything he got.

You’re single. And you live here too. And you’re still the coolest, sweetest person. He doesn’t know what to do with all that.

And this isn’t a date.

So he keeps the conversation at a surface level, just enjoying spending time with you.

When the bill arrives, you move to pay. You open your mouth, probably to tell the waitress the amount.

“I’ve got this,” Taehyung says and puts his phone on the card reader.

“I can pay for my own lunch, you know,” you cock a brow at him.

“Yeah yeah, I know,” he waves his hand as the payment is processed. “Just let me pay for lunch. As a thank you for showing me around,” he tells you with a smile.

You smile shyly back.

“Thanks.”

He’ll pay for every lunch if you’d let him, just to see you smile like that at him.

On your way back to the office, you tell him about more places around.

When you mention another restaurant, Taehyung immediately jumps at the opportunity.

“We can go there next Thursday.” He doesn’t say it like a question.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” he can tell you’re a bit surprised.

But you come to your senses quickly, a teasing smirk grows on your lips, “but next time, I’m paying.”

Friday, July 19th

Friday night Taehuyng decided to stay at home..

He should be tired from the week, and he needs to rest today. He told Jungkook that tomorrow he’d go out with them.

But somehow, he’s not tired. For the first time in a while, he feels motivated.

His phone buzzes in his back pocket, and he sees Jungkook's face on the screen.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Can’t you handle one day without me?”

“Oh, you know that I can’t, baby,” Jungkook answers in an exaggerated sultry voice.

Taehyung chuckles. “What do you want, idiot?”

“To make sure that you don't want to come- what are those noises?! Why are you panting like that?!”

“If you are busy fucking or something, please don't answer my calls,” Jungkook adds in a disgusted tone.

“Oh. Only if your BEST FRIEND had a GYM, and he’d be a professional TRAINER,” Jungkook yells at him.

“I’ll ask Jimin if he wants to become a trainer,” Taehyung laughs.

“Oh, fuck you,” Jungkook says bitterly.

“Anyway, sure you don’t want to come with me and the boys?”

“Yeah, I’ll keep my energy for tomorrow.”

“You still hadn’t told me how your lunch date was yesterday.”

“It was fine. Nothing special to tell.” Taehyung says flatly as he goes back to his office, where he moved the boxes. He opens one and starts to place the books on the unit shelf.

“And it wasn’t a date,” he adds.

For good measure.

“So… is she taken?” Jungkook asks carefully.

“No.” Taehyung answers without elaborating.

“Okay,” Jungkook says it with a hum, like he’s thinking about Taehyung's answer.

“Did you pay for lunch?”

“I did.”

“But, I don’t see why it matters.” Taehyung adds quickly before Jungkook could say something annoying, “I paid as a thank you for showing me around.”

“Does she know it wasn’t a date?”

Taehyung rolls his eyes so hard, he’s sure Jungkook can hear it. “Yeah, it was a completely innocent friendly lunch.”

“Will you go on another innocent friendly lunch with her?” Jungkook asks in the most annoying tone Taehyung has ever heard.

“Yes,” Taehyung says quietly.

“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow then. Bye.” And Jungkook ends the call.

Saturday, July 20th

It’s late, it might be Sunday already

They’re at some bar, but it feels more like a party.

Taehyung thinks he’s too old for this.

Jimin left an hour ago after receiving a booty call, and Namjoon just said goodbye. He doesn’t blame him for leaving.

Jungkook has been attached to a friend he met at the gym, and Taehyung has been assigned to entertain her friend, Maddie.

She’s actually nice and objectively very attractive.

He hasn’t stopped drinking for the past hour.

He doesn’t know why, but you keep penetrating his thoughts. He can’t stop comparing the woman at his arm to you.

She can’t really compare.

And every time you come to the forefront of his mind, he downs a shot as if it could help.

So he’s very drunk.

He's too drunk.

Again.

And that’s how he finds himself in the Uber back to his apartment with her.

Maddie.

Not you.

Grayson texted you again out of the blue on Thursday evening.

He said he wanted to try to set up a date and suggested Saturday night.

You actually prefer to spend your weekends with your friends, but you don’t have plans for Saturday night.

And he’s a nice chill guy.

And he’s handsome.

And you haven’t been on a date for three months.

You think.

Maybe it was more.

The last one was a while ago, either way.

So you said yes.

At the time, it seemed like a good idea to spend Saturday night with a good-looking guy, eat something, and get drinks.

Now that you are actually getting ready to head out, you wish you could stay home.

But you can’t.

You take a big breath and call an Uber.

It’s a fancy trendy restaurant, but the atmosphere feels more like a bar. The lights are dim, and the music is loud.

You sit very close to Grayson so that you can hear each other.

You are even having a nice time talking with him.

You have a couple of drinks, and you order food.

The food is amazing. When you eat the pasta, you let out a little moan. Because you have to be embarrassing.

Grayson chuckles at your reaction. “I did well choosing this place?” he smiles proudly.

You swallow the huge bite of pasta in your mouth and smile back at him, with all the grace you can muster after you inhale the carbs, “Oh, most definitely. I can eat this pasta every day.”

“But it’s too loud, since when does a restaurant put on such loud music?” you say as you frown.

“Since it’s Saturday night?” Grayson laughs, “Come on, you're not old enough to complain about the music—even though you're a big shot manager.” He nudges you with his elbow.

This is kinda.. cringy.

You chuckle a bit awkwardly, “I’m not a big shot. It’s just a job.” You shrug.

“Fine,” he says as if he doesn’t believe you. “How’s work going?” he says in between bites of food.

“Going good. It’s been hectic for the past month, but I can’t complain, I love what I do.”

You just take another bit of your pasta and nod. You understand.

“How you manage to balance your work and life and friends and everything?” he asks, even tho you think he knows the answer.

You laugh in response, but it’s dry and bitter. “Well, I don’t. I just try to do my best. Do you manage?”

“Oh, definitely not,” he rubs the back of his neck.

You both start to laugh, and after that, the conversation returns to lighter subjects.

Later that night, after you finish the food and dessert and have some more drinks, Grayson leans in your direction and looks into your eyes.

“I’m really glad that we finally got on a date.”

You return a small smile but don’t say anything. He lays a bit more, and as you don’t move, he closes the gap, and your lips connect.

The kiss is nice and soft. Grayson is a fine man, and you enjoy this. Like the physical aspect of it. Or whatever. But the kiss doesn’t do anything to you. It’s just a good kiss.

You don’t feel your heart rate increase, and you don’t feel as excited as you did while only talking with Taehyung.

Oh.

That’s a weird thought.

Why are you thinking about Taehyung all of a sudden?

You’re startled a little, and you jerk back from the kiss.

This thing with Greyson doesn’t really have a future. Doesn’t it?

Well, fuck.

He looks at you with a worried face.

But before he can say anything, you ask him,

“Do you want to go back to my place?”

Sunday, July 21st

You don’t know what time it is, but you can see that there’s light between the blinds in your bedroom.

For a second, you don’t remember that you came home with someone yesterday.

You get up quietly from the bed and grab an oversized shirt from your closet.

You need coffee.

The first sip of coffee feels like you got life back into you.

What happened last night plays back in your head. You don’t regret it.

The sex was good. Not the mind-blowing, rocked-your-world kind of sex. But it was good, and Grayson is gentle and considerate.

You’re startled when you hear someone from behind you.

“Good morning,” Greyson says with voice grouf from sleep.

You haven’t heard him coming into the kitchen. He’s already dressed up in what he wore last night.

“Hi, coffee?” you ask him, and he nods.

He sits quietly on the bar stool as you pour him some.

You sit beside each other, sipping your coffee silently for a few minutes.

Grayson clears his throat before he turns his head in your direction.

“So.. last night was great.”

Before you can say anything, he continues, “But I assume that you don’t really see us continuing this.”

You didn’t expect him to say it.

“I guess I realized that you inviting me over means you don’t see us–me– in a serious way,” he says as he rubs the back of his head.

“I-I’m sorry,” you look down at your cup. Not finding the courage to look up at him.

“That okay, I get it,” he reassures you.

He takes a final sip from his coffee. “But if you ever change your mind, call me.”

You just nod, don’t know what to say.

At that, he gets up and heads out of the kitchen.

You walk with him to the door and wait as he puts on his shoes.

As he stands up, he looks back at you, smiling, “Goodbye, y/n,” and giving you a gentle kiss on the cheek.

“Goodbye,” you call quietly after him.

You flop on the couch, with heaviness.

Why do you have to be fucked up like that?

Why do you have to know that it won’t work before it even starts?

Taehyung woke up from a noise. His head is pounding, and his throat is parched.

He looks to his side, and he sees a woman standing turned away from him, getting dressed.

Maddie.

At least he remembers her name.

He sits up and pulls the sheet to cover his bottom half.

“Good morning.”

Maddie turns her head to him, “Good morning,” and she turns back to finish buttoning her jeans.

“Do you want me to make some coffee?” Taehyung stretches as he asks.

“Oh, umm.. No, I'm okay. I’ll head out.”

He’s silent for a moment before he asks, “Can I at least call the Uber for you?”

Maddie frowns.

She comes to sit on the bed edge, “Last night was really good, amazing even. But it’s nothing serious, you know?”

She looks at her phone in her hand, “And my Uber is already here.”

She leans to give him a quick kiss on the lips and leaves the room.

Leaving Taehyung lying naked and alone.

Monday, July 22nd

Monday mornings are tough.

You barely bothered getting dressed. You just threw on baggy, loose jeans, an oversized shirt, and Crocs.

That’s fine, you tell yourself.

Crocs are trendy now.

And they’re black.

It’s like formal Crocs.

You get out of your car in the underground parking and go to the elevators.

Holding your laptop in one hand and a huge coffee in the other.

The elevator stops at the entrance floor, and you sigh.

Really not in the mood for an elevator small talk.

The doors open, and in front of you stands Taehyung.

He looks tired, but unlike you, he’s dressed nicely in dark denim, a white shirt, and a black blazer. His hair also looked styled and combed back nicely.

When he sees you, he smiles and greets you with a small wave, “Morning.”

You manage to put on a small smile and say, “Morning,” barely over a whisper.

“Rough morning?” Taehyung asks.

“Yeah, not a morning person. Especially on Mondays.”

He chuckles, “Noted. How was your weekend?”

You sigh internally.

You had another date that would lead to nothing and meaningless sex, and apart from that, you just chilled at home and went to your usual coffee shop.

That’s lame.

You definitely can’t tell him that.

You compromise on, “It was nice. Pretty basic. How was yours?”

He lowers his head and rubs the back of his neck, like he’s replaying in his head what happened on the weekend.

“Same. Nice. Basic.”

The elevators ping, announcing you arrived on the 16th floor.

You step forward and turn your head to Taehyung, “Have a good week.”

He nods, “You too.”

“Y/n,” you hear him call, and you turn to see him holding the elevator doors open.

“Lunch on Thursday. Yes?”

You smile, “Yeah, sure.”

He steps back into the elevator, “See you then.”

And you see his big boxy smile as the elevator doors close.

Maybe this isn’t such a rough morning.

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#not a date #starry night #taehyung #taehyung fic #taehyung x reader #taehyung fluff #taehyung angst #taehyung smut

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