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rpwprpwprpwprw · 4 days ago

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crazy how sometimes u read something that touches you deeply and you’re like oh yeah that’s why i’m alive 🙏🏻

'It's my superpower," he says solemnly. "With great appetite comes great indigestion."

"It cracked," Hobi corrects. "Still there. | call it the Jungkook Memorial Spiderweb."

IS THIS A SPIDERMEN REFERENCE? YES YES you did that for me 💅🏻🙂‍↕️

authors note: “I want you squinting at every interaction wondering if it means something. I want you to question how affection develops, really. Slowly. Subtly. Almost invisibly, until it's all you can think about”

i kinda think about it all the time 😄 all.the.time

anyway i planned a whole heated review but i will do that on kiki’s dm

TOPIC!!! authors note:

“Attraction doesn't automatically equal competition, and not every woman who talks to a man you like is an enemy. That's such a tired, flat, boring cliche. I'm not writing this story to project misogynistic tropes onto women so we can feel smug about someone else being "the wrong one."

baby, what a relief that you exist. i’m so tired of this….

anyway, guys read this pls

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 21

˗ˏˋ birthday shots ˎˊ˗

"Jungkook’s friends, Jungkook’s birthday party… It’s all honestly not what you expected. But then again, Jungkook keeps twisting your expectations of him, once and once again."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 8,4k

content: jungkook having friends, feeling out of place, pretty girls, judgemental people, tae/hobi/jk protecting the peace, shared secrets, nicknames gaining an intimate layer, stubbornness with spicy food, drinking, doing shots and jungkook being both attentive and protective.

✧ author's note ✧

Aaaand we’re finally here. The party. The build-up. The chaos potential. The birthday. After 20 chapters of yearning, character dissection, awkward eye contact, and conversations that say everything and nothing at the same time… we are officially entering the next arc: actual real-world social interaction. Which, if you’ve been paying attention, is every character’s personal hell. Including mine.

First of all—yes, this is Jungkook’s party chapter. Yes, it’s a pivotal one. Yes, I was pacing around my flat in a hoodie muttering “okay but what would he wear” like a deranged method actor trying to get into character. And yes, there are about 15 new people here. But please don’t panic. You don’t need to memorize them all. This isn’t a fantasy war council. You’re not about to be quizzed on the name of Jungkook’s friend’s cousin’s dog. They’re not here to steal the plot—they’re here to color it.

Jungkook’s different social groups, clashing and blending like some unhinged Venn diagram of his life. They each say something about him and the many versions of himself he keeps—because, as always, this isn’t about the party. It’s about him and her, and us, and the very inconvenient reality of human attachment.

Now. Tessa (and yes, Toasty, when you read this… the name comes 100% from you hahaha).

Yup. That girl from the library. She’s here. She’s breathing. She’s talking. And she’s not a villain.

I know, I know, fanfiction is riddled with the evil-rival-love-interest trope. The girl who eyes you up and down with thinly veiled contempt. The passive aggressive bitch who “just happens” to sit on his lap or call him baby in front of you. The girl whose entire personality is “threat to the main couple.” And listen—I could never.

Tessa isn’t like that. Because most people aren’t like that. Attraction doesn’t automatically equal competition, and not every woman who talks to a man you like is an enemy. That’s such a tired, flat, boring cliche. I’m not writing this story to project misogynistic tropes onto women so we can feel smug about someone else being “the wrong one.” I don’t want you to root against her. I don’t want you to root against anyone, really. Maybe Mia, but that’s what she’s for. She’s your pressure valve. You need someone to hate. That’s what makes the rest bearable.

Tessa’s presence is not a betrayal. It’s just reality. Jungkook is allowed to be liked. He’s allowed to explore. And so is Nix. She’s not some pushover sainted martyr of “true love.” She’s a girl. She’s confused. She’s a little guarded. She’s still trying to understand herself.

There’s no jealousy because there is no claim. There’s no relationship, no commitment, no confessions, no secret “we’re basically already in love” subtext. There’s just this slow, painful, glacial slide into a kind of closeness that might one day become something else—but hasn’t. Not even close. This chapter is about a possible beginning of something resembling tentative friendship. We are barely out of enemies-to-mildly-tolerating-each-other zone. We are in the “do I text you or is that weird” era.

Don’t rush it. Don’t expect it. That’s not the story I’m telling.

Nix being unbothered isn’t character growth. It’s just honesty. It’s consistency. I’ve spent 20 chapters building a girl who’s emotionally guarded, private, and painfully aware of the dynamics she allows herself to engage in. She’s not “cool with it” to be cool—she’s just not invested like that yet. And that matters. We’re not jumping stages for drama. We’re walking, slowly, through the psychology of two people who don’t even know what they want. Let them be confused. Let them be messy. Let them take their time.

I’m writing slow burn with psychological realism at its core, and that means actions have context. If you came here expecting love confessions and possessive meltdowns and “he’s mine stay away” drama… wrong story, babes. I want you uncomfortable. I want you squinting at every interaction wondering if it means something. I want you to question how affection develops, really. Slowly. Subtly. Almost invisibly, until it’s all you can think about.

The story isn’t about dramatic betrayals or Big Plot Twists. It’s about tension. About two people orbiting each other in their own broken, stumbling ways. It’s about glances that last too long and words that don’t come out right and the way your heart knows something long before your brain does. It’s about patterns, and Jungkook’s are catching up to him.

You don’t need to like everyone. But you should understand them. And that’s what I’m asking of you here. Because these characters aren’t plot devices—they’re real to me. They’re studies. They’re messy. And god, I love them for it.

So yeah. Welcome to the party. The masks are on, the music’s loud, and no one knows how to behave when they’re being watched. Especially him.

Enjoy. Suffer. Stare at the page like you’re decoding a sacred text. That’s the vibe.

And as always…

You’re here to suffer. I’m here to deliver.

You’re welcome.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

You never realized a person could contain so many versions of themselves until you saw Jungkook surrounded by his friends.

"SURPRISE!"

The word explodes through the small ramen shop, followed by cheers and laughter as Jungkook freezes beside you.

His fingers quickly pocket his phone, eyes widening with a genuine shock that transforms his entire face.

Gone is the perpetually amused, slightly condescending roommate you've come to know. In his place stands someone younger, almost innocent—lips parting in stunned delight, eyes crinkling at the corners.

It's fucking weird is what it is.

"Holy shit," he breathes, a laugh bursting from him as Taehyung launches himself across the restaurant, wrapping Jungkook in a hug that nearly knocks him over. "What the fuck?"

Hobi follows immediately, bouncing on his feet like an overgrown puppy before throwing his arms around both of them, turning the duo into a chaotic tangle of limbs and laughter.

Even Yoongi gets up, offering a slow clap before joining with a more restrained but no less genuine embrace—the kind with back pats that guys do when they want to prove they have exactly two emotions: hungry and sports.

You hang back, suddenly aware of how many strangers are packed into this place.

The restaurant is full of people—at least a dozen beyond the ones you recognize—all focused on Jungkook with varying degrees of excitement. Some are already raising drinks in toast, others taking photos, a couple shouting things you can't quite make out over the general chaos.

"P-Kill! Happy birthday, man!"

"Proofs! You made it!"

"Proofy, get over here!"

What the actual fuck are these names?

You frown, trying to connect these bizarre nicknames to the Jungkook you know—the one who leaves his dirty dishes in the sink and plays his music too loud and once tried to convince you that Kraft mac and cheese was "technically gourmet."

None of this computes.

Jungkook catches your confusion as he disentangles himself from his friends, eyes flicking toward you with that familiar half-smile that somehow feels like a private joke.

"Hey," he says, suddenly at your side again. His hand brushes your elbow briefly—not grabbing, just a light touch that seems oddly grounding in this chaos. "These are my friends. Guys, this is my roommate."

He says your name easily, no ‘Phoenix’ or ‘Nix’ in sight, and it's weirdly jarring—like hearing a song you know played in the wrong key.

Not technically wrong, just... off.

The next few minutes are a blur of names and faces, most immediately forgotten as you try to keep track of who's who in this bizarre alternative universe where Jungkook is apparently the center of a large social circle. There's a group of guys—gamers, apparently—who keep calling him those weird nicknames.

"These three idiots," Jungkook explains, gesturing toward a trio of guys who look like they haven't seen sunlight in months, "are my Steam friends. My username is ProofedToKill, so that's where all the dumb nicknames come from."

Of course, that tracks. He's always yelling at the TV when he plays Call of Duty in the living room. You've had multiple arguments about it, usually ending with him putting on headphones and you turning up your music out of spite.

"Don't start," he warns, but there's no real edge to it. "I've already heard all your anti-shooters propaganda."

"It's not propaganda if it's true."

He rolls his eyes but doesn't take the bait, already being pulled toward another group by Taehyung.

"Come on, there are more people you should meet."

You follow, because what else are you going to do? Stand alone by the door like some kind of abandoned pet?

Besides, you're curious now. Curious about these other fragments of Jungkook's life that you've never been privy to before.

The space is packed, noisy in that way that forces everyone to talk slightly too loud. Sensory overload city. People keep touching Jungkook—hugs, shoulder claps, high fives—and he's letting them, which might be the weirdest part of all this.

Since when does he like being touched by people who aren't naked?

"Jungkook!" a female voice exclaims, cutting through the noise. A tall girl with auburn hair moves toward him with the confident grace of someone who's never tripped over her own feet in public. "Happy birthday!"

She wraps him in a hug that makes you realize just how tall she is—like, almost his height tall—and beside her, another girl—smaller, with short black hair and glasses—offers a more reserved greeting.

"Hey Tessa, hey Diana," Jungkook says, looking genuinely pleased to see them. "Didn't think you'd be here!"

Tessa.

The library girl. The one he was doing that group project thing with. The one who kept laughing too loud whenever Jungkook said something that probably wasn't even that funny.

"Taehyung invited us," she explains, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Hope that's okay."

"Of course it's okay," Jungkook says, and you hate how sincere he sounds.

Where's the sarcastic asshole you live with? Who is this pod person?

"We brought you something," Diana says, holding out a small bag. "Just a little thing."

Jungkook accepts it with a thanks that sounds almost shy, and what the fuck? Since when is he shy about anything?

"Oh, this is my roommate," he adds, suddenly remembering your existence.

He says your name again, and you force a smile because what else can you do in this bizarre social ritual?

"Nice to meet you," Tessa says with a warmth that feels genuine, which is almost worse than if she'd been fake. At least fake would make sense. "Jungkook's mentioned you before. You're in English Lit, right?"

He's talked about you? To her?

What the fuck has he said?

"Yeah," you manage, because apparently your vocabulary has been reduced to monosyllables in the face of all this unexpected social interaction. "English major."

"That's amazing," she says, and she actually seems to mean it. "I'm in Film too, but I've always loved literature. What's your focus?"

Before you can answer—thank god, because you haven't prepared a thesis statement on your academic interests for a birthday party—Hobi appears with a tray of shots, announcing that it's time for the birthday boy to start celebrating properly.

So, of course, the whole crowd moves towards him, shots being thrown back easily. You find yourself suddenly on the outside of it, still standing with Tessa and Diana but no longer the focus of their attention.

It's a relief, honestly.

You've never been good at this kind of thing—large groups, small talk, unfamiliar social dynamics.

It's like being dropped into a play where everyone else knows the script and you're just… improvising. Kinda hoping you don't accidentally say the wrong line and reveal yourself as the impostor.

Your eyes wander around the restaurant, taking in the details you missed—it’s actually a cozy place, warm wood and soft lighting, with private booths along one wall and a long table down the center where most of Jungkook's friends have gathered.

You can smell the sizzling of pans working through different ingredients—garlic, onion, ginger… But your eyes end up on Jungkook anyway.

He swallows down a shot, grimacing at the burn.

Someone passes him another.

Someone else claps him on the back.

He's at the center of all this attention and he's... thriving in it. Laughing, talking.

It’s strange, seeing him like this. So carefree, so loud (although he’s always loud but this is a different kind of loud?)—so in his… element.

You can’t help but feel out of place.

Because, truly. Do you even fit in here? Are you an element? Part of his element? Or whatever this is?

This morning you were agonizing over whether you could be friends with the guy you've been fucking.

Now you're standing in a room full of people who already are his friends, who've known him much longer than you have, who see a completely different side of him than the one you get.

It's... a lot.

You pull out your phone, needing something to do with your hands, but the screen stays dark. Okay. Dead. Fantastic.

"You okay?"

The voice at your elbow makes you jump.

It's Jungkook, somehow back at your side despite the crowd still demanding his attention.

"Fine," you say automatically. "Just... observing."

His eyes scan your face, more perceptive than you'd like. "You look like you'd rather be literally anywhere else."

"Not true. I can think of at least three places that would be worse." You tick them off on your fingers. "The DMV. An insurance seminar. Dinner with my parents."

That gets a laugh out of him—a real one, one you seem to be getting out of him more and more often.

“Fair enough. Come on, let me get you a drink. It'll help with..."

He pauses, purses his lips as he tilts his head at you.

"With what, exactly?"

"The whole 'I'd rather eat glass than make small talk with strangers' vibe you're giving off."

"I'm not—" you start to protest, but he's already pulling you toward the bar, his hand warm against your lower back.

"It's fine, Phee," he says, the familiar nickname slipping out naturally now that you're momentarily separated from the crowd. "Not everyone's into the whole big social scene. You don't have to pretend."

You want to argue on principle—deny that he knows you that well, that he can read your discomfort so easily—but it would be pointless.

He's right.

You do hate this.

And the fact that he noticed, that he came back to check on you instead of just leaving you to flounder on your own...

It's annoying. Or it should be.

Instead, it feels weirdly considerate.

"I don't need a babysitter," you mutter as he flags down the bartender. "Go enjoy your party. I'm perfectly capable of standing in a corner judging people on my own."

"Maybe I'm enjoying my party more over here."

He orders something you don't catch, then turns back to you with that half-smile that's somehow more familiar than the broad grin he's been flashing at everyone else.

“Besides, if I leave you alone too long, you might decide to ditch, and then who would I blame when I need an excuse to escape Hobi's karaoke demands?"

"Yoongi seems like a good scapegoat."

"Nah, Yoongi secretly loves karaoke. Just pretends to hate it so people will beg him. It's weird."

The bartender slides two glasses toward Jungkook—whiskey is one, by the look of it.

The other one is…

Vodka cranberry.

He remembers?

You lick your lips. Nervous suddenly. Maybe. Or not really. Just uncomfortable, because here it is again. Jungkook being attentive, doing these stupid kind things that completely shatter the reputation you have built for him in your head.

"You really don't have to babysit me," you say again, but you take the drink anyway. "I'm fine."

His eyes search yours, more serious than usual. "I know you're fine. Maybe I just want to hang out with you."

Something shifts in your chest—a small, uncomfortable flutter.

“Why? You have a dozen other people here who actually like you."

"Ouch." He presses a hand to his heart, mock wounded. "And here I thought we were making progress on the whole friendship thing."

"The jury's still out on that one."

"Uh-huh." He takes a sip of his whiskey, eyes never leaving yours. "Well, consider this evidence for the 'pro' column: I noticed you were uncomfortable and came to rescue you instead of letting you suffer in silence."

"Maybe I prefer suffering in silence."

"No one prefers suffering in silence, Nix. Some people just don't think they deserve better."

The way he says it makes something twirl uncomfortable inside your chest.

You take a large drink instead of responding, welcoming the burn as it slides down your throat.

“Make sure to finish that quickly. Get ready for the party games.”

"There are going to be party games?"

"That’s only the beginning."

"So," you say, swaying your glass slightly, watching the burgundy liquid catch the light, "ProofedToKill, huh? Didn't know I was living with such a badass."

"No? I thought you knew how badass I am.”

“You’re bad, and an ass. That doesn’t make you a badass. Different word.”

He laughs, low and warm, and you can’t help the smile that forms on your lips without conscious input.

"You know what it actually means?" he asks, leaning back against the wall.

You raise an eyebrow. "That you're secretly a hitman with terrible grammar?"

"Hilarious." He rolls his eyes, but there's no real irritation behind it. "It's a baking term, actually."

"A what now?"

"Baking. You know, that thing people do with flour and heat instead of burning the place down.”

“If you bring up the candle incident one more time—”

He makes a zipping motion over his mouth, and your lips twitch with the effort of chuckling.

“Wait, are you seriously telling me your super tough gamer name is about... baking?"

He sighs, looking down at his glass. "When you're making bread—sourdough specifically—there's this stage called 'proofing.’ It's when the dough rises, develops flavor. If you overproof it, it collapses. If you underproof, it's dense. But if you get it just right..."

"You've... proofed to kill?" you finish, unable to keep the disbelief from your voice.

"Exactly." He grins, clearly pleased that you've made the connection. "Perfect proofing. Killer bread. It's a whole thing."

You stare at him, genuinely speechless for perhaps the first time since you've known him.

This man—this infuriating, cocky roommate who struts around like he owns every room he enters—has a gamer tag based on fucking bread-making.

And he's admitting it.

Voluntarily.

"So let me get this straight," you say slowly. "Your badass online persona, the one all your friends call you by, is actually a baking pun?"

"In my defense, it's a really good pun. And most people assume it's about, you know, being good at shooting things. Which I also am." He shrugs, cockiness slipping back into place.

“You’re so weird,” you mutter, but you know he doesn’t take it seriously.

"Been doing it since college. The whole sourdough thing at midnight." He confesses, glancing around briefly, like he's checking to make sure no one else is listening, then lowers his voice. "My mom taught me. She had this whole recipe she'd developed over years, this perfect sourdough method. Made the best bread you've ever tasted."

Again that softness, almost reverence when he speaks about his mom.

It always catches you off guard. You've never heard him talk like this before. Never heard him talk about his family at all, really.

"After she..." he continues, then stops himself, shaking his head slightly. "Anyway. I keep trying to recreate it. Haven't quite nailed it yet."

Neither of you speak for a couple of beats. His gaze is still fixed on his drink, and then he takes a sip, like his mind is somewhere else completely.

“Is that why you stress-bake at 3 AM? Trying to get the proof right?"

His eyes meet yours, surprised.

Maybe a little grateful for the redirect.

“You’ve noticed?”

“I mean, I just went to the bathroom one night and saw you fighting the dough, so…”

He chuckles, gaze back on his glass. “Yeah. It's... meditative, I guess. Helps me think."

"Weird way to think, but okay."

"Says the person who reads the same depressing Kafka story fourteen times and calls it 'processing.'"

"It's a good story."

"It's about a guy turning into a giant bug."

"And it speaks to the alienation inherent in modern existence. Your point?"

He laughs again, shaking his head. "God, you're such a fucking English major."

"And you're a secret bread nerd. We all have our crosses to bear."

His smile shifts into something different—softer around the edges, almost vulnerable. "Don't tell anyone, okay? About the username thing. I have a reputation to maintain."

"What, you mean your friends don't know your tough gamer handle is actually about your sourdough obsession?"

"Only Yoongi knows. And now you." He drums his fingers on the glass once, twice. "That's enough oversharing on my part for the day, I think. Sooner or later it's going to have to be your turn, you know, Pyx?"

Great. A new variation of your nickname. Does he ever stop coming up with them?

"My turn for what?"

"Sharing something real." His eyes hold yours, steady. "Friendship goes both ways, Nix."

You scoff, ignoring the way your heart rate picks up slightly. "I share things."

"Like what? Your coffee order doesn't count."

"I told you about the IUD."

"That's medical, not personal."

"It's literally inside my body. How much more personal can it get?"

He sighs, but he makes it dramatic this time. "You know what I mean. Something that matters to you. Something real."

You do know. That's the problem. He's asking for exactly the kind of vulnerability you've spent years carefully avoiding. The kind that gives people ammunition, that creates expectations, that leads to disappointment when you inevitably fail to meet them.

But he just told you about his mom. About bread and baking and usernames that mean more than they appear to. He offered something real—small, maybe, but genuine.

And isn't that what this whole friendship experiment is supposed to be about?

You open your mouth, not entirely sure what's going to come out, when a crash from across the restaurant saves you. Hobi has somehow managed to knock over an entire tray of drinks, and the resulting chaos immediately draws everyone's attention, including Jungkook's.

"Shit," he mutters, already half-moving. "I should go help before he makes it worse."

"Go," you nod, equal parts relieved and strangely disappointed. "Your public needs you."

He hesitates, eyes still on yours. "We're not done with this conversation."

"Pretty sure we are."

"Pretty sure we're just getting started." He stands fully, but doesn't leave immediately. "Come join, okay? Whenever you’re ready.”

You watch him weave through the crowd toward the spill, already calling out something to Hobi that makes the other man laugh despite the mess. It's strange, seeing him like this—in his element, surrounded by people who know him in ways you don't.

ProofedToKill. A baking pun turned gamer tag. A piece of his mother he carries with him, encrypted in plain sight.

You take another sip of your vodka cranberry, wondering what else about Jungkook you've been missing all this time.

Eleven people crammed around a table is basically psychological warfare in restaurant form.

You're somehow stuck directly across from Jungkook, because apparently the universe has a shitty sense of humor.

Next to him, Tessa has claimed her territory, her long legs perfectly positioned under the table while yours are already cramping from the weird angle. Of course.

At least you've got Yoongi on your left—a silent, grounding presence in the chaos. When you'd awkwardly hovered near his chair, he'd just grunted and shifted slightly to make room.

In Yoongi-speak, that's practically a formal invitation with calligraphy and shit.

Diana sits on your other side, petite and prim, her small hands already arranging her napkin with quick movements. She keeps glancing at Tessa across the table with an expression you can't quite decipher—somewhere between admiration and mild disapproval.

The menu in Yoongi's hands looks worn and slightly sticky, but your stomach is basically staging a revolt after hours of nothing but ibuprofen and vodka. You lean over, scanning the options without asking permission because fuck it, you're hungry.

The spicy ramen section catches your eye immediately.

Your stomach gives another impatient growl.

"I want those," you announce, pointing at the spiciest option on the menu.

Yoongi barely blinks. "Cool. I didn't ask."

You roll your eyes and lean back in your chair because, okay, whatever. Rude ass. Though honestly, there's something almost refreshing about his complete lack of social polish.

At least you always know where you stand with him, which is approximately nowhere.

A movement across the table draws your attention.

Jungkook's eyes have lifted from his own menu, catching yours with an intensity that feels weirdly intimate in the crowded space. His gaze flickers down again almost immediately, but not before you notice the corner of his mouth tilting upward.

What's he laughing about? Stupid. He's stupid.

"I kinda wanted the spicy ones too," he says, looking up again. "Maybe we can share?"

You squint at him suspiciously. "Huh? No. I want the bowl entirely for me."

Diana makes a soft sound beside you—half laugh, half disbelief.

“I can't believe you can eat all that."

The words hang there for a moment while your brain processes the judgment packaged in her innocent-sounding comment.

Did she just really—

"C'mon Diana," Tessa cuts in swiftly, laugh warm and genuine, "not everyone has a small stomach like you."

Diana scowls, her delicate features pinching together. "I just think that's a lot to eat."

"Bro, I could eat two bowls in one sitting," Jungkook says.

"Make that three," Taehyung adds from Jungkook's other side. "You're a fucking goblin, Kooks."

"Three? Amateur," one of the gamer guys—Steve? Sean?—chimes in from the end of the table. "Remember that time after the tournament when you ate four bowls of ramen and then threw up in my car?"

"That was food poisoning," Jungkook protests. "Totally different situation."

"Your face was poisoned."

"What does that even mean?"

"Your face... poisoned... my eyes," the guy finishes lamely, clearly losing his train of thought.

"Ten points from Slytherin for that weak-ass comeback," Hobi declares, raising his beer like a wizard's wand. "Jungkook requires better trash talk in his honor."

"Oh shit, we're using Hogwarts points now?" another one asks. "When did we switch systems?"

"Since I just decided, and I'm the dungeon master."

"That's D&D, you uncultured swine," Taehyung sighs, long-suffering. "Completely different franchise."

"Whatever, they're all just wizard nerds," Hobi says with a dismissive wave.

"That's wizard king to you, peasant," Jungkook corrects, puffing out his chest.

“Do you all... actually play these games?" Diana asks, voice faintly disdainful.

"Only when we're not busy with our super cool and important adult lives," Taehyung says, deadpan.

"I just don't get the appeal," she sniffs. "Sitting inside all day, staring at screens—"

"Yo," Hobi cuts in smoothly, somehow managing to sound both friendly and firm at the same time, "different strokes for different folks. Some people climb mountains, some people slay digital dragons. Both valid."

Diana shifts uncomfortably under his gaze. "I guess."

"Besides," you find yourself saying, "it's literally his birthday. Maybe, I don't know, let him enjoy things without the judgment?"

The words come out sharper than intended, surprising even you.

Since when do you jump to Jungkook's defense? Since when do you care if someone judges his nerdy gaming habits?

Jungkook looks equally surprised, eyebrows raised slightly as he studies your face. Then his expression shifts into something softer, almost appreciative.

"Exactly. Today's about celebrating you," Tessa adds, turning to Jungkook with a warm smile. "And apparently your inhuman ability to consume ramen."

"It's my superpower," he says solemnly. "With great appetite comes great indigestion."

A ripple of laughter moves around the table, breaking the awkward moment. Diana still looks sulky, but at least she's dropped the subject.

The waiter appears then, ready to take orders, and the conversation splinters as everyone tries to decide what they want.

"You really getting the level five spicy?" Yoongi asks quietly while the others debate.

"Yeah. Why, think I can't handle it?"

He snorts. "Just checking if I need to order extra water for when you inevitably start crying."

"I do not cry from spicy food."

"Everyone cries from spicy food if it's actually spicy."

"Well, we'll see, won't we?"

He shrugs, a barely perceptible movement of one shoulder. "Your funeral."

"Comforting as always, Yoon."

The ghost of a smile flits across his face before he returns to his default expression of mild disinterest.

Across the table, Jungkook is in the middle of a heated debate with Taehyung about... something involving a game you've never heard of. His hands move animatedly as he talks, face lit with genuine enthusiasm. One of his friends keeps trying to interject, but Jungkook and Taehyung are in their own world, talking over each other and somehow still understanding perfectly.

He looks so unguarded.

So... normal. Like any other twenty-something guy arguing about video games with his friends.

Not that you care. It's just an observation.

"So you're Jungkook's roommate," Diana says, drawing your attention back to her. Her tone suggests this is somehow both surprising and slightly concerning.

"Yep." You keep it brief, hoping she'll take the hint and drop whatever line of questioning is forming behind those judgmental eyes.

No such luck.

"And how did that happen exactly? Through the university housing board?"

"Craigslist, actually."

Her eyebrows shoot up like you've just admitted to finding the apartment through a demonic summoning ritual.

“Oh! Isn't that... dangerous?"

"Not really. The apartment was already Yoongi and Jungkook's. I just answered the ad for the third room."

"Still," she persists, "moving in with two guys you don't know. That's brave."

The way she says ‘brave’ makes it clear she means ‘stupid,’ but you're not in the mood to defend your housing choices to someone who probably thinks spicy ramen is too adventurous.

"Not really. Yoongi's background check was pretty thorough," you deadpan. "Only had to provide three references, a blood sample, and my complete genetic history."

Diana blinks, clearly unsure if you're joking.

"It's true," Yoongi confirms without looking up from his phone. "Her midichlorian count was acceptable."

"What’s… midichlorian?" Diana asks uncertainly.

"It’s a real scientific test," you say, keeping your expression perfectly serious. "Very exclusive."

She frowns, increasingly confused, and you feel a small, petty satisfaction at her discomfort.

"They're fucking with you," Taehyung calls from across the table, apparently tuned into your conversation despite seemingly being absorbed in his argument with Jungkook. "It's a Star Wars reference."

"Oh." Diana forces a laugh that doesn't reach her eyes. "Right."

"Ignore them," Tessa says kindly. "They operate on their own wavelength sometimes."

"Especially these two," Hobi adds, gesturing between Taehyung and Jungkook. "Like an old married couple, but with more shouting and fewer financial benefits."

"What do you mean fewer financial benefits?" Jungkook protests. "I've been carrying his broke ass in-game economy for years."

"That gold farm was my idea!"

"Your idea crashed the server and got us banned for a week!"

"Details," Taehyung waves dismissively. "The point is, I'm the brains of this operation."

"And I'm the beauty," Jungkook fires back, striking a pose that makes Hobi snort water through his nose.

It's all so... easy. The banter, the inside jokes, the casual way they navigate each other's personalities. They've clearly had years to develop this rhythm, to learn each other's edges and how to fit together despite them—or maybe because of them.

Something twists in your chest, sharp and unexpected. You busy yourself with your water glass, suddenly very interested in the condensation gathering along its sides.

The waiter returns with drinks, setting them around the table. You're grateful for the distraction, for something to do with your hands besides fidget awkwardly.

"Alright," Hobi declares once everyone has a drink, lifting his glass. "To the birthday boy! May your K/D ratio remain impressive and your hairline unreceded."

"Here's to another year of Jungkook being Jungkook," Taehyung adds, raising his own glass. "God help us all."

"To Kooks," Tessa says, her voice softer but no less sincere. "Happy birthday."

Glasses clink around the table, a chorus of echoed sentiments following. You lift your glass automatically, catching Jungkook's eye as you do. He's watching you, before he smiles—small and surprisingly genuine.

"Thanks for getting me here," he says quietly, just for you.

"Don't mention it," you reply, equally quiet. "Seriously. Don't. I'll deny everything."

His smile widens, and for a moment, it feels like you're back in that booth from earlier—just the two of you, everyone else fading to background noise.

Then Taehyung jostles his arm, demanding his opinion on something, and the moment breaks.

You take a sip of your drink, trying to ignore the strange feeling that's settled in your chest.

It's probably just hunger. Or the vodka from earlier.

Or the fact that you've been in this loud, crowded restaurant for what feels like hours now, surrounded by people you barely know, playing a role you're not quite sure how to perform.

Yeah. That's definitely it.

The server arrives with a ridiculous number of bowls balanced along his arms like some kind of food-based Cirque du Soleil performer. Steam rises from each one, carrying scents that make your stomach growl with embarrassing volume.

A massive, angry-looking bowl lands in front of you, the broth practically glowing red. It looks like someone liquefied the sun and threw in some noodles as an afterthought.

Perfect.

Two bowls slide in front of Jungkook—your spicy demon soup's twin and something much more reasonable looking, probably miso based on the color.

"Hungry much?" you ask, eyeing his double order.

"Growing boy," he shrugs, already reaching for chopsticks.

Taehyung, meanwhile, receives... a plate of curry rice?

"Seriously?" You can't help the judgment that leaks into your voice. "We're at a ramen place and you ordered curry?"

He shoots you a look that could curdle milk. "Some of us have taste beyond 'hot noodle soup.'"

"Some of us aren't afraid of flavor, dickasso."

"Bold words from someone currently holding weapons-grade capsaicin," he fires back, gesturing at your bowl. "Does your taste even function, or did you burn it all away with your sad little Hot Pockets diet?"

"At least I'm not too precious to eat what the restaurant specializes in."

“This is objectively superior."

"Only if your objective is being a pretentious dick."

"I prefer 'discerning connoisseur.'"

"You would."

You hate that banter with Taehyung is starting to become more and more comfortable. Like verbal sparring with someone who actually knows how to return a serve, instead of just standing there getting hit in the face with the ball.

Not that you like him or anything. His whole vibe—artsy, too cool for school, judgmental as fuck—is objectively annoying.

But maybe also a little entertaining.

In small doses.

Very small.

Across the table, Hobi watches this exchange with undisguised amusement, head swiveling between you.

"I feel like I'm witnessing the beginning of a beautiful friendship," he says, grinning widely. "Or a homicide. Hard to tell."

"Definitely homicide," Taehyung and you say in unison, then glare at each other for the coordination.

You turn your attention back to your ramen, inhaling the spicy steam before digging in. The first bite hits like a kick to the teeth—pain followed immediately by pleasure.

It's fucking delicious despite feeling like you just licked the surface of the sun.

"Good?" Yoongi asks, watching your face with what might be the ghost of amusement.

"Incredible," you manage, already reaching for more.

Across the table, Jungkook dives into his own spicy bowl with enthusiasm, slurping noodles with zero concern for how it looks. A drop of broth escapes, clinging to his lower lip.

You're about to say something—point it out, make fun of his complete lack of eating etiquette, something—when Tessa reaches out, casual as anything, and swipes her thumb across his lip.

"Messy," she says, the word warm with affection.

He tilts his head toward her, smiling in a way that can only be described as flirtatious.

“That's my brand."

You purse your lips, returning your attention to your own food.

Whatever. Let him preen over a pretty girl paying attention to him. His loser ass probably never gets that chance.

Although... that's a lie and you know it.

The guy is annoyingly good-looking and he knows it. He's probably used to girls fawning over him, cleaning his face like he's a toddler who can't be trusted with utensils.

"Whatcha looking at, Phee—" He cuts himself off abruptly, eyes widening slightly. "—asantly surprised by how spicy that ramen is? Your face is getting red."

Smooth recovery. Not.

"Just thinking about how long it's been since I've had decent ramen."

You grab your water glass, suddenly very aware of the burning sensation spreading across your tongue.

It's fine. Totally manageable. Nothing to worry about.

"Knew it," Yoongi mutters beside you.

You set the glass down with more force than necessary. "It's not spicy."

"Uh-huh." He doesn't even bother looking up from his own bowl. "That's why your face is the same color as the broth."

"It's warm in here."

"Sure it is."

"I can handle spice."

"Never said you couldn't."

"You implied it."

He finally glances at you, expression as bored as ever. "I implied you're a liar, not a spice lightweight."

"I'm not—" Another wave of heat crashes through your mouth, cutting off your protest. "Fine. It's a little spicy."

The corner of his mouth twitches in what might be a smile on anyone else. "A little."

"Shut up and eat your boring miso."

Amazingly, he actually laughs—a short, quiet sound that's there and gone so quickly you almost think you imagined it.

But no, that was definitely a laugh. From Yoongi. Directed at something you said.

Huh.

You return to your ramen, determined to finish it despite the way your sinuses are starting to protest.

It's a matter of pride now. You said you could handle it, so you'll handle it, even if it kills you.

Which it might. But what a way to go.

You glance up, seeing how Jungkook and Tessa have their heads tilted toward each other, engaged in what looks like a very amusing conversation based on her laugh. She keeps touching his arm, casual little points of contact that seem to arrive at perfectly timed intervals.

She's good at this, you'll give her that. The whole flirting thing. Not too obvious, not too reserved. Just the right amount of interest without seeming desperate.

Huh. He might get laid tonight then. Not by you.

Good for him.

"You're staring again," Taehyung says, his voice pitched low enough that only you can hear. "Plotting his murder or just generally disapproving of his existence?"

"Just wondering how someone with the personality of a half-deflated balloon animal manages to function in society," you reply smoothly.

"Years of practice and an excellent support system." He gestures between himself and Hobi, who's busy trying to convince one of the gamer guys that yes, there is in fact sake in the sake bomb he just drank. "We've been managing his personality disorder since freshman year."

"Sounds exhausting."

"It is." His eyes drift to where Jungkook is now showing Tessa something on his phone, both of them laughing. "But he has his moments."

You turn your attention back to your food. Halfway through, you make the tactical error of taking a large bite just as Hobi says something particularly funny, causing you to inhale sharply—and sending a piece of chili directly into your windpipe.

Coughing. So much coughing.

Your eyes water immediately, turning the table into a blurry mess of colors and shapes as you desperately reach for your water again.

"Easy there," Yoongi says, actually sounding a little concerned as he pushes your glass closer. "Small sips."

You manage to get the water down between coughs, the cool liquid offering minimal relief to your burning throat.

"You okay?" Jungkook asks, leaning across the table with a frown.

Great. Now everyone's looking at you. Perfect. Just what you wanted. All the attention.

"Fine," you rasp, waving a hand dismissively. "Went down the wrong pipe."

"Maybe you should try something less lethal," Diana suggests, eyeing your bowl with thinly veiled judgment. "Like the mild shoyu."

"I'm good with my life choices, thanks."

"Not all of them, I hope," Taehyung mutters, just loud enough for you to hear.

You kick him under the table, aiming for his shin but probably hitting the table leg instead based on his lack of reaction.

"If you die from ramen, I'm not cleaning out your room," Yoongi says matter-of-factly.

"Noted. I'll make sure to haunt you specifically."

"Bold of you to assume I'd notice the difference."

"What, between me alive and me as a ghost?"

"You already have a resting bitch face and make weird noises at night. How would I tell?"

You choke again, this time on your own surprise.

"I do not make weird noises at night!"

"The walls are thin."

Heat creeps up your neck, and it has nothing to do with the spice level of your food.

“I don't—that's not—"

"Relax. I meant the way you talk in your sleep."

Oh. That's... marginally less mortifying.

"I talk in my sleep?"

"Constantly."

"About what?"

He shrugs. "Mostly nonsense. Something about pencils last night. Very intense opinions on pencils."

"I don't have opinions about pencils," you protest. "Intense or otherwise."

"Tell that to your subconscious."

The conversation shifts as one of the gamers—Ryan? you think?—slams his empty sake cup on the table with more force than necessary.

"Yo!" he announces, loud enough to get everyone's attention. "We should do shots. Birthday shots for the birthday boy!"

A chorus of approval goes up around the table. Even Diana looks on board with this plan, probably because alcohol is the one thing that might loosen up whatever's holding her personality together.

"The birthday boy needs birthday shots," Hobi agrees, already signaling the waiter.

Taehyung groans. "Please tell me we're not doing that ridiculous 'one shot for each year' tradition. I'm not carrying his drunk ass home again."

"That was one time," Jungkook protests.

"One time too many. You kept trying to pet dogs that weren't there."

"I was seeing through the space-time continuum to where dogs would eventually be."

"You threw up in my shower."

"I cleaned it!"

"With my loofah!"

"I replaced it!"

"After I used it!"

You watch this exchange with growing amusement, the rapid-fire back-and-forth almost dizzying in its intensity. It's clear this is a well-worn argument, trotted out for entertainment value rather than actual grievance.

"Fine," Taehyung concedes dramatically. "Birthday shots. But I'm not responsible for any hallucinated canines or bathroom incidents."

"Deal," Jungkook grins, then turns to Tessa. "You in?"

She laughs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I should probably pace myself. Early class tomorrow."

"Responsible," he nods, mock serious. "I respect that."

"Unlike some people," Taehyung mutters, glancing pointedly at Jungkook.

"It's my birthday. I'm legally exempt from responsibility for twenty-four hours."

"That's not a law."

"It's the law of birthdays, Tae. Everyone knows this."

Ryan—definitely Ryan—flags down the server successfully this time, ordering a round of shots for the table.

“Even for the responsible ones," he insists when Tessa tries to decline. "Just one. For Proofs."

She relents with a smile, rolling her stupid pretty eyes.

"You too, Miss Spicy Ramen," Ryan says, nodding toward you. "Unless you can't handle your liquor either."

Is that a challenge? It sounds like a challenge.

"I can handle my liquor just fine," you say.

“Debatable,” Jungkook mutters, the menace.

"Oh, fighting words," Hobi laughs, clapping his hands together. "I sense a story here."

"There's no story," Jungkook says quickly.

"I think we've found the first drinking game of the night," Hobi declares. "Most embarrassing Jungkook stories. Winner gets... I don't know, bragging rights and my eternal respect."

"That's not fair," Jungkook protests. "I'm the birthday boy. I should be exempt from humiliation."

"Birthday boy gets birthday roast," Taehyung counters.

Even Yoongi cracks a smile at that, which might be the most shocking development of the evening so far.

Five shots in and the room has developed that particular tilt that makes everything both sharper and blurrier at the same time.

"Next round!" Seth announces, grinning as he surveys the damage he's caused.

Seth, as you've learned through increasingly slurred introductions, is one of Jungkook's film school friends—tall, blonde, and way too enthusiastic about drinking games for someone his size.

"Embarrassing stories! Laugh and you drink!"

Groans mixed with cheers ripple around the table, which has somehow gotten messier and louder with each passing shot. Empty glasses create a small army between plates. Someone knocked over the soy sauce earlier, and no one's bothered to clean it up.

"Oh, oh, OH!" Taehyung practically bounces in his seat, raising his hand like an overeager student. "I have one."

"This'll be good," Yoongi mutters beside you, the most he's spoken in twenty minutes.

Taehyung clears his throat dramatically. "Picture this: Eighth grade. School talent show."

"No," Jungkook groans, head dropping into his hands. "Not that one."

"Yes, that one." Taehyung's grin is borderline evil. "Our boy Kooks here decides he's going to impress Minah Park with a dance routine."

"I'm begging you," Jungkook says, voice muffled through his fingers.

"To what song, you ask?" Taehyung continues, undeterred. "None other than 'Milkshake' by Kelis."

Ryan lets out a bark of laughter, immediately reaching for his shot.

"Oh my god," Diana whispers, eyes wide.

"Did he know what the song was about?" Tessa asks, already giggling.

"That's the best part," Taehyung says, pausing for dramatic effect. "He thought it was literally about making good milkshakes. His mom helped him with the routine."

The table erupts. Even Yoongi snorts, reaching for his shot glass with resigned dignity. You're trying—genuinely trying—to hold it in, pressing your lips together, but then you make the mistake of looking at Jungkook's mortified expression and it's over. Laughter spills out, and you grab your shot, tossing it back with a wince.

"His mom found out what it meant halfway through the performance," Taehyung continues, wiping tears from his eyes. "Her face—I wish smartphones existed back then."

"I hate you," Jungkook mutters, but there's no heat behind it. "So much."

"Did Minah like it at least?" Hobi asks, still chuckling.

"She transferred schools the next week," Taehyung says solemnly. "Unrelated reasons, allegedly."

Another round of laughter, another round of shots.

"My turn," Hobi declares once the chaos subsides. "Let me tell you about the first time I met this guy."

"Which version are you telling?" Jungkook asks warily.

"The true one," Hobi says with a wink. "Picture it: 2021. Dance studio on 8th. This scrawny kid walks in, says he needs to film a project for his class."

"I wasn't scrawny," Jungkook protests.

"You were a twig with hair," Hobi dismisses. "Anyway, he sets up his equipment, very professional, very serious. Then my advanced hip-hop class starts, and halfway through, he abandons his camera to try and join in."

"Oh no," Tessa whispers, delighted.

"Oh yes," Hobi confirms. "He jumps in, full confidence, absolutely sure he can keep up. Two eight-counts later, he slips, takes out my star student, and they both crash into the mirror."

"It didn't break!" Jungkook interjects.

"It cracked," Hobi corrects. "Still there. I call it the Jungkook Memorial Spiderweb."

You laugh despite yourself, drinking quickly to hide your smile when Jungkook shoots you a betrayed look.

"What about you, Yoongi?" Seth asks, refilling glasses with alarming efficiency. "How'd you meet the birthday boy?"

Yoongi regards the question like it's asked him to explain quantum physics.

“Music production seminar. He needed help with a film score." He shrugs. "He wasn't completely terrible."

"From Yoongi, that's basically a marriage proposal," Hobi stage-whispers.

"Wow, such a beautiful story," you deadpan. "So moving. So detailed."

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “Not all of us need a thousand words to make a point."

"Clearly." You snort, then immediately regret it when the room spins slightly.

"What about you, new girl?" Seth asks, suddenly focused on you with an intensity that feels both flattering and vaguely predatory. "Got any good Jungkook stories from the roommate archives?"

All eyes turn to you, expectant.

You scramble for something suitably embarrassing but not too revealing.

“Oh, I’ve got plenty,” you say, the alcohol making you bolder than usual. “But I have to live with him, so I’m weighing the entertainment value against the revenge factor.”

“Coward,” Taehyung coughs into his hand.

"Yeah, tell us the real dirt," Seth presses, leaning forward with a grin that suggests he's hoping for something scandalous.

You narrow your eyes, suddenly protective of the weird dynamic you share with Jungkook. These people don't get to know about the late-night arguments over the TV volume, or the silent coffee maker standoffs, or the way he sometimes hums in the shower when he thinks no one can hear.

"Sorry to disappoint," you say with exaggerated sweetness, "but I value my security deposit too much to reveal his darkest secrets."

"Cop-out," Seth accuses, but he's smiling.

"Another round!" Ryan announces, refilling shot glasses with something that smells vaguely like cinnamon and regret. "Tessa, you laughed at the dance story, you owe one."

“I didn’t!” she protests, but she’s fighting a smile now. “I was just… appreciating the story.”

“Liar! Your lips twitched. That’s a drink.”

She shakes her head, still smiling. “No way. I have that early class, remember?”

Before Ryan can argue further, Jungkook smoothly grabs her shot and downs it in one fluid motion.

“Problem solved,” he says, setting the empty glass back on the table with a decisive clink.

Something about the gesture—casual, protective, maybe a little possessive—makes your stomach twist in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol or spicy ramen.

Seth slides another shot toward you. “Here, you need a refill.”

You stare at it, trying to do math through the fuzzy haze of alcohol.

How many shots have you had? Four? Five? You've lost count, which is probably not a great sign.

But everyone’s looking at you, waiting, and you’ve never been good at backing down from a challenge—especially when you’re already tipsy and your judgment is shot to hell.

You reach for the shot, hesitating only slightly. It burns going down, making you cough and sputter in a way that is definitely not attractive, but whatever. You can handle it.

Probably.

“Another round!” Seth calls. “Funniest pet stories. Go.”

And so the new game continues, stories flying around the table with increasing volume and decreasing coherence.

You lose track of who’s talking, everything blurring into laughter and voices and the clinking of glasses.

“Oh, and remember when Jungkook tried to sneak into that bar with his cousin’s ID?” someone is saying—maybe Ryan? The faces at the end of the table are swimming a bit. “The bouncer took one look at the picture and said, ‘This says you’re 5’4” and Filipino.’”

More laughter, more shots. The room spins again when you tilt your head back to drink.

“Another one for you,” Seth says, sliding a fresh shot in front of you after you laugh at something Hobi said. His hand lingers near yours on the table, fingers almost but not quite touching. “Don’t tell me you’re backing down so soon?"

The challenge in his tone hits some stupid part of your brain—the part that's been responsible for most of your worst decisions.

So of course you grab the shot.

"Just getting started," you declare, tossing it back with more confidence than coordination.

Seth grins, clearly pleased by your response. "I like you. You're fun."

"I'm a goddamn delight," you agree solemnly, which makes Taehyung snort into his drink.

The next round comes with someone telling a tale about Jungkook getting locked out of his dorm freshman year wearing only a towel. Hobi recounts the time Jungkook tried to learn breakdancing and sprained both wrists. Jungkook retaliates with something about Taehyung and body paint that has everyone howling and reaching for their drinks.

You keep pace, determined not to be the one who can't hang, even as the room develops an interesting spin and your tongue feels increasingly disconnected from your brain.

"Another one!" Seth declares, sliding a fresh shot in front of you.

You stare at it, hiccupping slightly. The thought of one more makes your stomach perform an acrobatic maneuver.

"I don't know..."

"Come on," he urges, eyes bright with that specific drunk intensity people get when they're determined to make everyone else as wasted as they are. "Don't quit now."

You hiccup slightly, staring at the shot with growing uncertainty.

Your stomach churns in warning.

But your pride is a stubborn, stupid stupid thing.

Before you can decide, Jungkook’s arm shoots across the table, grabbing the shot and downing it in one quick movement. His eyes find Seth’s, narrowed and unmistakably warning.

“I think she’s good,” he says, voice deceptively casual.

Seth raises his hands in mock surrender. “Just keeping the game going, man.”

You stare at Jungkook, confused by the intervention. He catches your look and shrugs, a simple ‘what?’ in his expression that somehow makes you frown harder.

The game shifts again, someone suggesting “Never Have I Ever” as a change of pace. Your brain struggles to keep up with the new rules, everything moving a little too fast, a little too loud.

“Never have I ever…” Seth taps his chin thoughtfully, eyes finding yours again. “Been skinny dipping.”

You groan internally. Of course he’d pick something designed to make people admit to being naked. Typical.

Those who have done it drink, including Jungkook, which makes Tessa raise her eyebrows in a way that seems both surprised and intrigued.

You remain still, glass untouched, which somehow feels like a victory.

The questions continue around the table, growing progressively more suggestive as everyone’s inhibitions lower.

A fresh shot appears in front of you, courtesy of Ryan, who’s moved on from the game and is now just passing out alcohol indiscriminately.

“Drink up!” he declares. “We’re celebrating!”

You stare at the shot, swaying slightly in your seat. The room feels too hot, too crowded, too everything. Your brain is sending out warning signals, but they’re muffled under layers of alcohol and stubbornness.

Jungkook is watching you, expression unreadable but lips pressed together in what might be concern.

He knows you shouldn’t drink that.

You know you shouldn’t drink that.

But admitting it feels like losing somehow.

So you reach for the glass. Fingers clumsy.

Suddenly it’s gone—snatched away by a hand behind you.

“She doesn’t want any more, broski.”

You whip around so fast the room spins alarmingly, but there’s no mistaking that voice, that attitude, that general aura of ‘fuck around and find out.’

Yeji throws back the shot with 0 problem, slamming the empty glass on the table with a decisive clink.

Behind her, Irya and Jimin hover like backup, taking in the scene with varying levels of amusement.

“Surprise.” Yeji grins, sharp and protective. “Happy birthday, dickhead,” she adds, nodding at Jungkook. “Mind if we crash the party?”

goal: 600 notes

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#rpwprpwprpwprwreview

631 notes · View notes

rpwprpwprpwprw · 5 days ago

Text

i truly wanted to make a funny comment about this. honestly. but this is the men we are talking about.

my super fine (so fine) flirty-funny-gorgeous-90s boyfriend-vibe namjoon. that’s the one.

we as joonie gang celebrate every well-written fanfic we come across along the way, and the fact that this baby has only 14 likes it’s insulting 😤 i said it

about the fanfic tho: super cool idea for a story and i’m glad they didn’t hook up before she broke up with her boyfriend cause that would’ve be pretty shit tbh (my personal opinion)

also we come for funnies, silly moments then BUM 💥 “His presence is surreal-it's like your grief conjured him, like some aching part of you called out and he answered” WHAT THE HELL? you’re a poetic genius at this point no joke.

the development worked so well, which again in my opinion is a essential part in a story. You could’ve rushed everything and ruined the whole thing but everything was built perfectly.

your writing really is something else….. @flymetothejoon and this banner? so so beautiful! 🙂‍↕️💗 10/10

okay guys now spread the word please please please

dirty laundry (m)

pairing: namjoon x reader genre: smut, strangers to lovers warnings: slow burn-ish, teasing, foul language, dirty talk, heavy making out, sexual tension, public sex, you go to do laundry just for some dick, kissing, emotional making out, asshole boyfriend, namjoon hates your boyfriend, maybe its jealousy, fluff I guess (he compliments you), fingering, tip teasing, cumshot, penetrative sex, unprotected sex word count: 7.8k description: in the midst of a rocky relationship with your neglectful boyfriend, you run into a man who starts undressing in the laundromat at 3am, claiming to know how to treat you right.

several different people wanted some variation of laundry/stranger/public smut, so it's finally here!! enjoy xo

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

It's 3:07 a.m. when you finally give up on waiting. Your apartment is quiet except for the hum of your fridge and the occasional groan of old plumbing in the walls. You've been checking your phone every five minutes, watching the battery drain and the unread messages stack up like the dishes in your sink. No calls. No replies. Just silence.

So you gather your laundry.

The basket digs into your hip as you step out into the hallway, hoodie zipped up halfway and keys clenched in your free hand. The air outside is damp and strange, like it can't decide if it wants to rain or just hang there, heavy and indecisive. Like you. The street is deserted, lit by flickering lamps that paint everything in washed-out yellows and grays. You don't pass anyone—no cars, no late-night joggers, not even the guy who usually smokes on his balcony two floors down. Just you and the hiss of distant traffic.

You walk faster than usual, the weight of the basket throwing off your balance every few steps. It's not about the laundry. You know that. You just needed to do something, anything, other than sit on that couch refreshing your texts and trying not to picture your boyfriend wherever he is—laughing, forgetting to look at his phone, not thinking about you at all.

The laundromat is just around the corner, a sad little place that never closes with rows of outdated machines and cracked linoleum floors. Some of the knobs on the machines are missing, replaced with tape or left bare like little metal bones sticking out. One corner of the ceiling is stained dark with water damage, the edges curling like burned paper. The familiar smell of detergent and something vaguely burnt hits you as you step inside.

It's not cozy, it's not clean, but it's the only place that feels honest tonight. You drop your basket on the nearest folding table with a little more force than necessary. Your fingers are cold. Your chest is tight. You're not angry, not really. You're just tired of being the one still waiting.

You're halfway through dumping a load of clothes into the washer when the lazy, broken bell above the door jingles—it barely cuts through the hum of the old rackety machinery.

You glance up out of habit, expecting no one. Who else does laundry at this hour?

The man who stumbles in looks like he belongs more in a vogue magazine than sharing a space inside the laundromat with you. He's tall, lean, maybe late twenties, with a lax posture and the kind of walk that sways too wide, like he's not sure where the floor ends. His hair is dark and at the moment unruly, pushed back from his eyes that haven't decided whether to be open or closed. He's wearing a simple oversized crewneck and a pair of dark blue jeans clinging to his hips like they've been tailored to his body.

He carries an air of relaxed confidence even as his steps betray him. Rather than looking disheveled or ragged, there's an undeniable charm radiating from him.

You pause, a damp hoodie dangling from your fingers. The man doesn't look at you.

Instead, he moves with purpose, staggering toward the nearest washer like it personally offended him. He lazily throws his wallet and keys atop the washer before kicking off his tan boots. They tumble to the ground not too far from him. He then begins fumbling with the buttons on his jeans, muttering something under his breath that the machines drown out.

Then, to your absolute disbelief, he starts to undress—right there in the middle of the laundromat.

His crewneck is first to be yanked over his head. He is moving sluggish. Is he drunk? You wonder. It lands on the floor, forgotten. Next go the jeans, unbuckled and shoved down until they bunch at his ankles. He steps out of them, nearly trips, and steadies himself with one hand on the washer. He starts to chuckle and mutter to himself in slurring babbles.

Now he's standing there in nothing but a pair of dark boxer briefs—worn at the waistband and dangerously low on his hips. You can't help but stare.

His chest is buff and muscular. If you weren't so shocked, you think you would have more to say about him and his physique. The stranger tosses the jeans and shirt into the washer, slams the door, and only then—half-naked and swaying—does he notice you. His eyes widen, not with shame, but something more like surprise.

"Oh," he says, blinking slowly. His voice is deep, hoarse, the kind that sounds like it's been soaked in alcohol. "I honestly didn't see you."

You stare back, unsure whether to laugh, leave, or ask if he needs help standing. You are momentarily too caught off guard to decide whether amusement or empathy should guide your next move. A damp dirty towel hangs forgotten in your hands.

He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. "I... uh...," he mumbles, glancing toward the machine like it might defend him. "Wasn't planning on... an audience."

Your mouth is dry. You blink, and for some reason you are scrambling for something to say to this stranger. Your mind is empty—whether it is due to shock that this man is undressed in the laundromat at 3am, or because of how charming and attractive he is as he stares at you with anticipation, you don't know.

Consequently, the only thing to leave your mind is, "You forgot your crewneck."

The two of you glance down to your motioned hand. You are looking at the stranger's crewneck that was absentmindedly flung to the side. He chuckles deeply to pick up the material from the floor, almost missing it at his first attempt. His fingertips roughly jam into the tiled floor before settling on the fabric. You watch in slight concern for this stranger's wellbeing.

He lifts the sweater with a sheepish grunt, dusts it off instinctively, then drapes it over one arm like he might put it back on—but he doesn't. His shoulders rise and fall with a long exhale, and when he glances back up at you, the expression on his face is softer now; less startled and a little amused... and still, somehow, entirely sincere.

"Thanks," he murmurs, eyes catching yours again. "I guess I'm making a strong first impression."

You manage a small smile, even as heat creeps up the back of your neck. You will yourself to look him in the eye—but your gaze slips. Once, twice. You catch the subtle lines of his torso, the clean dips and angles of his collarbones, the way his skin shifts slightly with each breath. It's all casual, unintentional—but so evidently noticeable.

You force your eyes back to his face. The effort is... substantial.

"I mean... it's not every day you see someone strip down in a laundromat," you reply, tone light but edged with curiosity. "At three in the morning."

He laughs—a quiet, throaty and charming sound that feels too rich for the sterile buzz of the room. "Yeah," he says, scratching the back of his neck again, muscles flexing with the motion, "if I weren't a few tequilas in right now, I'd probably feel a little shame."

You grip the damp towel in your hands a little tighter. "So... why are you here? Like this?"

He blinks like he hadn't expected the question to come so directly, then shrugs with a kind of lazy honesty.

"Long night," he says. "Out with friends. Someone spilled a drink down my back." He gestures loosely at the washer.

"Someone?" you pry curiously.

There's a pause. He smiles—crooked, a little embarrassed, but not ashamed. He doesn't indulge you in elaboration, so you nod slowly, trying not to let your eyes trail down his body again, but you're very aware of the way the waistband of his briefs rests against his hips, the way the muscles in his stomach shift slightly when he talks. He's not flexing. He's not posturing.

That's the problem.

"I really didn't plan on the laundry show. Sorry about that."

You wave a hand quickly, hoping your heated face isn't giving away as much as it feels like it is. "No, don't worry."

You sit back against the edge of the folding table, eyeing him in the cold glow of the fluorescents. He doesn't fidget, doesn't look away. There's a steadiness in his gaze now that makes it hard to keep your own guard up. You hadn't realized how quiet your head had gotten—how for a moment, you'd forgotten everything that led you here.

But then he tilts his head slightly, studying you with a furrow of quiet concern.

"You okay?" he asks.

You hesitate to respond, caught off guard again—not by the question, but by how gentle it sounds coming from him. You weren't expecting the question from this stranger—him, half-undressed and half-drunk, who's been here all of five minutes and yet somehow sees right through you.

You look away, fix your gaze on the machine you have yet to start. "Yeah," you say. "Just... doing laundry."

The words fall from your lips half-heartedly. You release a breath before finally throwing the dirty towel, and the last of your laundry, into the washer. The stranger doesn't respond right away. You can feel him waiting, like he knows that's not really an answer. His eyes are following your every move.

You glance back at him. Fine. You need to release this pent up energy, and this stranger could work for you.

"My boyfriend's been out all night. He didn't text. He didn't call, so I decided to come here and wash some clothes instead of sitting in my apartment refreshing a screen."

His expression shifts—he seems empathetic.

"Sometimes the machines are easier to deal with," he says. "At least they don't lie."

His words pull a small breath of a laugh from you; they're unexpected and a little bitter.

"Exactly."

He leans against the washer beside yours, arms crossed, crewneck still hanging from one hand. "Sounds like a shitty night."

You nod. "It is."

"Well," he says with a slight smirk, "at least we're both miserable together."

He meets your eyes with something that feels like an offering—a shared kind of loneliness, wrapped in humor and late-night haze. For the first time tonight, you don't feel entirely alone.

You glance over at him again; your smile softens as it fades. You decide to pick apart his words and find out more of his story. You hate to admit to yourself that this attractive stranger has now garnered your full attention and curiosity. You don't know if something as weird as this will happen to you again, so you want to get the most out of it.

"So... why are you miserable?" you ask.

He exhales a long, quiet breath, his gaze shifting toward the washer. The light buzz of the fluorescent ceiling panels hums between you. For a moment, it feels like he might brush the question off.

Then he speaks.

"I wasn't just out with friends tonight," he reveals. "I was supposed to meet up with my girlfriend. Ex, I guess."

That word—ex—catches on something inside your chest. The way he says it feels sharp and recent. "She invited me to some rooftop thing," he continues. "I showed up late, and when I got there... she wasn't exactly waiting for me."

A slow throb builds at the base of your throat. You shift your weight, feeling a subtle ache bloom in your chest. His voice is calm, but there's something in the way he stares at the machines—like he's trying to detach himself from the memory just enough to say it out loud.

"She was kissing someone else."

You swallow hard. The image flashes in your mind uninvited—this man standing under some distant city skyline, arriving hopeful, only to see the person he loves tangled up in someone else's arms. It makes your own stomach knot.

"I didn't yell," he adds. "I didn't throw anything. She said nothing. Then her new guy threw a drink on me." He finally looks at you again. "And then another."

Your breath catches. Not from the story itself—though it's awful—but from the expression on his face now, the way his voice doesn't quiver but his eyes give him away. You're struck, again, by how beautiful he is, even now, even like this. And how tired he looks underneath it all. Still... there's no bitterness in his voice. Just a quiet kind of defeat.

The kind you know far too well.

"And now I'm here."

You nod slowly, your fingers curling around the edge of the table to ground yourself. His eyes are watching you intently. You are unsure why. Perhaps he is just studying you for your reaction to his words, but the way his eyes are roaming your face, and subtly taking glances at your body as you stand across from him, has you biting your lip.

You are feeling something from this stranger that you haven't felt even from your boyfriend.

The words press against the inside of your mouth, and before you can stop them, they spill out in a voice that doesn't sound like yours. "I think my boyfriend is cheating on me."

The air changes. Still and heavy. You don't look at him right away. Instead, your eyes lock on the clothes swimming behind the washer door like the colors there might soften the sharp edge of your own truth.

"I don't have proof," you murmur. "Just... I feel it. You know? He doesn't come home. He doesn't call. Everything he says lately sounds like a script. He's somewhere else, even when he's next to me."

Saying it out loud makes your ribs ache. It's like you've ripped open something you've been pretending wasn't there. The stranger doesn't say I'm sorry... or you deserve better. He doesn't offer hollow comforts or awkward platitudes. Instead, he gives you something harder to find—quiet understanding.

You break the silence, repeating the stranger's words from before, "The machines are easier to deal with," you say. "They don't lie."

The stranger shifts his weight, leaning back against the washer machine, his arms still crossed, his crewneck still limp in his hand like he's forgotten it again. His presence somehow doesn't make you self-conscious. If anything, his presence here makes you feel seen. You've just expressed more emotions to him then you have to your dishonest boyfriend.

"Exactly," he whispers.

You glance at the floor. "It's like I'm trying to convince myself it's normal. Like... maybe everyone feels like this, but I don't think they do."

"No," he confirms your thoughts. "He's a fucking asshole."

You can't say you're surprised when a shy smile forms from his honest and direct words. This is what you need. You need someone to validate your feelings towards your secretive boyfriend. This stranger, although being intoxicated and half-dressed with you in the laundromat at 3am, can offer this to you. You'll take it.

The half-dressed stranger continues, "I mean it." His tone sharpens a little, not angry at you, but on your behalf. "You're here, clearly trying to hold things together. Doing laundry at three in the morning, not calling him, not blowing up his phone... just dealing with it. And he's out there, what? Ignoring you? Letting you feel like shit?"

You don't say anything. You can't. Your throat is too tight again.

"I don't know him," he continues, "but I know the way he's making you feel, and that shit isn't love. He's a coward."

You want to open your mouth and agree with him. You know he is right. All the nights you spend worrying. All the nights you've spent crying yourself to sleep because of him. Your boyfriend's actions don't reflect someone who loves you. It's hard for you to come to terms with the truth.

The half-naked stranger breaks the intense silence, just above a whisper, as his eyes dance on your face.

"If you were mine, I'd never do that to you."

His words land harder than you expect; It's not because they're bold, but because they sound so honest. He is so certain, like he is seeing through any conflicted feeling you have. You risk a glance at him, and he isn't looking away. You don't want to look away either. You continue staring at him—your breath caught somewhere between shock and something warmer.

In the quiet that follows, your heart does a strange, fluttery stutter. It's too soon, it's too much, it's inappropriate—and yet... something about the way he said it felt right.

You let out a soft exhale. "You don't even know me."

His lips twitch upward. "Maybe not. Maybe I want to."

"You're just drunk and talking to a girl."

"Yeah, but you're beautiful, so I'd be thinking this sober too."

A shallow exhale releases the moment the words leave his mouth. You look at him—really look at him this time—the gentle curve of his mouth, the soft lines of exhaustion around his eyes. His eyes are so intense as he talks to you, yet so kind and alluring. He is only in his briefs and hasn't even put his crewneck back on and yet still somehow manages to make you feel more comforted than uncomfortable. This is more than your boyfriend has done... even in the last six months.

He watches you for a moment, and then smirks, letting the silence continue just long enough to make your stomach do something strange.

"If you keep staring at me like that, I'm gonna think you like what you see."

You let out a breath of a laugh, shaking your head as you glance away—flustered. "You're not exactly subtle, you know that?"

"Clearly I'm not going for subtle." The stranger motions to his briefs before he shifts his weight slightly, leaning one arm against the washer, his body angled just a little more in your direction. You bite a stupid smile at his words.

His voice drops, slow and warm. "But I meant what I said."

You arch a brow at him, feigning skepticism, though you already feel yourself softening under the weight of his gaze. "What, that you'd treat me better than my boyfriend?"

"That," he nods, lips curving, "and the part about you being beautiful."

You roll your eyes, though it doesn't hide the small smile forming at the corner of your mouth. "I bet you say that to all the women while you stand in your underwear."

He chuckles. "Hmm, no. I can honestly say you're the one and only."

You should say something snarky, or at least call him out on how ridiculous this whole situation is, but your cheeks are already warm, your arms crossed tighter against your hoodie to relax yourself. You sneak a glance at him again and find him already looking, like he never stopped. There's something dangerously comforting about the way he sees you. The quiet between you isn't awkward—it pulses, expectant, electric.

You shift in your seat, trying to act unaffected, drumming your fingers along the edge of the laundry basket. "You're seriously just going to sit there in your underwear this whole time?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Why? You want me to put the crewneck back on?"

Your eyes dart to the crewneck on the floor, then back to his bare shoulders. "I didn't say that."

"Don't excite me," he chuckles.

You shake your head and roll your eyes at his teasing.

"So," he says after a moment, "what do we do now? Wait out the cycle like two strangers who just trauma-dumped, flirted, and now we have to pretend this isn't kind of weird?"

You laugh—loud enough this time to echo slightly off the machines. "Yeah, I guess."

"Or..." he trails off, tone turning sincere again, like a gentle shift in gears. "Tell me something about you. Not your asshole boyfriend."

And that's how he disarms you—you look down at your hands, fiddling with the sleeve of your hoodie, suddenly aware of how exposed you feel. Not because he's looking at you like that—but because, for the first time in a long time, someone actually is.

You talk for hours. The buzz of machines fades into background noise as the two of you sit shoulder to shoulder on plastic chairs, trading stories and half-finished thoughts like it's the most natural thing in the world. The air shifts—softer now, calmer. He tells you about his favorite books, about places he has traveled. You tell him about the places you want to escape to, about the parts of yourself you feel like you've lost lately.

Eventually, you exchange names—Namjoon. It suits him.

By the time the dryers slow and click to a stop, the exhaustion of the hour has dulled into something more peaceful. The weight you walked in with feels lighter somehow. You fold your clothes. He pulls his jeans back on. There's a brief pause by the door—neither of you ready to leave the bubble of this strange, accidental connection. But you both know it's time.

He offers you a sleepy smile, still barefoot, his crewneck finally draped over one shoulder. "Take care of yourself," he says. "And maybe... stop doing laundry in the middle of the night and dump his ass."

You smile, eyes meeting his one last time. "Only if you stop stripping in public places."

You share the same knowing grin. Then he's gone—into the dark, quiet city, leaving behind only the echo of his laugh and the lingering warmth of being seen. You stand there for a moment longer, hands full of clean laundry, heart a little messier—and a little more hopeful—than it was before.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

It only takes another two weeks. Your fingers tremble against the cold steel of the laundromat door, pushing it open with more force than necessary. The fluorescent lights flicker to life above you—too bright, too sterile, and exposing the red rims of your eyes and the way your mascara has bled down your cheeks. You hadn't planned on coming here again. You swore you wouldn't—not after last time. Not after him. You didn't want to be tempted by that stranger.

But when you saw the pictures... when you opened the laptop and saw her—legs wrapped around your boyfriend in some hotel mirror selfie—when the nausea hit you so hard you couldn't stand, and then the silence that followed every ignored call and message...

You ran. You came back. You escaped.

You returned to the only place that held some kind of strange comfort. The place with old machines cracked tiles. The place where you felt human for a moment—even if it was with a half-naked stranger.

Your laundry basket is half-empty. You threw whatever was near you into it, not even bothering to sort it. A hoodie, your favorite pair of sweats, a towel. A bra tangled in a t-shirt. It doesn't matter. You just needed to move.

The laundromat door slams closed behind you with a hollow thud as you enter.

You move slowly to the far corner, the same row of machines you used that other night. You don't sit. You can't. Your knees feel like they might give out if you do. Your hands are shaking so hard you nearly drop a dryer sheet. Your breath shudders as you shove clothes into the washer—too fast, too angry. You are tunnel-visioned without awareness as to what is going on around you as you work.

When you finally sink to the bench, you press your palms to your eyes until you see stars. The burn behind your throat rises again, but you swallow it down.

You already cried the whole way here. You're tired of giving him more tears.

You assume you are alone until a voice startles you.

"___, are you okay?"

Your head lifts slowly, almost in disbelief. Sitting just across the way on a waiting bench—coat unzipped, eyes wide like he's surprised to see you too—is Namjoon.

He has been sitting there since you arrived, just watching. Surveying you.

Namjoon crosses the floor slowly towards you.

You don't move. You can't. His presence is surreal—it's like your grief conjured him, like some aching part of you called out and he answered. You want to speak, to explain, but the words are lost somewhere in the swell of emotion tightening your throat.

He kneels in front of you, his warm palms wrapping gently around your forearms. "What happened?" he asks, voice low, rough with concern.

Your lips part, but only a breath comes out. Then, without thinking, you fall forward into him. You touch the laundry stranger for the first time.

Namjoon catches you without hesitation. His arms come around you fast and firm, pulling you into the warmth of his chest like it's where you were meant to be all along. You bury your face in the curve of his neck, hot tears spilling freely now, soaking into the soft fabric of his hoodie. He smells like faint cologne and winter air.

He holds you tighter.

His body is solid and comforting, all lean muscle and quiet strength beneath his clothes. The way your palms press against his chest, you can feel the every curve and turn of his chest muscles. His hand rubs up and down your back in long, slow strokes, fingertips brushing just below the hem of your hoodie each time they pass. The contact sends a ripple of heat across your skin, and you're too enthralled to flinch from it.

You lean into his touch, craving the sensation, craving him.

"I found pictures," you whisper, voice cracking against his collarbone, "of him with someone else."

Namjoon exhales sharply, his hand pausing on your back. "That motherfucker."

"I called. I texted. I begged for an answer and he won't even give me that." You pull in a breath, your cheek pressing against the curve of his shoulder, feeling the way his body tenses beneath your touch. "I don't know why I came here. I just... I didn't know where else to go."

He doesn't speak for a long moment; instead, he shifts, his hands moving to cup your face gently, tipping your chin until your eyes meet his. The pads of his thumbs brush away your tears. You can feel the heat in his palms, the strength in his fingers, the way he holds your face like it's precious—like you are.

"Forget about him," Namjoon murmurs, his gaze dropping from your eyes to your lips for the briefest moment. "You don't deserve it. None of it."

You breathe shakily, and you're aware—painfully aware—of every inch of him against you. The way his knee brushes yours. The way your hands have ended up gripping the front of his hoodie.

"I don't know why it hurts so much," you whisper. "I'm so stupid."

"Because you love him," he says. "And he's a scumbag. He doesn't treat you the way he should."

The truth stings. The words fall from Namjoon's mouth and stab you in the chest. You are trembling with disgust as you internalize what he is saying to you. Namjoon is right, and you are finally ready to admit it— your boyfriend is an asshole.

"I don't love him," you finally say aloud. You are quiet, speaking just under your breath.

Namjoon doesn't respond right away. His hand is still gently cupping the back of your neck, and his eyes search yours—like he's trying to make sure you believe what you just said. That it's real. That you're finally free. The truth settles between you in the silence of your stares.

Then he murmurs, almost shyly not wanting to speak but feeling compelled, "I've been coming here... almost every night."

Your brows furrow. "What?"

Namjoon's gaze drops briefly, then lifts again—stronger, bolder. "I was hoping I'd see you again."

You can't help but widen your eyes in some version of disbelief.

"___," he says your name softly, a slight smile curling at the edges of his mouth. "I couldn't stop thinking about you... about how you looked at me. How you listened."

He shifts closer—his knee pressing firmly between your thighs, his hand warm against your hip. "You've been stuck in my head, ___. And now you're here, crying again, and all I want to do is make it stop."

His forehead grazes yours. You close your eyes—just for a second—until his lips hover over yours, so close that you can feel the heat of his breath across your mouth.

"Namjoon," you breathe, but you don't know what to say.

Your mind is thinking of the many actions you want to take right now, and all of them lead to the same place. Your heart is fluttering in your chest as you decide then and now that you need this. You want Namjoon to close the distance.

You tilt your chin, lips parting instinctively as a silent indication of what you want. Namjoon's eyes roam your face, from your eyes and down to your lips, and when he finally kisses you—it isn't hesitant. It's slow and passionate.

His mouth moves against yours with quiet intensity. It's slow at first, then firmer, deeper—his hand slipping from your hip to your waist as his tongue slips into your mouth. He pulls you closer until there's nothing but heat between you. Your hands move on their own, feeling at his muscular chest and fisting the fabric of his hoodie to bring him as close as you can to you.

Namjoon kisses like he feels everything—like your pain is his to carry too. His other hand cradles your cheek, thumb brushing your skin with aching tenderness as his mouth moves with yours, slow and savoring.

He shifts his weight into you , pressing your body gently back against the bench, allow himself room between your parted legs. His chest presses to yours, solid and warm and unrelenting, with the thud of his heartbeat matching yours in a rhythm that's escalating.

Your body responds to him easily; you find yourself swaying your hips into him for some friction against your heating core. You gasp softly into his mouth as your body instinctively responding to the pressure. Namjoon pulls back just enough to look at you, lips swollen, breath uneven.

"This is okay?" he whispers.

You nod, already leaning back in. "Yeah," you breathe. "More than okay."

His smile is soft, but his eyes are dark and full of want. When he kisses you again, it's less patient—hungrier now. You respond with just as much heat, sliding your arms around his neck, fingers threading through the short, soft strands of his hair. You arch into him when his hands settle at your hips, his grip tightening, guiding you against him with no space.

The room is quiet except for the washer machine humming beside you, and the shared breaths of two people losing themselves in something unexpected. Namjoon's mouth trails from yours to your jaw, down to the sensitive skin below your ear, his breath hot against your neck as he disperses wet kisses on your skin.

You don't want him to stop. Not now. Not when it feels so good. You exhale shakily, and for the first time in what feels like forever—you feel wanted.

Namjoon's lips return to yours and the kiss deepens; the urgency in it is palpable. It's as if he can't get enough of you. Your lips are swollen and your chest is heaving as you moan into his mouth. His name slips in alluring mumbles from your lips.

The heat is tingling inside you. As your mouths and bodies work against each other in a passionate display of lust, your sensitive insides are feeling every inch of him. You feel it start as just a glimmer of excitement in your lower stomach, and then continue as a pooling mess in your underwear.

"Fuck," you whimper at how turned on you are. Your hands slide down to the front of his jeans, wanting to know if he is feeling the same way as you. Your exploration leads your to a inciting revelation; Namjoon's cock is hard beneath material.

You press your palm against him, feeling for the outline of his length in your fingertips. You apply pressure around his hardness as his lips continue against yours. Namjoon's mouth falls open at the sensation, mouth getting sloppy at the feeling of your caressing touch.

He groans lowly against your mouth, "I don't care who's watching."

The comment sends a shiver down your spine. He doesn't care. Neither do you. All that matters is the way your bodies fit together, the way his lips feel against your skin, the way he's gotten your panties wet; igniting you.

"I want it," you moan into his mouth.

Your hands move more urgently, retracting from his crotch and tugging at his hoodie. You pull it over his head in one swift motion. The cool air hits his chest, and you run your fingers over the solid muscle beneath his skin. He groans, low and deep, his head falling back as your hands explore the ridges of his chest.

You pull him back to you, your lips finding his again. He responds just as urgently, his hands now pushing your sweater up over your head. You feel exposed in the best way.

Namjoon steps back, his gaze lingering on your body, his eyes dark with a burning desire you too feel in your chest. He mumbles sincerely at you, "you're fucking beautiful"

You swallow, your breath uneven, as he moves in again, his lips finding the skin of your throat, trailing lower. You can't stop the soft moan that slips from your lips when his hands slide down your sides, brushing the curve of your hips.

The feeling of his hands on your skin—so hot, so sure—has you reeling, but you don't care. You want him. Namjoon.

"I don't give a shit about him," you murmur, your voice rough with need, and you can't help but feel a surge of heat flood through you. "I want you," you say.

Before he can respond, Namjoon's mouth is on yours again, but this time it's not soft or slow—it's urgent and demanding. His hands are on your body, caressing, pulling, guiding you as if he can't get enough. You wrap your arms around him, pulling him as close as possible, needing the weight of him against you. His lips trail down your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he leaves a trail of soft, desperate kisses.

Your hands find his erection under his jeans again, fumbling with the buttons, needing to feel him—all of him—just as much as he wants to feel you. Namjoon moans lowly into your kiss at the feeling of your hand against him. You're desperate now, for him, for the connection that's been building between you since the moment you met. It's all you can think about.

Namjoon pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes blazing with desire; panting. "____..?" your name trails off his lips in an unfinished question. He wants to know what you want. His gaze is narrowed down at you, voice thick and raspy.

You don't hesitate to confirm what you're both thinking. "Yes."

That's all it takes. He moves quickly, shedding the rest of his clothes. Your follow in suit, gently guiding your legs out of your shorts. His jeans drop to the ground, and his shirt is thrown to the side before returning to you with more passion, lifting you in his arms like it's nothing, carrying you to the nearby folding table. The two of you are left only in your underwear when he places you atop the surface, your body trembling beneath his touch, your hands already running over the soft, heated skin of his chest. The folding table, although inexperienced at supporting two hungry bodies, doesn't waver in stance with your weight on it.

The world outside the laundromat no longer matters. It's just you and him, locked in this intimate, heated moment, the tension and desire between you both too strong to ignore.

His kisses are hungry, sloppy, devouring, like he's starved for you. You kiss him back with just as much passion, clinging to his bare shoulders, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his arms to hang on to the flood of feeling. Your insides are tingling with every ounce of desire that you can muster. Namjoon presses closer, his hips wedged between your legs, the table creaking softly beneath the abrupt, relentless weight of the two of you. You can feel the hard, consuming pressure of him through the thin layers of fabric between you, and it's making your head spin. Every nerve comes alive where he touches you, where his hands move with growing boldness. His lips leave yours only to take a burning, open-mouthed trail down your jaw, along the sensitive line of your neck. He nibbles softly at the spot just below your ear, sucking just hard enough to make you shudder, to make you turn your head and offer him more. His hands roam up the heated skin of your abdomen, palms rough and warm as they travel up your ribs, thumbs brushing just under the swell of your breasts.

"Fuck," he growls against your skin, voice low and hoarse, "you're so fucking perfect."

You're trembling under his touch—partly it's that need—that need you haven't felt in a long time. The other part is slight disbelief that this is happening, that someone could want you like this, touch you like this. Your now ex-boyfriend made you feel like this was impossible. You clutch Namjoon's shoulders tighter, pressing your hips forward instinctively, shameless in how much you need more of him.

Namjoon groans at the movement, his mouth finding yours again in a bruising kiss, all teeth and tongue and breathless noise. One of his hands slides down your side, deliberately, until it finds the waistband of your underwear.

He hesitates—just for a second—his forehead pressing against yours, his breath ragged.

You shake your head, breathless. "Don't stop. Please."

That's all the confirmation Namjoon needs.

His fingers slip under the band of your underwear, dragging the fabric down your thighs with one hand while the other stays curled around your waist, holding you. The cool air brushes against your bare skin for a moment—before his hand returns, warm and sure, parting your thighs wider.

Your head falls back at the feeling of his fingertips at your wetness. Your body knows what it wants. Your insides are aching—yearning—to be touched, to be explored, to be wanted right at this moment.

"You're so wet," he rasps, voice breaking around the words sexily. "God, you're so fucking wet for me."

His fingertips slide easily against you—the digits drenched in your pleasure. You nod drowsily at him, moaning a soft variation of agreement to his words. His touch feels so good as he slowly lathers your drenched insides at the pad of his fingertips. Your back hits the wall of the laundromat and you feel between your parted legs with your hand, searching hungrily for Namjoon's length. When your fingers finally find him, his cock is strained and throbbing against his briefs. You can't wait anymore.

You bite your lip, looking at him through hooded eyes. You lean forward, catching the bottom of his earlobe against your lips as you whisper erotically. "Fuck me."

Namjoon groans at your command. You feel his cock twitch in your hand when you finally spring it free from his underwear. Your tall handsome sexual partner's mouth falls open against your neck as he continues to kiss your flushed skin. His lips are wet, delectable, as they attack your skin eagerly. Your palm slides up and down his throbbing length, his skin slick and lubricated from the tip.

There are no words exchanged when your hands touch in-between you. You spread your legs for him, the tip of his cock swollen and wet when he starts playing with your clit. You fall back with a racing heart, moans slipping endlessly from your breathless mouth as Namjoon using the tip of his cock to rub circles on your most potent pleasure point. Your feet meet the back of his legs, urging him, willing him, to close the gap between you.

"Yes," you moan. The heat is starting to tingle in your toes. You can feel with each torturous swipe of his tip against your clit, you are growing closer and closer to a climax, something you haven't had with another person in months.

Namjoon knows you're close. He is observing your every reaction to him. His eyes are dark, full of lust, his erection throbbing with his heart thudding in anticipation. Your drowsy eyes make it hard to see him, but you can feel his stare. His hips sway softly, carefully, studying the way your body jolts as his sensitive tip rubs over your clit.

"Namjoon," you cry. "I want you inside me."

"Oh, fuck, ___," he grunts at your breathless moans, your name sounding sinful from his beautiful lips.

Your mouth falls agape when you feel his swollen shaft press into you. You whimper, almost relieved, as his cock slips past your entrance. You are biting your lips to control just how much you want to groan and moan for the feeling. Namjoon slowly shifts his hips forward, teasingly slow, as you stretch around him. You can feel every small movement, every new inch of your insides he pushes through. Your hands lock around his flexed bicep, digging your nails into his skin.

"So—" he trails with concentration, "—fucking good."

You are nodding at him because you can't find words. His cock is almost fully inside you now, your legs tightening around his lean frame, wanting to stop the teasing so he can fill you. His cock is pulsing between your insides; your clenching walls giving his length immense pressure as he attempts to thrust into you. The two of you share different octaves of moans when he fills you entirely, his torso meeting your spread inner thighs.

Namjoon pulls at the material of your bra as he begins thrusting into you. Your breasts spill, his hands molding and shaping your skin in his harsh grasp as your bodies work against one another. He groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin as he palms your breasts, thumbs flicking over your sensitive peaks while his hips grind deeper into you.

“God, baby,” he mutters, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His breath is hot, uneven. “Look at you taking my cock."

You gasp, sobbing out half-formed sounds as his thrusts pick up pace. "Fuck, I-I... yes."

His body is pounding into yours with slow, merciless rhythm. Each roll of his hips meets a varied sensitive hub within your core, sparking heat and tingles throughout every inch of your body. You can feel his length pressing deeply inside you, testing your limits, wanting to find that spot to take you over the edge. With each new stroke he takes against you, you feel his cock nearing it.

The laundromat fades around you—the hum of forgotten rackety machines, the flicker of overhead lights, the cold, chilling air. All that exists is the delicious friction of Namjoon inside you, the grip of his controlling hands gripping your hips, steadying your body as he fills you repeatedly, and the way your bodies slap together in frantic, desperate synchronization.

Your head falls back, exposing your throat, and Namjoon doesn’t waste the invitation. His mouth latches onto your skin, kissing, biting, sucking marks you know will still be there tomorrow — proof of tonight, proof that you were wanted. You want the proof. You want your ex-boyfriend to feel the shame—even if just for a moment—some regret for the way he treats you.

“Look at me,” Namjoon demands. "Oh, you good girl."

You force your heavy lids open, meeting his stare — dark, glassy, possessive. The raw need etched across his face almost undoes you. His hair falls into his eyes as he fucks you harder, deeper, chasing the tremble already building again in your thighs.

“You’re mine right now,” he growls, his hand sliding down to squeeze your ass, tilting your hips up so he can thrust even deeper. "Not his."

You whimper, feeling your whole body tightening.

"Say it," he grunts through thrusts.

“Yours,” you breathe, desperate, broken and open for him. “I’m yours.”

Namjoon releases a guttural sound at your words, his cock sliding and pushing into your clenching walls with renewed intensity. Your insides flutter around him, collapsing to entrap him, your climax looming sharp and fast and inevitable. The folding table beneath you is now creaking loudly in protest, but neither of you care—too lost in the frenzied, frantic way your bodies drive toward release.

"That's it, ___," he coos in praise. "Cum for me."

Your hands squeeze around his biceps, trying to hold on as Namjoon's large frame continuously rocks back and forth into you. Cries are escaping you and you can't stop them, the pleasure becoming too much, overwhelming you, the tip of his length meeting you so deeply inside you that with your eyes closed, you feel as though you are falling through a different universe.

"Fuck," you cry, "Right there—yes—!"

It only takes a few more thrusts of his length inside you for you to climax against him. Namjoon's cock is swollen, rushing with blood, swelling between your walls as you clench around it. Your body is clamping down around him so tightly, that it's difficult for him to pull from you when he is reaching his climax. Namjoon is breathing heavily; his cock glistening and slipper when his hand grasps it.

You are panting, almost unable to catch yourself when your hands fall back onto the folding table. Your body is still jolting, trembling from the loss of contact inside you. You ride out your climax while Namjoon pumps his shaft in his hand—only two times before he cums on your stomach. The substance oozes from his twitching member, sticky as it meets your heated skin.

Your chest is rising erratically when you come down from your climax. Your legs are limp, totally exhausted as your body settles against the wall. The folding table creaks just slightly when Namjoon pulls his weight from you, and then buckles on one side. Your eyes widen and Namjoon catches your forearm to stop you from falling.

The two of you share a breathless laugh.

A slow, exhausted smile spreads across Namjoon’s face — it's so real, so unfiltered, that it makes your heart flutter. It's a feeling you didn't think you could have after dealing with your ex-boyfriend. And when Namjoon pulls you in, not caring about anything else in the world, to press a chaste kiss on your fatigued lips, you know that your desperate actions with him were right.

For the first time in months, you believe it: you're not forgotten nor neglected.

You are wanted.

#rpwprpwprpwprwreview

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