seokwrts

[seokwrts]

PUSSY DRUNK | jjk

🎱 🕷️ ⛓️ | nsfw

synopsis : Jungkook and Y/N finally give in to the tension that’s been building for far too long. It’s more than just sex — it’s a confession of love and longing. Every touch is tender, every breath shared, and as they fall apart together, they become even more deeply connected — body, heart, and soul.

pairing : jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre : soft smut , erotica

word count : 1k

warnings : Explicit sexual content (18+), Emotional vulnerability , Gentle overstimulation

The moment Jungkook felt the plush warmth of your body enveloping him — even just barely — he lost his breath. His forehead dipped to your shoulder, a shaky exhale brushing your skin. His voice came out low, strained, full of awe.

“I–I think I’m already gone,” he murmured. “I’m not even in all the way and… I feel drunk off you.”

You smiled softly, your hand stroking gently through the dark strands at the nape of his neck.

“It’s just the tip, koo,” you whispered, teasing — not to taunt, but to soothe. “Don’t say it like that,” he groaned, eyes squeezed shut as he shifted his hips in the smallest, slowest motion. His body trembled. “You saying it like that makes it impossible to keep my promise.”

That promise: just the tip. Just a taste. Just a moment. But even that was too much — too overwhelming. You were too warm, too soft, too you beneath him. His hands clutched at your hips like he was scared he’d float away otherwise.

“You’re doing so well,” you breathed, brushing your lips along his temple. “Just breathe.” He tried. He really did.But every time his body rolled forward — just slightly, just shy of a full thrust — he felt your walls hug him tighter.

Felt your breath stutter against his cheek. Heard the way his name slipped past your lips, and he melted all over again. “Baby,” he whispered, voice wrecked, “you don’t know what this is doing to me. You don’t know how long I’ve—” He swallowed hard. “I’ve thought about this. You. So many times. But this… this is more than anything I imagined.”

You kissed the edge of his jaw, your thumb brushing beneath his eye where tears had started to gather. “You’re okay,” you whispered. “You’re here. I’m yours.” His hips stilled, body flushed and trembling, lips parted in a breathless gasp. Then, slowly, reverently, he shifted forward again — deeper this time. Still gentle. Still careful. But with more weight. More emotion.

Your head tipped back slightly at the sensation. Not from pain. From closeness. From the intensity in his eyes when he looked at you. “You feel so… full,” you whispered, voice barely there. His hand reached to cradle your cheek. “Am I hurting you?”

“No,” you answered quickly, threading your fingers through his hair. “You feel perfect.”

Jungkook let out a soft, broken sound — somewhere between a sigh and a moan. He nuzzled into your neck, lips brushing your skin.

“I want to be closer,” he admitted, the confession raw in his voice. “Even now — like this — I still feel like I can’t get close enough.” And then he moved again — slowly, deeply. With reverence.

His breath caught every time he felt you clench around him. His hands traveled your waist, your ribs, your back, like he was trying to memorize every inch of you. When your nails grazed down his shoulders, he shivered, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “So, so beautiful.”You cupped his face, pulling him down into a kiss — not rushed, not messy. Just deep. Intimate.

Your lips moved against his in a rhythm that matched your bodies, and when you whispered his name again, it undid him all over again. His breath was ragged, trembling where it fanned against your throat, his hands clutching your waist like he was anchoring himself. You could feel every stutter of his heartbeat, every tremble in his chest as he hovered above you — holding back, barely, with his eyes locked onto yours.

“Y/N,” he rasped, like he was on the edge of something huge. “I… I don’t know how much longer—” “I know,” you whispered, fingers brushing through the sweat-damp strands of his hair. “Me too.”His eyes fluttered shut like he was in pain — or maybe overwhelmed by the tenderness in your voice. And when he moved again, it was slow, deep, reverent.

Like he was trying to memorize every inch of you. Every sound. Every breath. Like this wasn’t just a moment — it was a vow. The rhythm shifted. Slower, more deliberate. But it burned. Your body arched into his, desperate, every nerve ending alive and sparking. The tension had been building for so long — in the silence, in the looks, in the things left unsaid — and now it felt like it was all unraveling at once.

He kissed you again, soft and open-mouthed, a moan rumbling in his throat when he felt you clench around him. “Are you close?” he whispered, breath shaky against your lips. You nodded, too breathless to speak. Your hands tangled in the sheets, back arching, trying to hold onto something — anything — as the feeling built higher, hotter.

“I want you to,” he murmured, thumb brushing along your cheek. “With me. Please, baby… let go.” And it happened — like a quiet explosion from the center of your chest. Your body tightened, breath catching on a gasp as you came, trembling beneath him. He felt it — the way you clenched, the way your breath stuttered, the way your hands clutched him like he was the only solid thing in the world.

And it was his undoing.With a strangled groan, jungkook followed — hips stilling, face buried in your neck as a shudder rocked through him. He held you tighter, breathing your name like a prayer, riding the wave of it with you. The world narrowed down to heat and heartbeat and closeness — and the stunning feeling of falling apart together.

Even after the storm had passed, he didn’t let go.

Instead, he kissed the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your temple — everywhere he could reach. His body still pressed to yours, heart still thudding in sync with your own. “You okay?” he whispered against your skin. You nodded slowly, your voice still caught somewhere between a breath and a dream. “Perfect.” He smiled. Sleepy. Sweet. And so in love it was written across every inch of him.

[seokwrts]

I LIKE ME BETTER | jjk

PART SIX | nsfw

summary : After walking in on her boyfriend Sanho cheating, Y/N moves out and ends up living with Jungkook, a cocky yet caring acquaintance she once couldn’t stand. What begins as a tense, passive-aggressive roommate situation slowly transforms into something deeper, as both navigate heartbreak, vulnerability, and emotional healing. Through stormy nights, late-night confessions, domestic routines, and quiet tension, Y/N and Jungkook gradually uncover the warmth and safety they’ve both been missing—especially in each other.

“After all, what’s the worst that could happen just living under the same roof?”

pairing : jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre : roommates , fluff , smut

word count : 6k

warnings : Explicit. This story contains sexual content, explicit language, and themes of emotional trauma. Expect a roommates-to-lovers slow burn with intense enemies-to-lovers tension, mutual pining, and eventual smut. Features include domestic intimacy, past cheating, emotional hurt/comfort, and lots of kitchen tension. There’s jealousy, unresolved sexual tension, first times, comfort sex, and characters who are both emotionally guarded and touch-starved.

He laid her down like she was something delicate—fragile, breakable—but his eyes told another story.

Jungkook stood at the edge of the bed, just watching her for a second. Her chest was rising and falling, her lips still red and kiss-swollen, dress bunched up around her hips. The soft lamplight made her glow—like a secret the world wasn’t allowed to touch.

“Take it off,” she whispered, tugging at the hem of her dress.

But he only shook his head.

“No,” he murmured, crawling over her slowly. “I’ll do it.”

He took his time.

First, sliding the straps down her shoulders, then brushing kisses against every new inch of skin he revealed. When the dress finally slipped past her waist and legs, he tossed it aside, eyes raking over her bare body like he was imprinting it into memory.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice rough. “You’re unreal.”

She reached up to touch him, but he caught her wrist, pinning it gently to the bed. “Not yet,” he murmured. “I want to see you fall apart first.”

Then he leaned down and kissed her—slow and deep, tongue stroking hers while his hand trailed down her side, over her hip, and between her legs.

His fingers slid against her soaked core, and she gasped.

“You’re already this wet?” he whispered, his tone dark and dripping with something dangerous. “From what? The way I looked at you? Or the way I dragged you out like you were mine?”

She could barely answer. Her hips lifted into his touch, searching for more.

“That’s it,” he muttered, sliding one finger in, then another, curling them just right. “You’re so tight, baby. Bet no one’s ever touched you like this.”

She whimpered, breath stuttering.

“Tell me no one’s made you feel this way,” he said, voice low as his thumb found her clit. “Tell me they all fucked it up and now you’re mine to ruin.”

“Jungkook,” she gasped, her back arching off the bed. “Please—”

He leaned in and sucked a nipple into his mouth, his fingers still working her, still bringing her closer to the edge. He played with her like he had all the time in the world—wet sounds between her legs, his tongue flicking and teasing until she was a trembling mess beneath him.

“Please what?” he asked, kissing up to her ear. “You close already?”

She nodded frantically. “Don’t stop, please don’t—”

But he did.

He pulled his fingers out, slow and slick, and brought them to his mouth.

She stared, lips parted in disbelief as he sucked them clean with a low groan.

“You taste like heaven,” he muttered. “But you don’t get to come yet.”

“Are you serious?” she whispered, breathless, frustrated, legs twitching.

He stood and slid off his jeans and boxers in one motion. Her eyes widened—impossibly wide.

And he smirked. “Yeah. That’s right.”

She sat up slightly, stunned and eager all at once. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Only if you’re lucky.”

Then, with no warning, he pushed her back down and thrust into her—deep, full, relentless. Her moan was instant, wrecked and needy.

“Fuck—you feel even better than I dreamed,” he groaned, hips rolling into her with slow, cruel precision. “I could do this all night.”

He pulled back until only the tip remained, then pushed in again—hard. She cried out, nails raking down his back.

“You like that?” he growled. “You like being used like this?”

She nodded, but it wasn’t enough.

“Say it.”

“Yes,” she breathed. “God, yes—I like it.”

He slowed. Teasing again.

“Beg.”

“What?”

His mouth brushed her ear. “Beg me to fuck you like the desperate little slut you are.”

Y/N whimpered, pride fraying under the heat in his voice, torn between biting back and giving in. She felt raw—overstimulated, oversensitive, stretched to the edge and still aching for more.

Then he stilled inside her. Completely.

Her body trembled from the ache, the emptiness suddenly more unbearable than the heat. Her heart pounded in her throat, lungs gasping for something—air, sanity, his next move.

He waited. Not moving, not even breathing.

Until she broke.

“Please,” she whispered, eyes wet, voice shaking. “Please, Jungkook. I need it. I need you.”

He looked down at her like she’d just handed him her soul—like he already owned it.

Then he snapped his hips forward.

Hard.

Fast.

She cried out, the sound swallowed by the room, her hands clenching fistfuls of the sheets as he slammed into her again and again. The bed rattled. The headboard smacked the wall. And Jungkook, hoarse and breathless, growled into her skin, “Good girl. You beg so pretty.”

Y/N moaned, her voice rising with every thrust. The way he moved inside her—deep and unrelenting—made it impossible to think, to speak, to be anything except his in that moment.

Her name left his lips like a chant. Like worship. Like something half-sinful, half-sacred.

When she came, it was with a gasp so loud she surprised herself, body arching up into him, nails digging into his back. She felt like she was falling—breaking open—and all she could do was hold onto him as the wave crashed through her.

But Jungkook wasn’t done.

He didn’t let her come down gently. Instead, he gripped her hips, flipped her over effortlessly, and pulled her up onto her knees.

She barely had time to catch her breath before her cheek was pressed into the mattress and his hands were on her again—firm, possessive, dragging her hips back toward him.

And then—

Crack.

His palm met her ass, sharp and perfect. She jerked forward, gasping, thighs trembling.

“You like being fucked like this?” he growled, voice guttural, filled with hunger. “Like my good girl?”

“Yes—fuck—Jungkook—”

He spanked her again, harder this time, and she cried out—pain melting into pleasure, leaving her breathless and aching. He thrust back into her, deep and punishing, and she swore she saw stars.

Every snap of his hips echoed through her bones. Every moan from her lips only made him go harder.

He was relentless.

There was no room to think. Only his hands gripping her tighter, only his name falling from her lips over and over like a prayer she didn’t know she believed in.

Her body was shaking—unraveled completely under him, legs trembling, fingers clawing at the sheets like they were the only thing keeping her grounded.

Jungkook was relentless.

Every thrust knocked the air from her lungs, every growl in her ear made the ache in her gut twist tighter. His grip on her hips was bruising, possessive, dragging her back against him again and again until she couldn’t think straight, couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe.

And then it hit.

Like a snap.

A break.

“FUCK FUCK FUCK, im cumming ngaahh”

Her whole body arched, her mouth falling open in a silent cry as the wave slammed through her—hot and staggering, like lightning had laced through her veins. Her muscles locked, her heartbeat stuttered, and for a few precious seconds, she was floating—adrift in a haze of heat and sound and the feel of him buried inside her.

“Fuck—there you go,” Jungkook groaned, his voice cracking as he watched her fall apart. “That’s it. Let me have it.”

She collapsed forward, weak and panting, cheek pressed into the mattress, tears stinging at the corners of her eyes—not from pain, but from how full it all felt. How consuming.

Her body still pulsed around him, like it couldn’t bear to let him go.

Jungkook didn’t stop—riding her through it, drawing it out, dragging every aftershock from her until she was trembling and boneless in his hands.

And through it all, he held her like she was precious. Ruined. His.

“God, baby,” he murmured, breathless, reverent. “You’re unreal.”

She didn’t have the words to respond. Just the rasp of his name, soft and stunned, as she melted into the bed beneath him.

She collapsed forward, her body trembling, spent, as the final wave of her climax crashed through her. Jungkook watched her unravel, every inch of her a beautiful, ruined mess beneath him—lips parted, flushed skin glowing with sweat, her voice broken and breathless as she whimpered his name like it was a confession.

And that did it.

That wrecked him.

Jungkook’s rhythm faltered, breath catching in his throat as the pressure inside him finally snapped—hot and blinding, dragging a raw groan from deep in his chest. He thrust hard one last time, burying himself fully, his fingers digging into her hips as his body seized.

It felt like fire and gravity and surrender.

Everything inside him pulled tight, then let go in one devastating flood, and he spilled into her with a ragged breath, chest pressed to her back, forehead dropped between her shoulder blades. His entire world tunneled down to this—her heat, her breath, her body wrapped around him like it was always meant to be.

“Shit,” he whispered, voice cracked, barely more than air. “Y/N—fuck.”

His heartbeat was racing. Loud in his ears. He stayed like that for a long moment, eyes shut, mouth pressed to her spine, trying to find something solid to hold onto while the aftershocks ripped through him.

She was so warm beneath him. So still. But not distant—never that.

He kissed the back of her neck. Once. Twice.

And when he finally eased out of her, careful and slow, her soft gasp sent another ache through his chest—this one not born of lust, but something gentler. Something dangerously close to love.

He reached for her automatically, as if his body couldn’t bear the space between them. Pulled her into him, chest to chest, their bodies still slick with heat, hearts still racing.

Neither of them spoke.

There were no jokes, no smugness, no teasing smirks.

Just silence.

And in that silence, something unspoken settled between them.

Heavy. Real. Inevitable.

Jungkook brushed his thumb along her cheek, kissed her forehead like it meant something—and for once, didn’t try to take it back.

The room was quiet.

Dim light pooled through the sheer curtains, brushing against tangled sheets and clothes left abandoned in a trail across the floor. The city beyond the windows buzzed faintly, distant and small compared to the stillness inside this space.

Their space.

Jungkook lay on his back, head tilted toward the ceiling, his fingers moving in lazy, rhythmic circles on Y/N’s bare arm. The pads of his fingertips dragged so gently that she felt every pass like a whisper against her skin. Y/N lay beside him, curled into the warmth of his side, her head resting just below his collarbone, their legs tangled messily beneath the sheets.

It had been quiet for a while. Not the uncomfortable kind—but the kind that made you want to stay still so you wouldn’t break it. The kind that only settles when something heavy has been said without needing words.

Y/N breathed in deeply, letting herself sink further into the soft, steady thump of his heartbeat. The tension in her shoulders had slowly started to loosen—the kind she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying since the day she moved in.

Finally, she stirred.

Lifting her chin, she rested it lightly on his chest and looked up. The shadows softened his face, but the lines between his brows were still there—faint, but real. Like he was thinking. Like he was still unsure if this moment was something he was allowed to have.

“That was…” she started, voice husky and small, “intense.”

Jungkook let out a slow, breathy laugh. It rumbled beneath her cheek. “Yeah. No kidding.”

She smiled faintly, but her eyes stayed on his face, watching it shift as his mind kept running. The joy of the moment hadn’t left, but beneath it was a quiet nervousness, a question trying to form.

So she asked it first.

“So…” she hesitated, her voice barely above a whisper, “what now?”

Jungkook’s fingers stilled on her arm.

He looked down at her slowly, brows dipping slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” she swallowed, suddenly unsure. “Do we just… go back to arguing about laundry tomorrow? Pretend none of this happened?”

There was a pause. A real one.

And then Jungkook sat up slightly, resting his weight on one elbow so he could see her better. His eyes were soft, wide and unreadable in the glow of the streetlights leaking in from outside.

“Y/N,” he said quietly, “I don’t think I could pretend this didn’t happen even if I wanted to.”

Her heart squeezed in her chest.

“You don’t want to?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

“No,” he said, and there wasn’t a trace of hesitation in it.

He reached out, brushing her hair from her face gently, like she was something delicate. Something he’d broken once, and was now holding carefully, terrified of doing it again.

“I’ve wanted you for longer than I even realized. And once I did realize…” His voice faltered for a second. “It scared the shit out of me.”

Y/N blinked, eyes burning.

Jungkook continued, softer now. “But tonight—you—you gave me something I didn’t even know I’d been starving for. And now that I’ve had even a piece of you like this? There’s no going back.”

Her chest ached at how sincere he sounded. No games, no teasing. Just Jungkook—raw and open, for once.

“That’s…” she tried to smile but it trembled, “a lot.”

He nodded. “Yeah. But I don’t want to half-love you. Or half-choose you. I want all of it. Every part of you. The mornings where your hair’s a mess and you steal the last Pop-Tart. The fights over whose turn it is to buy toilet paper. The way you hum when you study. The way you pretend to hate my playlist but keep playing it in the kitchen.”

“I don’t hate it,” she murmured.

“I know.” He smiled. “That’s why I want this. For real.”

Her throat was tight. “You mean it?”

“I do,” he said. “Let me be yours. Let me call this us.”

She stared at him for a long second, her vision swimming, and then she leaned up—slowly, like she was afraid of waking from a dream—and kissed him. It wasn’t urgent, or hungry. It was soft. Deep. A promise.

When she pulled back, her voice was thick with emotion. “I want this too. You. Us. The stupid playlists. The mornings. The fighting. The loving. All of it.”

Jungkook smiled then—really smiled. Not the cocky one she saw when he beat her at Mario Kart, or the soft one when he was half-asleep on the couch. No, this one was different. It cracked his entire face open. Honest. Bright. Like the sun had just risen inside his chest.

“We’ll figure it out together,” he whispered.

They stayed like that for a while—just breathing, touching, hearts syncing in the space between.

Then Y/N shifted, biting her lip like she was holding back a secret.

He raised a brow. “What’s that face?”

She glanced up, mischief flickering behind her lashes. “There’s something I should probably tell you.”

“There’s something I have to confess.”

Jungkook raised a brow, lips quirking as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Uh oh. That’s never a good start.”

Y/N hesitated, her fingers trailing lightly across his chest, drawing little patterns over the tattooed skin like she needed the distraction to say what she was about to. “You know how you kind of… lost your mind at the party?”

He groaned, head falling back against the pillow. “Yeah, thanks for the reminder. My highlight reel of shame.”

“Well…” She paused, biting her bottom lip in a way that was almost too innocent. “That may have been… kind of intentional.”

Jungkook’s head tilted back up slowly. His gaze narrowed. “What?”

“The dancing. The kiss. Taehyung’s jacket. That whole overly flirty entrance…”

He blinked. “Wait, wait—that was on purpose?”

She nodded, biting back a grin that was already taking over her face.

“It was a trap,” she said brightly.

Jungkook’s jaw dropped. He sat up on one elbow, staring at her like she’d just announced she was secretly an assassin. “A trap?!”

“A very effective one,” she added proudly. “Taehyung helped. We knew if we pushed you hard enough, you’d crack. He said you were all bark and no bite.”

Jungkook’s mouth opened and closed again, stunned into silence. “Taehyung was in on this? That pretty-boy barista betrayed me?”

“He played his role perfectly,” she said, smug. “He even let me borrow his jacket. Said it would really rile you up.”

“Oh my God,” Jungkook groaned. “I knew that jacket was too big to be yours.”

She grinned now, enjoying every second. “You were so mad.”

“I was mad. I was about to commit crimes.” His expression morphed into one of mock betrayal. “You conniving little—”

Before she could react, Jungkook rolled over her, pinning her down in one fluid motion. Y/N squealed as he straddled her hips, his hands already sneaking toward her sides.

“Wait—Jungkook—no, no—!”

“Oh no,” he said darkly, that wicked smile tugging at his lips. “You don’t get to scheme against me and walk away.”

His fingers dug into her ribs and sides, tickling mercilessly.

“Jungkook!” she shrieked, laughing so hard her stomach cramped. “Stop—stop, I’m sorry!”

“Sorry’s not enough.” He leaned down, pressing kisses to her collarbone between bouts of playful torture. “You and Taehyung plotted my downfall. That’s treason.”

“You’re insane!” she choked out through laughter, writhing beneath him.

“Possibly. But you brought it out of me.”

He tickled her harder, and she kicked her legs helplessly, tears of laughter sliding down her cheeks.

“Okay—okay, I give up!” she gasped. “I confess! It was all my idea!”

“Damn right it was,” Jungkook muttered, finally stopping to let her catch her breath.

They lay there panting, tangled up, their cheeks flushed—hers from laughing, his from looking at her like she was the best damn thing that had ever happened to him.

He stared down at her, brushing her hair out of her eyes. “You really got me, you know.”

Y/N, still breathless, blinked up at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “I would’ve gone crazy if I saw you kiss him one more time.”

Her hand rose, fingers lightly trailing along his jaw. “Good. That was the plan.”

He laughed softly. Then he leaned down and kissed her nose. “You’re trouble.”

She smiled. “And yet… you’re still here.”

He didn’t reply right away. He just kissed her forehead, then the tip of her nose again, and then her lips—gently this time, with all the sweetness of a boy completely gone for her.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered.

Then Jungkook’s expression shifted, softened.

“I love you.”

Her breath hitched.

“What?”

“I love you,” he repeated, voice low and certain. “I think I’ve been in love with you since the second week you moved in. Maybe even before that. You just… got under my skin.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. She reached up, cupping his cheek. “Say it again.”

He leaned down and whispered it against her lips. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she whispered back.

He kissed her again—this time slow, reverent. The kind of kiss that didn’t burn but melted. The kind you could fall asleep to.

When they finally pulled apart, Jungkook collapsed beside her with a content sigh. Y/N curled into his side, her leg draped over his, their fingers intertwined.

She glanced up at him with a teasing smile. “So… what now, Mr. I-Love-You?”

He smirked. “Now, I take care of you.”

She rolled her eyes. “You mean like, emotionally or—?”

“I mean like, your legs are shaking, and we’re both a mess.”

“Oh.” Her cheeks flushed. “Yeah. That kind of care.”

He sat up and reached for the water bottle beside the bed, handing it to her. She drank slowly, then let him wipe her down gently with a warm towel. His hands were tender, careful, like he was handling something sacred.

Once she was tucked back in, warm and clean, Jungkook kissed her forehead and said, “C’mon. Shower time. You smell like me.”

“Shouldn’t that be a compliment?”

“It is. But you’re also sticky and adorable, and I want to hold you under hot water.”

She grinned. “Fine. But you’re carrying me.”

He did. Again.

In the bathroom, the steam fogged the mirror as the water heated. Jungkook set her down gently and stepped in with her, pulling the curtain closed behind them. The water hit their skin in a warm cascade, washing away everything but the way they looked at each other.

He washed her hair slowly, massaging shampoo into her scalp while she melted under his touch. She returned the favor, her hands sliding down his inked skin, her gaze reverent. She traced the tattoos on his arm, pausing over the small ones she hadn’t noticed before.

“This one’s new,” she said.

“Yeah.” He smiled. “Got it last month. It’s a song lyric.”

“Yours?”

“Yeah.”

She looked up. “Will I get to hear it?”

He kissed her forehead. “One day.”

They rinsed off and stood under the water for a long while, just holding each other. Her head rested on his chest again, his arms snug around her waist.

“You think this will work?” she whispered.

Jungkook nodded, no hesitation. “I think we’ll make it work.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then we fight for it until it does.”

Y/N smiled, tears burning behind her eyes. “You’re really not scared?”

“I’m still scared,” he admitted. “But I’m more scared of not trying.”

He tilted her chin up and kissed her, softly. The water ran down their bodies, their fingers laced at their sides.

In that moment, there was no past. No heartbreak. No exes or mistakes.

Just two people, stripped bare in every way, finally choosing each other.

After the shower, everything felt softer.

The air between them no longer pulsed with tension or unspoken feelings. It was easier now. Like they’d peeled back all the layers, cut through the fear and confusion, and were finally standing in something real.

Y/N sat on the edge of Jungkook’s bed, towel-drying her hair with slow, lazy motions. She’d thrown on one of his oversized black shirts—it practically swallowed her whole—and a pair of cotton shorts she’d left in the laundry pile weeks ago. Jungkook emerged from the bathroom a minute later, damp curls falling over his forehead, grey sweats hanging low on his hips, shirtless and golden under the dim bedside lamp.

He paused in the doorway when he saw her.

“Is that my shirt?”

She smirked, tossing the towel aside. “Don’t get possessive. You literally said earlier I could have all of you.”

He groaned, climbing onto the bed beside her. “Right. That’s on me.”

They slipped under the sheets, and like magnets, their bodies naturally curled together—Y/N’s back pressed to his chest, his arms around her waist, her fingers absently stroking the back of his knuckles.

It was quiet for a few minutes again. The kind of silence that came when your body finally relaxed in someone else’s arms. When your mind wasn’t running anymore, just being.

Then Jungkook spoke, his voice low and close to her ear.

“Hey… I, uh… might also need to confess something.”

Y/N raised a brow, not turning around. “Another one? Damn, you’re full of secrets tonight.”

He hesitated. “So, you know how Sanho’s been kind of… off the radar lately?”

“Yeah?” she said slowly.

“And… how someone leaked those pictures of him and that girl on the university forum? The ones that proved he cheated on you?”

Y/N stiffened a little. “Wait. Yeah. That was… actually helpful, but I always wondered who did that. Like, who even had those photos?”

A beat of silence.

Then—

“I did.”

She blinked.

“What?”

Jungkook cleared his throat. “Yeah, so… turns out Sanho’s not as slick as he thinks. He brought her to the same bar me and Jimin were at a few weeks back. They were sitting in a corner booth, all over each other. I took some pictures. Sent them to a few of the right people.”

Y/N turned over slowly in his arms, facing him. “Wait. You posted those?”

“Well, anonymously. But yes.” He tried to look innocent. “And… I might’ve also punched him. Just once. Or twice. Depends on your definition of ‘once.’”

She stared at him, mouth slightly open.

“And you didn’t think to tell me this earlier?”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be mad,” he admitted. “Or, like, freaked out. I kind of… lost it. After I saw him. After I heard what he did to you.”

Y/N blinked again, lips twitching. “You punched him.”

“He deserved it.”

“And leaked his cheating photos.”

“For public good.”

She smacked his chest, but she was laughing. “You’re insane.”

“I’m in love,” he said, dead serious.

That shut her up.

His eyes softened. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and added, “He hurt you. Lied to you. Made you feel like you were the villain. I wasn’t gonna just sit back and let that happen.”

“You really beat him up?” she whispered.

“Black eye. Split lip. Nothing permanent. But satisfying as hell.”

She blinked, then dissolved into laughter, hiding her face in his chest. “Oh my god. I thought some random gossip account did it!”

“Nope. Just me and my righteous rage.”

She laughed harder, and he smiled against her hair, pulling her closer.

“I can’t believe I slept with someone who went full vigilante over me,” she muttered, still grinning.

“I prefer the term ‘loyal roommate with excellent morals.’”

She kissed his collarbone. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For standing up for me. Even when I didn’t know it.”

Jungkook’s hand slid up her back, slow and gentle. “Always.”

They stayed like that, wrapped in the quiet glow of the moment, her laughter fading into soft breaths and sleepy kisses.

No more lies.

No more pretending.

Just two idiots, finally on the same page.

And one very satisfying punch to Sanho’s face.

The morning sun peeked through the blinds, casting golden lines across the bedroom floor. The room smelled faintly of laundry detergent and the lingering warmth of bodies that had stayed tangled all night.

Y/N stirred first, the sheets rustling as she blinked against the soft light. Jungkook was still asleep beside her, hair tousled, lips parted slightly, arm draped over her waist like his body had no intention of letting her go—even in sleep.

She smiled quietly.

They’d fallen asleep after showering, curled up under the covers like it was the most natural thing in the world. The night had been fire and intensity, but the morning… it was calm. Real.

Y/N leaned over and kissed his shoulder.

“Wake up, loverboy,” she whispered.

Jungkook groaned, burying his face into the pillow. “Five more minutes.”

“You said that ten minutes ago.”

“You weren’t kissing me ten minutes ago.”

Before she could roll her eyes, the sound of the front door unlocking cut through the quiet.

Then came Jimin’s voice, sing-song and far too energetic for the hour.

“Yoo-hoo! Room service!”

Taehyung followed with a lazy, amused drawl. “Hope no one’s naked. Or do I?”

Y/N bolted upright. “Shit.”

Jungkook cursed, sitting up and rubbing his face. “They’re early.”

Y/N scrambled for a hoodie—his hoodie, naturally—and pulled it over her head just as Jungkook tossed on a shirt and staggered out to the living room barefoot.

Taehyung was already making himself at home, placing two cups of coffee on the kitchen counter like he lived there. His eyes fell on Jungkook first—then narrowed, slow and smug.

“Well, well,” Taehyung said. “You look… rested.”

Jimin blinked between them, then at Y/N, who peeked out of the bedroom doorway, face flushed.

Taehyung’s smirk only grew. “Looks like my plan worked after all.”

Jimin frowned. “Wait. Plan?”

Jungkook gave a tired groan and ran a hand through his hair. “Hyung, don’t start.”

“No, no—what plan?” Jimin insisted, looking between the three of them like he was watching a live drama unfold. “Someone explain.”

Y/N came out, mug in hand, settling next to Jungkook on the couch. She cleared her throat. “Taehyung and I… may have orchestrated a little something at the party.”

Jimin blinked. “Like what?”

“The dance. The jacket. The kiss,” she said with a guilty grin. “It was all staged. A plan to make someone jealous.”

Jimin’s jaw dropped. “What?! That wasn’t real?!”

Taehyung shrugged casually. “Worked like a charm.”

“You manipulative geniuses,” Jimin muttered, half in awe. “And now… you two?”

Jungkook wrapped an arm around Y/N’s shoulder, pulling her close. “Now we’re together.”

Taehyung raised his coffee cup in a toast. “To jealousy. The best wingman.”

Y/N laughed, Jungkook groaned again, and Jimin just sat back, still stunned but slowly breaking into a smile.

Jimin let out a disbelieving laugh. “I cannot believe I wasn’t looped in. This is, like, Netflix-level drama.”

“Because you would’ve ruined it,” Taehyung said. “You’re too obvious. You would’ve tried to ‘accidentally’ drop hints or something.”

“I am subtle,” Jimin protested.

“You once told a girl I had a crush on her by texting her from my phone,” Jungkook deadpanned.

Jimin held up his hands. “That was one time and you were being shy.”

They all burst out laughing.

Jimin clapped his hands. “So to sum up—Y/N and Taehyung schemed. Jungkook combusted. And now, you’re in love?”

Y/N and Jungkook shared a look.

“Yeah,” Jungkook said quietly. “We are.”

Taehyung grinned. “My work here is done.”

One Year Later

A lot had changed in twelve months.

The cramped apartment with its broken heater, squeaky bathroom door, and walls thin enough to hear each other sneeze had been replaced by a newer, brighter place in a quieter part of the city. Two bedrooms, tall windows, and sunlight that poured in like honey in the early mornings. It was the kind of space that felt like it had room to breathe. Room to grow.

The living room had a balcony that overlooked a modest skyline and a handful of cherry blossom trees. Y/N had immediately claimed the balcony for her plants—dozens of little green lives in mismatched pots, lined up like sleepy soldiers. Lavender. Basil. A very stubborn fiddle leaf fig that refused to grow straight. She watered them each morning, usually in Jungkook’s old shirts, with a chipped mug in hand and sunlight on her cheeks.

Inside, the apartment was warm. Lived in. Jungkook’s studio occupied the second bedroom now—a maze of monitors, synths, cords, and soundproof panels that he had painstakingly installed himself (with minor swearing and a lot of YouTube tutorials). Across the hall, Y/N had claimed a corner of the bedroom as her own: a small desk nestled beside the window, scattered with open books, editing notes, and the dream manuscript she never quite had the courage to finish—but was finally working on, one slow page at a time.

She’d graduated that spring—top of her class, as her mother had proudly boasted to every relative within a 50-mile radius. She now worked at a small but promising publishing house downtown. Her days were spent fixing plot holes, writing blurbs, and guiding fledgling authors toward stories that actually made sense. Some days were long, some exhausting, but she loved it. It gave her purpose. It gave her words.

Jungkook had grown, too—more than he realized.

After his project with Eunji blew up on SoundCloud and gained traction across underground forums and indie playlists, his name began to circulate—fast. The rawness of his sound, the vulnerability in his lyrics, the way he composed heartbreak into beauty—it stuck. Soon, up-and-coming artists were reaching out. Producers started mentioning him in interviews. He wasn’t just that guy with a guitar and a bedroom mic anymore.

He was Jeon Jungkook. And people were listening.

His father, who had once scoffed at the idea of music as anything but a hobby, finally reached out. He didn’t say much—just a quiet phone call one evening, voice low and gruff:

“I heard your track. I’m proud of you, son.”

Jungkook cried that night. He didn’t tell anyone except Y/N.

He didn’t have to.

Tonight, their home smelled like pancakes and candle wax. Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a mess of half-unpacked boxes—vinyl records she’d insisted they alphabetize. Jungkook was at the stove, shirtless, tattoos peeking beneath his shoulder blades as he flipped pancakes with the focus of a chef at a Michelin-starred restaurant.

Her playlist echoed faintly through the speakers: lo-fi jazz meets soft R&B. She watched as he danced a little in between flips—hips swaying to the beat, head bobbing, humming the chorus.

“You’re literally making breakfast at 7 p.m.,” she called out.

Jungkook turned slightly, spatula in hand, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Breakfast is a mindset.”

She snorted. “You said that last time too. I still didn’t get strawberries.”

He raised an eyebrow, walking over with dramatic flair. He knelt beside her, plucked one perfect strawberry from the bowl on the coffee table, and pressed it to her lips.

“You get everything,” he said, eyes warm. “Even when you’re a brat.”

She bit the fruit, grinning against his fingers. “You love me.”

“I do.” No hesitation. “You drive me insane, but I love you.”

It still made her heart skip, hearing him say it so plainly. With such surety. Like it was fact, not confession.

She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Good. Because you’re stuck with me.”

They sat together after dinner, plates half-finished on the table, her legs draped across his lap as he played with her fingers absentmindedly. The city outside was a blur of golden streetlights and early autumn air.

“Remember when we used to fight over the laundry?” she murmured.

He chuckled. “You mean when you ruined my black tee by mixing it with reds?”

“You said it was a washed black! I thought it’d be fine!”

“It came out maroon,” he deadpanned. “Maroon, Y/N.”

She giggled and tucked her face into his neck. “You married me anyway.”

“Well,” he teased. “Technically, I haven’t yet. But if this is your way of proposing—”

She sat up, eyes wide. “That is not what I was doing.”

Jungkook grinned, pulling her back down onto his chest. “I’m kidding. But if you ever do ask… I’ll say yes.”

She stilled. “You would?”

He tilted her chin, gaze steady. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “Sometimes I still can’t believe all this is real.”

He kissed her softly. “It’s real. And it’s ours.”

The world outside their apartment was still chaotic. Jungkook’s schedule had picked up—he was now working with three different artists, planning his first solo EP. Y/N was juggling deadlines and editorial meetings. But the chaos didn’t feel heavy. It felt like a rhythm. A shared tempo.

On weekends, they visited Maison Café—Taehyung had expanded it, added new outdoor seating, and was dating a graphic designer he met over a spilled cappuccino. Jimin had started DJing again. His parties were still legendary. He claimed responsibility for their relationship every time they showed up, despite not being part of the original plan at all.

“Without me,” he’d say, arm around both their shoulders, “this wouldn’t exist.”

“You did nothing,” Y/N would argue.

“I breathed,” he replied smugly. “My aura of chaos helped.”

But on most nights, it was just Y/N and Jungkook.

Quiet dinners. Long showers. Movie marathons with burnt popcorn. Studio nights where he’d make music with her sitting behind him, reading quietly, occasionally offering feedback he actually took seriously.

Every now and then, he’d turn around in his chair, pull her onto his lap, and say, “Listen to this. Tell me if it feels like us.”

And sometimes—it did.

Because that’s what they’d become. Not just lovers. Not just roommates-turned-soulmates.

But a story.

Messy. Beautiful. Real.

And most importantly?

Still being written.

Heyy Tumblr !!

Can’t believe we’ve reached the end of my first series 🥹💌 It’s been a ride—from chaotic roommates and stolen glances to jealousy, parties, and finally… love. Taehyung got his sweet redemption, Y/N and Jungkook finally got the ending they deserved, and my heart is full 🫶

Thank you to everyone who read, screamed, cried, and sent me love along the way. Your support means everything.

Likes, comments, reblogs, and kisses are always welcome here 💋💬

with all the love in the world,

xo ario 🩶✨

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TAGS 🔖

@gyeomibear @dna2723 @lachimolalajeon @yunhoswrldddd @whoa-jo @notsevenwithyou @dmstoyangyang @songbyeonkim

[seokwrts]

Hlo author❤️❤️🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻 first of all i love u😘 i read i like me better and the storyline is so amazing i might die❤️❤️❤️❤️ it is so angsty and amazing 😭 i loved it so much!!!! I am a sucker for multiple povs and u gave me everything 💖

Can't wait for the next part🤗😘🫶🏻

OMG !! Thank you for this feedback, im glad that you enjoyed I LIKE ME BETTER. love you too girl 💗

[seokwrts]

I love I like me better sm and I’m so happy for them but can tae get some justice plz 😭 I feel so bad he deserves love too 🥺 I wanna see him in love so bad 😔

Yes tae will definitely get his justice, you don’t have to worry 🫶🏼

[seokwrts]

Hello my friend; I just came across your account so I wanted to say that I love your stories and everything! I also wanted to know if you are doing any stories requests or anything?✨💋🪻🥳🌊🏝️🫰🏾🍱💯🍇✨

thank you so much 💗 and yes i do take requests!

[seokwrts]

THE IDOL NEXT DOOR | park jimin

synopsis : Park Jimin is used to having the world at his feet. As a member of BTS, the biggest boyband on the planet, there’s nothing he can’t touch—except her. Y/N, the most desired solo idol in the industry. Korea’s sweetheart. The untouchable fantasy. But for Jimin, she’s always been more than that.

For years, he’s watched her from behind a screen—streamed her performances religiously, scrolled through her airport photos at 3 a.m., ran a secret fan account just to feel closer. He knows her laugh, her voice, her favorite shade of lipstick.

He’s imagined what she sounds like when she moans. What she’d look like in his bed. And when she moves into the apartment right next door to him? It’s not just a coincidence. It’s temptation. This is his chance. To charm her. To seduce her. To finally sleep with the girl he’s only ever dreamed about.

One night. That’s all he wants. That’s all it was supposed to be. But fantasies don’t stay clean. Obsession doesn’t stay controlled. And Jimin’s about to find out—when your dream girl lives next door, she can easily become your downfall.

She was never supposed to be real. And now he can’t get her out of his system.

pairing : park jimin x f! solo idol reader

genre : Idol AU , Dark Romance , Obsession , Angst , Smut , Drama , Slow Burn.

word count : 50k

warnings : Slight stalking / obsessive behavior (fan account, tracking content) Idol industry toxicity / fame pressure, Dark thoughts and morally grey Jimin, Sexual tension and explicit scenes , Jealousy, manipulation, blurred emotional boundaries, Mental/emotional strain and slow descent into obsession

part one

part two

part three

heyy tumblr !!

back with a brand new series and trust me—this one’s dangerous.

i just knew jimin was made for this role. he’s the perfect mix of seduction, obsession, and temptation wrapped in silk and sin 🤤.he’s not just the boy next door. he’s the one your mom warned you about. 👀

this series is heavily 18+—expect strong language, explicit content, and a whole lot of tension, so buckle up and keep your gear (and sanity) close. 😛

as always, reblogs, likes, comments, and kisses are more than welcome here 🫶🏼

with love,

xo, ario

masterlist

[seokwrts]

knockout love — jjk

“I promise I’ll make it out alive, princess.”

pairing : jungkook x reader

genre : boxer!best friend, best friends to lovers au, literally felt like I was in a kdrama while writing this.

• also highkey recommend you guys to put on ‘so far away’ by agustd during the final fight scene and loop it until the end hehe… trust me xx

The apartment smelled faintly of coffee and dust, papers scattered like fallen leaves across the table. Bills. Tuition reminders. Rent notices. You rubbed your temple, staring at the numbers like they’d magically shrink if you glared hard enough.

The door clicked open behind you.

“Princess,” a familiar voice called — low, warm, teasing. “Still fighting with those bills? Or are they winning again?”

You glanced over your shoulder. Jeon Jungkook stood in the doorway, hair messy from training, hoodie half-zipped, gym bag slung carelessly over one shoulder. His knuckles were still wrapped in tape, fresh bruises blooming beneath the skin.

“Depends. Are you gonna spot me a billion dollars so I can wipe them all away?” you muttered, tossing your pen down with a sigh.

He grinned and stepped inside, kicking off his shoes. “A billion huh? You aiming low tonight.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the soft smile tugging at your lips. “What are you doing here so late? Shouldn’t you be home icing those hands of yours?”

He dropped onto the couch with a dramatic sigh, sprawling like he owned the place — like he always did. “Maybe I like being here better.”

That made your stomach twist in that stupid familiar way. You shoved the feeling down.

But then he looked at you — really looked — and the playful spark in his eyes dimmed.

“Y/N… I need to tell you something,” he said, sitting up, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice dropped low. Serious. “And you have to promise to let me finish. No interrupting.”

The shift in his tone made your heart skip. “Jungkook… what is it?”

“Promise me first.”

Your fingers curled around the edge of the table. Something cold settled in your chest. “Fine. I promise.”

He inhaled slowly. “I’ve been offered a fight.”

You blinked. Relief flickered for half a second. “That’s it? Kook, you fight all the time—”

“Not like this.” His gaze locked with yours, no teasing now. “It’s underground. The kind they don’t talk about. No rounds. No rules. No time limit. No referee. You fight until one guy can’t stand. Or until he doesn’t get up at all.”

Your blood ran cold. The pen slipped from your fingers, clattering onto the bills.

“What…?” you breathed.

“The payout is fifty million.” His voice was soft. Almost careful. “That’s enough to wipe everything. Your tuition. Your rent. You wouldn’t have to worry anymore. You could finish school. Get out of this crappy apartment. Start over.”

Your heart pounded painfully hard against your ribs. “And what about you? What happens to you if this goes wrong? If you lose—”

“I won’t.” His jaw tensed. “I can win this. You know I can.”

“You could die, Jungkook.” The words cracked from your throat before you could stop them. “Or end up broken. For what — me? You’re gonna risk your life because I can’t pay my bills?”

His brows drew together. Hurt flickered in his eyes. “It’s not because you can’t. It’s because you shouldn’t have to. You work two jobs, go to class all day, come home to this stress every night… alone.” His voice dropped to a rough whisper. “I can’t stand watching you wear yourself down like this. I can fix it.”

You blinked hard, heat stinging behind your eyes. “I don’t care about money, you idiot. I care about you.”

A tear slipped free. Before you could wipe it away, his hand was there — warm, gentle — cupping your cheek like you’d break if he touched too hard.

“Hey…” His thumb brushed the tear, gaze softening. “Don’t cry. Not for me.”

“Then don’t go,” you whispered. “Promise me you won’t do this.”

His lips curved, a small, sad smile. The kind he only ever showed you.

“I promise.” His forehead touched yours, breath warm on your skin. “I won’t do it. Not if it makes you hurt like this.”

You shut your eyes, breathing shaky, letting yourself believe him.

For a moment, the weight in your chest eased. Like the world was right again. Safe.

But deep down, something still twisted. Something unsettled. Like the calm before a storm.

—

It had been two weeks since Jungkook promised you he’d drop the underground fight.

And yet… something felt off.

“Late again, boxer boy?” you called as he stumbled through your apartment door, hoodie soaked with sweat, hair sticking to his forehead. “What’d you do — wrestle a bear on the way home?”

Jungkook grinned, tossing his bag onto the floor. “Please. The bear would’ve tapped out in the first round.”

You crossed your arms. “Seriously though… why so late? The gym closes at ten.”

He bent down to unlace his shoes, voice light. “Coach kept me back for extra work. Said I needed to tighten my form.”

“Uh-huh.” You squinted, walking over and grabbing his wrist gently. His knuckles were raw — scraped fresh, bleeding slightly.

“Looks like you tightened your face into someone’s fist.” You held his hand up. “Who did this?”

“Calm down, princess.” He smirked. “Just sparring. You know I can take a punch.”

“Yeah, but can your face?” you muttered, inspecting the bruise forming under his jaw. “If you get any uglier, I’m gonna have to find a new best friend.”

“Ouch.” He pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. “Betrayed by the only girl I trust.”

You snorted. “Like I’d trade you. Who else would carry my groceries and open every jar I own?”

He grinned. “Exactly. I’m irreplaceable.”

You fell quiet, eyes scanning his face — the sweat, the busted lip, the bruises that hadn’t been there this morning.

“Kook… You sure you’re not… training for something else?” you asked softly.

His smile flickered — just for a split second. But you caught it.

“Why would I lie to you?” he said easily, ruffling your hair like always. “I told you. I dropped that fight.”

“Mhm. You better have,” you muttered, swatting his hand away. “I swear, if I find out you’re doing something stupid—”

“You’ll what?” he grinned, inching closer. “Yell at me? Cry again? Guilt trip me with those sad pretty eyes?”

You glared, cheeks heating. “I’ll throw this entire shoe rack at your head.”

“Oooh. Scary.” He leaned down, eyes twinkling. “You’re cute when you’re threatening murder, princess.”

“Stop calling me that,” you grumbled, heart thudding.

“Why?” He smirked. “It suits you. My little princess.”

You shoved him lightly, trying not to smile. “Go shower. You smell like a wrestling mat.”

He laughed, grabbing his bag. “Anything for you, your highness.”

But as he disappeared into the bathroom, the knot in your chest tightened.

Because no matter how good his smile was… something in his eyes was hiding something.

And you weren’t stupid.

Something was coming.

—

“Don’t forget,” you called from the couch, flipping a page in your textbook, “you promised to be back by eight.”

Jungkook grinned, crouched by the door tying his laces. “Eight sharp. Swear on my life.”

“You better,” you muttered, glancing at him. “If you show up past eight I’m locking the door and you can sleep outside.”

He laughed under his breath but didn’t stand right away. Instead, he sat back on his heels, staring at the floor for a second too long.

You frowned. “Kook?”

He looked up fast — forcing that familiar crooked grin. “Nothing. Just tired.”

You eyed him suspiciously as he grabbed his bag, slinging it over his shoulder like usual… but his hand lingered on the doorknob.

He didn’t open it.

“Why are you just standing there like a weirdo?” you teased lightly, trying to ease the strange knot forming in your chest.

He turned to you, soft eyes flickering — the way they always did when he didn’t want to say something.

“You sure you’ll be okay here alone tonight?” he asked quietly.

You blinked. “What’s with you? You leave for practice all the time. Since when do you care if I’m fine for two hours?”

He chuckled — but it was hollow, forced. “Just asking, princess. You get lonely without me, don’t you?”

“In your dreams,” you muttered, cheeks warming. “Besides, you said you’d be back by eight. So no time for lonely.”

“Right…” His fingers curled slightly on the door handle. Still not opening it.

“Jungkook.” You sat up straight, narrowing your eyes. “Why are you acting so weird?”

He glanced at you — and for a flicker of a moment, you saw it. The doubt. The fear.

Then it was gone — buried under that usual teasing smirk.

“Guess I just don’t wanna leave my favourite girl yet.” He crossed the room, crouching beside the couch, resting his chin on your knee — like he used to when he wanted you to forgive him for something dumb.

“Stop looking at me like that, you idiot,” you grumbled, but your heart squeezed painfully tight. “You’ll miss practice if you keep wasting time here.”

“Maybe I don’t care.” His voice was soft.

You looked down at him. He stared up, gaze warm but strange — like he was memorising you.

“Jungkook…” you whispered.

He stood slowly. Ruffled your hair like always.

“Eight o’clock,” he said gently. “I’ll be back before you miss me.”

“You better,” you muttered. “Or I’m stealing your favourite hoodie and burning your stupid boxing gloves.”

He laughed, soft and quiet.

And finally — finally — he turned and left.

The door clicked shut.

The apartment was too quiet after that.

You tried reading. Couldn’t focus. Tried scrolling on your phone. Nothing stuck. Even Netflix couldn’t hold your attention — every few minutes your eyes flicked to the clock on the wall.

7:45pm.

7:58pm.

You smiled to yourself. “He’ll walk in any second now.”

But eight came and went.

8:15.

8:30.

You texted him: Still alive, boxer boy?

No reply.

You frowned, chewing your lip. Maybe coach kept him again.

9:00.

Still nothing.

A cold knot twisted in your stomach.

9:30.

You called.

No answer.

Okay… maybe he’s showering. Maybe he forgot his phone. Maybe—

9:45.

Panic now. Full-blown.

You called again. Voicemail.

“Jungkook, where the hell are you? You said eight. Call me back.”

You gripped your phone so tightly your knuckles ached. Something was wrong. You felt it — the way your skin prickled, your heartbeat kicked up, like some terrible storm was creeping close.

You bit your lip. One last call.

Jimin.

The phone rang. And rang.

Then, finally — “Hello?”

“Jimin.” Your voice cracked. “Where’s Jungkook? He’s not home. He’s not answering. You know where he is, right?”

Silence.

You swallowed. “Jimin, please. Tell me.”

A shaky breath on the other end.

“…Y/N.” He hesitated. “I thought… I thought he told you. The big fight’s tonight. The underground one. Warehouse 17. Outskirts. Nine p.m.”

The world stilled.

“No…” you whispered, vision blurring. “No, he promised. He said he wasn’t doing it…”

“I thought you knew. I thought he told you—”

The phone nearly slipped from your hand.

Jungkook. You liar. You promised.

You shot up, grabbing your coat, bag — hands shaking, breath short.

“Jimin—” your voice broke. “I’m coming. Stay there. Don’t let him start—”

“He’s already in the ring, Y/N.”

You didn’t wait. The door slammed behind you as you ran — heart hammering, throat tight — sprinting down the hall into the night.

—

The cold night air bit through your thin jacket as you stumbled toward the warehouse entrance. Your eyes were red and puffy from crying, cheeks stained with tears you hadn’t been strong enough to hold back.

“Y/N.” A steady voice caught your attention.

You looked up to see Jimin waiting patiently by the entrance, arms crossed, his usual calm presence anchoring the chaos inside you. To you, he was more than a friend — a brother who’d always been there when things got tough.

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping closer. “You okay?”

You shook your head, voice barely above a whisper. “No. I’m not. He shouldn’t be here.”

Jimin sighed but didn’t argue. Instead, he gently rested a hand on your shoulder. “I know. But he’s here. And I know he needs you.”

You let out a shaky breath and tried to pull yourself together, leaning on him as he guided you inside.

The warehouse was thick with tension — the smell of sweat, metal, and adrenaline hung heavy. The crowd roared in the distance, but your eyes locked on the center of the chaos.

There he was.

Jungkook, standing in the ring with his coach, his fists wrapped and bruised, eyes sharp but flickering with exhaustion.

Without hesitation, you pushed past the crowd and climbed up to the edge of the ring.

“Kook!” you shouted, voice breaking but fierce.

He looked up, startled, then relief and guilt washed over his face.

“What are you doing here?” he whispered, but you didn’t care.

“You promised,” you scolded softly, stepping closer so only he could hear. “You promised you wouldn’t do this.”

He swallowed hard, eyes darkening. “I had to. For you.”

Your heart clenched.

“You idiot,” you breathed.

Before you could say more, Jungkook reached up, fingers tracing your cheek with surprising tenderness. “I’m sorry. But I’m here now. And I’m not leaving until I win.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, eyes locked on his.

Then, with a playful smirk, he whispered, “Now, come on — if you want me to win, you better cheer louder than anyone out there.”

You laughed through your tears, heart pounding.

“I’m not letting you off the hook, princess.”

He winked.

And for that moment, surrounded by the roaring crowd and the flashing lights, the world narrowed down to just the two of you — fierce, tangled, and full of everything you’d never dared to say out loud.

—

The backstage corridor was quiet except for the faint hum of the crowd beyond the walls. Flickering lights cast a soft glow, making everything feel fragile and suspended in time. You stood close to Jungkook, your fingers still trembling slightly from the rush of emotions by the ring.

He leaned casually against the wall, but you could see the tension in his jaw and the way his eyes darted away every time they met yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

“So,” you said softly, breaking the silence, “you picked a hell of a night to get all mysterious on me.”

He cracked a small smile, one eyebrow quirking up. “You know me — I like to keep you guessing, princess.”

You rolled your eyes but your lips twitched. “That nickname again?”

“Can’t help it,” he teased, stepping closer, voice low. “You’re the only one who gets it.”

Your heart hammered in your chest, but you fought the urge to lean in. Instead, you kept your voice steady. “Why now, Jungkook? After all this time… why wait until right before you jump into something this dangerous to tell me?”

He looked down for a beat, fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt, then back up, eyes soft but full of something like vulnerability. “Maybe I was scared. Scared I’d lose my nerve, or that telling you would change the easy way we have—”

“—The way we don’t have to say things out loud?” you finished for him, stepping closer. “Yeah, I get it.”

He nodded, swallowing hard. “But sitting here, with you standing right in front of me, knowing this might be the last time for a while… I couldn’t keep it in.”

Your breath caught. “And what exactly couldn’t you keep in?”

He took a shaky breath, voice barely above a whisper as he stepped closer, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that made your heart seize.

“Y/N… I’ve been carrying this inside me for so long… pretending it was just friendship, pretending I was fine with that.” His voice cracked, vulnerability breaking through the usual calm. “But every time I saw you, every time I heard your laugh, felt your hand brush mine… it wasn’t enough. It never was.”

He swallowed hard, pain flickering behind his eyes. “I’ve been scared—scared to admit it, scared of what it would mean if I said it out loud. But I can’t hide it anymore.”

A pause. His breath hitched.

“I like you. More than a friend. More than I ever dared to hope. I’ve been falling for you — every single day — and it terrifies me how much I want you to feel the same.”

The silence hung thick, your breath catching in your throat.

Your hands trembled as you reached up, cupping his face. Tears spilled down your cheeks, but a shaky smile broke through your fear.

“You idiot,” you whispered, voice cracking. “You really are… but I’ve waited for you to say that for so long.”

You laughed softly through your tears, the tension in your chest melting just a little.

“I thought you’d never say it. I thought you were scared too.”

He brushed a stray tear from your cheek, his own eyes glistening now. “I was. Still am. But I needed you to know — before I walked into that fight.”

You leaned in, your forehead resting against his, breath mingling.

“You promise you’ll come back?” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

“Of course,” he said, playful light returning. “Hey, if I make it out alive, let me take you out on a proper date.”

You smiled through your tears, poking his chest lightly. “You better win. Or I’m crashing that fight myself.”

He laughed, pulling you into a gentle hug. “Deal. And princess?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not just fighting for the money anymore.”

Your heart squeezed tight as he pulled back, eyes shining with quiet determination.

“For you.”

—

The warehouse vibrated with noise — stomping feet, wild cheers, curses echoing off the iron walls. Smoke curled through the air, and the lights above the cage flickered harsh and cold.

You stood frozen near the edge of the ring, knuckles white around the metal bars, your heart hammering so loud it drowned out the crowd.

Jimin was right behind you, quiet but firm, his hand on your arm. “Stay still,” he murmured. “Watch him. He can handle this.”

But your eyes never left Jungkook.

He stood in the cage — alone — his fists clenched, his chest rising and falling slow, steady.

Across from him was a mountain of a man, bigger, heavier, brutal looking, grinning like he’d already won.

Jungkook licked his cracked lip, shaking out his arms, gaze steady, jaw tight.

I have to win. For her.

The bell clanged.

The crowd exploded.

They circled each other — slow at first, tension stretching tight as a wire. Jungkook feinted left, testing, dodging the first wild swing.

He’s fast… but that guy’s heavy. One wrong step…

A swing missed. Another grazed his arm. Jungkook ducked, countered — sharp jab to the ribs — the man grunted but grinned wider.

The crowd roared.

Suddenly — too fast — the fighter lunged, driving his shoulder into Jungkook’s chest.

The air cracked.

Jungkook staggered back, ribs screaming, the cage rattling behind him. But before he could recover—

BAM.

A brutal hook crashed into his jaw.

His head snapped sideways, sweat flying. His vision exploded in white.

BAM. Another punch — this time to the gut — folding him like paper.

“Jungkook!” you screamed, panic raw in your throat.

He stumbled, legs buckling — and then fell.

Face down. Hard.

The crowd gasped… then cheered wildly.

“STAY DOWN!” they chanted.

“STAY DOWN!”

Your body lunged forward, but Jimin caught you, wrapping both arms around your waist, holding you tight. “No — no, Y/N — wait. He’s not done. He’s not out. Watch.”

Your hands trembled violently. Your vision blurred. “Jimin — he’s not moving—”

“He’s got this,” Jimin said fiercely. “Just watch him.”

On the mat, Jungkook groaned, chest heaving, head spinning. Blood in his mouth. Lights flickering. His body screamed at him to stay down.

But then…

Through the haze — he saw you.

Your face — beautiful, tear-streaked, full of fear — pressed to the cage, crying his name.

His heart clenched so tight it burned.

No. Not in front of her. Not like this.

He pushed against the mat. Trembling. Slow.

Up to his knees. Then one foot. Then the other.

The crowd roared again — shock, excitement, disbelief.

His vision swam, blurry and broken — until he focused.

On you.

And only you.

A shadow moved beside him. The fighter.

The man chuckled darkly, leaning in close, sneering in his ear.

“That little princess yours?” the man mocked lowly. “Sweet. Maybe I’ll take her out when you’re done here. Maybe I’ll show her what a real man—”

Something in Jungkook snapped.

He turned — slow, dangerous — eyes dark as midnight.

And he smiled.

A low, wicked smile.

The fighter barely had time to flinch.

Jungkook exploded forward.

Fist to his jaw — CRACK.

Knee to the gut — THUD.

Left hook — blood sprayed.

The man stumbled, stunned — but Jungkook was already on him.

For her.

Another punch — vicious, wild, merciless.

For every tear she cried.

A jab to the face — teeth breaking.

For every night she struggled alone.

A savage blow to the temple — the man dropped to one knee.

And then — the last punch — an earth-shattering uppercut that lifted the man clean off the ground before he crashed down, flat, unmoving.

The crowd froze — silent.

Then a thunderous, deafening roar.

But Jungkook didn’t hear it.

He stood over the broken man, chest heaving, eyes blazing — staring straight at you.

At his girl.

The reason he rose. The reason he fought.

And the reason he would never lose.

“AND THE WINNER… BLUE CORNER!!”

The announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers, barely heard over the eruption of the crowd — a thunderous wave of cheers that shook the metal beams of the warehouse.

Jungkook stood in the center of the ring — chest rising and falling in deep, ragged pulls, sweat and blood dripping from his jaw, fists still clenched by his sides.

But his eyes — God, his eyes — were on you.

Locked. Unmoving. Like the crowd, the lights, the screaming world around him didn’t even exist.

The referee grabbed his wrist and yanked it up high.

“BLUE WINS!!!”

The crowd roared even louder. Stomping feet. Fists pounding the rails. Cameras flashing in frantic bursts.

You gasped, a messy sound of relief and joy breaking from your throat as your knees gave out — but Jimin caught you, holding you steady.

“He did it,” Jimin breathed beside you, grinning wide. “He really did it.”

You shook him off, stumbling toward the ring. “Jimin — boost me — I have to—”

He laughed softly and gave you a lift up onto the apron, pushing you gently under the ropes. “Go get him, princess.”

You scrambled inside — breathless, wild — heart hammering against your ribs.

And then… you froze.

The noise faded into a dull hum.

The air thickened — slow, heavy — like every second was stretching into eternity.

There he was.

Jungkook.

Standing tall under the harsh lights, battered, bruised — beautiful. His chest rose slow, steady. His hair damp, clinging to his forehead. Blood on his lip. But his gaze — soft and burning — was only for you.

Neither of you moved.

Just staring.

Drinking each other in.

Like a scene pulled straight from a movie — pure, slow, fragile.

A corner of his bruised mouth lifted.

“See, princess?” His voice was rough, broken, but teasing. “Told you I’d make it out alive.”

Your breath hitched.

Tears filled your eyes — falling warm and fast — and before another word could escape him, you ran.

Straight into his arms.

He caught you instantly, strong and trembling, pulling you tight against his chest as your arms flew around his neck.

You clung to him like life itself, sobbing into his shoulder — messy, gasping, relieved sobs. Your whole body shook.

“You stupid—stupid—idiot!” you cried into his neck. “Why did you do this to me?! You scared the hell out of me— I thought— I thought I’d lose you—”

His arms tightened around you, hard and warm. He dropped his head into your hair, breathing in like he needed you to stay upright.

“Shhh… I’m here,” he murmured. “I’m here, baby. I’m right here.”

And slowly, knees weak, the two of you sank — collapsed — onto the mat, tangled together in the middle of the ring, the roar of the crowd swelling all around.

Your faces stayed close — breathing, shaking — forehead to forehead.

Jungkook cupped your cheek gently, brushing away your tears with the softest touch.

“I love you,” he breathed, voice trembling, eyes wet. “I love you, Y/N. I fought for you. I lived for you.”

Your chest broke open with a shaky, laughing sob. “You absolute idiot… you could’ve told me that before nearly dying, you know…”

He smiled, soft and ruined. “Would’ve been less dramatic.”

And before you could say more, he kissed you — hard, slow, desperate — like this was the only moment in the world that mattered.

The crowd exploded into wild cheers.

Cameras flashed.

Jimin whistled from the side, grinning wide as he cupped his hands around his mouth:

“YEAH! ABOUT TIME! LET’S HEAR IT FOR THEM!!”

The warehouse shook with the sound — whistles, shouts, stomping feet — but none of it touched you.

Only him.

Jungkook pulled back, panting softly, thumb tracing your jaw, eyes drinking you in like he was afraid to blink.

“Hey…” he whispered, teasing, raw. “Told you I’d win. For you.”

You laughed through your tears, leaning in, pressing your nose to his.

“I hate you,” you murmured, breathless. “But I love you more.”

His smile was crooked, beautiful, full of every unspoken promise.

The world spun — lights, sound, chaos — but here, in the center of the storm, it was just you.

Just him.

And finally… everything was exactly where it belonged.

—

“…and that was the first time your dad ever kissed me. Right there. In the middle of the ring, bruised, bloody, and grinning like the world was ours,” you finished softly, eyes warm with the weight of old memories.

Your sixteen-year-old daughter sat cross-legged beside you on the couch, hands clutching a cushion to her chest, wide-eyed and grinning.

“No way,” she gasped. “You’re telling me Dad actually confessed in the middle of a fight? Like in some K-drama?!”

You laughed gently. “Exactly like a K-drama. Lights. Cameras. The whole crowd cheering. He waited until the most dangerous, ridiculous moment to tell me he loved me. Typical Jungkook.”

She groaned dramatically. “Ugh… so extra. I can’t believe you fell for that.”

“I couldn’t help it,” you teased, ruffling her hair. “He was impossible not to love.”

She giggled but hugged the cushion tighter, suddenly shy. “…He’s gonna do the same to Jae when he gets here, isn’t he?”

“Oh definitely.”

As if on cue — the sound of keys at the front door.

“I’m home, princesses!” Jungkook’s familiar, deep voice called as the door opened. He stepped inside, pulling off his work jacket, shaking his slightly messy hair. “Did I miss the storytelling session?”

“Just finished telling her about the ring kiss,” you smiled, tilting your head. “You drama king.”

Jungkook smirked, walking over to drop a kiss on your cheek. “Best confession ever, no regrets.”

“Gross,” your daughter muttered, face burning. “Please don’t start kissing again—”

The doorbell rang.

Jungkook’s brows lifted. “Is that him?”

Your daughter leapt to her feet. “Don’t—! Don’t be weird, Dad—please—”

Jungkook grinned wide and opened the door.

Standing awkwardly on the porch was Jae — hair neatly combed, holding a small bouquet of baby’s breath flowers.

“Uh… h-hi, Mr. Jeon. I’m Jae. N-Nice to meet you, sir,” he stammered, bowing politely.

Jungkook eyed him slowly, arms crossing. “Hmm. So you’re the one taking my daughter out tonight.”

Jae swallowed hard. “Y-Yes, sir.”

Your daughter tugged Jae’s arm with a groan. “Dad… stop. You’re scaring him—”

Jungkook leaned forward, eyes narrowing teasingly.

“You know the rules, right? Home by nine. No funny business. And if you make her cry—” he flashed a slow, dangerous grin— “I still remember how to throw a punch.”

Jae paled. “Yes sir! No funny business! Nine o’clock, sir!”

You bit your lip, smiling behind your hand as your daughter smacked Jungkook’s arm. “You’re embarrassing me to death—”

Jungkook chuckled, ruffling her hair. “Can’t help it, baby. First dates are serious.”

He looked over at the trembling kid in front of him, lightly chuckling before patting his shoulder.

“I’m just playing, kid. You guys have a good time tonight yeah? Take care of her.”

He chuckles, fist bumping the boy, now with a more relaxed look on his face.

“Have a good night princess, I love you, text me if you need anything.”

You watch your husband kiss your daughter on the head softly, your heart melting at the sight.

They headed out the door, Jae nervously glancing back until they were gone, the soft click of the door behind them.

Silence settled.

Warm. Familiar.

Jungkook sighed, sliding an arm around your waist, pulling you close to him as you leaned into his chest.

“First date already…” he murmured, pressing his lips into your hair. “Feels like yesterday I was dragging you into underground fights and confessing in the stupidest way possible.”

You chuckled, turning to look up at him. “Still the best confession I ever heard.”

“Still the best fight I ever won,” he whispered, eyes soft.

His thumb brushed gently along your jaw — and he leaned in, pressing a slow, quiet kiss to your lips.

“Worth every bruise,” he breathed against you.

“Worth every scar,” you whispered back, smiling.

And just like in the ring all those years ago…

Neither of you ever planned to stop fighting.

For this life.

For this love.

For each other.

a/n : okay highkey- why am I proud of myself for this…. also is it obvious I LOVEEEEE making jimin the matchmaker/the one that’s always their #1 supporter 😐 Anyways I hope you loved this one lovelies mwah mwah xx lmk what you think! 🥹

[seokwrts]

📁 Masterlist

All my works are organized by group and member for easy access.Check back for updates as new content is added regularly.Thank you for reading and supporting—hope you find something you enjoy here!

BTS

Jimin

✦ the idol next door | series ( s, a & f? )

✦ Series Title 2

Taehyung

✦ Series Title 1

✦ Series Title 2

Jungkook

✦ I LIKE ME BETTER | series ( s ,a & f )

✦ PUSSY DRUNK | oneshot ( s )

Headcanons & Drabbles

✦ bts members as types of boyfriends

✦ Title 2

SMAU

✦ Title 1

✦ Title 2

Seventeen

Mingyu

✦ seven minutes in heaven | one shot ( s )

✦ Series Title 2

Wonwoo

✦ Series Title 1

✦ Series Title 2

Joshua

✦ Series Title 1

✦ Series Title 2

Headcanons & Drabbles

✦ Title 1

✦ Title 2

SMAU

✦ Title 1

✦ Title 2

TXT

Yeonjun

✦ the sirens revenge | one shot ( s , f , a )

✦ Series Title 2

Soobin

✦ Series Title 1

✦ Series Title 2

Beomgyu

✦ Series Title 1

✦ Series Title 2

Headcanons & Drabbles

✦ Title 1

✦ Title 2

SMAU

✦ Title 1

✦ Title 2

Enhypen

Heeseung

✦ Series Title 1

✦ Series Title 2

Jake

✦ Series Title 1

✦ Series Title 2

Jay

✦ Series Title 1

✦ Series Title 2

Headcanons & Drabbles

✦ Title 1

✦ Title 2

SMAU

✦ Title 1

✦ Title 2

[seokwrts]

BTS as Boyfriends — Archetypes of Love 🏹𓂂 ˳ׄ

synopsis : a soft dive into what each BTS member would be like as your boyfriend—the quiet, the loud, the romantic, the playful. written like a love letter in seven parts, for every kind of heart.

pairing : you x bts (namjoon, seokjin, yoongi, hoseok, jimin, taehyung, jungkook)

word count : 1.5k

genre : boyfriend headcanons, poetic prose, comfort, romance

note : he doesn’t just love you—he chooses you, in every way the world forgets to.

namjoon 🏹𓂂 ˳ׄ

the type of boyfriend to quietly carry your bag when your shoulder starts to ache.he listens more than he speaks, and when he does speak, it’s thoughtful, measured, warm.he’ll walk beside you in silence and still somehow make you feel like you’ve been heard.he’s fascinated by your thoughts, even the messy ones.books, art, history—he’ll love every part of what makes you you.

he’s the type to press a kiss to your temple while you’re reading,to underline a passage and say, “this reminded me of you.”he’d rather build something slow and steady than rush into something that won’t last.he doesn’t fall in love fast, but when he does—it’s deep, intentional, forever.he makes you feel safe in your own mind.

the type of boyfriend who makes you feel understood just by being near—wise, grounding, and endlessly patient with his love. ( 🧺 )

seokjin 🏹𓂂 ˳ׄ

the type of boyfriend to make you laugh when you’ve forgotten how.he’s goofy in public, affectionate in private, and protective all the time.he’ll feed you before himself, cover you with a blanket while pretending it was “just cold in here,”and tell you that you’re beautiful until you believe it—especially on the days you don’t feel like it.

he teases you just to see that shy smile creep across your face,then cups your cheek like it’s something fragile and sacred.he remembers your favorite snack, your comfort show, the way your voice softens when you’re tired.he’ll defend you like it’s instinct, love you like it’s easy, and never let you feel small in a room again.being loved by him feels like warmth and laughter and finally being seen.

the type of boyfriend who turns everyday life into a celebration—joyful, caring, and ready to make you smile no matter what. ( 🧺 )

yoongi 🏹𓂂 ˳ׄ

the type of boyfriend to say little but mean everything.he notices the shifts in your mood, the way your shoulders slump when you’re tired,the quiet things you never say out loud—but he hears them anyway.he’ll buy you snacks without asking, leave a charger by your bed before you even think to look,and send you a song with no explanation—and somehow, it’ll feel like a confession.

he doesn’t rush love. he lets it grow quietly, like sunlight through curtains,unfolding slowly until you realize you’ve been wrapped in warmth all along.he won’t flood you with grand gestures, but he’ll show up when it matters—at 2am when you can’t sleep, in the silence after your worst day,in the way he lets you rest your head on his chest and doesn’t say a word.his love doesn’t ask for attention—it asks for trust.

the type of boyfriend who says little but shows everything—gentle, constant, and quietly devoted in a way that never wavers. ( 🧺 )

hoseok 🏹𓂂 ˳ׄ

the type of boyfriend to bring joy where it’s been missing.he’ll text you good morning every day like it’s a promise—a small, steady reminder that someone in the world is rooting for you.he’ll find a way to celebrate even the smallest victories—a dance in the hallway, a cupcake with a candle, a voice message full of laughter just to remind you that you matter.he believes in love the way he believes in light—that even after the longest night, warmth returns.

he sees every version of you and never flinches—the tired you, the anxious you, the insecure you—and still tells you you’re beautiful with full conviction.he remembers the way you like your coffee, notices when your smile doesn’t reach your eyes,and knows exactly how to draw you back into the sunlight.he loves loudly, genuinely, and without hesitation—like his heart’s never known another way.with him, love isn’t a question. it’s a certainty you feel in your bones.

the type of boyfriend who brings light into every room and into you—hopeful, vibrant, and the first to believe in your dreams. ( 🧺 )

jimin 🏹𓂂 ˳ׄ

the type of boyfriend to notice what no one else does.he’ll hold you just a little tighter when you’re quiet,like he can hear the storm behind your silence and wants to shield you from it.he touches you gently, like you’re somethingsacred,fingertips trailing your skin with reverence, as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he isn’t soft enough. he kisses you like he’s memorizing a prayer—slow, meaningful,like every moment with you is something he wants to carry forever.

he remembers the little things: the way you curl your fingers when you’re nervous,the song that calms you down, the dreams you told him about when you thought he wasn’t listening.he makes you feel like you’ve never been more seen—like all your softest parts are finally safe.loving him feels like being known all the way through, and still adored.

the type of boyfriend who holds your heart like it’s made of glass—tender, emotionally tuned-in, and full of soft devotion. ( 🧺 )

taehyung 🏹𓂂 ˳ׄ

the type of boyfriend to romanticize you without trying.he’ll take photos of you when you’re not looking, call you his muse,and send you late night voice notes that just say, “i miss you,” his voice low, unfiltered, like he’s speaking straight from his heart.he’s unpredictable in the softest ways —midnight drives with his hand on yours and the windows down,thrifted books with little notes scribbled in the margins,surprise flowers in the fridge because “the petals looked like your laugh.”

he watches you like he’s taking mental snapshots—memorizing how your eyes look when you’re lost in thought,how your nose scrunches when you laugh too hard,how you make the world feel a little more bearable just by existing.he turns ordinary life into art, and you into something timeless—a love story told through glances, music, and golden hour light.

the type of boyfriend who turns love into a story worth framing—deep, dreamy, and always seeing the world through the lens of you. ( 🧺 )

jungkook 🏹𓂂 ˳ׄ

the type of boyfriend to love you like it’s all he’s ever known.he’s playful with his words, serious with his actions—he’ll tease you until you’re laughing, then pull you into a hug that says i’m not going anywhere.he remembers every little detail—your favorite candy, your biggest fears,the exact way you say “i’m fine” when you’re not,and the things you love but don’t say out loud.he gets flustered when you tease him, cheeks tinted pink and eyes wide,but when someone else crosses a line, he’s the first to stand in front of you without blinking.

he’s soft in the mornings, clingy in the evenings, and quietly obsessed with making you feel loved.he’ll watch you like you’re a moment he never wants to end,touch you like he’s trying to memorize every part of forever.he loves you like he’s all in—no hesitation, no escape plan, like the only thing that’s ever made sense is you. he doesn’t just want your heart—he wants your whole world, and he’s ready to carry it.

the type of boyfriend who loves like it’s all or nothing—passionate, loyal, and completely unable to hide how much he adores you. ( 🧺 )

hey tumblr !!!

they’re finally back. our boys. our bangtan.

i honestly don’t even know how to put this feeling into words—this warmth in my chest, this peace like a missing piece of me just came home. everything i’ve been waiting for… they’re here, and it feels like the world is a little brighter again.

this journey with bangtan has been one of the most meaningful parts of my life. i found them when i was still figuring out who i was, and they held me through some of my darkest days. their music, their words, their presence—it’s given me comfort, strength, and a kind of hope i didn’t know i needed.

watching them grow over the years has been nothing short of beautiful. i’m endlessly proud of them. all i wish for now is their health, their happiness, and all the love this world can offer them.

they’ve given so much of themselves to us—and through it all, we remain bulletproof.

reblogs, comments, and kisses always welcome

with love,

xo, ario

[seokwrts]

I LIKE ME BETTER | jjk

PART FIVE | nsfw

summary : After walking in on her boyfriend Sanho cheating, Y/N moves out and ends up living with Jungkook, a cocky yet caring acquaintance she once couldn’t stand. What begins as a tense, passive-aggressive roommates situation slowly transforms into something deeper, as both navigate heartbreak, vulnerability, and emotional healing. Through stormy nights, late-night confessions, domestic routines, and quiet tension, Y/N and Jungkook gradually uncover the warmth and safety they’ve both been missing—especially in each other.

“After all, what’s the worst that could happen just living under the same roof?”

pairing : jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre : roommates , fluff , smut

word count : 4.2k

The days leading up to the party were tense.

Too tense.

Y/N barely looked at Jungkook. She was either gone—leaving early for her shift and coming back late—or locked up in her room with the door shut tight, a clear boundary he wasn’t allowed to cross. When she did emerge, it was only to grab coffee or slip past him silently, her eyes never quite meeting his.

Jungkook pretended not to notice. Pretended he didn’t wait up, earbuds in but no music playing, listening for the soft creak of the front door when she got home. Pretended the sight of her in Taehyung’s hoodie one night didn’t make his jaw clench so hard it ached.

There were moments, though—sharp, electric moments—when the silence cracked. When they passed in the hallway and her bare shoulder brushed his chest. When she bent to grab something from the fridge and he caught the curve of her waist, her tank top riding just a little too high. When she emerged from the shower, hair wet and skin flushed, walking right past him like he wasn’t standing there unraveling.

It was maddening.

He tried once—to talk. To fix whatever this was before it tipped too far.

“Y/N,” he said, low, standing outside her door as she opened it, towel slung around her neck. “Can we talk?”

She didn’t even hesitate. “Now’s not a good time,” she said, breezing past him without a second glance.

And just like that, the door closed again.

Now, the apartment buzzed with a strange kind of anticipation.

Like everything might combust at the slightest touch.

And maybe that’s exactly what they both wanted.

The group chat didn’t help either.

Group Chat: “the espresso sluts ☕”

(Jimin, Taehyung, Jungkook)

Tae:not to be dramatic but y/n literally remembered i take half a shot of vanilla in my iced americano ☕😩marry me rn

Jimin:you’re so easy bro 😭

Tae:say what you wantbut that’s real connection

Tae:

also her hair smells like peaches just putting that out there 🍑

Jungkook:ok

Tae:ok???

bro if someone made your coffee, remembered your order, laughed at your jokes AND smelled like fruit you’d write a whole ass album about her 💀

Jimin:he already did 🫣

Jungkook:what the fuck are you talking about

Tae: nothing bro chill 😭. just saying she’s sweet. and she actually listens?? kinda rare ngl

Tae: also she hummed while cleaning up today. cutest shit ever like little indie girl vibes 😭 i was dead

Jungkook: not that deep

Tae: you don’t get it she gave me this look when i almost knocked over the syrup bottle. like full-on death glare ,made me wanna knock them over again 🧍🏻‍♂️

Jimin: ur sick

Tae: sick in love y/n if you’re reading this, blink twice and say yes 💍

Jungkook: i’m muting this chat

Tae: why lmaooo??

u jealous or just allergic to happiness

Jungkook: tae. drop it.

Tae: damn okay 💀

someone woke up on the wrong side of the fuckin apocalypse

Jimin: 💀💀💀💀💀

Tae: anyway she said she’s helping me open tomorrow pray for me

gonna try to sneak in a playlist of just love songs and see if she notices 🤞

Jungkook: you’re pathetic

Tae: i’m romantic

there’s a difference 🕊️

Jimin: watch her play the guitar and he’ll propose on the spot 😭

Tae: wait she plays guitar????

i’m DONE

Jungkook: bye.

Jungkook has stopped responding.

Tae: …yo why is he always so grumpy these days

Jimin: idk

mercury in rage or whatever 😌

Jungkook stared at his phone screen, thumb hovering over the group chat before he locked it and tossed the device face down on the couch.

He couldn’t read another word. Not another “she’s so cute,” or “she made me coffee,” or “might marry her.” Not from Taehyung.

Especially not from Taehyung.

The worst part was—he didn’t even know.

He had no idea what happened between Jungkook and Y/N. No clue about the night they kissed. About the way things had shifted after. About how she’d started avoiding him like he was toxic.

Jungkook leaned back against the couch, running a hand through his hair in frustration. His jaw was tight, teeth grinding. That sharp, invisible thread between him and Y/N had gone slack. No more late-night conversations. No stolen glances. Just silence.

And Taehyung—Taehyung was filling the silence with that damn laugh of his and “accidental” jackets and morning shifts together.

It was driving Jungkook fucking crazy.

He didn’t even know what pissed him off more: that Taehyung kept flirting like he was in some harmless romcom, or that Y/N let him. Smiled at him. Looked at him the way she hadn’t looked at Jungkook since—

He stood abruptly, pacing now.

What the hell was he even doing?

He hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t fought for anything. He couldn’t. Because he didn’t know what they were. What they were supposed to be.

He remembered the feel of her lips, the way she’d melted into him that night. The way her breath caught when he touched her.

And now she wouldn’t even meet his fucking eyes.

Now she wore Taehyung’s jacket.

His hands clenched at his sides.

Jealousy sat heavy in his chest—ugly, hot, unspoken.

He couldn’t even blame Taehyung. Not really. Not when he was the one who let her slip behind closed doors and never knocked.

But god—he wanted to knock now.

He wanted to barge in.

He wanted to make her look at him again.

Instead, he sat back down, eyes on the ceiling, heart thudding like it had something to say.

But still—he said nothing.

Jimin 🐣

yo

you good?

Jimin 🐣

and don’t send me some one-word bullshit

Jungkook 🖤

what do you want me to say

Jimin 🐣

maybe the truth?

like the fact you’ve been acting like a ghost since the kiss?

Jungkook 🖤

there’s nothing to say

she doesn’t want to talk

Jimin 🐣

so you’re just gonna sit there and watch tae flirt with her all day?

Jungkook 🖤

what do you want me to do?

she made it clear. she’s over it. over me

Jimin 🐣

bro she wore his jacket

not a wedding ring

Jungkook 🖤

might as well have

she doesn’t even look at me anymore

i’m not stupid

i feel it

Jimin 🐣

you don’t know what she’s feeling

you’re just assuming the worst and shutting down

Jungkook 🖤

she kissed me and then pulled away like it was a mistake

since then? nothing.

just silence. distance. and now tae

Jimin 🐣

she didn’t pull away, man

you did

emotionally

you shut down first

Jungkook 🖤

i didn’t know what the fuck to do

she’s my roommate

my friend

my… i don’t know

Jimin 🐣

your something

and that’s the part you won’t say out loud

Jungkook 🖤

it doesn’t matter

i fucked it up

Jimin 🐣

only if you keep pretending you don’t care

you think tae would even flirt if he knew?

Jungkook 🖤

don’t tell him

Jimin 🐣

i won’t

but that doesn’t mean you get to keep hiding

say something

or someone else will

Party Night

Jungkook didn’t want to go.

He told himself that three times while buttoning his black shirt in front of the mirror, jaw clenched, chest tight. But he still went.

Eunji was already waiting downstairs when he got to the car.

She looked like trouble. In the best way.

Curls wild and glossy, lips painted in some cherry-red shade that matched the peek of her lace bra beneath a sheer corset top. A short leather skirt hugged her hips, her heels clicking confidently as she approached him.

“Damn,” she said, eyes dragging down his frame. “You clean up nice.”

Jungkook gave a small smirk. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

She leaned in without hesitation, fixing the silver chain around his neck, fingers grazing the top button of his shirt. “You gonna let me undo this by the end of the night?”

He chuckled, low and noncommittal. “We’ll see.”

In the car, she talked a lot. About a new session, a playlist she wanted him to hear, how she couldn’t believe he still hadn’t posted a selfie in three weeks.

Jungkook stared out the window most of the ride, letting her talk, nodding at the right moments, texting Jimin once:

“You there?”

“Already drunk 😎”

The party was already alive when they stepped in—bass pulsing through the floorboards, colored lights painting the ceilings, bodies moving in dim-lit corners, glasses clinking. Someone had pulled the couches to the edge of the room to make space for dancing. The playlist was tasteful, curated, shifting between moody R&B and alt-pop.

People noticed them the second they walked in.

Whispers buzzed in the background:

“Yo, that’s Jungkook from Blue Noise, right?”

“Isn’t that Eunji?”

“They came together?”

“Hot couple.”

Jungkook heard it.

He didn’t correct it.

Eunji clung to his side like she belonged there, hand already sliding down the small of his back as they moved through the crowd. She greeted a few producers she knew, threw compliments like darts. Jungkook nodded vaguely, cracked smiles. He was good at playing cool. Detached. Untouchable.

Until the door opened again.

And suddenly, the temperature shifted.

Like gravity tilted.

Everyone turned.

Taehyung stepped in first, tall and magnetic in a slim brown suede jacket and black pants, rings catching the light as he casually sipped from a flask. His arm was around someone—

And then came her.

Y/N.

Every head turned.

Her black mini dress shimmered faintly in the low light, clinging to her figure like it had been poured onto her skin. Thin straps framed her collarbones, the neckline dipping just enough to make Jungkook’s pulse stutter. The hem barely reached her thighs, and when she walked, it shifted like silk, showing flashes of leg that made him forget where he was.

Her makeup was soft but sharp—winged liner, flushed cheeks, red gloss that glinted when she smiled.

Her hair was pinned up loosely, curled strands falling like temptation around her neck.

Taehyung’s hand rested comfortably on her waist.

The room reacted instantly.

“Holy shit—who is that?”

“She’s with Taehyung?”

“No way that’s just his employee.”

“They look like a magazine cover.”

“They look like… sex.”

Jungkook couldn’t look away.

Couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

His fingers curled around the glass Eunji had handed him, knuckles white.

“Who’s that?” she asked, voice neutral—but he could feel her watching him instead of the girl.

He forced the words out. “My roommate.”

Eunji tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Oh?”

And then Jimin walked over, grin already trouble. He was flushed from the alcohol, pink-cheeked and grinning too wide.

He raised his glass. “Might also be the girl he made out with a few days ago,” he said casually. “Maybe the one he’s in love with.”

Eunji blinked, slow and amused. “Spicy,” she muttered, sipping from her drink. “This should be fun.”

They approached.

Taehyung was all smiles, greeting people like they were old friends. He tugged Y/N closer to whisper something in her ear—something that made her laugh, mouth tilted, hand briefly touching his chest.

Jungkook saw red.

The fake small talk started. Stiff greetings. Forced laughs. Y/N didn’t even look at him at first. She smiled at Eunji, polite. Spoke to Jimin. Nodded at someone who complimented her dress. But Jungkook?

She passed over him like he was no one.

Eunji, picking up on it all, slid her hand up his chest again. “You okay?” she murmured low, feigning concern with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Fine,” he lied.

But inside, he was already unraveling.

Taehyung’s fingers stayed glued to Y/N’s waist. Her dress clung tighter every time she moved. Her laughter danced through the room like it didn’t know it was killing him.

And worst of all—

She wasn’t even looking at him.

She hadn’t even looked.

Small talk passed in waves—tight smiles and clipped words that barely masked the undercurrents beneath.

Eunji’s hand curled around Jungkook’s bicep, her touch casual but deliberate. She leaned in close, brushing her fingers lightly over his chest. “You’ve been working too hard,” she murmured, voice low, almost purring. “You need to let loose sometime.”

Jungkook’s eyes flicked toward Y/N, who stood a few feet away, arms crossed, watching with quiet intensity. He didn’t stop Eunji. Not yet.

Y/N met Jungkook’s gaze and held it, unblinking. There was something fierce in her expression, something that dared him to say or do anything.

Taehyung, standing nearby with a drink in hand, caught Y/N’s eye. His smile was slow, confident. “Come dance with me,” he said softly.

Y/N hesitated, then smiled—a small, knowing curve of her lips. Without looking back at Jungkook, she reached for Taehyung’s wrist and pulled him toward the dance floor.

The music swelled, bass pounding heavy and relentless. The lights flickered low and warm, casting everyone in shades of gold and shadow.

They moved together—slow, deliberate, sensual. Y/N’s back pressed against Taehyung’s chest, his hands resting possessively on her hips. Their bodies swayed as if daring the whole room to watch.

Jungkook’s jaw tightened so hard it ached. His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms.

And then, impossibly, Taehyung dipped Y/N and kissed her.

Hot. Raw. Like fire and ice all at once.

Jungkook’s breath caught in his throat.

He snapped.

Storming through the crowd, every step fueled by a rage that simmered beneath his skin for days.

He reached them and grabbed Y/N’s wrist, pulling her away from Taehyung’s hold.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he bit out, voice low and fierce.

Taehyung blinked, unfazed. “Dancing? Kissing? Breathing? Isn’t that what people do?”

“She’s not—”

“What?” Taehyung stepped closer. “Not what, Jungkook?”

Jungkook didn’t answer.

He just grabbed Y/N’s wrist and pulled her out of the party without another word.

Taehyung took a step forward when he saw Jungkook yank Y/N toward the door, his brows furrowed in concern.

“Hey—what the hell?” he started, about to follow.

But a hand landed on his arm.

“Let them go,” Jimin said firmly.

Taehyung turned, surprised. “He just dragged her out. What if she doesn’t want to—?”

“She does,” Jimin said, quieter this time. “Trust me. He’s not gonna hurt her. Not like that.”

Taehyung looked at the door, still half-open, now swinging shut with the breeze. He hesitated, then let out a breath and stayed put.

Outside, the night had teeth.

The cold sliced through the haze of beer and sweat and music. Jungkook didn’t slow down until they were a good distance from the pulsing bass of the party. The parking lot was mostly empty. A few flickering streetlights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows.

Y/N yanked her arm free the second they stopped, heels scraping the pavement.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she hissed, her voice trembling—not from fear, but white-hot fury.

Jungkook whirled around, his jaw locked. “No. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Her breath caught. “Excuse me?”

“You show up with him—wearing that—and then spend the whole night grinding on him like you’re trying to piss me off.”

She blinked. “Oh, I’m trying now?” A harsh laugh bubbled out of her. “Funny. Didn’t know I needed your permission to dance. Or wear whatever the fuck I want.”

“You knew exactly what you were doing.”

“Oh, did I? What about you, huh?” she stepped closer, eyes flashing. “Letting Eunji hang off your arm like some glittery stage prop? You didn’t even flinch when she stuck her hand down your shirt. You let it happen. You wanted it to happen.”

“I didn’t stop her because I was trying to forget you!” he shouted, louder than he meant to. The words tore out of him, jagged and brutal.

Y/N flinched.

The silence stretched.

Jungkook stepped back, raking a hand through his hair like he was trying to hold himself together. “I’ve been trying to forget you for weeks,” he said, voice lower now. “Ever since you moved in and started taking over my space. Leaving your mugs everywhere. Your headphones tangled with mine. Fucking humming to my unfinished demos like they were yours.”

Her breath caught.

“And then that night. When we kissed…” He looked up at her like he was reliving it. “When you kissed me back—I couldn’t breathe, Y/N. I couldn’t fucking breathe.”

Her chest rose and fell in shaky rhythm.

“And then tonight,” he said bitterly. “You show up looking like that, with him touching you like it’s nothing. Like he gets to. And I just—” His voice cracked. “It felt like watching someone else unwrap the only thing I ever wanted.”

She stood frozen, heart in her throat.

“I hate it,” Jungkook continued, stepping closer. His voice was breaking now, every word burning. “I hate the way you look at him. I hate that he makes you laugh. I hate that he gets to carry your stupid bag and put his jacket on you like you’re his.”

She swallowed hard.

“I hate all of it,” he breathed, “because I want it. I want to be the one who makes you laugh. I want to be the one holding your hand and keeping you warm and hearing your voice first thing in the morning.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

“I want you, Y/N.”

The confession slammed into her chest.

Jungkook’s voice dropped even lower, soft but broken. “And I think I’ve been in love with you since you made fun of my playlist and called my studio a cave.”

A breath left her lips like she’d been punched.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he added, eyes flicking away. “I just—I couldn’t hold it in anymore. Watching you with him was fucking killing me.”

Y/N stared at him—his shoulders tense, his hands curled into fists, his whole body shaking like he’d finally let go of something he never meant to say.

“I thought…” she whispered. “I thought you didn’t want me.”

Jungkook let out a bitter, empty laugh. “No. I didn’t think I deserved you.”

She took a step forward.

Then another.

When she reached him, she didn’t kiss him—not yet. She reached up and brushed his cheek with her knuckles.

“You idiot,” she whispered.

His breath caught.

“You’re mine too.”

And that was it.

That was all he needed.

He surged forward and kissed her.

It was soft at first. Barely there. Like something sacred. His lips moved over hers with aching tenderness, and her hands found their way into his hair, holding him steady like the earth had tilted.

But it didn’t stay soft for long.

Because that tension—the one they’d been sitting in for weeks—finally snapped.

And it all came rushing out.

Jungkook groaned against her mouth, grabbing her waist and hauling her against him. She gasped, fingers tangling tighter in his hair as his tongue slid over hers, hungry and rough.

Her back hit the cold side of a car, and she barely noticed. His hands were everywhere—her jaw, her hips, her thighs. She moaned into his mouth and he swore he almost lost it right there.

“You’re mine,” he growled, lips moving to her neck. “Mine.”

“Prove it,” she whispered.

He pulled her thigh up, pinning her to the car, grinding into her like he had no intention of stopping.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

She laughed breathlessly. “You’re not so unaffected yourself.”

He kissed her again—deeper, messier. His hands dipped under her dress, teasing along the edge of her thigh as she gasped into his mouth.

“Say it again,” he demanded.

She was panting now, lips swollen and breath shaky. “You’re mine, Jeon Jungkook.”

He kissed her like he wanted to devour her. And for the first time in weeks, it didn’t feel like they were running from anything.

They were finally colliding.

Jungkook pulled back first—barely, reluctantly. His forehead rested against hers, their breaths still tangled, lips kiss-swollen and flushed from the way they’d devoured each other against the side of someone’s car.

“We need to get home,” he muttered, voice hoarse, low, and thick with heat.

Y/N blinked up at him, her brain fogged with adrenaline and lust. “Now?”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Before I fuck you right here.”

A sharp inhale left her lips.

She didn’t protest.

They made it to the car in a blur—Jungkook’s hand never leaving her waist, her thigh, her wrist—some part of her always under his grip like he couldn’t risk her slipping away again. He opened the passenger door for her, barely managing a breath as she slid into the seat, dress still riding dangerously high up her legs.

He shut the door with more force than necessary and jogged around to the driver’s side.

Once the engine roared to life, the silence inside the car wasn’t calm. It crackled. It hummed with tension.

Her knees were pressed together, thighs clenched. Jungkook’s hands tightened on the wheel, his jaw locked, eyes flicking between the road and her legs.

“Seatbelt,” he grunted.

She clicked it into place without a word. But when she leaned back, her dress shifted—just enough to expose more skin. He noticed. Of course he did.

The drive started smooth. Tense.

Until the first red light.

Jungkook’s hand gripped the gear shift, knuckles white. She leaned over, her fingers brushing the back of his neck. Light. Teasing.

His jaw flexed. “Y/N…”

She smiled, dangerous. “Yeah?”

“You’re driving me fucking insane.”

“Oh?” she leaned in closer, lips at his ear. “Already?”

He turned his head.

And just like that, their mouths crashed again.

Hot. Desperate. Full of all the things they hadn’t said for weeks.

Jungkook pulled her closer by the back of her neck, fingers sliding into her hair. His other hand stayed on the wheel—barely. She kissed him like she needed it to breathe, her lips soft and then rough, her teeth dragging along his lower lip as he groaned into her mouth.

The light turned green.

Neither noticed.

Until a car behind them honked.

They jumped, breathing hard. Jungkook let out a sharp curse and slammed the gear into drive, eyes wild.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re going to kill me.”

“You started it,” she replied, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her lipstick was smudged. Her smirk? Evil.

The next few minutes were a blur of tension.

His hand slid to her thigh at the next light. Not innocently. Not this time. He traced slow circles, eyes never leaving the road—except when he glanced sideways to see her reaction.

She shivered.

“You like that?” he asked.

“You know I do.”

At the next red light, she unbuckled her seatbelt.

“What are you—”

She crawled over the center console before he could stop her, straddling him in the driver’s seat. It was reckless. Stupid. Hot.

“Y/N,” he warned, voice ragged.

“Shut up,” she whispered—and kissed him again.

It was deeper this time. Her hips rolled slowly against his, dragging a growl from his throat. His hands gripped her ass, holding her to him like she was the only thing anchoring him to this earth.

“Fuck, baby,” he hissed. “We’re not gonna make it home.”

“Yes, we are,” she gasped. “But barely.”

Another honk behind them. Another curse. She slid off of him with a wicked grin and adjusted her dress, licking her swollen lips. Jungkook’s hair was a mess now, lips red, eyes half-lidded as he focused on the road again, his breathing shallow.

“Put your seatbelt back on before I make you,” he said through gritted teeth.

She clicked it back into place, but her hand stayed resting on his thigh.

The rest of the drive was torture.

She’d drag her fingers along his leg. He’d grip the wheel tighter. She’d moan when the car hit a bump and her body bounced. He’d mutter curses under his breath, threatening to pull over and end her right there.

By the time they pulled into the apartment lot, his shirt was wrinkled, her hair was a mess, and both of them looked like they’d just committed a felony.

Jungkook cut the engine, head falling back against the seat.

“We are so fucked.”

Y/N laughed—breathy, teasing. “Not yet.”

His eyes snapped open.

And the next moment?

They were stumbling out of the car, barely managing to lock it before they were all over each other again, right there in the parking lot, mouths clashing like magnets.

Hands in hair.

Fingers on zippers.

Heels clattering against the pavement.

But Jungkook pulled back, panting.

“Inside,” he said. “Now. Before I lose the last shred of control I have left.”

She didn’t argue.

She ran.

And he chased her up the stairs, every footstep a promise.

hey tumblr!

back with part five and omg i had so much fun writing this one 😭💥

jimin truly came through for jungkook — like, emotional support king behavior.as for taehyung… let’s just say, he really doesn’t know what he’s walking into. 😮‍💨

jungkook’s absolutely spiraling this part — from taehyung talking about her to him walking in with y/n at the party. yeah, chaos. delicious chaos.

hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it. the final part is up next (full-blown spicy, you’ve been warned 👀🔥)

reblogs, comments & kisses are welcome here 💌

with love,

xo, ario 💗

TAGLIST 🔖

@gyeomibear @dna2723 @lachimolalajeon @yunhoswrldddd @whoa-jo @notsevenwithyou @dmstoyangyang @songbyeonkim

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[seokwrts]

I LIKE ME BETTER | jjk

PART FOUR

summary : After walking in on her boyfriend Sanho cheating, Y/N moves out and ends up living with Jungkook, a cocky yet caring acquaintance she once couldn’t stand. What begins as a tense, passive-aggressive roommates situation slowly transforms into something deeper, as both navigate heartbreak, vulnerability, and emotional healing. Through stormy nights, late-night confessions, domestic routines, and quiet tension, Y/N and Jungkook gradually uncover the warmth and safety they’ve both been missing—especially in each other.

“After all, what’s the worst that could happen just living under the same roof?”

pairing : jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre : roommates , fluff , smut

word count : 4.1k

warnings : Explicit. This story contains sexual content, explicit language, and themes of emotional trauma. Expect a roommates-to-lovers slow burn with intense enemies-to-lovers tension, mutual pining, and eventual smut. Features include domestic intimacy, past cheating, emotional hurt/comfort, and lots of kitchen tension. There’s jealousy, unresolved sexual tension, first times, comfort sex, and characters who are both emotionally guarded and touch-starved.

The tiny bell above the café door chimed as Y/N stepped inside.

It was her first time seeing Maison in person. She’d only glimpsed it online when she was scouring listings for part-time jobs—what caught her attention then was the name. French for “home.” It sounded soft. Safe.

Now, standing in its doorway, the name made perfect sense.

Warm wood interiors, soft amber lighting, shelves lined with potted plants and weathered books. The place felt more like a tucked-away sanctuary than a business. A little dream of a space, far from the cold, impersonal gray of her week.

She hugged her coat tighter around her frame, trying not to shiver. The bitter morning wind had cut through her layers on the walk over. Even now, she could barely feel her fingers.

“Hey,” came a voice from behind the counter. “You must be Y/N.”

She looked up—and forgot how to breathe for a second.

There he was.

Taehyung.

Owner. Late twenties. Ridiculously, almost unfairly handsome. He wore a soft cardigan over a white tee, silver-rimmed glasses perched low on his nose, his dark hair falling slightly over his eyes like it didn’t know how lucky it was to be there.

He stepped out from behind the espresso machine and walked toward her with the kind of easy confidence that wasn’t loud—but magnetic.

“I’m Taehyung. Welcome to Maison.”

He offered his hand, and she took it automatically, her cold fingers brushing against his warm palm.

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” he said, smiling like he meant it.

“Same,” she managed.

“First café job?” he asked, tilting his head with a soft curiosity.

She winced. “That obvious?”

He chuckled, his voice low and velvet-smooth. “Let’s just say… you’re holding the milk frother like it’s a fire extinguisher.”

She looked down at her grip on the machine and flushed. “Oh.”

“Don’t worry.” His smile widened. “I’ve trained worse. You’ve got good energy.”

Good energy.

No one had said anything kind to her in days. Maybe longer. It hit her harder than it should’ve.

They got to work quickly. Taehyung’s style of teaching was calm, thoughtful—never rushed, never patronizing. He walked her through each machine step by step, showing her how to grind beans to the right consistency, how to tamp espresso evenly, how to steam milk until it was silky and warm, not scalding.

Unfortunately, she got too comfortable too fast—and thirty minutes later, she burned the side of her hand on the steam wand.

“Shit—!” she hissed, instinctively jerking back.

“Hey, hey,” Taehyung said gently, already moving. “Come with me.”

He guided her behind the counter, not with panic but with quiet assurance. His hand rested lightly on her elbow as he led her to the back sink, turned on the cold water, and held her wrist underneath.

“You okay?” he asked, looking at her, not the burn.

She nodded, even though her throat felt tight. “Yeah. Sorry. Stupid mistake.”

“Not stupid. It happens.”

The water stung her skin, but his presence steadied her more than anything else.

He patted her hand dry with a soft cloth, then pulled a small first-aid kit from the shelf. His fingers moved with practiced ease as he wrapped gauze around the red skin.

“You’ve done this before,” she said, trying to smile.

“Too many times.” He gave her a look—part mock-serious, part teasing. “One guy last month managed to spill hot syrup down the back of his shoe.”

She blinked. “How?”

“He refused to wear non-slip shoes and slipped on a sugar packet. Gravity did the rest.”

Y/N laughed before she could stop herself.

The sound echoed in the quiet backroom—and surprised her.

It was the first time she’d laughed in what felt like days.

Taehyung smiled, pleased. “See? You’ll survive.”

They went back to the floor after that, though he insisted she take a break and let him handle the hot drinks for the rest of the shift. Instead, he walked her through the register system, the bakery display, the regular customer names and their usual orders. It was slower than she expected—weekday mornings, he said, were always quiet.

They stayed an extra hour after closing.

Not because he had to—but because he wanted to make sure she felt comfortable.

He showed her the weird way the front door stuck if you didn’t pull it just right. The extra sugar packets hidden behind the bar. He offered her a drink on the house and insisted she sit while sipping her latte as he cleaned the espresso machine.

And through all of it, he kept talking—not just about the café, but stories. Funny stories. Casual ones. The way a barista once accidentally served a decaf triple espresso. A customer who cried over the wrong croissant and apologized with a handwritten note the next day.

Taehyung’s voice was calm, his laughter soft.

Everything about him was… easy.

And for a while, she let herself enjoy that.

Let herself forget.

But when she stepped out of Maison that evening—warm from coffee and his jacket draped over her shoulders—the thoughts came back, creeping like a shadow under streetlights.

Jungkook.

She hadn’t seen him all day.

He hadn’t texted.

No mention of last night.

No “Are you okay?”

No “What did that kiss mean to you?”

It hurt. More than she’d expected.

She touched her lips unconsciously as she walked.

That kiss had happened. Messy and electric and charged like a live wire. The way he’d grabbed her waist, the way he’d said her name like it broke him open. She could still feel the ghost of his breath against her mouth.

But what followed?

Silence.

Distance.

Like it didn’t count.

Like she didn’t count.

She thought it might’ve been different. She thought maybe—just maybe—he’d feel it too.

But Jungkook was always like that. Loud in silence. All tension and walls. He kissed like he was drowning, then left like he never needed air.

And Taehyung?

Taehyung was warmth.

Clear eyes.

Patient smiles.

He made her feel seen. Steady. Like she was worth slowing down for.

And that difference sat heavy on her chest.

She didn’t know which one hurt more—Jungkook’s silence… or how good it felt to be cared for by someone else.

Maybe both.

Maybe that was the problem.

By the time they locked up, the sky was painted in winter tones—cold blues and sleepy golds bleeding across the horizon like brushstrokes. A soft wind carried the smell of roasted chestnuts from a cart down the street, and for once, Y/N didn’t feel the weight of her day pressing down on her shoulders.

Not entirely, at least.

Taehyung fell into step beside her without needing to ask.

She noticed it after the first block—they hadn’t really stopped walking side by side since she started her shift. Even when she’d burned herself, even when he’d gone to make drinks, even when they cleaned up after closing. There was a quiet sort of rhythm between them already. Unspoken.

“You heading this way?” she asked, adjusting the strap of her bag.

He glanced at her, warm eyes reflecting the streetlights. “I guess we are.”

The chill set in quickly. The kind that crept through your coat and into your bones. Y/N didn’t say anything—she hated being the person who complained about the cold—but she must’ve shivered.

Because, wordlessly, Taehyung shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

It was warm. Lined with something soft. Smelled like cedarwood and clean linen and something just a little sweet—like cinnamon tea.

“Your hands are still red,” he said softly, glancing down at the bandage on her hand. “Let me carry your bag too.”

“You’re making all the other men in the city look bad,” she said, only half joking.

“Good,” he replied with a smile.

She let him take her bag. Normally, she’d argue—but she was tired, and he made it look effortless.

As they walked, their conversation drifted easily—starting with mundane things: favorite pastries, worst customer stories, weird café music playlists.

But then something shifted.

Taehyung turned to her and said, “I always wanted to own a café.”

She blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah. Since I was sixteen. I’d save every spare coin from tutoring gigs or birthday money. While my friends were buying sneakers, I was researching espresso machines.”

She smiled. “That’s kind of adorable.”

“It was borderline obsessive,” he admitted. “But it came from somewhere real. My grandma ran a tiny tea shop in Daegu. I used to help her after school. Maison’s kind of a tribute to her. And to… I don’t know. A slower kind of life, I guess.”

There was a pause.

Then he added, “What about you? Anyone driving you insane at home?”

Y/N barked out a laugh. “My roommate. He’s infuriating. Arrogant, messy, moody. Thinks his music is god-tier. He’s like a one-man emotional hurricane.”

Taehyung chuckled. “Wow. Sounds like a delight.”

“Oh, he’s a real charmer. Total menace to society. Leaves his socks on the kitchen counter.”

“Socks?”

“Don’t ask.”

Taehyung grinned. “What’s this mystery man’s name?”

She sighed, the name falling from her lips like something sour. “Jungkook. Jeon. Fucking. Jungkook.”

She expected Taehyung to just laugh—but instead, he stopped.

His eyes went wide. “Wait. Jeon Jungkook? Tattoos, bedroom voice, makes beats all night?”

Y/N blinked. “You know him?”

Taehyung burst into laughter. “He’s one of my best friends.”

“No. Way.”

“I’m literally heading to his place right now. He and Jimin are having a little hangout.”

She stopped walking. “You’re the friend he’s having over tonight?”

“You’re the roommate he keeps vaguely grumbling about?” Taehyung raised a brow, still laughing.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Wow. What are the odds?”

They looked at each other, both stunned—and then cracked up, the kind of surprised laughter that bubbled out whether you wanted it to or not.

Y/N shook her head, groaning. “Oh god. That means you know everything.”

“Not everything. He keeps it pretty vague. Just says things like, ‘She’s impossible,’ or ‘Why does she leave Post-its everywhere?’”

“I do not leave them everywhere,” she muttered. “Just in places he forgets to check. Which is everywhere.”

“Sounds like a solid system.”

She glanced at him sideways. “So you’re all close, huh?”

“Yeah. Jimin, Jungkook, and me. We’ve known each other for years. Survived military cuts, bad relationships, and worse haircuts.”

“Interesting,” she said, trying not to let her voice sound defensive. “And what has he told you about me, exactly?”

Taehyung gave her a sideways look. “Honestly? That you’re… complicated. And distracting. But smart. And kind of funny when you’re angry.”

Y/N stared at the sidewalk. “He said that?”

“Not in those exact words,” Taehyung admitted. “But the vibe was there.”

She didn’t say anything. Her throat felt tight for reasons she didn’t want to examine.

“So,” he said gently, “you two don’t get along?”

Y/N hesitated.

How did you explain what Jungkook was?

Not quite a friend. Not really an enemy. Something that lived in the static between words. Something electric and broken and unfinished.

“We do,” she finally said. “And then we don’t. It’s complicated.”

“Isn’t it always?”

She sighed. “He’s… hard to be around.”

“Because he’s intense?”

“Because he’s real. Too real sometimes. Like, one second he’s making dinner in sweatpants, and the next he’s saying something that makes me rethink my whole life. And then five minutes later, he’s gone. Just… shuts down. Disappears into himself.”

Taehyung nodded quietly. “Yeah. That sounds like him.”

“And he’s cocky,” she added. “Always acting like his music is holy scripture.”

Taehyung laughed. “To be fair, the guy’s pretty good.”

Y/N paused, biting the inside of her cheek.

She hated to admit it—but Taehyung wasn’t wrong.

“Yeah,” she said vaguely, eyes on the pavement. “He’s not bad.”

Taehyung glanced sideways. “Do you like his stuff?”

She shrugged, playing with the frayed edge of the bandage on her hand. “I’ve heard worse.”

He laughed, a low, amused sound that made her glance at him warily. “So you do.”

“I didn’t say that,” she snapped, a little too fast. Defensive.

Taehyung grinned. “You didn’t have to.”

She groaned. “He just… knows what he’s doing, okay? He’s good with sound. I’ve accidentally walked in on him mixing and ended up standing there for, like, twenty minutes. But I was zoning out. That doesn’t count.”

“Totally doesn’t count,” Taehyung agreed, his smirk growing. “Completely accidental admiration. No crime there.”

“I’m serious,” she said, eyes narrowing. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not saying anything.”

“Good. Because if you tell him I said even that, I will deny everything. I’ll burn the apartment down just to erase the evidence.”

He held up both hands in mock surrender. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

She gave him a look. “That’s not very reassuring.”

“Fine. I’ll pinky swear if you want,” he teased.

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t pinky swear with men I just met.”

“Reasonable policy.”

They walked in silence for a moment. The city buzzed faintly around them—distant car horns, the hum of streetlights warming up, the rhythmic tap of their steps on pavement.

Then Taehyung said, more gently, “You know… for someone you clearly can’t stand, you pay a lot of attention to him.”

Y/N stiffened. “I live with him. It’s hard not to notice things.”

“Right,” Taehyung said, nodding, like he was agreeing but also maybe not.

She added quickly, “And the walls are thin.”

“Ah. That explains the mysterious admiration of basslines at 2 a.m.”

“Exactly.”

He smirked. “And the fact that you know how long one of his songs runs before the bridge?”

She shot him a warning glare. “Are you always this annoying?”

“Only when I sense denial in the air.”

She gave him a shove with her shoulder, light but pointed, and he laughed as he took the hit with exaggerated drama. “You’re worse than Jimin.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said brightly.

They turned a corner. The neighborhood grew quieter. They were close now—she could see the outline of Jungkook’s building peeking through the gaps in the trees.

Y/N slowed a little at the crosswalk. Her voice was quieter this time, almost like it slipped out on its own. “I already told him once… that I liked one of his tracks.”

Taehyung looked over, brows raised.

“It was… a bad night. He got a call from his dad—looked like someone punched the wind out of him. I didn’t know what to say. So I said that. That I liked his song.”

Taehyung nodded slowly, the teasing in his expression fading to something more thoughtful.

“And ever since then,” she continued, softer now, “I haven’t said anything else about his music. I can’t. He’d take it the wrong way. Or the right way. I don’t even know.”

“Maybe it’s not about what he’d take it as,” Taehyung offered gently. “Maybe it’s just that it scared you a little. Saying it.”

Y/N looked at him. “You sound like a therapist.”

“Part-time barista, full-time overthinker,” he said with a wink.

She gave a weak laugh. “He makes it hard, you know? Being mad at him. His music… it’s not what you expect. It’s loud, yeah, but under all that sound, there’s this… grief. This weird tenderness.”

“You heard that?”

She nodded. “I wish I hadn’t. It’s easier not to care when you don’t see the soft parts.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked ahead toward the apartment building, then back at her. “He’s lucky. That you noticed.”

Y/N adjusted the strap of her bag where it sat on his shoulder. The sleeves of his jacket were still wrapped around her, warm and far too big. She let out a long, slow breath.

“I don’t think he sees it that way.”

“Then he’s an idiot.”

She laughed once, quiet and bitter. “Well. That’s not breaking news.”

They reached the intersection near the apartment. The lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows across the pavement.

Taehyung’s voice broke the silence again, gentler this time. “He doesn’t know you’ve listened to it. All of it?”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t think he even knows I care.”

Taehyung tilted his head. “Why not tell him?”

“Because it’s easier to be mad at someone when you don’t admit you understand them,” she said, and winced as the words left her mouth, too raw, too true. “And I’m still mad.”

“You sure it’s not hurt?”

She hesitated. Her fingers tugged at the frayed edge of the bandage again.

Then: “I’m sure it’s both.”

Taehyung didn’t press. He just walked beside her in quiet solidarity. There was something about him that made silence feel safe, not awkward. Like she didn’t have to fill every pause.

After a beat, he said, “You don’t have to explain anything. Not to me. Not even to him.”

“I know.”

He gave her a small smile. “Still want to go up?”

She looked at the building. Her chest felt tight with something sharp and hard to name. But she nodded.

“Yeah.”

And together, they crossed the street—her in his jacket, him with her bag, and both of them walking straight into the heart of everything she hadn’t figured out how to say.

When they walked in, the living room fell into silence.

Jimin was mid-sentence, drink in hand. Jungkook was standing—still, frozen, bottle clenched.

And his eyes… they were locked on the sight before him.

Y/N. In Taehyung’s jacket. Taehyung. Carrying her bag. Both laughing like they belonged together.

“We had no idea,” Taehyung grinned. “Y/N’s the new part-timer at Maison. This might be the best coincidence I’ve ever seen.”

Y/N smiled politely and excused herself, heading to her room to shower and change. The warmth of the jacket lingered on her skin.

When Y/N disappeared down the hallway, the door to her room clicking shut behind her, a brief silence settled between the three men left in the living room.

Jungkook took a slow sip of his beer, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the darkened TV screen.

Jimin glanced at him but said nothing, leaning back into the couch with a low whistle. “Well. That was something.”

Taehyung flopped into the armchair, kicking his legs up and getting comfortable. “What? The accidental roommate-coworker twist? Or the fact that Y/N somehow makes being covered in espresso grounds look like an aesthetic?”

Jimin smirked. “So she survived her first shift?”

“Barely,” Taehyung said, grinning. “She burned her hand on the steam wand. Apologized to the machine.”

Jimin laughed. “Classic.”

“She’s funny, though,” Taehyung added. “Snarky. Kind of feral about organizing the syrup bottles, which I respect.”

Jungkook didn’t look up, but his grip on the bottle in his hand grew slightly tighter.

“And,” Taehyung continued with a relaxed sigh, “she’s so pretty.”

Jimin lifted his eyebrows. “That was fast.”

“I’m just saying,” Taehyung said, gesturing vaguely with his bottle, “she’s got that kind of energy. You know? Like, I could hand her a broom and suddenly she’s the lead in a rom-com.”

Jimin snorted. “Rom-com barista arc?”

Taehyung nodded like he was considering it seriously. “I even texted you earlier, remember? Told you this part-timer was cute. I thought maybe—hell, maybe it was finally my turn for a proper girlfriend.”

Jimin blinked. “Wait, that was Y/N you were talking about?”

“Yep.” Taehyung grinned. “Small world, right?”

Jungkook stood up, casually, but the beer bottle made a louder-than-necessary clink as he set it down on the counter. His back was to them now, shoulders just slightly tense.

“Dude,” Jimin said, glancing between them. “You’re halfway gone and it’s been one day.”

Taehyung just laughed. “She’s got that effect.”

Before Jungkook could find something neutral to say,

Y/N stepped back into the living room in fresh clothes, hair towel-dried and still slightly damp at the ends. She padded in quietly, unsure of what she’d be walking into.

To her surprise, the tension had mostly dissolved. Taehyung was sprawled sideways across the armchair, animatedly telling Jimin a story with wild hand gestures. Jimin was halfway through a can of beer, grinning as he tried to interrupt.

Jungkook, on the other hand, sat on the far edge of the couch, one leg bouncing restlessly. He didn’t look up when she entered—but he knew. She could feel it in the way his shoulders tensed just slightly. In the way his hand curled tighter around the bottle.

“Shower revive you?” Taehyung asked, flashing her an easy smile.

“Barely,” Y/N said with a soft laugh, settling down at the other end of the couch—far from Jungkook.

Jimin scooted over to make room for her. “You missed Tae’s retelling of the time he spilled soy milk all over a customer and tried to cover it up by saying it was a new kind of latte.”

“Experimental,” Taehyung said proudly. “She didn’t complain. She left, but she didn’t complain.”

Y/N snorted. “Impressive.”

“I’m full of secrets,” he said, grinning.

“Yeah,” Jimin chimed in. “Like how he apparently texted me earlier that he met someone ‘devastatingly cute’ today and thought it might be fate.”

Y/N blinked. “Wait, what?”

Taehyung shot Jimin a mock glare. “You weren’t supposed to say that yet.”

Jimin raised both hands in surrender. “Sorry, sorry. The beer makes me loose-lipped.”

Y/N looked between them, eyes narrowing. “You were talking about me?”

“Guilty,” Taehyung said sheepishly. “But in my defense, I didn’t know you were Jungkook’s roommate until halfway through our shift.”

Jungkook stood abruptly. “I’m getting more beer.”

He didn’t ask if anyone wanted one. He didn’t look at her.

Y/N’s heart thumped painfully. She kept her expression neutral, but she noticed Jimin watching him with that sharp, quiet understanding only he seemed to carry.

As Jungkook returned and passed out drinks, Taehyung perked up again. “Oh—speaking of fate and cute people. Jimin’s throwing that party this weekend.”

Jimin nodded. “Low-key thing. Friends, music, some dancing, maybe a little chaos.”

Taehyung turned to Y/N. “You should come. I mean, technically you’re one of the crew now.”

She smiled, tucking her feet under her. “Sure. Sounds fun.”

Then Taehyung turned toward Jungkook. “You bringing someone?”

Jungkook didn’t even blink. “Already got a date.”

Taehyung raised an eyebrow, teasing. “Oh? Anyone we know?”

Jungkook just gave a tight-lipped smile and took a swig of his beer. “Don’t worry about it.”

Y/N glanced at him, something sharp twisting in her chest. A date? Since when?

But she didn’t say anything. Neither did Jimin.

As the conversation shifted toward party plans and who was in charge of the playlist, Y/N tried not to let the weight of Jungkook’s words sit too heavily in her gut.

But it stayed there—quiet and bruising.

And hours later, when Jimin and Taehyung finally said their goodbyes, and the door clicked shut behind them, the silence in the apartment returned like it had been waiting.

She gathered empty bottles to bring to the kitchen, just for something to do.

Behind her, Jungkook’s voice finally broke the stillness.

“You like him?”

She froze.

Then turned, slowly. “What?”

“Taehyung.” His voice was low, careful. “You like him?”

She stared at him. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” he said quickly. Too quickly.

She shook her head and walked into the kitchen. “You’re unbelievable.”

He followed. “It’s a simple question.”

“No, it’s not,” she snapped, spinning to face him. “It’s loaded, and you know it.”

His jaw tensed. “He was wearing your bag.”

“I was wearing his jacket. So what?”

He didn’t answer.

She crossed her arms. “You kissed me. Then you left like it meant nothing. Then you stood there tonight acting like I betrayed you for getting a job. And now you’re jealous?”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.”

He looked at her then—really looked at her. And in his eyes was something raw, cracked open.

“I don’t know how to not be,” he admitted.

Her breath caught.

Neither of them moved.

Then, slowly, she said, “You don’t get to be jealous and silent at the same time, Jungkook. Pick one.”

He exhaled shakily. “I didn’t think it would matter this much.”

“But it does.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“And this date of yours? Is that real?”

His silence was answer enough.

She laughed once—bitter, tired. “God, you’re such a coward.”

“I know.”

She looked at him, really looked. At the boy who made beats in the dark and left every light off. Who kissed her like she was the only thing keeping him alive and then walked away like he didn’t want to be.

And it broke something in her chest. Not violently. Quietly.

Like an old song fading out.

“I’m going to bed,” she said softly, walking away.

And Jungkook just stood there, alone in the kitchen—watching her retreat, wishing he could follow but too afraid to move.

hey tumblr besties 🫶💌

guess who’s back with part four of the series? that’s right—meee 😋🤘

i’m so happy y’all enjoyed the last chapter, it seriously means the world. also not gonna lie… i’m kind of obsessed with jimin’s character 😮‍💨 he’s just too good.

from here on out, things are only getting messier—more taehyung swooning over y/n, and jungkook absolutely losing his mind about it 😛

so tell me… do you think we’re heading toward more angst? fluff? or are we diving into full-on spice? 👀 drop your predictions in the comments!

also, i’m still adding people to the taglist, so if you wanna be included, just leave a comment 🫶

as always—reblogs, comments, and virtual kisses keep me going 💋 thank you so much for reading! 🥰

with love,

xo, ario

TAGLIST 🔖

@gyeomibear @dna2723 @lachimolalajeon @yunhoswrldddd @whoa-jo @notsevenwithyou @dmstoyangyang @songbyeonkim

« previous | next »

[seokwrts]

SEVEN MINUTES IN HEAVEN

KIM MINGYU | nsfw one shot

synopsis : at a wild college party, tension that’s been simmering for weeks finally ignites when Y/N is dared to spend seven minutes in heaven with her cocky, dangerously attractive friend, Mingyu. What starts as a game quickly turns into a heated encounter neither of them will forget—changing everything between them in just seven minutes.

“Seven minutes, let’s see how many times I can make you fall apart before time’s up”

pairing : kim mingyu x f!reader

genre : college au , smut , friends to lovers , mutual pining , forced proximity

word count : 8.1k

warnings : MDNI , sexual content, unprotected sex, sexual innuendo, explicit language, suggestive dialogue, public teasing, mild slut-shaming, mild alcohol use, casual intimacy, and emotionally charged group dynamics.

Y/N was already regretting the second layer of lip gloss when Elle grabbed her by the arm.

“Stop fidgeting,” Elle groaned, eyeing her in the mirror. “You look hot. Slutty, but hot.”

Y/N laughed, brushing a final touch of mascara onto her lashes. “Thanks. I was going for college party, but make it unbothered and slightly unhinged.”

“You nailed it,” Elle said, sliding in her gold hoops with a wink. “Especially the unbothered part. The lip gloss screams, I’m not desperate, but I will step on you.”

Y/N rolled her eyes and reached for her leather jacket. “Okay, relax.”

Elle snorted. “Relax? Please. I’ve seen the way you spiral when Mingyu walks into the room.”

Y/N paused. Jacket half on.

“I don’t spiral.”

“Babe,” Elle said, turning to face her fully. “You go feral. Your entire soul leaves your body. I’ve watched it happen. It’s like a full-blown event.”

“I do not go feral,” Y/N insisted, but her face was already heating.

“You literally gasped the last time he wore that grey hoodie that hugs his back like it owes him money.”

“It was a really good hoodie,” Y/N muttered defensively.

“You said, and I quote, ‘That man could ruin my credit score and I’d say thank you.’”

Y/N flopped onto the edge of the bed, groaning into her hands. “Why do you remember everything embarrassing I say?”

“Because your crush on Mingyu is the highlight of my college experience,” Elle said brightly, grabbing her phone. “It’s adorable. Tragic. A little thirsty. But mostly adorable.”

Y/N gave her a look. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“You’ve had a crush on him for how long now? Like… since freshman year?”

“More like the first week of freshman year,” Y/N admitted, voice muffled behind her hands. “He said hi to me in the dining hall line and I forgot how to speak.”

Elle cackled. “So tonight’s the night, then?”

“The night for what?”

“The night your Mingyu thirst saga becomes a spicy enemies-to-lovers one-shot instead of a silent, slow-burn pining fic with no plot.”

Y/N groaned again, but this time she was laughing too. “I hate you.”

“You love me. And I love that I’m manifesting your hot girl era.”

She finally stood, adjusting her skirt one last time. “Okay. Let’s go before you start making vision boards.”

They left the dorm around ten, walking into the night like it owed them something. The sidewalks glistened faintly under streetlights from the late drizzle, and the air had that early fall edge—cool enough to raise goosebumps, warm enough not to care.

Y/N clutched her phone in one hand, jacket draped over her shoulders like armor. Every step closer to the party made her heart beat just a little faster.

She didn’t know if tonight would change anything.

But she knew this much:

She looked good. She felt ready.

And if Mingyu looked anything like he usually did—tall, golden-skinned, all stupid charm and sharp jawlines—she was doomed.

Elle bumped her hip against Y/N’s as they reached the end of the block. “Last chance to turn around.”

Y/N took a breath, heart thudding.

“Not a chance.”

The bass thumped through the walls before Y/N and her best friend even stepped inside. It pulsed like a second heartbeat, loud and deep, making the air buzz. “This is packed,” her friend muttered, tugging at the hem of her top as they stepped into the crowded house. Laughter, chatter, and music overlapped into a chaotic hum. Warm bodies pressed close, red cups in nearly every hand, and low amber lights turned the living room into a hazy blur of movement and heat.

Y/N didn’t respond. She barely even heard her.

Because her eyes had already locked onto him. Mingyu.

He was leaning against the kitchen counter like it was his throne. Red cup in hand, head tilted slightly back as he laughed at something someone said. Not just laughed—threw his whole body into it, like he didn’t know how to do anything halfway. His black shirt clung to his broad chest like it had been stitched directly onto his skin. It was criminal, honestly. The way the sleeves hugged his biceps, the way the fabric stretched slightly across his shoulders, the way—

God.

The silver chain at his collarbone gleamed when he turned slightly, catching the light. His dark hair was pushed back casually, revealing the sharp cut of his jawline, the arch of his cheekbones, the perfect curve of his lips. And that smirk?

Deadly. Slow. Deliberate.

She froze. And then he looked up—and noticed her.

Their eyes locked across the room. A beat. Then another. He didn’t look away. His gaze stayed on hers, unwavering, as if everything else had blurred into background noise. He tipped his chin up slightly, the corner of his mouth quirking just enough to say: Yeah. I see you.

Neither did she look away.

“Oh shit,” her best friend whispered, following Y/N’s stare and practically bouncing with excitement. “Is it finally happening?”

“Shut up,” Y/N muttered, but her voice lacked heat. She was too busy trying not to combust. Her lips curled up despite herself. Heat was already blooming on her cheeks, rising up her neck.

Her friend elbowed her. “Go talk to him.”

“What? No.” Y/N blinked and tore her gaze away. “I literally just got here.”

“So? He noticed you. You noticed him. The vibe is already vibing.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but peeked back toward the kitchen. Mingyu was still watching her, now sipping from his cup. Slow. Lazy. Confident.

“I can’t just walk over there,” she muttered.

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll look desperate!”

Her best friend gave her a look. “Girl. You’ve had a crush on him since the first econ lecture. You doodled his initials in your notes.”

“I did not.”

“You did. With hearts.”

Y/N groaned, trying to hide her face in her hands, but the thump of the music gave her away. She peeked again.

Mingyu had shifted. He was still leaning against the counter—but now his body was angled slightly in her direction. His thumb tapped against his cup rhythmically, and then—he raised a brow. Just a little.

Was he—waiting?

Y/N’s breath hitched.

“Okay, but what do I even say?” she mumbled.

Her friend raised a brow. “Hi?”

“I swear to god—”

But before she could finish, someone bumped into her from behind, forcing her a step forward. “Sorry!” the girl called out, weaving through the crowd, clearly already tipsy.

Y/N’s heart skipped. That step had brought her even closer to the kitchen. And now—

“Too late,” her friend grinned, gently pushing her. “You’re halfway there.”

Y/N turned around to glare, but her friend only shrugged. “You look hot tonight. Stop overthinking it.”

Y/N swallowed, nerves buzzing under her skin. She glanced down at herself—the fitted black tank top, the skirt that hit mid-thigh, the subtle gloss on her lips. Okay. She didn’t look terrible. But still.

Before she could chicken out, Mingyu pushed off the counter.

Y/N froze. He took a few steps forward, weaving through the party without breaking eye contact. Her stomach flipped.

“Hey,” he said, voice low but audible over the music. “You just get here?”

Oh god. His voice. That deep, smooth, slightly amused tone that made everything sound like a joke he was letting her in on.

“Uh—yeah,” she managed, heat flooding her cheeks again. “Just walked in.”

He smiled. “You looked kind of like a deer in headlights. Cute though.”

Y/N let out a soft, nervous laugh. “I was… trying to decide if the house was structurally sound. It’s shaking.”

Mingyu chuckled, tipping his head. “Fair. Pretty sure the upstairs bathroom’s already out of commission.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“Neither is the guy who just took a beer bong in the bathtub.”

Y/N laughed for real this time, and his smile widened like it had been waiting for that sound.

“I’m Mingyu, by the way,” he said, though he definitely didn’t need to.

“I know,” she blurted, then immediately wanted to slam her head into a wall. “I mean—I’ve seen you around. Econ.”

“I know,” he echoed, and the smirk returned. “You sit in the third row. Always take notes with colored pens.”

“You’ve noticed that?”

“Hard not to when you keep borrowing highlighters from me.”

Y/N blinked. “You remember that?”

Mingyu nodded. “I remember you.”

There was a beat of silence. Then two.

“You wanna grab a drink?” he asked, tilting his head toward the kitchen.

She hesitated, just for a second, then nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

As they walked side by side, the crowd seemed to part a little. Or maybe it was just her pulse drowning everything else out. She glanced up at him, and he caught her looking again.

This time, he didn’t smirk. He just looked at her—calm, sure, a little curious.

And Y/N suddenly thought that maybe—just maybe—this night was going to change everything.

Soon, the friend group clustered in the living room, half-tipsy and buzzing with energy. Someone had turned the music down just enough that voices filled the space — overlapping, loud, laced with laughter. Someone else had dragged in extra chairs, but most people chose to settle onto cushions, the floor, or sprawled across each other like drunken dominos.

Y/N ended up sitting directly across from Mingyu.

The group didn’t seem to notice, too busy trying to argue over what game to play next. Elle had already taken off her heels, her feet tucked under her as she flopped sideways onto Soonyoung’s legs.Soonyoung, ever the dramatic, moaned in protest but didn’t move. Yoona passed around a half-full bottle of vodka like a sacrament. Chan was perched in the center of the group like a queen about to announce her decree.

Y/N curled her legs beneath her and accepted the red cup Elle handed her. Her fingers felt too warm around the plastic. Her skin buzzed. And she didn’t have to look up to know why.

Mingyu sat across from her, lounging with one elbow resting lazily on his bent knee, his other hand still loosely holding his cup. His dark eyes tracked across the room—but whenever they passed over her, they paused. And lingered.

He wasn’t smiling. Not like he usually did when he told loud jokes or teased Jae for being overly dramatic. No, tonight, Mingyu just watched. Quiet. Intense. His gaze didn’t waver when it landed on hers.

Y/N took a sip to ground herself, lips brushing the rim of her cup a little too slowly. She could still feel him looking. When she finally met his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitched. Barely. Like a secret only she was in on.

Across the room, Soonyoung nudged Seungkwan.

“Okay but someone better come up with a game before I start ranking all my exes from worst to absolutely-freaking-trash.”

“You already did that last week,” Seungkwan said, flipping an imaginary strand of hair over his shoulder. “You put Soobin below the guy who cheated on you and stole your oat milk.”

“Because Soobin has zero rhythm. Zero. That’s a crime on its own.”

Laughter rippled around the group, but Y/N barely registered it. Mingyu was still watching her — openly now. No more subtle glances.

She arched a brow at him over the rim of her cup, almost as if to ask What?

He tilted his head. You tell me, his eyes seemed to reply.

The whole room snapped back into focus when Elle clapped once, loud and attention-grabbing.

“Alright, babies,” she announced, clearly reveling in her chaos gremlin energy. “Truth or dare. Let’s do this.”

“Oh god, here we go,” Jae muttered, already burying his face in a throw pillow. “Elle’s drunk enough to start trauma-digging.”

“No trauma, I promise!” Elle said brightly. “Just lighthearted emotional destruction.”

Everyone groaned, laughed, cheered. Jihoon tossed an empty bottle into the center of the circle.

“Who even suggested this?” Chan asked, stretching his legs out in front of him and leaning back on his palms.

“I think it was me,” Joshua shrugged. “But, like, ironically.”

“Nothing’s ever ironic with you,” Mingyu said, his voice a low rumble that sent goosebumps down Y/N’s arms. It was the first time he’d spoken in a while.

Everyone turned to look at him. Elle raised an eyebrow.

“Wow. Look who finally speaks.”

“I was enjoying the show,” he said simply, but his eyes hadn’t left Y/N.

She flushed under the weight of it.

The group noise swelled again — teasing, laughing — but to Y/N, it all felt distant. The tension between them hummed like an invisible thread pulled taut between where they sat.

She tried to look away. She really did.

But the thing about Mingyu was that he never made it easy to escape. He didn’t do anything — didn’t speak again, didn’t smile, didn’t lean forward — but somehow, he still managed to feel like gravity.

The bottle spun once. Loud whoops followed. It hadn’t landed on either of them, but Mingyu barely glanced away.

Neither did Y/N.

Because while the group dissolved into dares and truths and confessions that drew gasps and groans — the real game, at least for now, was the one being played in silence.

Just eyes. Just him and her.

And a tension so thick it practically crackled in the air between them.

A few rounds in, the game had completely unraveled into the kind of glorious chaos only semi-drunk college students could create. Laughter echoed through the living room, drinks were half-finished or completely forgotten, and the air practically shimmered with the energy of too many confessions, too much heat, and no boundaries.

Y/N shifted slightly where she sat, her legs curled under her. Across the circle, Mingyu leaned back on one arm, fingers lazily tapping his knee. Every time she laughed at something someone said, she could feel his eyes flick back to her. And every time she glanced up—he was already looking.

His gaze didn’t move. He didn’t smile. He just watched her. Like he was waiting.

“Okay, okay,” Elle shouted over the noise, holding the bottle aloft. “Back to the game or I swear I’ll start asking real questions.”

That sobered them up a little.

“Alright,” she said, spinning the bottle dramatically. It clinked over the hardwood before landing on Jae.

He raised his hands like a guilty man surrendering.

“Let’s get it over with.”

“Dare,” Elle smirked.

He groaned, already dreading it.

“I dare you to give someone in this circle a lap dance.”

Laughter exploded instantly. Soonyoung nearly fell over. Seungkwan started drumming a rhythm on his cup like it was a strip club beat.

“You people are unwell,” Jae said, standing up anyway.

“Choose someone!” Elle grinned, clapping her hands.

Jae looked around dramatically, then sighed.

“Seungkwan, I hope you’re ready for the worst thirty seconds of your life.”

“Oh honey,” Seungkwan said, fanning himself. “Make me regret this.”

And he did. The performance was tragic, all exaggerated hip rolls and fake body rolls. The room was in hysterics by the time he collapsed back into his spot.

“Okay, okay,” Seungkwan said breathlessly, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

“My turn.”

The bottle landed on Yoona.

“Truth,” Yoona said smoothly.

“Who would you sleep with in this room if no one ever found out?”

Dead silence.

Everyone sat up a little straighter.

Yoona didn’t blink.

“Mingyu.”

That got reactions. Whoops, cheers, and one very dramatic gasp from Jae.

Y/N’s throat tightened. She didn’t even realize she’d tensed until she caught Mingyu out of the corner of her eye. He didn’t even react — just sipped his drink, eyes flicking briefly to Y/N, unreadable.

Elle was already laughing.

“Okayyy, spicy! Let’s keep it going.”

Next spin. It landed on Jihoon.

“Dare,” Jihoon said, ready for blood.

Soonyoung grinned.

“Kiss the person you’d never admit you had a thing for.”

The room tensed.

Jihoon stood, walked right past Chan and Joshua — and kissed Elle.

It wasn’t dramatic or showy. Just a quick, firm kiss that left Elle blinking and the entire group losing their minds.

“You are not okay,” Elle said, cheeks flushed.

“I’m very okay,” Jihoon smirked, sitting down again like he hadn’t just shifted the entire friend group dynamic.

“Alright,” Elle breathed, grinning like a devil. “Y/N.”

The bottle had landed on her, of course. All eyes turned.

Y/N blinked slowly. “Dare.”

Elle didn’t hesitate. “I dare you to play Seven Minutes in Heaven.”

That drew a chorus of “ooooh”s, a few dramatic gasps, and someone (probably Jae) whisper-yelling “IT’S HAPPENING.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

Elle’s grin deepened. “With… Mingyu.”

Dead. Silence.

Someone dropped their cup. Jae let out a long, drawn-out, “Holy. Shit.”

Y/N’s heart beat loud in her ears.

Across the circle, Mingyu looked… unaffected. His drink rested in his hand, the silver chain at his throat catching the light. He didn’t say anything. Just looked at her.

She cleared her throat. “Maybe that’s not fair. Like, what if he’s uncomfortable—”

“I’m not,” Mingyu said, voice low.

She blinked. “Oh.”

“I’m game if you are.”

Elle squealed. “OH. My god. Up. Now.”

“I hate you,” Y/N muttered, but Elle was already grabbing her by the wrist.

Mingyu stood slowly, every movement unhurried, smooth. He brushed past a few pillows and offered no defense. No jokes. He didn’t look embarrassed. Didn’t look cocky either.

He looked like a man who’d been waiting for this moment.

Jae shouted from the back, “Use protection!”

Yoona added, “Use your time wisely!”

“Make it worth it!” Hana yelled, raising her cup like it was a wedding toast.

Y/N wanted the floor to swallow her.

Elle ignored all of it. She had Y/N in one hand, Mingyu in the other, leading them down the dim hallway like a proud matchmaker.

As they passed the rest of the group, Yoona shouted, “SEVEN MINUTES—NOT A SECOND LESS!”

Elle pushed open the second door on the right with her hip and turned toward them with a wicked grin.

“Enjoy yourselves,” she said, backing away slowly. “We’ll be listening.”

Then she closed the door behind them.

Click.

“Have fun, lovebirds!” Elle shouted through the door, her voice muffled but smug.

The latch clicked shut. The sound echoed louder than it should’ve.

And then—silence.

The kind that wrapped around you like smoke.

Y/N didn’t move. Neither did he. The soft hum of bass-heavy music seeped through the walls, but inside the dim room, it felt like they were miles away from everything. Just the two of them. Her heart was hammering in her chest, but she forced herself to breathe slowly. To look casual.

Across the room, Mingyu stood with his hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, like this wasn’t completely insane. Like he hadn’t just agreed to seven uninterrupted minutes alone with her in front of all their friends.

He tilted his head slightly. “So… this is happening.”

She shrugged, arms crossed over her chest. “Looks like it.”

The corners of his mouth curled, slow and lazy. That damn smirk. It always said more than words. “Nervous?”

“Should I be?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you’ve been thinking about this as much as I have.”

Y/N froze.

The words hung between them, weighty and soft all at once.

“You’ve been staring at me all night,” he added, voice dipping lower. “You probably thought I didn’t notice.”

She gave a short laugh. “Please. You were staring first.”

He didn’t deny it. “Maybe.”

She took a slow step forward, chin tilted. “You’re cocky.”

He didn’t flinch. Just raised a brow. “You like it.”

She pretended to consider it. “Mmm. I like watching you think I have no idea how hot you are.”

His laugh was low and genuine. “You think I don’t know?”

“I think you really like being the center of attention.”

“I wasn’t looking for attention.” He paused. “Just yours.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

There was something dangerous about the way he was looking at her—like she was both a mystery he’d already solved and a secret he couldn’t wait to open.

Her pulse quickened. She hated how warm she felt under his stare. How every inch of him seemed like it had been made to drive her insane. That chain at his collarbone. The black shirt that clung just right. The calm in his voice like he knew he had her off-balance.

“So what are we supposed to do in here?” she asked, lightly, like she didn’t already feel like combusting.

Mingyu took a step closer. Just one. But it was enough.

His gaze dropped to her lips for the briefest second before returning to her eyes. “Anything we want.”

Her stomach flipped.

“You talk like you’ve thought about this.”

“I have.”

She blinked.

“I’ve thought about what your mouth tastes like when you smile like that,” he murmured. “What you’d sound like if I kissed you right.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

“And?” she said, voice thin.

“And I’m kind of dying to find out.”

The heat spread down her neck, goosebumps prickling along her skin. She told herself to stay cool, to tease him, but he was already undoing her with just his words.

Still, she lifted her chin, letting her voice come out playfully — if slightly shaky. “Then I dare you,” she said softly, “to kiss me.”

A slow grin stretched across Mingyu’s lips. “Finally,” he murmured.

Then he stepped forward and kissed her.

Not soft. Not tentative.

It was the kind of kiss that came after too many nights of almosts. Of eyes meeting across parties and flirty inside jokes, of hands brushing accidentally-on-purpose, of imagining it a hundred different ways.

His hands found her waist like they belonged there. Her fingers fisted into his shirt, tugging him closer without thinking.

The kiss deepened — hot and needy, tasting like all the tension they’d tried to brush off.

She gasped against his mouth as he guided her back, her shoulder blades pressing gently against the wall. He kissed her like he’d been holding back. Like the last straw had snapped the moment that door shut.

His lips moved down to her jaw, then just below her ear, and she sucked in a breath, fingers tightening in his shirt.

“Mingyu,” she whispered.

He didn’t stop.

“Say that again,” he murmured, lips brushing her skin.

She shivered.

“You think I’ve been staring all night?” he whispered, voice ragged now. “You have no idea.”

Her fingers slid up into his hair, pulling slightly. His groan was low — and it only made her pull again.

“I liked it,” he added, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes. “I liked watching you try not to look at me.”

“You’re insufferable,” she muttered.

“Tell me to stop.”

She didn’t.

Instead, she kissed him again.

This one was slower. Less rushed. More dangerous.

Because it felt like it meant something.

Like it was the start of something that couldn’t be undone.

His hands slid under the hem of her top — not to push, just to feel. Her skin was hot. His touch was cooler than she expected. Her head was spinning and she didn’t care.

They kissed like they’d waited too long for this. Like they were trying to make up for every second wasted.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembered the timer. The fact that in a few minutes, someone was going to knock or yell or open the door, and this spell would break. But for now…

Mingyu kissed her again — slower this time, like he had all the time in the world.

She kissed him back like they didn’t.

Like seven minutes wasn’t nearly enough.

She had seven minutes.And right now, every single second was on fire.

Mingyu’s breath was fire against her skin, every exhale like a secret whispered directly to her pulse. His hands were already at her sides, firm, confident, sliding lower with maddening slowness until they gripped her hips. He pressed her fully against the wall, one thigh slipping between hers like it belonged there.

“You’re mine for the next seven minutes,” he murmured, voice low and dangerous, the kind of tone that curled around her spine and made her stomach drop. “And I intend to make every second count.”

Y/N’s breath came in short, sharp bursts, her back arching slightly into him. She could feel the heat rolling off his body, his presence caging her in without ever feeling suffocating. No, it was addictive. Too much, not enough, all at once.

She turned her head slightly, enough to glance at him over her shoulder. Her voice was shaky, but it held a thread of defiance. “Cocky.”

Mingyu’s lips grazed the shell of her ear. “Not cocky. Certain.”

She shivered. “Of what?”

“That you want this just as much as I do.” His mouth brushed her earlobe. “Maybe more.”

She exhaled sharply, heart pounding. “You think you know everything.”

His hands slipped up, fingers tracing the curves of her waist, thumbs pressing into the small of her back. “No,” he said, voice soft and deliberate. “But I know this.”

He leaned in, slowly, until his body was flush against hers, chest to back, heat to heat. His thigh pressed more firmly between hers, nudging her legs apart. Her breath hitched.

“You’ve been driving me insane for weeks,” he continued. “Those looks? The way you bite your lip and act like you don’t notice me watching you? Every time you laugh and glance away like I don’t see it.”

His mouth dipped lower, trailing along her neck. She gasped when his teeth grazed skin, light but deliberate.

“You knew this was coming,” he said, lips brushing her pulse point now. “Didn’t you?”

She swallowed hard. Her voice came out rough. “Maybe.”

He chuckled, low and dark. “No maybe about it.”

Then he turned her.

In one fluid motion, he spun her gently but firmly, pressing her back to the wall this time. His eyes swept over her face, lingering at her lips, dark with hunger and tension and something deeper—curiosity, maybe. Like he was memorizing her in real time.

“I’ve thought about this,” he admitted, his hands settling on her thighs. “What you’d look like like this. All flushed, breathless. Mine.”

“You act like you already own me,” she whispered.

Mingyu’s lips brushed hers without fully kissing her. “Don’t I?”

Y/N stared at him, heart thudding violently. Her hands fisted into his shirt. “Prove it.”

He smirked, the tension between them sparking like static.

Then he dropped his head and kissed her—really kissed her.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t careful.

It was full of pent-up tension, slow-burning frustration, and raw, hungry want. He kissed her like he was starving and she was the only thing he’d ever craved. Her body melted into his, hands tangling in his hair as she kissed him back, matching his intensity beat for beat.

When they broke apart, both breathless, he rested his forehead against hers.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmured.

“Then stop talking,” she whispered, “and do something about it.”

A growl built in his throat as he dropped to his knees in front of her. She gasped, her hand flying to his shoulder for balance as he ran his hands up her legs, slow and reverent. Her skirt hitched up easily under his touch, the air cool against her skin.

“This—” he said, gripping her thigh firmly and lifting it over his shoulder, “—is dangerous.”

Her breathing was shallow now, hands in his hair, thighs tightening around him.

His lips grazed the inside of her thigh, trailing kisses that made her legs shake. “You’re shaking,” he whispered, almost teasing.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re irresistible.”

He rose again suddenly, gripping her wrists and pinning them gently above her head. The movement was smooth, practiced. Her breath caught at the shift, the way his body fully claimed hers without crossing any lines—he was in control, but only because she let him.

Their eyes locked. “Say the word,” he whispered. “Tell me you want this too.”

Y/N stared up at him, chest heaving. Then, in a voice that was all fire and surrender, she said, “I want this.”

He kissed her again—deeper this time, hungrier, his body pressing hers harder into the wall. One hand slid down to her hip, the other slipping between her thighs, slow and purposeful. His fingers hooked into her panties, dragging them down in agonizing, teasing inches.

“Look at you,” he whispered, his voice a low growl. “So wet already. For me.”

Her head fell back against the wall, a sound leaving her lips that was equal parts surprise and pleasure as his fingers teased her slick heat.

“Touch me,” she begged, voice barely audible.

He lifted his head, eyes dark. “Like this?” he murmured, running a finger between her folds—soft, slow, then with pressure that made her cry out softly.

Her hips rolled into his hand instinctively.

“God, you’re perfect,” he said, kissing her jaw, her throat. “All of this? Mine. Tonight.”

You shiver. Then—one finger. Then two. Sliding in, curling, stroking.

Your hips jerk instinctively, breath catching as he finds that perfect spot too easily, like he’s memorized you already. His touch is confident—devastating. Each movement is deliberate. Calculated.

Your legs tremble, muscles tightening as your head falls back against the wall. Mingyu’s free hand wraps firmly around your waist, anchoring you in place, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

“You feel that?” he murmurs against your neck, voice rich and low, the sound alone enough to make you ache. “How your body reacts to me?”

You manage the softest sound—half gasp, half whimper—and it only seems to spur him on.

“I’m going to make you cum like this first,” he whispers, lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear. “Then I’m going to fuck you—slow, deep, until you’re gasping my name.”

Your breath stutters, caught in your throat. You try to speak, to say something, but nothing comes out. Just the broken sound of want.

He chuckles, low and rough, the sound vibrating through your chest. “You like being teased, don’t you?”

You nod, just barely. It’s all you can manage. Your hands clutch the front of his shirt, wrinkling the fabric as your knees threaten to give out beneath you.

“Good,” he says, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, slow and hot. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

Then it hits.

You come hard on his fingers, your body arching off the wall, a sharp gasp ripping from your lips as everything inside you clenche around him. Your vision blurs. Legs shake. And Mingyu just watches. Watch you fall apart for him, wearing that same maddening smirk he’s had all night—the one that says he knew this would happen from the second you walked into the room.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, withdrawing his fingers with slow, teasing precision. He holds your gaze as he lifts them to his lips and sucks one clean. “Knew you’d be like this.”

You’re still catching your breath, still blinking through the haze of your high, when his fingers move to the button of his jeans. One flick. Then the zipper. And he pushes them down just far enough—just enough to make your breath hitch again.

He’s already hard. Already waiting.

“Still quiet?” he asks, his voice velvet over steel.

You find your voice—barely. “Trying to figure out what’s bigger—your ego, or…”

His smirk sharpens. “You’ll find out.”

“Seven minutes,” he said, eyes dark with challenge. “Let’s see how many times I can make you fall apart before time’s up.” You smirked, breathless but bold. “You talk a big game, Mingyu.” He grabbed your waist and spun you around, guiding you onto the bed with a cocky laugh. “You started it, sweetheart.”

You let him position you, his grip strong on your thighs, spreading you open beneath him like he’d dreamed of doing it a hundred times. He hovered just above, his mouth a breath away from yours, eyes flicking over your flushed face, your parted lips.

“You think you’re the first guy to say that?” you said, a breathy taunt, even as your chest heaved.

He stilled for half a second. Then a slow grin curled across his face—dangerous and devastating.

“No,” he muttered, voice low as sin, “but I’ll be the one you remember.”

And then he pushed in—slow, deep, devastating and he was inside you

Your mouth fell open in a gasp soundless moan, back arching, a breathy curse escaping you. The stretch made your thighs quiver, a delicious ache settling deep in your belly.

“Fuck,” you breathed. “Okay… point proven.”

Mingyu leaned down, lips brushing your ear, his voice thick and rough. “That’s it? No more snark?”

You wrapped your legs around his waist and dragged your nails lightly down his back, breath hitching. “Didn’t want to throw you off your game. I assumed you needed quiet to focus.”

He growled a laugh—deep, low, and full of heat. “You think this is me focusing?”

His hips rolled harder, pushing deeper, and your breath stuttered. You moaned loudly and answer

“You’re cocky,” you murmured, lips brushing his jaw.

“You love it,” he fired back, thrusting again.

Your body rocked with him, the friction building like fire beneath your skin. “I like watching you try to impress me.”

“I like watching you fall apart,” he rasped, grinding his hips in a way that made your toes curl.

He dipped his head to your neck, dragging his lips along your pulse, where it beat wild and fast. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His hand slid up your side, fingertips skimming just under your top, and when your hips met his in rhythm, his breath caught.

“You’ve got…” you smirked against his skin, voice breathless, “like five minutes left.”

He rolled his hips, angled just right, and you moaned again—louder. “Then I better make it count,” he said, watching you come undone beneath him. “Say my name.” You bit your lip. “Make me.” His eyes flashed, and he grinned like he was about to ruin you—in the best possible way.

He grabs your hips and snaps into you harder. “Fuck, the way you squeeze around me—like you were made for this.”

You throw your head back against the pillow, a moan slipping past your lips before you can stop it.He leans down, lips ghosting over your jaw. “Look at you,” he whispers. “So cocky earlier. Now you’re moaning like you need me.”

Your eyes meet his, blazing. “I do need you,” you pant, voice breathless but challenging.

“Just not sure you can finish the job in time.” That lights something in him. “Oh, baby,” Mingyu laughs darkly, “I’m going to ruin you in four minutes flat.” He lifts one of your legs onto his shoulder and thrusts deeper—hard, rhythmic, relentless.

“Feel that?” he rasps. “That’s me splitting you open. Taking what’s mine.” You claw at his back, eyes fluttering shut. “Harder.” He obeys instantly. You moan out aloud

“You like being used like this, don’t you?Like the slut you are” he groans. “You like me fucking you full in some random bedroom while our friends wait outside?”

“Say it,” he demanded, voice low and commanding, as his hand slid to your jaw, tilting your face toward his. “I want to hear from you.”

“Yes,” you moan, voice wrecked. “You’re dripping for me,” he snarls against your throat. “So damn wet—like your body knew what was coming the second we walked in here.” as he grabs your breast, squeezing firmly as his thrusts grow harder, rougher—each movement making your body jolt beneath him

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging hard enough to draw a growl from deep in his throat. His lips brush over your neck, your collarbone, anywhere he can reach as you arch into him.

“Shut up and make me cum again,” you snap, breathless but cocky, the edge in your voice sharp despite how wrecked you already feel.

His breath stutters, the challenge lighting something feral in his eyes. “Oh, I will,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, like it’s scraping from somewhere deep inside him. “But you’re not walking out of here without begging for it first.”

The arrogance in his tone makes heat bloom low in your stomach. “Then make me beg, Mingyu. If you think you’ve earned it.”

That did it. His jaw clenched, a low growl vibrating from his chest as his hips snapped forward, rough and unrelenting. The pace shifted—no longer slow and teasing, but fierce, almost punishing.

“I’ll fuck you until you forget your name,” he ground out, breath hot against your skin.

Your breath stuttered, caught between a gasp and a moan, pleasure blooming in your veins. “I’ll scream yours instead.”

“Good,” he hissed, leaning in until your foreheads touched, his eyes dark and focused entirely on you. “Because that’s all I want to hear for the next—” he threw a glance at the door, sweat glistening at his temple, “—two minutes.”

You bit your lip, heart hammering. Every nerve ending was lit up, your body thrumming under his touch, his weight, his voice. “Then what are you waiting for?”

“You’re going to remember this,” he growled, one hand tangling in your hair, the other gripping your waist tight. “Every time you try to flirt with someone else.”

You opened your mouth, ready to fire back, but all that came out was a strangled moan as his hips snapped forward again, perfectly timed, perfectly cruel.

He smiled into your neck. “That’s what I thought.”

His grin spread slow and dangerous, that same wicked fire gleaming in his eyes—the one he’d had the second he saw you across the room. The one that said he’d been waiting for this just as long as you had.

He adjusted his grip on your hips, grounding you harder beneath him as he picked up the rhythm again, his breath ragged now too. Your head fell back against the pillows, the only thing anchoring you to the moment was the sound of his skin against yours, your breathing tangled, bodies moving like they’d done this a thousand times in their heads.

Everything outside that room ceased to exist.

“For you,” he says, voice rough and low, thrusting even deeper. “To break.”

Your nails raked down his chest, dragging over every slick line of muscle. His shirt had vanished somewhere in the chaos, and now your hands were greedy — exploring the sweat-slick heat of his body, the flex of his abs each time he drove into you with bruising force.

He was all tension and power above you, and still, you couldn’t stop touching him — couldn’t get enough of the way his skin burned under your fingertips, or the way his breath stuttered when you reached lower, gripping his hips to pull him even closer.

“God, you feel so good,” you moaned, head falling back, voice unraveling. “So fucking perfect—everywhere.”

He groaned at that, the sound ripped from somewhere deep in his chest. His rhythm faltered for just a second — then returned, harder, more urgent. His hands held you tighter now, like he needed to keep you grounded or he might fall apart himself.

“You like touching me that much?” he rasped, his voice frayed, wrecked in the best way.

You nodded, unable to find words at first, just your lips parting in a gasp as you looked up at him. “Can’t help it,” you whispered, chest rising and falling fast. “You look like sin and feel like heaven.”

That earned a breathless laugh from him, barely more than a puff of air before it twisted into a moan as your body clenched around him, heat pulsing. You were close—so close it hurt.

“I’m gonna cum,” you gasped, fingers digging into his back as your body arched toward him. “Fuck—Mingyu, I’m gonna—”

His mouth was on your neck in an instant, lips dragging hot along your skin, hips snapping into yours with relentless rhythm. “Then cum for me,” he growled, one hand sliding to your thigh, gripping it like a lifeline. “Let go. Right here. On me.”

His pace never broke, even as your body began to tremble. The sounds between you grew louder—breaths, gasps, the distant thump of music outside forgotten as you shattered beneath him. And he held you through every second of it, like he’d been waiting to watch you fall apart just for him.

You choked out his name, legs tightening around him as your body shook again, the orgasm hitting hard and fast — blinding. But he didn’t stop.

“Fuck,” he hissed, voice breaking. “I’m close—fuck, I’m gonna cum.” You barely had time to respond before he said it — low, desperate, possessive: “I’m gonna cum inside.”

Your eyes snapped open, heart thudding. His grip tightened on your waist. “I’m not leaving,” he said through clenched teeth, thrusts getting sloppy, erratic.

“Not until I’m buried so deep inside you, you’ll feel me even after I’m gone.” You moaned in response, dizzy from everything — the heat, his words, the overwhelming pleasure.

“You want that?” he asked, voice ragged. “You want me to fill you up?”

“Yes—fuck, yes.”

“Then take it like the fucking cum desperate whore you are” he growled

His head dropped to your shoulder as he groaned your name, hips jerking once, twice, and then he stilled — body trembling as he spilled into you, breath catching in his throat.

A soft, broken sound escaped him — somewhere between a moan and a gasp — as he held you tighter, like letting go would unravel him completely. Your fingers dug into his back, desperate to anchor yourself, to feel every pulse of him, every wave of heat.

Silence settled between you for a second. Heavy. Intimate. Charged.

His skin was damp against yours, chest heaving, heart racing. You could feel it — the aftershocks in his body, the quiet vulnerability in the way he stayed pressed against you, unmoving.

Neither of you spoke.

There was nothing to say — not yet. Only breath. Only heat.

His hand slid up your spine slowly, deliberately, until it cradled the back of your neck. “Fuck,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “You drive me insane.”

And then, just beyond the door, someone called out:

“Time’s up!”

You both froze, breath tangled, bodies still pressed too close, the heat between you crackling like static. His forehead rested against yours, both of you panting, wrecked.

Mingyu grinned first — wild, breathless, his lips kiss-bruised and eyes still dark with want.

“Shame,” he muttered, cocking his head like he already missed your body. “I was just getting started.”

The door creaked open, and he stepped out first, running a hand through his mess of hair, his shirt buttoned in all the wrong places. He didn’t even bother pretending — just walked out like he owned the room and everything that happened in it. Like he’d just walked off a victory stage.

You followed a few seconds later, skirt tugged hastily down, fingers still trembling. Every nerve in your body felt overstimulated, your lips swollen, thighs shaky. You could feel it — the evidence of him, of what he’d done to you — with every single step.

Elle stood outside, arms crossed and smirking like she’d just won a bet.

“So,” she said, drawing the word out, eyes flicking between you and Mingyu. “Did you two… have a good chat?”

Mingyu shot her a wink, smug as ever.

“Productive.”

You glared at her, trying not to trip over your own damn legs or give away just how thoroughly ruined you were.

“Elle, I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” She looped her arm through yours with way too much glee. “You’re glowing. Like, post-orgasm glowing.”

Your jaw dropped.

“Elle!”

Behind you, Mingyu chuckled — deep, amused, far too satisfied with himself.

“She’s not wrong.”

You turned sharply, cheeks burning, and gave him a look meant to kill.

“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

He didn’t miss a beat. Took one step closer, leaned down until his lips brushed the shell of your ear. His voice was low — all silk and sin.

“I enjoyed you, baby. That’s different.”

Your breath caught.

Goddamn him.

Your body still responded to him like it hadn’t just spent the last seven minutes being kissed senseless, touched like worship, fucked like a secret. Your skin prickled under his gaze, your knees still not fully recovered.

And worse? He knew.

His smirk deepened as he straightened, eyes trailing lazily down your body like he could still feel you under his fingertips.

“See you out there.” He turned and walked away — swagger in every step.

Elle whistled low under her breath.

“You know what’s worse than watching you fall for him?” she muttered. “Watching you pretend you’re not.”

You didn’t answer.

Because you weren’t ready to admit she was right.

Not yet.

But god — the ache between your thighs and the way your heart raced at the thought of round two said it all.

You and Elle walked ahead, arm in arm, though she was doing most of the walking — you were still recovering, legs wobbly and traitorous beneath you.

From behind, you could feel Mingyu’s eyes on you. That lazy heat that made your skin tingle like you were still in that closet, still pressed against the wall, still moaning his name with his hand over your mouth. You hated how easily he lingered — in your mind, on your skin, in your pulse.

“Stop thinking about it,” Elle whispered, nudging you.

You blinked. “I’m not.”

She raised a brow. “Your pupils are dilated, your thighs are clenched, and you’ve got that ‘I’ve just been devoured alive’ look. Babe. Please.”

Before you could shoot back something clever, you reached the group — gathered around the back patio, drinks in hand, mid-laugh. And the second they spotted you and Mingyu trailing behind like you hadn’t just committed multiple sins in a dark room — the grins started forming.

“Well, well, well,” Jihoon said, holding up his drink like a toast. “If it isn’t Mr. and Mrs. Closet.”

“Took you long enough,” Seungkwan added, eyes dancing. “We thought maybe you’d moved in there permanently.”

“Should we decorate it for them?” Hana chimed in sweetly, swirling her drink. “Maybe add a little bed, a snack drawer… mood lighting?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to downplay the heat in your face.

“It was seven minutes. Not a lifetime.”

“Seven legendary minutes, apparently,” Soonyoung said, hand to his chest like he was personally affected. “Elle said you came out glowing like a Twilight vampire.”

You turned to Elle, horrified.

“You’re the devil.”

“A supportive devil,” she said brightly. “I’m just proud.”

Yoona raised her glass in your direction. “Honestly? Good for you. Closet sex? Bold. Iconic. Unstable, but iconic.”

Mingyu finally joined you, sliding into the circle like he hadn’t just wrecked you against a supply closet door. Hair still a mess. Shirt still barely together. Confidence radiating off him like second nature.

He took one look around, then grinned.

“Miss me?”

“You didn’t even fix your shirt, bro,” Chan pointed out.

“Didn’t have time,” Mingyu said with a shrug, not even trying to act humble. He looked at you.

“Some of us were busy.”

Groans and laughter erupted. Someone — probably Joshua — fake-gagged.

“God, you’re insufferable,” you muttered under your breath.

Mingyu leaned closer, voice just low enough for you to hear.

“You didn’t think that when you were begging me to go slower.”

Your eyes widened.

“Mingyu—”

“You didn’t say I couldn’t tease,” he said, smirking.

You turned sharply, grabbing the nearest cup of something — anything — to cool your face, your heart, your entire existence.

And then you heard Soonyoung yell,

“Let’s take a shot for the happy couple!”

“We’re not a couple!” you and Mingyu said at the same time.

The group just laughed harder.

“Sure,” Jihoon deadpanned. “You’re just two friends who happened to have the most sexually charged game of Seven Minutes in Heaven we’ve ever witnessed.”

“I mean,” Yoona added with a grin, “they walked out looking like a deleted scene from a very explicit K-drama.”

“I’d watch that show,” Hana nodded seriously. “Season one finale: supply closet confessionals.”

You groaned. Mingyu wrapped an arm casually around your waist — for show, you told yourself. Just for show.

But the way his thumb stroked your hip? That wasn’t just anything.

Neither was the way he leaned down again, voice soft and smug.

“Round two later?”

And the worst part?

You didn’t even hesitate before whispering back:

“Yes.”

Hey tumblr 💗!

This one’s a Seventeen one-shot featuring none other than Mingyu—because let’s be real, he’s perfect for college AU smut, and I couldn’t resist. 😏

Originally, I did plan on turning this into a series, but honestly? I just wanted to get this story out of my head and into your hands. So here it is—messy, hot, and unapologetically smutty.

Feel free to drop any thoughts, suggestions, or thirst-fueled questions in the ask box. I love hearing from you!

As always, reblogs, comments, and virtual kisses keep me going 💋 Thank you so much for reading 🥰❤️

With love,

xo, Ario

[seokwrts]

I LIKE ME BETTER | jjk

PART THREE

summary : After walking in on her boyfriend Sanho cheating, Y/N moves out and ends up living with Jungkook, a cocky yet caring acquaintance she once couldn’t stand. What begins as a tense, passive-aggressive roommates situation slowly transforms into something deeper, as both navigate heartbreak, vulnerability, and emotional healing. Through stormy nights, late-night confessions, domestic routines, and quiet tension, Y/N and Jungkook gradually uncover the warmth and safety they’ve both been missing—especially in each other.

“After all, what’s the worst that could happen just living under the same roof?”

pairing : jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre : roommates , fluff , smut

word count : 5.4k

warnings : Explicit. This story contains sexual content, explicit language, and themes of emotional trauma. Expect a roommates-to-lovers slow burn with intense enemies-to-lovers tension, mutual pining, and eventual smut. Features include domestic intimacy, past cheating, emotional hurt/comfort, and lots of kitchen tension. There’s jealousy, unresolved sexual tension, first times, comfort sex, and characters who are both emotionally guarded and touch-starved.

The kitchen felt too quiet after Jungkook left.

Y/N remained standing at the counter, one hand still curled around the green bottle, her other pressed flat to the cold marble. The echo of his footsteps faded into silence, but her body didn’t relax. She was frozen.

Her lips still tingled.

The aftertaste of soju—and him—clung to her mouth. Her heart pounded, not with excitement anymore, but with something sharp and hollow blooming in her chest. A burn that started low and kept spreading, like the silence had teeth and was gnawing straight through her ribs.

He walked away.

He kissed her like he meant it. Like he’d been waiting for it. Like every second between them, all the fights and the too-long glances and the drunken almosts, had led to that moment. And then he walked away.

No warning. No words.

What does that mean now?

She stood there, blinking at the space he’d left behind, like she could rewind time just by staring hard enough. Like maybe if she closed her eyes, she’d feel his hand still at her jaw, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth, his breath warm and desperate against her skin.

But there was nothing.

Only silence. Only cold tile and flickering fluorescent light and the faint hum of the fridge.

They were roommates. That was already complicated.

Now it was… worse.

Now there was something new in the air. Something heavy. A tension that crackled beneath the surface, like the moment before a storm breaks. Like the electricity that had sizzled between them wasn’t finished yet, even though he’d left her here, spinning.

She took a slow breath—then another, shallower this time—and sank down to the floor, bottle still in hand. Her legs folded beneath her, arms wrapped around her knees like she could hold herself together if she tried hard enough.

What was she supposed to do with this?

How the hell were they supposed to live together after that?

How do you go back to arguing about laundry after someone kisses you like they’re trying to undo every broken piece inside?

She let her head drop against her knees, eyes squeezed shut. Her thoughts raced, looping the scene over and over like a scratched record.

The way his voice cracked when he told her she didn’t want him.

The hurt in his eyes when he said he wasn’t safe.

The way he pulled her close anyway.

Like none of it mattered in that moment. Like needing her outweighed all the reasons he shouldn’t.

And then—he left. No explanation. No reassurance. Just vanished down the hall like it hadn’t happened.

Or like it had, and that was the problem.

Y/N let out a shaky breath, biting the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. She hated how easily he got under her skin. How quickly he’d become more than just the guy who never replaced the toilet paper or left dishes in the sink too long.

Somewhere between the bickering and the late-night takeout runs, between the shared playlists and the shared silence, he’d become something else.

Someone else.

And now she didn’t know what to do with that.

She stared at the bottle beside her. Still nearly full, sweating with condensation. They’d been laughing ten minutes ago—drunk on soju and bad memories, play-fighting over who got the last dumpling. He’d called her annoying, like he always did, and she’d thrown a napkin at his face.

And then something shifted.

He’d looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time. Or maybe like he’d been trying not to for too long.

And he kissed her.

God, he kissed her.

Not like it was a mistake. Not like it was just the alcohol talking. He kissed her like he’d been drowning and she was the air.

And now he was gone.

She rubbed her fingers over her lips again, as if that would erase the feeling. Or maybe help her remember it more clearly—she didn’t know. Her heart felt like it had been yanked in two different directions and left somewhere in between.

Did he regret it?

Did he walk away because he knew they’d crossed a line?

Or because he wanted her to stop him?

The questions spiraled in her head, loud and relentless. She hated this—this limbo. The not knowing. The way it all hung in the air, waiting for her to make sense of it.

She pressed her palms flat against the cold tile floor, grounding herself in something real. Something solid.

Okay.

Okay, maybe this didn’t mean everything had to fall apart.

Maybe they could talk. Maybe he just needed space. Maybe—

She glanced toward the hallway again. Empty. Still. Her phone sat untouched on the counter. No texts. No calls. Just her, in a room that still smelled faintly of takeout and unresolved tension.

She leaned back against the cabinet, closing her eyes.

Tomorrow, they’d wake up and pretend to be normal. Pretend they hadn’t changed something fundamental in the space of one breathless moment. They’d dance around it, avoid it, maybe even bury it under sarcasm and shared chores and passive-aggressive notes on the fridge.

But she’d still remember this.

The way it felt when his lips met hers.

And the ache that followed when he let go.

When Y/N woke up the next morning, her head throbbed like someone had slammed it between two speakers. A slow, pulsing ache radiated from behind her eyes, growing sharper with every shift of movement. Her limbs were heavy, tangled in the sheets like they were made of concrete. Her mouth was dry. Her stomach churned with a familiar nausea—half hangover, half something she couldn’t quite name. Regret, maybe. Or sadness.

Or both.

She stayed in bed a minute longer than usual, willing herself to stay still, to not think, to not feel. But the memories came anyway.

His mouth on hers.

The way his breath caught.

The way he didn’t look back.

She rolled onto her side with a groan and reached for her phone on the nightstand.

No messages.

No missed calls.

Nothing from Jungkook.

The apartment was already quiet. Too quiet. That particular kind of quiet that told her she was alone. No soft footfalls from his room, no clink of dishes, no sound of music bleeding through the bathroom wall like he sometimes did in the mornings. Just silence. And a faint draft, like someone had left in a hurry and didn’t bother to close the window all the way.

Dragging herself up, she shuffled into the kitchen, the ache in her body worse with every step. Her feet were cold against the tile, and she didn’t bother turning on the light. The fridge was humming lowly, the same way it always did, and something about its normalcy felt mocking.

And then she saw it.

A yellow Post-it note stuck to the fridge door.

“Went out early, my friends are dropping by later — don’t freak — JK”

She stared at it. For a second, her blurry vision didn’t even register what she was reading.

And then it sank in.

No mention of last night. Not a single word. Not even a joke about the hangover. Not even a casual, “Feeling okay?” Nothing.

Just that. A scribbled note in that familiar, messy handwriting that somehow made it feel worse. Like it meant to be casual. Like it was supposed to be meaningless.

So that’s it, huh?

Just pretend it never happened.

Like he hadn’t kissed her. Like he hadn’t touched her like he’d been holding it back for months. Like he hadn’t told her—drunk or not—that she didn’t want him, like he wasn’t safe, and then done it anyway.

Y/N let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding and crumpled the note in her fist.

She dropped it onto the counter and stood there, blankly staring at the fridge for a moment too long. Her chest ached—not sharp, not devastating, just heavy. Like something had settled there during the night and refused to leave.

Dragging her feet, she made her way to the bathroom. Her reflection in the mirror looked about as bad as she felt. Pale. Tired. The corners of her lips were slightly chapped, but her eyes were worse—red-rimmed, dull.

She brushed her teeth, tied her hair up, splashed water on her face, but nothing helped. The ache lingered. The weight sat stubbornly behind her ribs. Her lips still ached, too—and she hated that she noticed.

When she stepped back into her room to get dressed, her eyes drifted to the clock on her nightstand. And something clicked.

Wait.

Her shift.

She stared at the numbers, blinking them into focus.

Right. Her part-time job.

Her first day.

The café.

Panic struck her chest like a slap. She had applied for the position on a whim a few weeks ago, not even sure if she had the energy to juggle classes, assignments, and this. But she needed the money—desperately. Tuition, rent, food, the occasional overpriced coffee she justified as “mental health therapy”—it all added up. Her bank balance had been crying for weeks. This café gig wasn’t a fix, but it was something. A start. A safety net, thin as it was.

Y/N yanked on a clean black T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Functional. Neutral. Just enough to look alive. She tugged her hoodie over her head, fingers moving faster than her brain, and stuffed her wallet, keys, and phone into her bag.

On her way out, she paused at the kitchen counter, grabbed a blue Post-it, and scribbled quickly:

“I’ll be home late. Around 7–8.

• Y/N”

She didn’t explain.

He didn’t either.

She smoothed the Post-it flat on the counter beside the crumpled yellow one and stared at them both for a beat too long—his neat, clipped tone versus her tight, closed-off scrawl. Side by side, they looked like the beginning of a conversation neither of them wanted to start.

With a sharp breath, she turned and left, locking the door behind her.

The air outside was too bright, too loud. Her eyes winced against the sun as she stepped onto the sidewalk, the city already pulsing with its usual morning chaos—cars honking, bikes weaving through traffic, people on their phones, coffee in hand, already halfway through their day.

Y/N wasn’t ready for any of it.

But she walked.

Each step helped her breathe a little easier. Not much—but enough.

Her head still pounded, her heart still bruised, but this? This she could control. Showing up. Doing her job. Tying her hair back and smiling at customers even when it hurt. That was something she could do.

She didn’t know what would happen when she came home.

She didn’t know what Jungkook would say—or if he’d say anything at all.

Maybe this was the start of something broken.

Or maybe it had already broken, and they were just pretending the pieces didn’t cut.

But for now, she had somewhere to be. Something to hold onto.

And maybe that was enough.

For now.

The night before, Jungkook hadn’t slept.

His bed was too soft, the sheets too warm, but his body refused to rest. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, tracing invisible cracks and stains that seemed to shift and writhe in the darkness. The plaster was blank and unmoving, yet in that stillness, it seemed to hold all the answers he wished he could find.

He wanted it to tell him what to do.

How to fix the mess he’d made. How to undo what he’d done. How to navigate the impossible tangle of everything that had happened between them.

But the ceiling didn’t say anything.

So he turned his head, biting his lip until it bled a little, and closed his eyes.

And then he opened them again.

Because he couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss.

Fuck.

That kiss.

The way she’d clung to him, like he was the only solid thing left in the world. The way her breath hitched when his hand slid up her neck, trembling beneath his fingertips. The way she whispered his name like it was a prayer, like it was the only language she could speak in that moment.

“Fuck, Jungkook.”

That sound was still buzzing in his ears.

Her lips were soft and warm, a little sweet from the soju, a little desperate with everything they both wanted to say but didn’t know how. Hot and messy and real—the kind of kiss that makes your whole body remember what it’s been missing, even if you didn’t know it was missing it.

His mind replayed it in endless loops, the taste of her, the feel of her, the way the world had slipped away until there was only her and him and the beating of their hearts.

He could still feel the vibration of her voice in his chest, the way her fingers clenched into his shirt like she was trying to hold onto something solid in the chaos. He could still feel the shape of her body pressed against his, trembling, uncertain, aching.

And God, he’d been hard for hours after that kiss. Shamefully, painfully hard, even though she wasn’t there anymore. More haunted by the memory of her touch than the physical feeling itself.

It scared the shit out of him.

Because Y/N wasn’t a girl you casually kissed in the kitchen.

Not like this.

She was complicated. Beautiful in a way that wasn’t obvious at first—like a wildflower growing through cracked concrete. Gentle but fierce, full of bite and heart and scars he could only guess at. She was juggling a thousand battles no one saw. Fighting her own hell while still showing up to her classes, carrying groceries up the stairs, and laughing when he teased her about her painfully indie playlists.

Somewhere in the messy dance of bickering and quiet glances, shared meals and late-night silences, he’d fallen for her.

Not just a little. Not a crush. Not a joke.

Completely.

He’d fallen in a way that scared him—deep in his chest, the kind of falling that could break you if you hit the ground too hard.

But the truth was, she didn’t need someone like him.

She didn’t need a guy who scraped by on scattered gigs and disappointments. Someone who lived in half-remembered dreams and constant self-doubt. Someone who believed he was inherently unsafe. Ungrounded. Temporary.

He was an earthquake.

A storm.

A wildfire that burned everything in its path.

She needed solid ground.

Someone who could be steady when the world shook. Someone who could hold her up, not pull her down. Someone who could promise safety, not chaos.

And he wasn’t that person.

He wasn’t even close.

He’d tried to tell her that. Told her he wasn’t safe, that she didn’t want him, that getting close to him would only break her in the end.

And then he kissed her anyway.

Like an idiot.

Like a fool.

Like someone who couldn’t stop himself.

He closed his eyes again, trying to will the image away.

But it lingered.

The way she looked at him—vulnerable and fierce all at once.

The way her body trembled in his arms.

The way he felt something shift inside himself, like the ground beneath him cracked open and swallowed everything he thought he knew.

He hated himself for it.

Hated the way he’d let his guard down.

Hated the way he’d made himself vulnerable to someone who deserved better.

The guilt was thick, suffocating.

If he stayed, if he looked at her again, if he let himself believe for a second that maybe this could be more than a mistake, he’d lose control.

He’d lose himself.

So he didn’t sleep.

Because sleep meant dreams, and dreams meant hope, and hope was dangerous.

He laid still in the dark, staring at the ceiling until the first hints of dawn blurred the edges of the cracks.

By then, his mind was a mess of what-ifs and maybes and could-have-beens.

He thought about getting up, but the weight in his chest was heavy. Like a stone dragging him down.

In the end, he did what he always did when things got too messy:

He left.

Quietly, without a word.

He slipped out before she woke, before the sun was fully up, before there was a chance to say something he’d regret.

Cowardice, maybe.

Mercy, maybe.

He couldn’t tell anymore.

He closed the door softly behind him and walked down the stairs, the empty apartment already echoing with the absence of her.

He didn’t look back.

Because if he did, he might change his mind.

And he knew he couldn’t afford that.

Outside, the city was waking up.

Jungkook let the morning air wash over him as he leaned against the cold brick wall of a nearby building. His fingers twitched, still trembling from the tension he couldn’t shake.

He wanted to call her.

Text her.

Tell her everything.

But the words caught in his throat.

How do you explain that you’re scared?

That you’re broken?

That the person who means everything to you is the person you’re afraid will get hurt the most?

He swallowed hard, eyes scanning the street.

He wanted to believe she could forgive him. That maybe this kiss wasn’t the end of something, but the beginning of everything.

But then the fear came back.

That he’d ruin it.

That he’d be the cause of more pain.

That he’d lose her.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Maybe one day he’d find the courage to be the person she needed.

But not today.

Today, all he could do was keep running.

Later that morning, Jungkook dragged himself into the studio, dressed in a hoodie and sunglasses like he was shielding himself from the entire world. He didn’t need a mirror to know how bad he looked—he felt it. Like exhaustion had taken a crowbar to his ribs and cracked something open.

The studio lights were too bright. The air too quiet. His head still echoed with her voice. Her breath. Her kiss.

He should’ve taken the day off.

But if he stayed home, he’d think about it. About her. And if he thought about it, he’d break something.

“Nice disguise,” Eunji said as he walked in, her tone dry and amused. She was lounging in her usual seat by the mixing desk, legs propped up on the armrest, hair swept up in a loose clip. “What’s the occasion? Did you rob a convenience store?”

“Didn’t sleep,” he muttered, tossing his bag down and pulling out his laptop.

“You don’t say.” She tipped her chin toward him, eyes raking down his frame without shame. “Though I gotta admit, the broody look? Kinda works for you.”

He gave her a flat look, but she only smiled wider.

“I mean, if this is your new thing—emotional damage chic—I support it. Fully. Creatively. Sexually, even.”

He rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Eunji.”

“What? I’m appreciating the art,” she said, unbothered. “You walk in here all mysterious and messed-up, looking like you’ve been through hell. Do you know how hot that is?”

“I’m not a fantasy, I’m a functioning disaster.”

“Same difference,” she said with a wink.

Jungkook didn’t have the bandwidth to deal with her today, but that had never stopped Eunji before. She was all sharp lines and slick confidence, effortlessly cool in a way he sometimes envied. The kind of girl who flirted like it was breathing and didn’t flinch when people flinched back.

“I fixed the harmony,” she said casually, like they hadn’t just been toeing the line between friendly and something else. “Also added distortion to the vocal drop—layered it with a pitched octave. It slaps now. You’re welcome.”

He nodded, eyes on the monitor. “Let’s hear it.”

He queued the track, and the room filled with sound—thick synth, layered vocals, just the right amount of edge. Her voice slipped through the speakers like smoke. It really did slap.

But he wasn’t here for goosebumps today.

“Nice,” he muttered. “The new layer’s cleaner. Adds weight.”

“I know,” she said, smug. “I’m a genius.”

“You’re tolerable.”

She stretched, her shirt riding up slightly to reveal a flash of skin above her waistband. “You really should’ve let me stay over last night. We could’ve written a heartbreak anthem in real time.”

He gave her a side-eye. “That’s your idea of comforting someone?”

“I never said I was comforting you,” she said, tilting her head. “I said I was available. Big difference.”

He didn’t respond. Not because he didn’t hear the implication, but because the last thing he wanted was to think about anyone’s mouth except Y/N’s. And yet, Eunji was still watching him like a cat waiting for a reaction.

“You’re no fun when you’re haunted,” she added, softer this time. “Unless the moodiness is a long-term thing. In which case… it’s growing on me.”

Jungkook snorted under his breath and leaned back. “Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Flirting just to see what happens.”

She shrugged. “No. Sometimes I flirt because I want something.”

“And what do you want?”

Eunji met his gaze, her smile easy, almost challenging. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

He blinked once, then turned back to his screen, trying not to bite down on the flicker of tension that suddenly threaded between them. She was always like this—blunt, playful, suggestive—but today it felt closer. More deliberate.

Still, he didn’t rise to it.

He couldn’t.

His chest was too full of someone else.

Instead, after a long beat, he said, “You doing anything Saturday?”

She raised a brow. “Are you asking me out, Jeon?”

He exhaled sharply. “Jimin’s throwing a party. Figured I’d go.”

“Ah. The infamous Jimin. Prince of Seoul nightlife.” She grinned. “You inviting me as your date?”

He shrugged. “I’m inviting you because I thought you might like to come.”

“That’s boring,” she said. “Try again. Add some romance.”

“Eunji—”

“You’re killing the vibe,” she cut in with mock despair. “Here I was, imagining us showing up together, stealing attention, letting the mystery spiral…”

He gave her a tired look. “You want to start rumors that bad?”

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, eyes glittering with mischief. “Babe, I live for it. Picture it: you and me, walking in like we’re a couple out of an indie film. You brooding in black. Me in something dramatic. Everyone wondering, Are they or aren’t they?”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re a walking poem today. It’s a perfect match.”

Jungkook shook his head but didn’t say no.

Eunji smirked, sensing her win. “So, pick me up around eight?”

“I didn’t say I’d—”

“You definitely did,” she said, standing up and stretching. “And if you show up looking like you did this morning, I might just fall in love.”

He laughed, dry and low. “Don’t make me regret this.”

“Too late.”

Eunji wandered to the mini-fridge and pulled out a can of cold brew. Her tone softened slightly as she added, “You could use a night out, though. Even if you just stand in the corner and glower at everyone.”

“I don’t glower.”

“Oh, baby. You glower.”

He didn’t argue.

Because maybe she was right.

Maybe he did need a distraction—something loud, something crowded, something that didn’t involve kitchens or kisses or the sound of his name slipping out of Y/N’s mouth like it meant something.

Even if Eunji was a hurricane of confidence and chaos, at least she didn’t come with memories attached.

At least with her, he didn’t feel like he was standing at the edge of something that could ruin him.

And that was safer.

Safer than her.

So he nodded once, quietly.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll pick you up.”

Eunji smiled like she’d just won a bet with herself.

“Good boy.”

When Jungkook got home, the apartment was quiet again.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that didn’t just fill the space—it pressed against his ribs.

He shut the door behind him, toeing off his shoes, and dropped his keys on the entryway table with a soft clink. The low hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the place. No music from Y/N’s room. No kettle boiling. No footsteps. Just stillness.

And then he saw it.

A single blue Post-it stuck to the kitchen counter. Her handwriting—neat, always a little tilted left.

“I’ll be home late. Around 7-8 — Y/N”

No reason. No explanation. No smiley face.

Just words.

He stared at it for longer than necessary, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

“She didn’t even tell me why,” he muttered under his breath.

He peeled the note off the counter, rubbing it between his fingers like it might offer more if he just held it long enough.

It didn’t.

It was just paper.

Just her telling him… nothing.

His chest felt tight again, that same twist that had settled in his gut since the night before. It had been stupid to think he’d come home and find some kind of clue—something in her eyes, or in the air, that would let him know where they stood.

But instead, she’d been gone. And in her place was this.

A sentence.

A timestamp.

Distance wrapped in politeness.

Still, his body moved on autopilot.

He tossed the note in the trash, then headed toward the kitchen. The living room looked like someone had lost a fight with gravity. A pillow on the floor. A hoodie draped over the back of the couch. An empty glass on the coffee table.

He hadn’t even realized how much of a mess they’d left behind.

He grabbed a rag from under the sink and started wiping the counters. Not because it needed to be done—but because he needed it. Something about the rhythm of it helped. Swipe, rinse, repeat. Clean one thing, then the next. Maybe if he could fix the space, he could quiet the noise in his head.

Jimin and Taehyung would be dropping by soon anyway. The apartment needed to look presentable. At least that was a task with a clear end. Something he could control.

He moved through the motions like a machine—picking up the hoodie, folding the blanket on the couch, fluffing the cushions. He took the glass from the table and set it in the sink, rinsed it twice before setting it on the drying rack.

Everything had its place.

Everything, except him.

Jungkook leaned on the counter and let out a long, slow breath, staring at the digital clock on the stove.

4:27 PM.

Still hours until she came home.

If she came home on time.

If she didn’t decide to stay out longer. To avoid him.

His fingers curled into fists on the cool granite.

The kiss had meant something. To him, at least. It wasn’t a drunken mistake, not some throwaway moment. It had cracked something open. The way she’d touched him. The way she’d whispered his name. That wasn’t nothing.

So why the silence?

Why hadn’t she said anything?

He tried to shake the thoughts loose, pushing himself off the counter and heading to the hallway to straighten up the rest of the space. He rearranged the shoes by the door. Took the trash out. Vacuumed the rug like it offended him.

The harder he moved, the less he had to feel.

Until he ended up back in the kitchen again, standing in the same spot where it happened.

Where they happened.

His gaze dropped to the floor. He remembered the feel of her fingers clutching his hoodie, her breath hot against his skin. The way she’d looked at him, like she didn’t want to stop.

Like she couldn’t.

But she had.

Or maybe he had.

Jungkook scrubbed a hand through his hair and dropped into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. His elbows hit the wood, hard, and he let his head hang.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to do.

They were roommates. Not lovers. Not even friends, really—at least, not in the normal sense. Their connection had always been a little jagged, always filled with tension and heat and something unspoken.

Until now.

Now it wasn’t unspoken.

Now it was just avoided.

The doorbell rang.

Jungkook blinked, lifting his head slowly.

Right.

Jimin and Taehyung.

He stood up, brushed his hands on his jeans, and walked to the door.

He plastered on something like a smile and pulled it open.

Time to play it normal.

Even if everything inside him still felt wrecked.

The knock at the door was light and familiar.

Jungkook opened it to find Jimin standing there, a six-pack in one hand and a cocky grin already on his face.

“Finally,” Jungkook muttered, stepping aside to let him in. “Where’s Taehyung?”

Jimin kicked off his shoes and headed straight for the couch. “Still at the café. They’ve got a new part-timer who apparently can’t tell a milk frother from a fire extinguisher. He got stuck training her.”

Jungkook raised a brow. “Seriously?”

“Oh yeah.” Jimin dropped the beer onto the coffee table with a dramatic sigh. “He texted me like fifteen minutes ago. Said he’d be late, but, and I quote—‘she’s really pretty so maybe this is finally my chance to have a girlfriend.’”

Jungkook snorted. “That sounds exactly like him.”

“I told him to chill and maybe not flirt with someone who just burned their hand on a steam wand,” Jimin added, flopping down onto the couch. “But you know Tae. Optimism in human form.”

Jungkook sat beside him, cracking open one of the beers. “Watch him actually pull it off.”

Jimin grinned. “Hey, if she’s into chaos and philosophy rants, it might work.”

“Poor girl has no idea what’s coming.”

They both laughed, the easy rhythm of their banter cutting through the weird heaviness that had been hanging over Jungkook since this morning.

For a few minutes, it felt normal.

Comfortable.

They sipped their drinks, traded jabs about Taehyung’s love life, and debated the worst coffee shop customers they’d ever seen.

Then Jimin glanced sideways with that signature sly smile—the one that always meant he was about to stir the pot.

“So.”

Jungkook didn’t even need to look at him to know what was coming.

“Y/N?” Jimin said, dragging her name out like a tease.

Jungkook took another sip of beer and set the bottle down slowly.

“We… made out.”

Jimin blinked. “What?”

“Last night.”

“You kissed her?!”

“She kissed me too,” Jungkook muttered, rubbing a hand down his face.

Jimin sat back, stunned. “Holy shit. You’re serious?”

Jungkook nodded.

“When? Where?”

“Kitchen. After the soju.”

Jimin’s eyes were wide. “That’s not just a kiss, that’s a moment.”

“Yeah,” Jungkook said quietly.

A beat passed.

Then Jimin leaned forward. “Okay, so… what now?”

“Nothing,” Jungkook said flatly. “It’s not happening again.”

“What?” Jimin blinked. “Why the hell not?”

“Because,” Jungkook began, voice harder than before, “this isn’t some slow-burn romance. I’m not the guy she ends up with. I’m just—”

“Don’t say ‘the guy in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ You’re not in a Nicholas Sparks adaptation.”

“I’m serious,” Jungkook snapped.

Jimin didn’t back down. “So am I.”

“She doesn’t need me complicating her life. She needs solid ground, and I’m—” He cut himself off, jaw tight. “I’m not that.”

Jimin studied him for a long second. “You think you’re not good enough for her.”

Jungkook didn’t answer.

“That’s bullshit,” Jimin said. “And you know it.”

“I don’t want to hurt her.”

“Then don’t. It’s not that deep, dude. If you care about her, just be honest. That’s literally it.”

Jungkook opened his mouth to argue again, but—

The sound of the door unlocking cut through the tension.

They both turned.

Y/N stepped inside, laughing softly as she pulled her keys out of the lock. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, her hair a little windswept.

Right behind her was Taehyung, carrying her bag like it was second nature.

She was wearing his jacket—oversized, navy blue, the sleeves swallowing her hands.

Jungkook stood up without realizing it.

Taehyung grinned. “Hope we’re not too late.”

“We grabbed coffee,” Y/N said, brushing snow from her shoulders. “I didn’t realize how cold it got.”

Her eyes flicked to Jungkook—but he wasn’t looking at her.

He was looking at Taehyung’s hand on her back.

Just a casual gesture. Innocent.

But something in his chest twisted, sharp and hot.

He told himself it didn’t matter. That last night was a mistake. A slip.

But watching her now—in someone else’s jacket, smiling at someone else—he couldn’t lie.

It mattered.

More than he wanted it to.

hey tumblr angels 🌸

I’m back with part three of “i like me better” and guess what? Things are finally starting to heat up 🔥

I’ve introduced three new characters in this part (yes, chaos is coming 😋), and I need to know—

What do we think about Taehyung and Y/N?And more importantly… will Jungkook be able to handle it? 👀

Also! I’m putting together a taglist for updates—drop a comment if you’d like to be added 🫶

As always, reblogs, comments, and kisses keep me going 💋thank you for reading 🥰❤️

with love,

xo ario 💌

« previous | next »

[seokwrts]

I LIKE ME BETTER | jjk

PART TWO

summary : After walking in on her boyfriend Sanho cheating, Y/N moves out and ends up living with Jungkook, a cocky yet caring acquaintance she once couldn’t stand. What begins as a tense, passive-aggressive roommates situation slowly transforms into something deeper, as both navigate heartbreak, vulnerability, and emotional healing. Through stormy nights, late-night confessions, domestic routines, and quiet tension, Y/N and Jungkook gradually uncover the warmth and safety they’ve both been missing—especially in each other.

“After all, what’s the worst that could happen just living under the same roof?”

pairing : jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre : roommates , fluff , smut

word count : 6.2k

warnings : Explicit. This story contains sexual content, explicit language, and themes of emotional trauma. Expect a roommates-to-lovers slow burn with intense enemies-to-lovers tension, mutual pining, and eventual smut. Features include domestic intimacy, past cheating, emotional hurt/comfort, and lots of kitchen tension. There’s jealousy, unresolved sexual tension, first times, comfort sex, and characters who are both emotionally guarded and touch-starved.

When Jungkook returned from his errands, the apartment was steeped in an eerie kind of stillness—the kind that made you slow your footsteps without realizing, as if even sound didn’t dare to linger too long. The late afternoon light filtered through the living room blinds in golden slats, painting stripes on the hardwood floor like prison bars. Shoes off.

Keys tossed lightly onto the counter. The silence pressed in, broken only by the low hum of the refrigerator and the soft, irregular rustling of something fluttering in the air.

He turned toward the kitchen and saw it.

A yellow Post-it, barely clinging to the fridge door, its corner twitching in the soft breeze from the slightly open window above the sink. Below his own note—short, stiff, factual—another had appeared in familiar, looping handwriting.

“Good, because I don’t belong to him anymore.”

For a moment, he just stood there, a canvas bag of groceries still clutched in one hand. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. The words registered slowly, then all at once—slipping past his rational mind, sinking straight into his chest like ink bleeding into paper.

Her handwriting.

He recognized the way she looped her y’s and how the ‘t’ never fully crossed. Slanted, a little rushed, like she didn’t want to think too long before committing it to the page. Like it came from somewhere raw. Honest.

He exhaled, quietly. His body relaxed before his brain could catch up.

It wasn’t for him. Not really. The note was a rebuttal to what he had written earlier—a cold, information-only message about her ex showing up. A neutral report, no commentary. But this… this was personal. This was a declaration. Of freedom, of closure, maybe even of defiance.

And still—somehow—it felt like it was his.

Not his to own. Not his to claim. But his to witness.

Something stirred in him. Not quite joy, but not far from it. Warmth bloomed in his chest, curling around his ribs like ivy. Was it pride? Relief? Possessiveness? God, he didn’t know. He barely even knew her. She was a stranger two weeks ago, now occupying the same apartment, drinking from his mugs, sleeping behind a thin wall, leaving sticky notes on his fridge like they’d lived ten lifetimes together.

He reached out and touched the edge of the Post-it with a finger. It crinkled gently beneath the pad of his thumb. Fragile. Intentional. A message meant to be read. To be seen.

He reread it.

“Good, because I don’t belong to him anymore.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. Not a full smile. Just a flicker. The kind that rose up before you could stop it—quick, involuntary, and all the more dangerous for it.

She didn’t belong to him anymore.

That line repeated in his head like a song stuck on loop, and goddamn if it didn’t make something in him tighten. Not because he wanted to own her. No. It was something else. The conviction. The edge in her tone. The reclaiming of her own body, her own choices, her own damn name.

She wasn’t running back. She wasn’t cracking under the weight of gossip or guilt. She had chosen—again, and deliberately—not to go back to the boy who broke her.

And she had written it down. Here. For him to read.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

The groceries hit the counter with a soft thud. He didn’t bother unpacking them yet. Instead, he leaned back against the opposite wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on that little square of yellow like it might vanish if he looked away.

He didn’t know what was happening to him. Not really.

But he knew how he felt when she was in the room. He knew the sound of her laugh in the morning, muffled by her toothbrush. He knew she sang to herself while washing dishes.

That she hoarded teabags in the second cabinet to the left and stole the good throw blanket when she was curled up on the couch. That she cried, quietly and with her whole body, when she thought no one was listening. That she left her vulnerability hanging in the air like smoke, stubborn and soft and impossible to ignore.

He knew all that. And he hadn’t known her at all two weeks ago.

A stranger, they said.

Some girl, they said.

And now—now he felt like her fucking shadow.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled through gritted teeth. The weight in his chest twisted and pulsed, too close to something dangerous. He didn’t want to name it. Naming it made it real. And real meant risk. He didn’t do real.

But he was thinking about the night she fell asleep on the couch with her hair tangled in his hoodie. He was thinking about how her bare feet looked on his kitchen tile. He was thinking about the way she had smiled—just a little, just once—when he handed her a bowl of instant ramen without asking if she wanted dinner.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “FUCK”

“What the fuck is happening to me?” he muttered aloud.

His voice echoed back at him, thin and unimpressed. There was no one to answer.

And still, something about the apartment didn’t feel so cold anymore.

He turned back toward the Post-it. Read it one last time. Then pulled open the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and walked away—heart heavier than it had been that morning, but somehow lighter, too.

Like something had changed.

And maybe it had.

Maybe it was already too late.

That morning, Y/N had left early for college, the lingering scent of Jungkook’s hoodie still clinging to her like comfort. The fabric wrapped around her like a memory she wasn’t ready to fold away yet—a soft promise in a world that had become too loud.

She didn’t look in the mirror as she stepped out. Not because she didn’t want to see her face, but because she couldn’t bear to face the girl behind it—the girl still stitching herself together with trembling fingers and borrowed strength.

Campus was already awake. Students flooded the halls, laughter and music spilling from the dorms like the world hadn’t ended just a few days ago. But today, it all felt different. Laughter didn’t sound quite right.

The air was too sharp. The conversations stopped too abruptly when she passed by. Eyes dragged across her body like questions she didn’t want to answer.

She ignored it. Shoulders back. Chin up. Pretend nothing had changed.

And then, she saw him.

Sanho.

Standing just beyond the courtyard gates like a curse she thought she’d buried. Like an old wound torn back open. He wore that same leather jacket he always had when he wanted to look put-together. Hands in his pockets. That same smug confidence like nothing had touched him. Like he hadn’t shattered her.

He called her name like it still belonged to him. “Y/N.”

She stopped walking. Everything inside her twisted into a fist.

He stepped forward. “Can we talk?”

Her voice was cold. “No.”

“Just five minutes,” he insisted, his tone drenched in entitlement. “I just want to explain.”

“There’s nothing left to explain.” Her arms crossed over her chest—guarded, stiff. “You cheated. End of story.”

“It wasn’t like that,” he muttered. “I made a mistake.”

She barked a bitter laugh. “No, Sanho. A mistake is forgetting a date. A mistake is spilling coffee. You didn’t trip and fall into someone else’s bed.”

“It didn’t mean anything!” he hissed. “It was one time.”

“That’s supposed to make it better?” Her voice cracked, high with disbelief. “That it was meaningless? You broke me for nothing?”

“I was drunk. She came onto me. You were always so—so distant.”

There it was. The excuse. The one she’d been waiting for.

“Don’t you dare try to blame me for your inability to keep it in your pants.”

He rolled his eyes. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. You’re so fucking dramatic.”

Her blood ran hot.

“No,” she said. “I’m not dramatic. I’m devastated. There’s a difference.”

He stepped closer. Too close.

“And now you’re living with some guy you barely know? That’s not devastated. That’s pathetic.”

She didn’t flinch, but her heart did.

“Don’t talk about him.”

“What, are you sleeping with him now?” he sneered. “That why you’re so quick to forget me?”

Her jaw clenched so hard it hurt. “You don’t get to ask that.”

“It’s a fair question.”

“No, it’s not,” she spat. “You lost the right to ask anything about me the moment you climbed into someone else’s bed.”

Sanho’s voice rose. “You’re really gonna act like I meant nothing to you?”

She blinked. Pain pulsed behind her eyes like a bruise she hadn’t touched. “You meant everything to me. That was the problem.”

The silence between them was thick, suffocating.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, softer now. “You weren’t supposed to find out like that. I didn’t—”

“You didn’t think I’d matter enough to protect,” she cut in. “Just admit it, Sanho. You liked the way I loved you. You just didn’t want to be responsible for it.”

He didn’t answer.

“You talk about what we had like it was some epic love story,” she said. “But the truth is, it was a slow erosion. You chipped away at me, piece by piece, until I was small enough to ignore.”

“I messed up,” he said. “But we can fix this.”

She stared at him. “No. You messed up. And I’m finally done paying for it.”

He narrowed his eyes, his voice turning sharp. “You think he’s better than me?”

“I think he’s not you,” she whispered.

He scoffed. “You don’t even know him.”

“And you never tried to know me.”

Sanho took a step forward, eyes hard. “He’ll leave you, too. Just wait. You’re not exactly easy to love.”

That hit like a punch. She staggered back—emotionally, if not physically. But she didn’t let it show.

“No,” she said. “I’m hard to hurt. That’s why you’re so angry.”

He was silent.

“And for the record,” she said, stepping close now, so only he could hear, “if I were sleeping with him? That would be none of your goddamn business.”

His eyes blazed, lips parting—but she wasn’t finished.

“You can’t stand it, can you?” she whispered. “That I’m not broken without you. That I’m still standing. That I might actually find someone who sees me.”

She saw the twitch in his jaw, the clench of his fists. But she didn’t back down.

“You didn’t lose me because I moved in with someone else,” she said. “You lost me the moment you decided I wasn’t enough.”

And then she slapped him.

The sound echoed through the courtyard like the end of something. Final. Brutal. Righteous.

He recoiled, hand flying to his face in disbelief.

Everyone saw. Everyone heard. But for once—she didn’t care who was watching.

Y/N didn’t wait for him to recover. Her chest heaved, but her shoulders were square. She turned, her feet steady, and walked away.

And this time, she didn’t look back.

By lunch, it was all over Twitter.

#Y/NHomewrecker

#SanhoDeservedBetter

#RoommateAffair

#SheCheatedFirst

#CampusSlutFiles

They spun tales from scraps of reality like rabid playwrights addicted to drama.

According to them, Y/N had cheated first.

According to them, Sanho was the heartbroken angel.

According to them, the man she now lived with was either her secret boyfriend, her escape plan, or her latest conquest.

One thread read:

🧵 @campusKween

Not her moving in with a whole man as if we wouldn’t notice 💅

Roommate?? sis you don’t need six suitcases for “boundaries” 😭

#Y/NHomewrecker #RoommateAffair

Another posted a blurry photo of her outside Jungkook’s dorm, dragging her suitcase behind her:

🧵 @truthordorm

ok timeline:

• Y/N and Sanho date for 3 years

• Sanho caught crying in econ lecture

• Y/N moves in w campus hot boy

• Y’ALL DO THE MATH 💀

#SanhoDeservedBetter

Even the fake-feminist takes hurt the most:

🧵 @feministfae

i love women. i support women.

but not women who cheat and lie and manipulate soft boys.

Sanho used to bring her lunch. Now she’s bringing trauma to a new man.

this is why therapy > relationships 💋

#Y/NHomewrecker

Confession blogs began to pile on:

🧵 @confessU_blog

💌 “I used to know her. She always needed attention. Once told me Sanho was ‘too clingy.’ I’m not shocked.”

#Y/NTea #CampusConfessions

🧵 @libconfessions

“We don’t know him, but the guy Y/N moved in with looks cold af. Tall, sharp jaw. Probably doesn’t talk to people. Probably writes poetry. Probably ruins lives.”

same anon: “…but hot.”

#MysteryRoommate #RoommateAffair

Group chats got leaked:

Group Chat Screenshot: Architecture Girls GC

👩‍🎓 Hana: bro she sat 3 rows behind me in studio yesterday

👩‍🎓 Nari: did she look guilty??

👩‍🎓 Yejin: nah she looked DEAD inside

👩‍🎓 Nari: maybe she should be

👩‍🎓 Joo: idc she’s got taste, that guy is sexy

👩‍🎓 Hana: SANHO CRIED IN FRONT OF THE DEPARTMENT

She didn’t cry. Not again.

She walked into the library with her hood up, gaze lowered, hands stuffed deep into her pockets. A pair of students paused mid-conversation when she passed. One of them smirked.

“That’s her. The homewrecker.”

“She looks tired. Guilt must be exhausting.”

Y/N didn’t look back. She just kept walking, all the way to the last table near the dusty old window where no one ever sat. The light above her buzzed, flickering like it couldn’t decide whether to stay on or die altogether.

She pulled out her notes. The page was wrinkled. Her highlighter was dry at the tip — yellow, faded. She licked it. It worked again.

She underlined half a paragraph before her vision blurred.

In her head, it played like this:

Sanho cheating.

Sanho crying.

Sanho weaponizing her silence.

Jungkook saying nothing. Jungkook letting her be.

And then the tweets again, looping, glitching in her brain like static:

“She moved on in 48 hours. Who does that?”

“I heard he’s a dropout.”

“She’s disgusting. Poor Sanho.”

Hours passed.

She didn’t get up to pee. She didn’t eat. Her hands were ink-stained. Her phone vibrated once, twice. She didn’t check.

By the time the sun dipped behind the skyline, she felt like she had aged years.

She packed her things silently, walked past the whispers again.

“She didn’t even flinch.”

“Probably doesn’t feel anything anymore.”

“You think they’re sleeping together?”

“Duh.”

Outside, the wind was sharp. It slashed at her cheeks and turned her breath into cold clouds. But she didn’t feel it.

She walked to the convenience store like she was sleepwalking. Her feet knew the way. Her mind was back in that night — the night she saw the text on Sanho’s phone.

The girl’s name.

The apology she hadn’t asked for.

“I didn’t even finish,” he had said. Like that excused it.

Inside the store, the fluorescent lights made her headache bloom behind her eyes.

She stared at the wall of soju bottles — peach, grapefruit, lemon, classic.

The green glass shimmered like fragile promises:

Peach for the girl who used to believe in gentle love.

Citrus for the bitterness lodged in her chest.

Original for the version of herself that didn’t exist anymore.

Should she get drunk?

Would it help?

Would it make her cry or feel numb? Would it make her want to knock on Jungkook’s door at 2 a.m. and tell him she was tired of being strong?

Would it make her forget Sanho’s hands on someone else?

Would it make her forget the public shame — being reduced to a hashtag?

She didn’t choose.

She bought all six.

The cashier didn’t say a word. Just scanned the bottles and handed her the receipt without a glance. As if this kind of thing happened every day.

Maybe it did.

The plastic bag thudded against her thigh as she walked back home.

The streets were quieter now. The wind less cruel. The numbness thicker.

Her thoughts drifted like fog. To Sanho. To Jungkook. To everything she’d lost and everything she wasn’t sure she wanted anymore.

Sanho had cried publicly. He’d collapsed into people’s sympathy like a prince denied his crown.

Jungkook hadn’t cried. He hadn’t asked questions. He hadn’t even judged her.

He let her take the bigger bedroom. He passed her a cup of warm tea last night without saying anything about the trembling in her fingers.

He didn’t pretend to understand her. He just stayed close enough for her to feel less alone.

She wondered what people would say if they knew the truth.

That Sanho cheated.

That she never wanted revenge.

That she hadn’t even kissed Jungkook.

Not yet.

Her apartment was close now.

The windows glowed softly in the dark, one of them flickering — probably Jungkook’s room. But as she drew closer, her footsteps slowed.

The light was on, but the apartment felt wrong. Still. Unoccupied.

No music. No soft hums from his room. No muffled sounds of him moving about the kitchen in that quiet, economical way of his — like he was trying not to disturb something already too fragile.

The apartment was empty.

Jungkook wasn’t home.

That hit harder than she thought it would.

She’d told herself she didn’t want him to see her like this — a ghost with shaking hands and six bottles of denial rattling in a plastic bag. But some buried part of her, cracked and craving, had hoped he would be there. That he’d glance up when she walked in, maybe nod silently like he understood something without asking. That he’d be there to keep her from doing what she was about to do.

But he wasn’t.

The door creaked open. The hallway greeted her with shadows and the faint smell of clean laundry and sandalwood — the scent Jungkook carried in the folds of his sleeves.

Her fingers closed tighter around the plastic bag as she stepped inside.

The lights had been left on — one in the hallway, dim and gold, casting long, quiet shadows. His door was ajar, the curtain fluttering softly from the cracked window. He’d forgotten to close it again. He always did that.

She toed off her shoes without a sound. Her socks caught on the edge of the rug and twisted. She didn’t bother fixing it.

The apartment was too quiet. The silence almost rang.

She moved to the kitchen and placed the soju bottles on the counter with more care than they deserved. One by one. Their green glass clinked gently against the laminate, each thud a soft admission.

She stared at them. Like they might answer something she hadn’t dared ask aloud.

Who am I now?

She didn’t know.

She wasn’t the girl Sanho loved anymore.

She wasn’t the girl the internet thought she was.

She wasn’t even sure she was the girl who had once walked across this campus with a smile and a future and a boy who held her hand like it meant something.

She wasn’t the girl Jungkook knew, either.

Not really. He’d never asked for her story. He just made space for her to breathe inside his.

Her steps faltered. She walked away from the counter.

Into the bathroom.

The light was harsh when she turned it on. It flickered, then held. Her reflection stared back — a stranger made of bruised eyes, bitten lips, and skin that looked too pale under the fluorescent wash. She looked tired in a way that sleep couldn’t fix.

She turned the tap on and scrubbed her hands with a vengeance, like she could scrape off the day. The noise filled the room, water rushing over her trembling fingers, but inside her chest, everything was quiet.

Jungkook’s voice flickered in her memory — something he’d said a few days ago when he thought she wasn’t listening:

“You don’t owe anyone your pain.”

She hadn’t responded then.

Now she almost laughed.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe she did owe it. Maybe that’s why the world was making her pay for it, over and over.

She turned off the faucet and stood there, breathing.

Then she walked back to the kitchen, like someone moving through the wreckage of a place they used to call home.

The bottles waited for her.

One in particular — peach, soft pink label, the kind she used to share with Sanho on the nights they pretended they were more than just tired and trying.

She picked it up.

Twisted the cap.

Click.

The scent hit her — sweet, syrupy, childish. Like it was mocking her for thinking it could fix anything.

She stared at it for a long moment.

Then, with slow, deliberate hands, she poured it into a glass.

It barely filled halfway.

Her fingers trembled when she picked it up.

The first sip burned a little — not from the alcohol, but from everything behind it.

And in the silence of an empty apartment, surrounded by shadows and unopened bottles, Y/N finally stopped trying to hold it all in.

She didn’t cry.

Not yet.

But her throat burned.

And she kept drinking anyway.

Jungkook had been at the studio most of the day, headphones wrapped tight over his ears, fingers tracing melodies on the worn keyboard. A new track was slowly coming together — a rising indie artist with raw, honest lyrics that stirred something fragile inside him. Nothing fancy, no big labels or flashing lights, just music that paid the bills and gave him a sliver of joy he couldn’t find anywhere else. A quiet refuge from the chaos outside.

The dim lights of the studio hummed softly, casting long shadows against scattered sheets of lyric paper and half-empty coffee cups. He closed his eyes, searching for the right note, when suddenly his phone buzzed insistently against the cluttered desk.

Dad.

His chest tightened. The name alone felt like a weight pulling him under. He almost didn’t answer — every fiber of his being screamed to let it go to voicemail, to shut that door again. But curiosity mixed with exhaustion made him lift the phone.

“What are you doing with your life, Jeon Jungkook?” The voice was sharp, cold — like an ice blade slicing through thin skin, no greeting, no softness, just judgment.

Jungkook swallowed hard, his fingers trembling slightly. “I’m working,” he said evenly, forcing calm into his voice.

“Working? You call that music shit a job? You think producing beats and mixing tracks will get you anywhere? You had potential—medical school, business, something real.”

“It’s my career,” Jungkook shot back, voice rising slightly. “I’m not wasting time. I make music people want to hear. I help artists find their sound. It’s real work.”

“Real work?” his father sneered. “You’re a kid playing with sounds, fooling yourself that this is success. You’re nothing but a failure in my eyes. When will you grow up and face reality?”

Jungkook’s jaw clenched, his knuckles whitening around the phone. “I’m not you. I’m not living your life.”

“Then you’re wasting it. Don’t expect me to support some fantasy.”

The words weren’t new. They had echoed through years of silence and disappointment. But today, they landed differently — sharper, heavier, bleeding beneath his skin. Like a punch he didn’t see coming but felt in every breath afterward.

“I’m proud of what I’m building,” Jungkook said, voice quieter now but firm. “Maybe not what you want, but it’s mine. I’m working with artists who believe in me. I’m not just chasing a dream—I’m making it real.”

“You’re chasing nothing but failure. I hope one day you realize that.”

He ended the call before he said something he’d regret.

Jungkook sat motionless for a moment, the phone still pressed to his ear, as if holding on might keep the words from settling in. The soft buzz of the studio faded into a distant murmur. He wanted to scream, to throw everything against the walls, but instead, his hands fell to his lap, shaking.

The artist, who had been quietly watching from the mixing console, finally spoke.

“You okay?” she asked softly, her eyes gentle but concerned.

Jungkook forced a tight smile. “Yeah. It’s just… family stuff.”

She nodded knowingly. “I get it. My family thought this whole music thing was a joke too. But you’re good. Really good. This track? It’s got soul. You’ve got a gift.”

He looked up at her, the weight of his father’s words still pressing down but softened a little by her faith.

“I’m trying,” he admitted. “Every day. Producing, mixing, writing… It’s not glamorous, but it’s honest. I don’t have a big studio or a fancy label. I’m just me and a laptop, a couple of synths, and whatever beats I can create. It’s small, but it’s mine.”

She smiled. “And that’s enough.”

“Maybe for now,” he said, gathering his jacket. “But sometimes, it feels like I’m fighting against the whole world.”

“Then fight smarter. Take care of yourself too.”

He nodded, grateful for the reminder.

“Let’s call it a day,” she said softly. “You’re not here right now.”

He wanted to argue — say he could still fix the track, could still lose himself in the music — but he knew she was right.

“Tomorrow, Jungkook,” she added gently.

He nodded, though she couldn’t see it, and stepped out into the night.

The city buzzed around him — distant car horns, muffled conversations, neon signs flickering with tired light. But none of it touched him. His mind replayed the call, his father’s voice echoing louder than any street noise.

As he walked home, the cool wind nipped at the edges of his hoodie, but Jungkook barely felt it. His mind had wandered off somewhere else — somewhere messier, somewhere strangely warm.

That stupid little Post-it had resurfaced in his mind again.

Good, because I don’t belong to him anymore.

He’d read it hours ago, just once, maybe twice. Okay, four times. But he hadn’t stopped thinking about it since.

The thing was — it wasn’t just what it said. It was the tone. The bite. The breathlessness beneath it. It wasn’t about Sanho, not entirely. Not anymore.

Some reckless, whispering part of him kept circling back to the way she’d left it — stuck to the fridge, where he would see it. Where only he would see it.

He hadn’t meant to read it. But now that he had, it was like it had been written for him.

His lips curved upward, slow and stupid. God. He was smiling. Like an idiot.

Like a full-grown man who couldn’t stop grinning over a pink square of paper and seven sharp words.

What if she wanted him to see it?

What if, deep down, it was meant for him?

The idea wrapped around his chest like a dangerous promise — a terrifying kind of hope he didn’t know what to do with. He hadn’t believed in stuff like that in a while. Maybe never.

He reached the edge of the block, stopped under the flickering streetlamp, and leaned against the brick wall for a second. His fingers itched to text her. Or say something dumb. Like Thanks for the note, or I don’t want you to belong to anyone either.

But that was the problem.

He wanted to say something.

He wanted it to mean something.

And that scared the hell out of him.

What if he was reading too much into it?

What if it really was just about Sanho?

What if he was just the roommate — the temporary, emotionally damaged guy who happened to be kind enough not to ask too many questions?

His smile faltered. The warmth in his chest began to splinter under the weight of reality.

But even so, he couldn’t shake it.

That Post-it note was burned into his memory now. The way she wrote it like a punch she’d finally thrown. Like she had no one else to say it to. Like she’d waited too long to say it at all.

And still… she’d stuck it there.

Right on the fridge. Right in their shared space.

Maybe it wasn’t a confession.

Maybe it wasn’t anything at all.

But to Jungkook — walking home from a long day, his father’s voice still echoing in his ears, his hands still trembling from words unsaid — it meant everything.

It meant someone else out there was trying to choose themselves, too.

And that felt like the closest thing to connection he’d had in years.

He exhaled slowly, shoved his hands in his pockets, and crossed the street toward their apartment.

Scared or not, smiling or not —

he knew one thing for sure.

He was going to remember that note forever.

When Jungkook walked into the apartment, the lights were dimmed, and Y/N was leaning against the kitchen counter, one hand wrapped around a green soju bottle, her eyes vacant, distant — like she hadn’t quite come back to earth yet.

She didn’t look up when he entered. But he didn’t need her to. The air between them already knew how heavy the day had been.

Wordlessly, he stepped into the kitchen and poured himself a glass beside her. The bottle clinked softly against the rim.

She glanced over, finally. “Bad day?”

He nodded and downed the shot.

Another followed. Then another.

After the third, he finally exhaled, jaw tight. “My dad called.”

Y/N’s fingers curled loosely around the neck of her bottle. “Yeah?”

“He thinks what I’m doing is a waste. That music’s a fucking phase I’ll grow out of. Wants me to quit and get a 9-to-5 like a ‘respectable adult.’” The last words dripped with bitterness.

Her gaze softened, quiet fury and quiet pity threading together in her throat. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” he muttered. “But it’s expected.”

They drank more. The silence thickened—not heavy, not empty. Just swollen with everything unsaid.

When she passed him the bottle again, her fingers brushed his. He didn’t pull away.

She watched him quietly for a second. “He doesn’t know you,” she said. “What you’re capable of.”

Jungkook let out a dry laugh. “Maybe. But he’s right about one thing—I don’t have much to show for it.”

Y/N’s voice sharpened. “That’s bullshit.”

He looked at her.

“I’ve heard your mixes,” she continued. “I’ve watched you work in your room for hours without blinking. Your music has this… ache. Like something alive trying to crawl out of you. It’s not just beats and basslines, Jungkook. It’s fucking beautiful. It matters.”

The words landed differently than anything else had all day. Deeper. Unfiltered. Undeniable.

They passed the bottle again. Their fingers brushed. This time, neither of them moved away.

He was about to ask her something—anything—when her voice cracked the silence again. Quiet. Small.

“Sanho came up to me today.”

Jungkook stilled.

“Outside the student café. Just—walked up to me like we were still something. Like I was his.”

His jaw tightened. “What’d he say?”

She laughed bitterly. “Called me a whore. In front of everyone.”

Jungkook’s shoulders went rigid. “What?”

“Said I was flaunting you. That I moved in with you to get back at him. That I’ve probably already fucked you and that’s why I’m so smug.”

“What the actual—” He started pacing. “That fucking prick. That pathetic, hypocritical, lying little shit—”

“He said I ruined his life.”

Jungkook turned around sharply. “He cheated on you. He ruined yours.”

Y/N’s hands curled tighter around the bottle, but her voice remained calm. Too calm. “I didn’t even say anything. Just stood there. Let him talk.”

Jungkook cursed under his breath. “Motherfucker. And the rest of them? Twitter?”

She gave him a flat look. “#RoommateAffair. #Y/NHomewrecker. #SanhoDeservedBetter. Apparently, I cheated. I slept around. I’m using you for attention. Nobody remembers what he did. Not one tweet questions him.”

“Fucking hell,” Jungkook hissed. “I swear to fucking God, I hope every single one of those dipshits breaks a nail scrolling through their fake-ass hot takes. What the fuck is wrong with people?”

He turned to her, furious now. “You’re not a goddamn villain. You’re not some rebound whore or social climber. You’re just—you’re just trying to breathe and they’re treating you like blood in the water.”

Y/N’s chest rose and fell sharply, but her voice was barely above a whisper.

“I didn’t cry.”

He looked at her.

“Not after the tweets. Not after he yelled. Not even after people started filming me. I didn’t cry. I just walked to the library and kept reading the same paragraph for three hours. I don’t even remember what it was about.”

Something twisted in Jungkook’s chest.

“I thought about drinking the entire way home,” she confessed. “I thought about getting so drunk I wouldn’t have to feel any of it.”

She looked up at him then.

“But then I remembered that post-it.”

His breath caught. “The one on the fridge?”

Y/N nodded. “It wasn’t just about him. It was about… choosing myself. For once.”

Jungkook swallowed hard. The ache between them stretched, pulling taut, desperate to snap.

“You’re too soft for this world,” he said, voice low.

She gave a hollow laugh. “Then stop making it harder for me.”

Something shifted.

A slow, magnetic pull.

He reached for the bottle again, but she caught his wrist.

Their eyes locked.

And then—finally—he leaned in.

Their lips met, slow but aching. One kiss. Then another, firmer, deeper.

The tension that had coiled between them for weeks unspooled all at once. He cupped her jaw with one hand and slid the other to her hip, tugging her against him with a soft groan that trembled through both of them.

She gasped into his mouth, and it unraveled him.

It wasn’t gentle now.

It was hot, hungry. His tongue swept over hers as her hands clutched at his hoodie, dragging him closer until there was no space left. Her back hit the counter, and he pressed into her, chest to chest, heart to heart.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging when his lips moved from her mouth to her throat, tracing a path of heat and hunger.

She moaned. “Fuck, Jungkook…”

He exhaled sharply against her skin. “Say that again.”

She whispered it slower this time, teasing, breathless:

“Fuck, Jungkook.”

Something in him shattered.

The sound of his name on her lips—fragile, wrecked, desperate—tore into whatever thin thread of control he had left. His mouth crashed against hers, hungry and bruising, hands threading into her hair as he pressed her further into the counter like he wanted to crawl inside her chest and live in the space where pain met desire.

And she gave in—fully, freely—fingers clinging to his hoodie, thighs tightening around his hips, a low moan slipping out between their kisses.

But just as she leaned in to kiss him again—

He froze.

Right there.

A flicker of hesitation. Then dread.

Jungkook pulled back abruptly, breath ragged, eyes wide and frantic like he’d just woken up from something dangerous.

“I…” He stepped back another inch, voice cracking. “You don’t want me.”

Y/N blinked. Confused. Lips swollen, chest heaving. “What?”

“You don’t,” he said again, quieter now. “I’m not—” He exhaled like it hurt. “I’m not safe.”

She straightened, sliding off the counter as her high drained into something hollow. “What are you talking about?”

Jungkook shook his head, hands curling into fists at his sides.

“I’m not the guy people fall for, Y/N. I’m the one they use to feel something again. I’m the rebound. I’m the one you get over someone with.”

His voice turned rough, desperate. “You don’t even know me.”

“That’s not—”

“You think this is a good idea?” he snapped, gesturing between them. “You’re hurting. You’re angry. You’re drunk. You don’t want me, you just want a way out.”

Her heart thudded. “You don’t know what I want.”

“I know myself,” he muttered, taking another step away. “And trust me, you deserve better than this mess.”

Silence fell between them—heavy and final.

And before she could say another word, he turned and walked out of the kitchen.

The door to his room clicked shut behind him.

Y/N stood there for a long time, staring at nothing. The fridge hummed behind her. The bottle sat open on the counter, still half full.

Her fingers pressed to her lips, and for a second, it felt like he was still kissing her.

The warmth hadn’t faded yet.

But god, the cold was starting to creep in.

« previous | next »

hey tumblr !!

i’m back with part two of “i like me better” — and things are definitely starting to heat up 👀

hope you guys can feel the tension simmering between these two because it only gets messier from here.

also, the masterlist for this series is now up, so don’t forget to check that out if you’re new or need to catch up!

reblogs, comments & kisses are always appreciated 💌

with love,

xo, ario 💋

[seokwrts]

I LIKE ME BETTER | SERIES MASTERLIST

synopsis : After walking in on her long-term boyfriend cheating, Y/N does the unthinkable — she moves in with a stranger. Jeon Jungkook, cold, sharp-tongued, and far too handsome for his own good, isn’t exactly thrilled about sharing his space with a girl who cries over burnt toast and litters the apartment with passive-aggressive Post-it notes. She’s messy where he’s meticulous, loud where he’s quiet, and heartbreak clings to both of them like a second skin.

They’re polar opposites. He keeps rules taped to the fridge and wears emotional armor with the same ease he wears his inked skin. She’s all raw edges and ruined mascara. But somehow, amidst stormy nights and coffee-fueled mornings, something starts to bloom — a fragile, dangerous kind of intimacy that exists in shared glances, late-night silences, and the space between his bedroom and hers.

There are rules. Boundaries. An unspoken “don’t fall for your roommate” agreement — one that crumbles the night they share a drunken kiss in the kitchen, all heat and hesitation, with music playing too low and hearts beating too loud. It’s reckless. Uncharted. Maybe even self-destructive. But desire doesn’t follow logic, and sometimes the person who helps you rebuild is the one just down the hall.

Because what’s the worst that could happen…

“ just because you live under the same roof ? ”

pairing : jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre : roommates , fluff , smut

word count : 30k

warnings : Explicit. This story contains sexual content, explicit language, and themes of emotional trauma. Expect a roommates-to-lovers slow burn with intense enemies-to-lovers tension, mutual pining, and eventual smut. Features include domestic intimacy, past cheating, emotional hurt/comfort, and lots of kitchen tension. There’s jealousy, unresolved sexual tension, first times, comfort sex, and characters who are both emotionally guarded and touch-starved.

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR

PART FIVE ( nsfw )

PART SIX ( nsfw )

[seokwrts]

I LIKE ME BETTER | jjk

PART ONE

summary : After walking in on her boyfriend Sanho cheating, Y/N moves out and ends up living with Jungkook, a cocky yet caring acquaintance she once couldn’t stand. What begins as a tense, passive-aggressive roommates situation slowly transforms into something deeper, as both navigate heartbreak, vulnerability, and emotional healing. Through stormy nights, late-night confessions, domestic routines, and quiet tension, Y/N and Jungkook gradually uncover the warmth and safety they’ve both been missing—especially in each other.

“After all, what’s the worst that could happen just living under the same roof?”

pairing : jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre : roommates , fluff , smut

word count : 4.5k

warnings : Explicit. This story contains sexual content, explicit language, and themes of emotional trauma. Expect a roommates-to-lovers slow burn with intense enemies-to-lovers tension, mutual pining, and eventual smut. Features include domestic intimacy, past cheating, emotional hurt/comfort, and lots of kitchen tension. There’s jealousy, unresolved sexual tension, first times, comfort sex, and characters who are both emotionally guarded and touch-starved.

The toothbrush was still in the cup.

His shirt still hung on the back of the chair.

The vanilla candle she’d lit two nights ago still flickered faintly in the corner, scenting the room with a memory it no longer deserved.

Everything looked the same—everything but him.

Sanho.

On the couch. Shirtless. Laughing. Arms draped around a girl who wasn’t her.

The same girl from his contact list—the one she had once asked about during a quiet dinner, wine glass in hand and something unsettled in her voice.

“She’s just a friend, babe.”

That girl now sat nestled into him like she belonged there.

Like Y/N had never existed.

His hand was resting on the small of the girl’s back, thumb moving in slow, familiar circles.

The way he used to touch Y/N when he was trying to soothe her. Calm her. Keep her.

And for a moment, all she could do was stand there—motionless, silent, keys still clenched between white knuckles, while the ground crumbled beneath her.

She didn’t scream.

Didn’t cry.

Didn’t even blink, not right away.

It was strange, how pain like that didn’t make noise.

It just sat inside your chest like a heavy, rotting secret.

He saw her. The laughter stopped.

His head snapped toward the door. His expression flickered—first confusion, then horror, then that awful, choking guilt she’d seen before.

A crack formed in the perfect little mask he wore for everyone else.

But not for her.

Never for her.

“Y/N—” he breathed.

She could’ve unleashed everything in her. All the rage, the heartbreak, the months of second-guessing herself.

She could’ve screamed “How fucking long?”

She could’ve marched over and thrown his stupid records off the shelves or smashed his phone into the floor.

But she didn’t.

She just looked at him, like she was seeing him for the first time. And maybe she was.

“No.”

That was all she said.

One syllable. Low. Final.

It wasn’t a cry. It wasn’t a plea. It was a closed door. A lock snapping shut. A full stop at the end of a love story that never should’ve started.

Sanho stood quickly, the girl still tangled in his lap scrambling to fix her top. “Wait—wait, baby, just—just listen for a sec, it’s not what it looks like—”

Not what it looks like?

God, he had the fucking audacity to pull that line?

She turned on her heel without another word. Walked out, heart caving in her chest, jaw tight, eyes dry.

Not because she wasn’t hurting.

But because she’d already cried enough for him in all the nights she waited for his texts, all the mornings she woke up feeling like a ghost in her own bed.

Each step was a scream she didn’t let out.

And when she closed the door behind her—it wasn’t a slam. No rage. No theatrical heartbreak.

Just a soft, measured click.

But it sounded more like a funeral.

𓏔 🪑 ✿🥛🐈

She didn’t remember how long she walked.

Through the streets of Seoul, neon buzzing overhead, air thick with the smell of late-night food stalls and engine fumes.

She barely noticed the music thumping from passing bars, the chatter of couples holding hands. It all moved around her like she didn’t exist.

Her feet took her to the only place that didn’t feel like a lie: the Han River.

She sat on a cold metal bench near the edge, the water stretching wide and black in front of her. Quiet.

Still.

Unbothered by her tiny, shattered world.

She stared at it until her eyes stung, until the city behind her dimmed and the ache in her chest throbbed like something alive.

And still, she didn’t cry.

Because fuck him.

Because crying was what she did before—when she thought she was losing something real. Now she knew better.

He wasn’t worth the tears.

He wasn’t worth any of it.

𓏔 🪑 ✿🥛🐈

Her phone vibrated once. Then again. Then again. The texts came in waves, each one more pathetic than the last.

Sanho [7:14PM]

Please just talk to me.

Sanho [8:02PM]

You’re overreacting. It didn’t mean anything.

Sanho [10:17PM]

I messed up, okay? I’ll fix it. We can fix it.

Sanho [1:03AM]

Do you really want to throw away everything we had?

She turned the screen off. Tossed the phone beside her on the bench like it was diseased.

Everything we had?

He threw it away the second his lips found another neck.

When his fingers moved across that girl’s skin like Y/N never even existed.

Fuck him.

𓏔 🪑 ✿🥛🐈

The next morning, she moved like a machine.

No tears. No music. Just packing.

The room looked like someone else had lived in it. Her clothes in the closet. Her books on the shelves. Her green Jeju mug by the window.

That mug.

He bought it during their trip. Said it reminded him of her eyes.

Now it just looked like bullshit.

She left it behind.

She didn’t leave a note. Didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t even text. She just grabbed her duffel, wheeled her suitcase through the quiet hallway, and shut the door on two years of her life like it was nothing.

Because in the end, that’s what it had meant to him.

Nothing.

𓏔 🪑 ✿🥛🐈

Her best friend let her crash on a futon in her tiny studio for two nights. It smelled like ramen and floor cleaner. The radiator was broken. But it was safe.

She barely ate. Barely slept.

Mostly just lay there, wondering how she could feel so hollow and still so heavy at the same time.

By the third morning, the ache in her chest had calcified into something solid.

She picked up her phone and started searching. No more waiting. No more sleeping in someone else’s corner.

She needed a place that was hers—even if it was small, even if it was broken, even if it was shared.

That’s when she found it.

Available Immediately:

Two-bedroom apartment in Hongdae. Quiet area. Natural light. “Character.”

Shared with one existing tenant. No pets. 500k deposit. Rent negotiable.

She didn’t think. She just called.

By noon, she’d toured it.

By 3 p.m., the lease was signed.

“Roommate’s already living there,” the landlady warned as she handed over the keycard and a scribbled door code. Her voice was dry, not unkind, just matter-of-fact. “Keeps to himself mostly. Don’t worry, he’s not a creep.”

Y/N blinked, the key cold in her palm. “That’s… comforting?”

The woman shrugged, already turning back toward her office. “You’ll be fine, sweetheart. Just don’t touch his guitar.”

That was all she got.

No photo.

No proper introduction.

Just a number, a code, and a list of passive-aggressive post-its waiting for her future.

And frankly, Y/N wasn’t in the mood to care.

𓏔 🪑 ✿🥛🐈

The hallway leading to the apartment smelled faintly like burnt coffee and wet paint. The kind of scent that lingered in buildings where the rent was just low enough to make you tolerate it, and just high enough to remind you you’re still paying to suffer.

She reached the door, punched in the code with a sigh, and stepped inside.

The scent of incense hit her first—smoky, musky, like sandalwood and something a little bitter underneath. Then came the sound: a bassline vibrating low through the walls, like a heartbeat that didn’t know how to settle.

Then came the sight.

The apartment was chaos—but the curated kind. Lived-in, but not messy. Controlled disarray.

Posters were pinned crookedly to the walls—bands she vaguely recognized, some in English, others in Hangul scrawled like graffiti. A guitar leaned lazily against a chair that had seen better days. Ashtrays were used as coin trays. Open sketchbooks were scattered across the coffee table, some smudged with what looked like ink, charcoal, or maybe just frustration.

A used hoodie hung off one kitchen stool. A half-empty mug sat beside a tub of protein powder on the counter. A neon sign buzzed quietly from behind the curtain—something about “love” and “ruin” in script too artsy to read clearly.

And then there was him.

Standing in front of the sink, a spoon in his mouth and zero fucks in his eyes.

Black hair, loose waves, half tied back like he couldn’t be bothered to fully commit to a man bun. Sleeves rolled up just enough to show off inked forearms—swirls and lines that disappeared beneath the fabric. Headphones hung around his neck. His shirt was half-unbuttoned. A silver lip ring caught the light as he chewed on a piece of gum and gave her the kind of look people gave cold coffee.

“You’re the replacement?” he asked, voice flat, tone somewhere between suspicion and boredom.

Y/N blinked once. Twice.

Okay. This was happening.

“Roommate,” she corrected, hoisting her duffel a little higher on her shoulder. “Not intern. Or a stray cat, in case that’s where your brain went.”

He let out a short, humorless laugh, like she’d told a bad joke. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Wow,” she muttered under her breath, stepping inside. “Aren’t you just a warm fucking welcome.”

He didn’t respond, just moved back to the counter, rummaging through a drawer like she wasn’t still standing there with exhaustion weighing down every limb.

She set her bags down slowly, deliberately. The hardwood creaked under her boots.

Why do all men either cheat on you or treat you like you’re a Netflix error message?

Her thoughts were rapid fire now.

Cool. Love this. Love being ignored in my own new place. Love living with an angsty fucking album cover.

Her voice was sharp when she spoke again. “I’m Y/N.”

He glanced over his shoulder, didn’t smile. “Jungkook.”

No handshake. No nod. No “nice to meet you.”

Just silence.

Awkward, stretched-thin silence filled by the sound of rain tapping against the windows and the low thrum of music still playing from his speaker.

She crossed her arms, taking him in more fully now that the shock had dulled slightly.

He wasn’t ugly—fuck, no, he was objectively hot. Like, Pinterest thirst-board hot. But that didn’t matter. He had that specific brand of “I don’t give a shit” energy that instantly made her teeth itch.

“Are you always this friendly or am I just lucky?” she asked.

He shrugged, barely looking up. “I don’t do the whole ‘bonding’ thing.”

“Oh, I figured,” she said, kicking off her shoes and toeing them toward the rack. “It was either that or you’re just socially constipated.”

That got a twitch out of his lip. Almost a smirk.

“Bathroom’s down the hall,” he said. “Other bedroom’s at the end. Don’t touch my speakers.”

“Don’t touch my shampoo,” she shot back. “It’s imported and I will know.”

“Noted.”

She rolled her eyes and picked up her duffel, trudging toward the hallway. “This is gonna be fucking great,” she muttered.

𓏔 🪑 ✿🥛🐈

Her room was fine.

Small. Clean. Sunlight filtered in through sheer curtains. A bare mattress on a low platform bed. A single window facing the building across the street.

It smelled like dust and old wood and hope. Or maybe that last part was just wishful thinking.

She collapsed onto the mattress with a groan, staring at the ceiling like it held answers. It didn’t.

Jesus fucking Christ, she thought, one arm flung across her forehead. What kind of rom-com bullshit did I just sign up for?

“Hot, tattooed roommate” was supposed to be fantasy material—not her rebound reality.

Her stomach twisted. Not because of Jungkook. Because of Sanho.

Her chest still ached, but in a dull, hollow way now—like something removed too fast. The kind of pain you couldn’t cry about anymore because you’d already cried yourself dry.

“You’re not gonna fucking think about him again,” she told herself out loud. “We are not doing the Sad Girl Shit tonight. We’re a new bitch now. A bitch with rent.”

She got up and started unpacking with mechanical force, slamming drawers open and folding clothes like they owed her money.

𓏔 🪑 ✿🥛🐈

Later that night, she emerged from her room in pajama shorts and a hoodie, hunting for food and maybe—God forbid—some civility.

Jungkook was shirtless now, sprawled on the couch with his sketchpad on his lap, a pencil moving quickly between his fingers. Headphones in. Eyes sharp. Jaw tense.

Jesus. Okay, he really is hot. Dammit.

She cleared her throat. “Hey. Kitchen’s fair game, right?”

He didn’t answer.

She repeated louder, “I said, kitchen’s fair game?”

He finally glanced up and yanked one side of his headphones off. “Why are you yelling?”

“Because you have the fucking sound barrier on your head.”

He blinked at her. Then nodded toward the fridge. “Go ahead.”

She flipped him off under her breath and went to dig through the fridge. Not much. Leftover tteokbokki. Half a bottle of Coke. Three cans of beer. Protein shakes.

She grabbed the beer.

Popped it open.

Took a long sip.

Jungkook spoke from the couch. “So… what’s your deal?”

Y/N turned, beer in hand, leaning against the fridge like a soap opera villain. “You mean, why did a broken, emotionally wrecked woman move into a grunge boy’s apartment instead of therapy?”

He smiled. Just a little. “Something like that.”

She took another swig. “Ex-boyfriend. Cheated. Ate shit. I moved out.”

“Damn,” he said, pencil still moving. “What a guy.”

“Oh, he’s a fucking treasure. You’d love him. The human equivalent of a softboiled egg with an Instagram account.”

That made him laugh. A real one this time.

And it hit her harder than she expected.

Something about the way he laughed—low, sudden, surprised—like he hadn’t done it in a while.

Jungkook looked up again, this time properly. “Well… welcome to hell, roommate.”

She raised her can. “Cheers to shared misery.”

Their eyes locked for a beat longer than necessary.

And that’s when she knew it.

Clear as the goddamn moon outside.

This was going to get messy.

Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow.

But sometime soon—between the passive-aggressive post-its, shirtless mornings, late-night sketching, and secondhand incense—

Shit was going to burn.

And Y/N?

She wasn’t sure if she wanted to stop it.

They were opposites in every imaginable way.

And not in a quirky, “wow, opposites attract!” kind of way. No. They clashed like oil and vinegar—and not the expensive kind you drizzle over artisan bread. The cheap shit. The kind that spills, stains, and smells like regret.

Y/N liked quiet mornings. Tea, calm Spotify playlists, the soft hum of her skincare fridge, the whisper of a pen against a planner.

Jungkook made protein shakes at 7 a.m. like he was competing in Seoul’s Loudest Roommate Olympics. Blender screaming. Trap music thumping. Half-naked with only a towel slung low on his hips, just to complete the auditory and visual chaos.

She took long, hot, soul-resetting showers.

He’d drum on the bathroom door with a fucking spatula if she took more than fifteen minutes. “Some of us have biceps to build!” he once shouted. She retaliated the next day by blasting Taylor Swift’s All Too Well (10 Minute Version) on loop while showering for thirty-eight minutes.

She labeled the kitchen shelves. Clearly. Systematically. With her own goddamn money.

He laughed for five straight minutes, then moved everything around like a chaotic little gremlin on a mission from hell. She nearly cried when she found the cereal in the pan drawer.

And so, they adapted.

Barely.

They communicated mostly through notes. Passive-aggressive ones, stuck to any available surface—fridge doors, cabinets, shampoo bottles, his protein powder container.

Jungkook, stop leaving your damn socks on the dining table. That’s where I eat.

→ Y/N, stop acting like the sock police. No one died.

I have class at 8 a.m. Stop screaming into your mic past midnight.

→ I’m not screaming. I’m singing. You’re welcome for the free concert.

You drank my oat milk. Again.

→ It was expiring tomorrow. You’re welcome for preventing waste.

Eat shit.

→ Already did. Thanks to your cooking.

She sometimes fantasized about moving out. A cute studio with plants. A view of the Han. A cat named Nico. No Jungkook.

He probably fantasized about roommates who didn’t color-code the pantry and leave Post-its that accused him of crimes against almond milk.

And yet… neither of them left.

Because in between the blender wars and label-maker tyranny, there were moments.

Small. Invasive. Unwelcome.

Moments that made her heart skip or her mouth press into a line. Moments she’d think about late at night when her brain wouldn’t shut the hell up.

Like the time he left tea outside her door.

She didn’t think he’d heard her crying. She’d stuffed her face into her pillow, blanket over her head, trying to muffle the sound. But he had.

There was a knock.

Then silence.

When she opened the door, a chipped mug of warm jasmine tea was waiting on the floor. Steam curled from it like something sacred. No note. No pity. Just… kindness. Quiet, unspoken kindness.

She drank it.

Didn’t say thank you. Couldn’t.

But the next morning, for the first time in weeks, she didn’t bitch about the blender.

Then there was the lamp.

Her desk lamp had fried itself mid-study session, sputtering out like her will to live. She sighed, muttered something about everything being broken, and left it.

The next morning, it was glowing. Fixed. No fanfare. Just… working.

She stared at it like it had grown legs.

“Who the fuck does that?” she whispered to no one.

Jungkook did.

She didn’t ask. Didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

And then, the worst moment. The one she couldn’t forget.

She came home early from class one afternoon, shoes in hand, and stopped in the hallway.

Jungkook was on the couch, hunched over a sketchpad, headphones in, pencil moving in soft, precise strokes. She hadn’t seen him draw before.

What made her heart jackhammer was the figure on the page.

A faceless woman, shoulders curled inward, wearing a sweater that looked exactly like hers—the oversized beige one she wore when she felt like hiding. The details were haunting. Exact. Tender.

It wasn’t just a sketch. It was a feeling. An intimacy.

She backed away before he saw her and closed herself in her room like a coward. She lay in bed and stared at the ceiling for two straight hours, cursing the weird twist in her stomach.

What the fuck was she feeling?

𓏔 🪑 ✿🥛🐈

He never asked why she moved in suddenly.

Didn’t dig, didn’t pry. No sympathy. No therapist-mode bullshit. And that somehow made her trust him more than any guy who’d said, “If you ever need to talk…”

She never asked about his bruised knuckles or the nights he came home smelling like cigarettes and adrenaline. Never questioned the darkness under his eyes.

They lived parallel lives. Same fridge. Same bathroom. Same ceilings over their separate beds. Close enough to hear each other breathe, but far enough to pretend they didn’t care.

It was limbo.

It was maddening.

It was fucking confusing.

Some nights, when the silence got too loud and her mind started spinning—

She wondered.

What would it be like to blur the lines?

To walk out when he was humming in the kitchen, hair tied up, lip ring catching the light—and just kiss him?

Not a romantic, slow kiss.

A messy, chaotic, shut-the-fuck-up kiss. Just to see. Just to know.

Would it make the tension go away? Or would it ignite it like gasoline on a match?

But she never acted on it.

Instead, she left him another Post-it:

Stop leaving your wet towel on the bathroom floor. Again.

Underneath it, scribbled smaller:

P.S. Thanks for the tea.

That night, the towel was gone.

And a new Post-it appeared on the fridge:

P.S. You’re welcome.

The next morning, she found a protein shake waiting for her on the counter.

And a note stuck to it:

Try it. Not poison. Swear. —JK

She blinked at it, then cautiously took a sip.

It was actually… good.

“Fuck,” she muttered to herself. “Of course it is.”

That night, she left him a tiny Tupperware container of her homemade kimchi fried rice with a sticky note:

Apology for calling your blender Satan.

Next morning?

Apology accepted. But Satan has better manners.

She snorted into her coffee. She didn’t know what they were now.

Enemies? Allies? Passive-aggressive friends with incredible timing?

Whatever it was, it wasn’t simple. And it sure as hell wasn’t boring.

𓏔 🪑 ✿🥛🐈

It happened one night after a storm rolled in.

The power went out. The whole building fell silent except for the rain tapping against the windows like impatient fingers.

Y/N sat on her bed in the dark, knees drawn to her chest. She hated storms. Not because of the thunder, but because it reminded her of that night—the fight before he cheated. The storm when Sanho had promised forever and gave her betrayal instead.

She didn’t cry. But her fingers clutched the blanket like it was the only thing tethering her to the earth.

There was a soft knock.

She looked up.

Jungkook stood in the doorway, shirtless, his phone flashlight casting a faint glow across his face. Shadows clung to his jaw, his collarbones slick with humidity. His usual cocky expression had been replaced with something gentler. Something careful.

“You good?” he asked, voice low, words soft like he was trying not to scare her further.

She nodded, but didn’t speak. Her throat was too tight. Her silence said more than her voice ever could.

He hesitated, shifting on his feet like he didn’t know whether to leave or stay.

Then, without a word, he stepped inside, tossed a hoodie onto the bed, and sank down beside her—back against the wall, legs stretched out. His phone light clicked off, and for a moment, they were just silhouettes in the dark.

Silent company.

She didn’t thank him.

He didn’t need her to.

“I’m not gonna cuddle you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she muttered, trying to disguise the break in her voice with sarcasm.

He let out a low laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

But he didn’t move.

They sat there. No notes. No insults. Just quiet breaths in the dark, surrounded by the storm.

She didn’t remember falling asleep, but she did—shoulder barely touching his. Something about the solid weight of him nearby. The calm of his presence when everything else was loud.

𓏔 🪑 ✿🥛🐈

Jungkook’s POV

She fell asleep against his arm.

Her breathing evened out, lashes resting against her cheek like spider silk. Soft. Peaceful. Her face, usually sharp with wit and layered defenses, looked younger in sleep. Almost fragile.

Jungkook sat still.

He hadn’t meant to come in. But when the lights went out and he saw her bedroom door cracked open—something tugged. The kind of instinct that came from watching someone suffer in silence for weeks and pretending you didn’t care.

But he did. Fuck, he did.

He told himself it was curiosity. Or maybe roommate guilt. But sitting there now, staring at her—he knew it was more.

It wasn’t just the way she looked, though she was beautiful—undeniably so, in a way that hit you slow and then all at once. It was the weight of her silence. The grief she never named. The brokenness she carried like it was her fault.

He used to think she was dramatic.

Now, he knew she was just surviving.

He leaned his head back, watching the flashes of lightning cast shadows across the ceiling. His hand twitched beside hers. He wanted to touch her. Just once. Maybe tuck her hair behind her ear. Maybe press a palm to her back and tell her she wasn’t alone.

But he didn’t.

Because he wasn’t sure he could stop at just one touch.

And then—there was a knock.

He stiffened.

Carefully, he lifted her hand from where it had slipped onto his thigh, laying it gently on the blanket. She didn’t stir.

Another knock. Louder this time.

He moved through the apartment barefoot, muscles tense, heart inexplicably pounding.

He opened the door.

A guy stood on the other side. Tall. Soaked. Hair plastered to his forehead like he’d been running through the rain. Brown leather jacket. Shifty eyes.

“Is Y/N here?” the guy asked.

Jungkook narrowed his eyes. “Who’s asking?”

“I’m Sanho.”

The name hit him like a punch to the gut. Oh.

Of course it was him.

Jungkook leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. “She’s sleeping.”

Sanho tried to peer inside. “She lives here?”

“She does.”

“With you?”

A pause. A beat.

“Yeah,” Jungkook said slowly. “With me.”

Sanho’s eyes narrowed. “Are you her boyfriend?”

The question hung in the air like a match waiting to be struck.

Jungkook’s jaw flexed. “No.”

But something in him wished he could say yes.

Sanho scoffed. “Right. Look—can you just tell her I stopped by? I didn’t know she was… living like this.”

Jungkook’s brow rose. “Living like what?”

“I mean… with some dude she barely knows? After everything? Kind of reckless, don’t you think?”

That did it.

Jungkook stepped out, pushing the door half-shut behind him.

“You don’t get to judge her,” he said, voice low and sharp. “Not after what you did.”

Sanho rolled his eyes. “It was one mistake. People cheat all the time—”

“You touched someone else while she waited for you to come home. You made her feel crazy for suspecting what she already knew. That’s not a mistake, that’s fucking manipulation.”

Sanho’s jaw clenched. “Why do you even care?”

Jungkook stepped closer.

“Because I see the way she flinches when she hears the front door open. Because she can’t walk into a storm without shaking. Because she smiles like it hurts. And you’re the reason.”

Silence.

Sanho scoffed. “You trying to be her hero now?”

“No,” Jungkook said, eyes dark. “I’m trying not to beat the shit out of the guy who broke her.”

Sanho stared him down, but he didn’t have a comeback. Just swallowed hard and turned.

“I’ll tell her you came by,” Jungkook said, stepping back inside. “But don’t come back. She’s not yours to hurt anymore.”

He shut the door. Hard.

The echo followed him down the hall.

𓏔 🪑 ✿🥛🐈

The next morning, Y/N woke up groggy.

The storm had passed. Pale light slipped through the curtains. Her skin smelled faintly of rain and laundry detergent—and something warm, something familiar.

Jungkook’s hoodie.

She blinked and sat up slowly.

Her bedroom door was cracked. No sign of him.

She stretched, then padded into the kitchen in bare feet. Reached for her tea—and froze.

A yellow Post-it was stuck to the fridge.

His handwriting.

Your ex was here last night.

No commentary. No opinion. Just information.

Her stomach twisted. She took the note down slowly, eyes scanning it twice.

And right under it, smaller writing she hadn’t noticed before:

I told him not to come back.

Note : hey tumblr !

i’m ario and this is my first time here.hoping this little corner of the internet treats me kindly .i’m here to make memories, meet moots, and maybe even share some soft chaos.kisses, comfort, and kind energy are always welcome 💌

lots of love,

xo ario 💋

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[seokwrts]

never letting him go 🙃