solecize

[solecize]

back to friends — (m)

“𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐞 𝐠𝐨 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐛𝐞𝐝?”

word count — 21k words 

genre — smut, fluff, angst

pairing — best friend!mark lee x oc! reader 

synopsis — after years of crossing lines and pretending you’re just friends, one reckless night destroys every boundary between you and mark. you fuck like you’re starving—filthy, desperate, angry—never able to stop wanting him, no matter how much it ruins you. now, tangled in a mess of jealousy, heartbreak, and possessive sex, you both spiral through hookups, fights, and raw confessions, knowing the truth is the one thing that could end you. this is a story about the addictive, ruinous pull between best friends who can’t stop breaking each other open, and the fear that you’ll never be able to go back to the way things were.

chapter warnings — explicit language, college au, mark and readers relationship dynamic may be confusing, explicit sexual content graphic descriptions of oral, vaginal, and a lot of smut in this, rough sex, spanking, slapping, spit play, choking, ass play, begging, face sitting, and overstimulation, car sex, party bathroom sex, possessiveness/jealousy kink, rough claiming, jealousy-fueled sex, use of degrading language, humiliation play, dirty talk/degradation, mutual masturbation & exhibitionism, fingering, oral in front of mirrors, riding in laps, emotional vulnerability & comfort sex, sex after distress, crying during/after sex, aftercare, unprotected sex alcohol use, smoking, references to partying

surprise drop, happy birthday markie 🫶<3!!

[fic playlist]

It’s four in the morning when you wake to find Mark asleep at the foot of your bed, arm slung over the comforter, cheek pressed against your shin. The light leaking from the cracked bathroom door pools along the floorboards, blurring the boundary between your space and his, as if even the shadows have given up trying to separate the two of you. There’s a mug half-spilled on your nightstand, the faded print smudged from the last time he stole it for his endless late-night coffees. You can smell his cologne even now, sharp and familiar, woven into the sheets you both pretend are only yours.

You’re so used to finding pieces of him everywhere, a shoe kicked under your desk, rings abandoned in the kitchen sink, half-folded t-shirts on your chair, that sometimes it feels like you’re borrowing your own life. There’s a comfort in it, the kind that breeds laziness, or maybe just a low-level hunger you’re never supposed to feed. He never bothers with an excuse. Mark slips into your bed the way he claims a seat beside you at the movies, or stretches out on your carpet with his head in your lap, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like it’s always been his. None of you ever question it when he stays over after movie nights and you both drift off tangled together, limbs knotted and breaths slow. It’s just instinct, the way you end up side by side, sharing pillows and warmth, the quiet thrum of his heart pressed into your spine. There’s never a conversation, never a line drawn, never a need for reason, just the ease of knowing where he fits, how your bodies slot together, how you both sleep best when it’s like this, close and careless and unconcerned with how it looks to anyone else.

The lines between you and Mark have always been blurred, dragged out and rubbed raw by every touch that lingers too long, every look that burns a little too openly. There’s nothing innocent about the way his hands find your hips at parties, yanking you in to shut you up with his mouth against yours, tongue deep and desperate while the room spins and your friends just laugh, pretending they haven’t noticed you pressed up against a wall, his fingers tangled in your hair. You shower together when you’re hungover and lazy, but it’s never just about saving time, he stands behind you, soap slick on your skin, rinsing shampoo from your hair with a mouthful of filthy jokes, his hands sliding down your body until you’re shivering, thighs slick and parted under the spray, knowing he’ll only stop if you say so. 

There are nights sprawled out half-naked on your bedroom floor, sharing half a bottle of vodka and a pack of cigarettes, his head in your lap as you dare each other into confessions that always spiral into touch: his fingers stroking your stomach, your hand curled around the waistband of his boxers, your breaths thick and uneven, hearts racing so hard you can hear them in your ears. Everyone assumes you’re fucking and you do fuck, in every way that counts except the last. You’ve never corrected anyone, never had the nerve to call it what it is. What would you even say? That he’s your best friend? That you want him in ways that ruin you, that you’d let him do anything if he only asked? That sometimes, when he leans in close and your lips brush, the whole world shrinks to the heat and hunger trembling in that half-inch between you, and you want to tear him open and swallow whatever’s left?

You fuck him more often than you’d ever admit, even to yourself. It happens on nights when you’re both pissed off from shitty dates or ghosted by people you barely cared about, nights you storm in with ruined mascara, rip off your clothes, and climb straight onto his cock while he’s half-asleep on the couch, riding him until you both forget your own names. It’s casual, matter-of-fact, so unashamed you could laugh; there’s no pretending at innocence, not after the hundredth time he’s bent you over the kitchen counter at two in the morning, tongue in your cunt, fingers in your mouth, holding you open so you can watch yourself fall apart in the black window glass. He’ll fuck you with his rings on, thick fingers pressing bruises into your thighs, palm around your throat while you whimper his name. Sometimes you tie him up with your own scarves and make him beg, make him writhe, make him lose all that easy confidence until he’s swearing and panting for you, so hard he can’t think. 

Other nights he’ll pull your hair, spit in your mouth, fuck you so slow you go mad, pin your wrists over your head and keep you there until you’re crying, cock-drunk and shuddering, dripping all over his sheets. You both see other people, sometimes they call while he’s still inside you, and you answer on speaker just to hear him curse under his breath, teeth gritted as you squeeze him tighter. Sex is the language you both speak best, the only place you let yourselves be honest: no shame, no shyness, just bodies wrecked together, craving and needed and real. You never talk about what it means. You never call it love. But there’s a logic to it, a ritual, whenever you’re both frayed and desperate and lonely, it’s Mark you crawl to, Mark who splits you open, Mark who leaves you marked up and grinning, both of you spent and half-laughing in the aftermath, pretending it’s just how friends take care of each other. Sometimes you think your life together is one long, unsent message. Half-truths and borrowed comforts, spun out in the shape of routine, his name on your takeout order, your number as his emergency contact, a toothbrush in every drawer. You wonder if this is how it’ll always be: two bodies in orbit, never colliding, always trembling on the verge of disaster. Still, every morning he’s there, curled into the shape of something almost tender, and you let yourself believe you’re not alone. It’s easier that way. You both have your ways of pretending.

You haven’t spoken in days, just shouting, slamming doors, fucking each other stupid whenever the fight gets too hot to handle, the kind of angry sex that leaves you shaking after, mascara smeared down your cheeks, hickeys blooming across your collarbone where your dress won’t cover. Right now you’re in Mark’s car, the hem of your dress hitched up over your hips, slick already painting the inside of your thighs as he buries his face between your legs, tongue working circles around your clit, jaw flexing with every desperate whimper you give him. The car is bouncing with every sharp thrust of his fingers, back seat fogging up, streetlights flickering across the sheer straps of your dress, a strappy, skin-tight slip in cherry red, cut so high it barely covers your ass when you climb out, tits pushed up and mouth still painted, heels kicked off in the footwell. He drags you forward by the waist, hands rough and unrepentant, as if he’s trying to fuck the thought of Jay right out of you, eating you like he’s starving. You’re gasping, shoving at his hair, telling him, “Don’t—Mark, be soft, I can’t go in there covered in your cum—” but he just groans, tongue flicking, fingers curling, the taste of your skin making him growl. 

The argument lingers between you, thick as sweat, Mark’s voice from earlier echoing in your head, snarling about Jay, about how he treats girls like shit, how he’s seen Jay ghost girls after fucking them at some shitty afterparty, how he’s rude, uses girls for ego, brags about every fuck. You spat it back, called Mark jealous, accused him of never letting you make your own choices, and he’d just stared at you, fists clenched, jaw tight, eyes dark and wild. “Maybe I am jealous,” he’d bitten out, “but I’m not gonna let you get wrecked by some dickhead who doesn’t know how to treat you.” Every time you argue like this, it ends with you on your back, it doesn't matter if it’s your bed, his car, or the hallway floor, Mark always needing to stake his claim, to leave his spit and cum where no one else can touch. Right now, as his mouth pushes you higher, you can’t think straight, whining for him to slow down, begging him to be gentle so you don’t walk into that restaurant with Jay’s name on your lips and Mark’s fingerprints all over your thighs. You look wrecked, hair tumbling wild around your face, lips swollen and parted, dress riding up so high you’re one deep breath from flashing half the parking lot, eyes glazed, skin flushed with want. Mark glances up at you, mouth glistening, smirks, and murmurs, “You want me to be soft? That’s not how you argued for it, princess.”

He’s brutal tonight, knuckles pressing into the slick heat of your thighs, tongue splitting you open with single-minded hunger, eyes locked on yours like he’s daring you to look away. You’re sprawled in the backseat, legs thrown over his shoulders, that tiny red dress bunched at your waist and the straps falling off your arms. He palms your hips hard enough to bruise, dragging you down the leather seat until your ass squeaks against it and you’re arching into his face, heels digging into his back. His breath is hot, tongue working relentless circles over your clit, sometimes slow, just the tip flicking, then deep and savage, mouthing at you like he wants to swallow every sound you make. Every time you whine, he growls low, the vibration making your thighs tremble. His hair is a mess where you’ve grabbed at it, yanking him closer, grinding against his mouth in frustration when he doesn’t give you what you want fast enough. The windows are fogged and dripping with condensation, every movement rocking the car, headlights sliding across your skin like a silent audience.

You’re panting, trying to claw your composure back, but the argument’s still clawing through your veins, thick and mean. Mark’s tongue is relentless, lips slick and jaw aching, but when you grind down harder and drag that taunt into the charged, cramped air, “Wonder if Jay would do it like this,”—he doesn’t let you finish. Your hips rock against his face, every muscle in his shoulders flexing under your thighs, but his eyes snap up to yours, black and burning, and he actually growls. The sound is feral, furious, vibrating straight through your cunt, teeth gritted as he pulls his mouth away just enough to rasp.

“Shut the fuck up about Jay.” His breath is hot against your skin, eyes still locked on yours, possessive and wild. “He wouldn’t even know where to start.” Then he dives back in, tongue punishing, sucking your clit so hard your vision blurs, fingers pressing bruises into your hips as if he’s daring you to even think about anyone else. Every flick and drag of his mouth now is a threat, a promise, all of it—watch me, remember this, you’re fucking mine.

Mark’s grip on your thighs tightens, nails biting in, and he sucks your clit hard, just to shut you up. You gasp, almost sob, your back arching off the seat. “Fuck—Mark, he’d probably cum in his pants just seeing me like this, wouldn’t he?” You say it just to see his jaw tense, just to watch the darkness bloom in his eyes as he licks up your slit, slow and punishing, then buries his face deeper, groaning into you as if he can drown out every other man’s name with the sound of you falling apart on his tongue. 

You feel him grin, lips curled around your cunt, breath hot and furious. “Keep talking,” he rasps between licks, “see where it gets you.”

Your hands slip from his hair to his shoulders, nails scraping red lines down his back as his tongue fucks into you harder, relentless, filthy, he’s eating you out like it’s a fight he has to win, mouth slick and greedy, lips swollen and wet as he laps you up. You whimper, trying to twist away, but he just pins you down, forearm heavy across your stomach, fingers digging into your thigh so you can’t escape, forcing you to feel every brutal, beautiful drag of his mouth. You curse him, moan for him, tell him he’s being rough, that he’s going to ruin your dress, but you can’t stop rocking against his tongue, riding his face, cunt throbbing with every flick and press. “Yeah, ruin it,” he mutters, mouth hot and sticky against you, “let him see exactly who fucked you up.” The car smells like sweat and sex and leather, your mascara running, eyes glazed and lips bitten raw, legs trembling every time he sucks your clit between his teeth, tongue flicking so fast your vision whites out.

You start to break, hips shaking, chest heaving, voice cracking as you try to warn him you’re close, but he only doubles down, tongue and fingers working you open until you’re crying, sobbing his name, begging for him to slow down, to let you breathe. He doesn’t stop. His hands slip up your waist, pinning you in place, and he keeps licking, keeps sucking, chasing your orgasm like he needs to own it, to brand you from the inside out. You choke out his name, thighs squeezing his head, the whole car rocking with the force of your release, body wrung out and spent, pussy clenching around nothing as he laps up every drop, groaning like he’s drunk on you. Your hands fist in his hair, tears streaking down your cheeks, breath stuttering as you finally go limp, Mark’s mouth still hot and wet on your cunt, his voice nothing but a gravel whisper, “let him fucking wait, you’re mine first, always mine.”

Your body’s still shuddering, cunt still pulsing around nothing, when your phone buzzes with a message, telling you that he’s inside and waiting for you. You’re yanked back into the glare of the real world, heat flashing across your face as you gasp and push at Mark’s head. “Stop, Mark—fuck, he’s here,” you hiss, voice raw and breathless, hips jerking when he gives your clit one last, stubborn, filthy lick before finally letting you go. You’re left a mess: thighs sticky, dress rumpled up around your waist, hair wild from where he gripped it. You reach for the visor, yanking it down and frantically trying to tame your hair, fingers trembling as you swipe at your mascara, rub your mouth raw with your thumb until the smeared lipstick is half fixed. Mark just sits back in the seat, lips swollen and chin shining with you, watching with that unreadable look, chest still heaving, hands clenched tight on his knees as you smooth your dress back down over your thighs, cover up the marks he left in every place you’ll never forget.

You shoot him a look, equal parts exasperation and wrecked, cheeks burning as you stuff your heels back on, heart pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to break free. “Jay’s inside,” you mumble, barely trusting your voice not to shake. He just sighs, low and frustrated, the anger and want still burning underneath, too much left unsaid between you. For a second you think he might start another argument, might grab your wrist and pull you back in for more, but instead he just leans across the console, catches your chin, and presses the softest, most fucked-up kiss to your forehead. It’s the kind of touch that undoes you, gentle, dizzying, painfully close to love. “I’m only a call away,” he murmurs, voice barely holding together. You nod, swallowing hard, lips parted but no words coming, and the moment hangs there, long, slow, brutal, like you’re both waiting for something to give.

You force a laugh, breathless, still trembling as you open the car door and step out, your knees unsteady, dress clinging to your skin where he left you marked. “Bye, Mark,” you whisper, voice tiny, and you don’t look back as you walk toward the restaurant, clutching your phone like a lifeline, pulse still fluttering from his mouth. You can feel his eyes on you the whole way, your body still humming with him, every step echoing the ache of leaving him in that car, unfinished. Only when you’re finally inside, safe past the glass doors and lost in the low golden lights, do you dare to glance back, Mark’s car still parked there, headlights low, engine running. He’s watching, always watching, jaw tight, and only when you disappear from sight does he finally shake his head and pull away, leaving you there with every nerve raw and every line between you just that much more impossible to untangle.

The restaurant is loud and bright, all glass and chatter and laughter pressing in from every side, but none of it distracts you from the phantom ache still humming between your thighs, Mark’s touch lingering on your skin like a bruise that won’t fade. You try to focus on Jay, on the way he leans across the table with that easy, practiced confidence, but it’s all surface: compliments that sound like lines, eyes that never quite meet yours unless he’s checking out your cleavage, every conversation turning back to sex no matter how you try to steer it elsewhere. You laugh when you’re supposed to, sip your drink, play the game, but Mark’s words circle in your head—he doesn’t care about you, he just wants to get off, he’ll use you up and leave you feeling cheap—and for the first time, you start to wonder if he’s right.

Jay’s hand finds your knee under the table, fingers inching up your thigh with a confidence that feels wrong, too familiar, nothing like the heat and safety you’re used to. He whispers something in your ear about how good you look, how he couldn’t stop thinking about you all day, but there’s no warmth behind it, no care, just that greedy undertone that makes your stomach twist. You force yourself to flirt back, to play along, letting his hand go higher, laughing at jokes that don’t land, but you’re thinking about Mark, the taste of him, the burn in his eyes when you teased him, the way he made you feel like you were the only thing that mattered in the world. You wonder if Jay could ever make you feel like that. The answer settles low in your chest, heavy and cold.

Jay’s conversation grows sloppier as the night drags on, eyes glazing with every drink, stories getting more explicit, leaning into crude innuendos and little comments about what he wants to do to you. There’s no curiosity about your life, your dreams, your day, just hungry glances at your mouth, at your thighs, hands always wandering, lips always parted. You nod, smile, let him take your hand, but every touch feels wrong, like you’re playing at someone else’s fantasy, and Mark’s warning rings louder in your ears: guys like that don’t know how to take care of a girl like you. For a second, you think about texting Mark, about running back to his car and letting him take you home, but you swallow it down and keep smiling, keep pretending. It’s not until Jay licks his thumb and tries to wipe a streak of mascara from your cheek—clumsy and a little too rough, breath hot and sour from his last drink—that the ick crawls up your spine. You laugh it off, brushing his hand away, blaming it on too many cocktails. He leans in close, lips brushing your ear, and says, “Do you wanna go back to mine?” The question is blunt, expectation hanging heavy in the air. You force another bright smile, nodding, feeling the lie burn your tongue, and stand to follow him out, heart pounding, Mark’s shadow still clinging to your skin as you step into the night.

You know you’ve made a mistake as soon as Jay’s door clicks shut behind you. The apartment is colder than you expected, lights low, the air thick with last night’s booze and the stale, burnt edge of cheap weed. There’s a mess of trainers in the hallway, empty shot glasses on every windowsill, and the soundtrack of some club remix leaking from a speaker you can’t see. Jay doesn’t ask if you want a drink, doesn’t even bother making small talk, just hooks his fingers into the crook of your elbow and leads you straight down the hall, eyes already scanning your body like he’s checking off a list. His room’s the same: sheets tangled, two condoms already torn open on the nightstand, the air sharp with sweat and something sweet and sour, a girl’s bra slung over his desk chair like a souvenir.

Jay’s notorious, everyone knows it. His crew, Sunghoon and Heeseung and Jake, haunt campus bars and afterparties, all swagger and loud voices, a constant echo of hands on waists and crude bets. Mark and his lot, Jeno, Jaemin, Donghyuck, have never tried to blend, never tried to fake nice. Mark calls Jay’s friends walking red flags, says they don’t know the meaning of respect, and it’s easy to see why. Where Mark is careless with his heart but careful with your body, Jay’s got nothing but appetite—he doesn’t ask, doesn’t check, just takes. You can feel the difference in every touch, every glance, the way Mark would always pause to search your eyes, to brush your hair off your cheek, but Jay just grins, eyes heavy-lidded, hands already traveling up the slit of your dress as you fall back onto his bed. Jay and his group of friends afd the kind of boys who wear their conquests like a joke, whose group chats are full of body counts and grainy photos. Mark and his friends can’t stand them, never could. Mark talks shit about them in every room, calls them out for being trash, and even though he’s got a reputation of his own, you know how different he really is. Mark might fuck around, but he always asks, always cares, always checks if you’re okay before he goes any further. Jay’s just the opposite, entitlement, assumption, no patience for the word no.

It starts hot, at least in theory, his mouth hungry on yours, teeth and tongue, your dress shoved down your arms, tits spilling out while he grinds against your bare thigh, rutting like he’s been hard for hours. His fingers are rough, pinching your nipple, one hand sliding straight down to your cunt, pushing your panties aside without a word. You kiss him back, roll your hips into his palm, try to conjure up some version of wanting, but the smell of him and the pushy scrape of his knuckles just leaves you colder. Still, you let him maneuver you, let him hitch your leg up higher, cock slapping heavy against your cunt as he grinds in, but when he tries to shove inside you, barely any warning, no condom, no preamble, something in you freezes. You press a palm to his chest, breath ragged. “Just—wait,” you manage, and for a moment he just stares, blank and annoyed, as if you’re a glitch in his program.

His lip curls. “Wait? For what, princess? What do you think we’re here for?” His hand stays tight on your thigh, fingers digging in, but there’s no warmth, no coaxing, just expectation. “You think I dragged you out here for a chat? You know who you are, right? I’ve seen the way you look at Mark, shit, I’ve heard the stories. Everyone has. You ride him in the kitchen, suck him off in the locker room. Sunghoon said he walked in on you with his cock down your throat after a game, Jake said you let Mark fuck you in the shower after finals. Don’t pretend you’re shy now. My boys said not to bother with you, said you’re just his slut, but if he keeps coming back for more when he’s got every girl on campus lined up, must be a tight little pussy. You’re fit, I’ll give you that. Great tits, that mouth, that body—wouldn’t mind a turn. Now stop wasting my time and get on all fours.” His voice turns cruel, mouth close to your ear. “Let’s see if you’re as good as they say. Get on your knees. Or do you only do that for him?”

His words gut you, filthy, degrading, each syllable scraping something raw. For a second, you just stare, dress halfway down your hips, chest bare, breath stuck in your throat. Then the shame curdles to rage. You shove him hard, voice sharp and shaking. “Go fuck yourself,” you spit, scrambling off the bed, yanking your dress up over your chest, fumbling for your bag with shaking hands. 

Jay laughs, cold and bored, already rolling over and grabbing his phone, muttering, “Fucking tease, you’re all the same,” as you stumble barefoot down his hallway. The door slams behind you, breath burning, heart racing, humiliation prickling over your skin. You don’t even think, just punch Mark’s name into your phone with trembling fingers, fighting tears as you hurry out into the cold, the need to hear his voice outweighing every other instinct.

Mark picks up on the first ring. His voice is gentle, low, softer than you’ve heard it in days, all the anger and tension stripped away in an instant. “Hey, I’ve got you, where are you?” he murmurs, like it’s a secret, like it’s just for you. You can’t even get the words out, just shaking and gasping, tears spilling down your cheeks, every breath ragged and broken. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay,” he soothes, so much warmth in his tone you can feel it curl around you through the line. “Don’t talk, just stay there. I’ll be there in a few minutes. I already know where you are.” You hear the jingle of his keys, the sound of his door slamming, the familiar rush of him moving, every detail so achingly familiar, every detail safety itself. He never makes you say it, never asks for an explanation, never tells you what you should’ve done differently. He just moves.

Within minutes, headlights cut through the dark, his car pulling up wild, tires spinning. The passenger door’s thrown open before you can even wipe your cheeks, Mark’s already out, moving fast, finding you half-crumpled on the curb, he pulls off his jacket, shoving your arms through the sleeves before you can think to refuse. “Come here,” he says, voice thick, hands gentle, steady as he pulls you against his chest. You bury your face in his shoulder, sobbing, still trembling so hard your knees knock together, his warmth the only anchor in the spinning night. He holds you there, big hands running slowly, grounding circles up and down your back, pressing kisses into your hair, your forehead, the shell of your ear. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, voice low and trembling at your ear, breath hot where it fans your cheek, “I’ve got you, baby. Nobody touches you but me, yeah? You’re safe—only with me. Always.” The words are a secret, a promise, spoken with a hunger that shakes you, his arms winding tighter around your waist like he could fuse you to his chest. There’s a catch in his throat, something raw and desperate, as if he’d tear the world apart just to keep you right here, shivering in his jacket, head buried under his chin. You hear the way he clings to every syllable, turning your safety into a vow he’ll never break, no matter what.

He helps you into the car, steady hands guiding you by the waist, fingers slow, gentle, trembling just a little when they brush the bare skin above your hip. He buckles your seatbelt, the metal clicks loud in the silence, and when he leans in, his thumb strokes your jaw with a tenderness that makes your eyes sting all over again. His lips brush your forehead, warm, lingering, pressed a little too long, like he can’t bring himself to let go. He doesn’t move to his side. For a moment, he’s still, the cabin thick with the scent of him, the windows steaming up, engine humming low beneath you both. You watch as his jaw tightens, eyes burning, fists clenched so hard his knuckles pale. He glances back at Jay’s apartment door, a muscle jumping in his cheek, the promise of violence simmering just beneath his calm.

You groan, soft and hoarse, head falling back against the seat, every part of you already knowing—knowing—what he’s thinking. “Mark, not now,” you whisper, half pleading, too exhausted and raw to argue but too fragile to watch him break himself over this. 

He doesn’t take his eyes off the door, doesn’t look at you, just squeezes your knee in his palm, thumb rubbing slow circles, grounding you. “Don’t worry,” he says, voice low, sweet but with a thread of steel you feel all the way in your bones. “I’ll take care of it.” It’s soft, but it’s a promise, and you can taste the fury in every word, like the act of hurting you has become something personal to him, a trespass that needs retribution.

Before you can protest, he’s gone, the door swinging open, closing behind him with a weight that says don’t follow. You watch him cross the pavement, each step heavier, more certain, his shoulders squared and head high. There’s a brutality to his focus, the set of his mouth, the way he raises his fist to the door and knocks, once, twice, hard enough to echo through the whole shitty house. The wait is barely a breath. Jay opens, half-dressed, eyes already rolling as he catches sight of Mark standing there, every inch of him radiating danger. “The fuck do you want?” Jay slurs, gaze flicking from Mark to where you’re curled in the car, nothing in his expression but contempt. “Come to pick up your little bitch? She was crying before she even got her panties off. Guess she only gets loud for you, huh? Sloppy seconds, Lee.”

Mark doesn’t hesitate. He grabs Jay by the collar, yanking him forward, slamming him into the doorframe. His fist meets Jay’s jaw, a brutal, ugly sound, and you see the shock in Jay’s face as Mark doesn’t let go, doesn’t back down, rage boiling over in every blow. “Don’t ever talk about her. Don’t even fucking think about her,” Mark snarls, voice ragged, every word punctuated by another hit. 

Jay spits blood, muttering curses, still trying to wound. “You’re both pathetic, does she let anyone fuck her if you’re not around. Do you want her? Go ahead, man, she’s a fucking mess.” 

Mark’s grip only tightens, knuckles bone-white, eyes burning holes through Jay’s skull. “I know exactly what you tried. I don’t need her to tell me—you’re done. Don’t look at her, don’t even breathe her name, or I’ll fucking end you.” The words land low, venomous, and he slams Jay back into the doorframe with a final shove that leaves Jay slumped, head lolling, split lip and swelling jaw already blossoming purple. Mark doesn’t give him another glance, just wipes his bloody knuckles on his jeans and stalks away, steps echoing off cracked pavement. Through the blur of your tears you catch a crooked smile tugging at your lips, sick with adrenaline and relief, crying and shaking but impossibly grateful that it’s always him. This isn’t the first time Mark’s thrown a punch for you, and it won’t be the last; you’ve lost count of the times he’s come back to you with bloody knuckles and bruised pride, just to make sure you’re safe, just to remind you that nobody gets to hurt you.

When he slides back into the driver’s seat, the anger still crackling through him, your chest hiccups with a sob, breath catching when he glances over at you—wild, messy, but his entire expression melting into that rare, unguarded tenderness that belongs only to you. He reaches for your hand and laces his fingers through yours, squeezing so tight you nearly gasp, but it’s the safest feeling in the world. “You good?” he murmurs, voice velvet-soft, thumb stroking slowly over your knuckles, and when you nod, tears streaking your cheeks, he just smiles—a real, aching smile that makes something inside you unclench. He starts the engine, one hand never leaving yours, and for the whole ride home, the anger drains out of him, replaced by this slow-burning intimacy, like the world’s shrunk to just the warmth of his palm and your breaths getting steadier by the second.

You’re still sniffling, cheeks wet, but every mile feels easier when he turns up your favorite song and quietly hums along, the notes vibrating through the space between you. He cracks dumb jokes under his breath, says your hair looks like a crime scene, and when you let out a watery laugh, he grins like it’s his life’s mission to make you smile. At a red light, he pulls your hand into his lap, turns his head, and kisses the inside of your wrist so softly it makes you whimper, heat pooling low in your stomach. “You were right about him, Mark,” you whisper, voice small, gratitude and exhaustion tangled together. He just hums, squeezing your hand again, his eyes all gentle pride and need. “You can say ‘I told you so,’ if you want,” you sigh, already melting into the sweetness of him.

Mark just leans closer, his voice a velvet drag in your ear, “Why would I waste time saying ‘I told you so’ when I’d rather show you how good you’ve got it right here?” His breath is warm, his words electric, and the way you gasp, shivering, makes him smile even wider because there’s nothing casual in the way he loves you, nothing in the world that could ever make you feel safer than his hands and that hungry, gentle devotion shining in his eyes.

The apartment feels softer in the dark, the hush only broken by the distant hum of the fridge and the weight of Mark’s footsteps beside you. He keeps your heels in his hand, swinging them absently, the other arm wrapped steady around your waist as you stumble inside. Your face is sticky with tears, mascara smudged to your jaw, every part of you heavy and tender, but Mark never lets you walk alone, not even for a step. He toes the door shut behind you and hangs your bag on the hook, then gently tugs the ruined shoes from your hand, leaving them by the entry like it’s a ritual he’s done a thousand times. You’re shivering, arms crossed, but he just moves closer, fingers brushing your cheek, knuckles soft as he tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Let’s get you out of this, yeah?” he murmurs, voice low and slow, every syllable dragging comfort through your bones.

He helps you undress, careful and patient, unzips your dress, eases it down your arms, unhooks your bra with deft hands, never rushing, never taking more than you offer. He keeps his eyes on your face, checking for every flinch, every wince, and when you’re left in nothing but his old hoodie, he pulls you into the bathroom and starts the shower, testing the water temperature with his wrist like he always does for you. The steam blooms around you both, warm and safe, and you let him guide you under the spray. Mark washes you slow, lathering your hair, massaging your scalp, fingers tracing the lines of your shoulders and back. His touch is reverent, never sexual, just the steady comfort of someone who’s seen you at your ugliest and loves you anyway. He lets you lean on his chest as he rinses the soap away, lips pressed to your temple, his hands soothing every place Jay’s gaze made you feel small. “You’re here, with me. That’s all that matters,” he whispers, over and over, and for a few long minutes, it’s almost enough to believe him.

When you’re clean, he wraps you in a towel and dries your hair with the old t-shirt he knows is your favorite. He kneels to pull warm socks onto your feet, his thumb lingering at your ankle, eyes never leaving yours. You both slip into bed, tangled together under the covers, the world shrinking to the soft cotton and the thump of his heartbeat pressed into your spine. Mark’s arms fold around you, one hand smoothing over your ribs, the other playing lazy patterns on your thigh. You talk about everything and nothing, favorite movies, the time he made you pancakes and burned every single one, how much you hated Jay’s cologne, how you wish things could be simple. His voice is always soft, never pushing, just inviting you to spill whatever needs to be let out. “You’re allowed to be mad. You’re allowed to be sad,” he says, “but you don’t have to do it alone.”

It’s only when the apartment is dark, Mark’s breathing steady at your back, that it all catches up to you, the way Jay looked at you, the way his words scraped through your skin, every sick stare and cruel sneer. The ache bursts out in great, shuddering sobs, your body curling tight, knees to your chest, shoulders shaking. Mark doesn’t say anything, just pulls you closer, sliding his arms around your waist, pressing his lips to the wet salt of your hair, holding you so close you almost believe nothing bad could ever touch you again. You let it all out, safe in the dark, safe in his arms, the ugliness of the world pressed back by the quiet, dogged strength of his love.

Mark shifts beside you, rolling his body over yours with the same slow, careful weight he’s used a hundred times before, but tonight every movement is reverent, almost aching. He nudges your knees apart, sliding between your thighs, the mattress dipping under his warmth, and you blink up at him through wet lashes. His palm cups your cheek, thumb gentle as it wipes away each fresh tear, tracing the curve of your jaw, lips brushing over the lines his own fingers made. His eyes are so open, so impossibly soft, brown glass catching every glimmer of you, searching your face for pain, for permission. “Look at me, baby,” he whispers, voice thick with devotion, “just let me take care of you, yeah? Nothing else matters right now. Just you and me.”

You reach for him, need cracking open and spilling between your bodies. Your hands clutch at the back of his neck, sliding into his hair, tugging him down until your mouths crash together, messy, gasping, hungry, all teeth and tongue and bruised want. Your lips part wide, tongue stroking deep into his mouth, swallowing the groan he lets out as you grind your hips up, the heat of him already heavy against your thigh. His hands bracket your face, fingertips tracing your temples, then trailing down to your throat, mapping every inch of you like he needs to relearn your body just to be sure you’re real and safe and his. You moan into him, arching up so your tits press flush to his chest, your cunt already slick and desperate, rubbing against the bulge in his boxers.

He groans, rough and low, hips rocking into yours, breath hot and broken against your mouth as his hands slide down, thumbs tracing the wet salt off your cheeks, curling under your jaw to tip your face up, his kiss deepening, claiming. You bite at his lip, grinning through the mess, and he growls, biting you back, his tongue tangling with yours, the kiss all hunger and healing and every secret you’ve never had the courage to say. You’re grinding up into him now, cunt slicking his thigh, moaning his name, dragging his hand down to cup your ass, desperate for him to fill you, fuck you, remind you that you’re his. “Let me make it better, baby,” he pants, voice shredded with want, hips pushing down until you can feel every hard inch of him pressed between your legs. “Let me make you forget all of it—just us, just this, just you.” You whimper, lips swollen, thighs falling open wider, and he groans again, mouth slanting over yours as he kisses you deeper, fucking you with his tongue, grinding his cock against your soaked pussy until neither of you can tell where comfort ends and hunger begins.

Your lips break from his, breath ragged, head pressed back into the pillow as you look up at him through blurred lashes, the ache spilling from your mouth before you can even think to stop it. “I feel fucking disgusting, Mark,” you whisper, voice raw and shaking, tears hot again as your hands fist in the sheets beneath you. “He looked at me like I was nothing. Like I was just, just a hole to use, something to brag about. I knew he was a dick, I knew it, but I just—I wanted to feel good for once, to feel wanted, and now I just—” Your voice cracks, sob catching on the edge of his name. “I feel stupid. I feel like I let him do it. Like I should’ve known better. Like everyone probably thinks I’m easy, or dirty, or pathetic, and I can’t get the way he talked about me out of my head.”

Your chest heaves, the pain relentless, every word dragging old wounds to the surface. “I’m so tired, Mark. I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t get to me, tired of letting people touch me like I don’t matter. I know I act tough but it hurts, it really fucking hurts, and I keep thinking maybe I deserve it, maybe if I was different, if I was stronger, if I wasn’t such a mess—” Your hands tremble as you clutch his wrist, needing the warmth of his skin, the certainty of his grip. “I hate how much it gets to me. I hate that he made me feel small. I hate that I let him get close at all. I just—I don’t want to be anyone’s dirty secret. I want someone to look at me like I’m worth something. I want someone to want me, all of me, even when I’m like this, even when I’m crying and ugly and ruined inside.” You choke on a sob, eyes searching for him, voice breaking on every syllable. “He kept saying things about us, about you—like I was just your slut, like I let you do anything. Like I’m just easy for you. And it’s not true, it’s never been true, I only ever wanted you to want me. I wanted to feel safe with you, wanted to matter to you. I just—I feel so empty. I’m so tired of letting people use me. I just want to feel something good that doesn’t turn ugly in the morning.”

Mark lowers his head, forehead pressing to yours, his breath shaky against your cheek as his hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing away the tears you can’t stop shedding. For a long moment he’s silent, jaw working, the air thick with all the things he’s never let himself say, everything raw and trembling behind his eyes. “I hate the way you talk about yourself,” he murmurs, voice so gentle it nearly breaks you, every word quivering with something desperate and unsaid. “You’re not dirty. You’re not easy. You’re the best thing I’ve ever touched. The only thing that ever felt fucking right.” His hands tighten, grounding you, his lips ghosting over your eyelids, your cheeks, every place that hurts. “You’re worth everything. You always have been. I wish you could see yourself the way I do—fucking hell, I wish I could make you believe it.”

He exhales, heavy, and you feel him fighting himself, holding so much back, voice low and ragged. “I know I act like I don’t care. I know I fuck around, and I say shit I don’t mean, and I let people think you’re just another girl in my bed. But you’re not. You never have been.” He pulls back just enough to look you dead in the eyes, every inch of him open, hurting. “You’re the only thing that scares me. You’re the only one who could ever fuck me up like this. I’d do anything to make you feel safe, to make you feel good. I’d burn the whole fucking world down for you, I swear. I just—” His voice cracks, softer than you’ve ever heard. “I’m fucked up too, you know? I want you so bad it hurts, and I’m so scared I’ll ruin you. But I never, ever want to see you hurt like this again. Not from him. Not from anyone. Not even me.”

You climb onto him, your knees bracketing his hips, every inch of your skin burning, your cheeks still streaked with tears. Mark is sprawled beneath you, hair wild against the pillow, chest rising and falling in harsh waves as you crawl over him, one trembling hand wrapping around the back of his neck. Your lips crash into his, tongues tangling, hungry, animal, slick—nothing soft about it. You grind your hips down, rolling your soaked pussy over his cock through thin cotton, the friction brutal and perfect, your clit catching on the ridge of his head until you’re whimpering, eyes fluttering, slick smearing all over him. The room fills with the wet slide of your cunt dragging over his cock, your sobs turning to gasps, every movement messy and raw.

You moan against his mouth, so desperate it’s embarrassing, “Need you to fuck me, Mark—need it, need you inside me, please—” The way your voice cracks on please has him growling, hands flying to your ass, squeezing hard, dragging you down over him until you can feel every twitch and throb through his boxers. 

He’s still trying to slow you down, hands gentle even when you don’t want gentle, whispering, “Hey, baby, you’re still crying—fuck, slow down, let me—” 

But you shake your head, breathless, hips rutting down, grinding your clit on the head of his cock, smearing slick through the fabric. “No, Mark, just—just let me, I want it, want you, want you to make me feel good, want to feel you stretch me, wanna come for you, wanna show you you’re the only one, always you—”

He lets out a broken laugh, one hand smoothing up your spine to fist in your hair, dragging you down for another kiss, tongue fucking into your mouth as his hips buck up into you, cock straining, leaking for you. “God, look at you, can’t get enough, can you? My fucking girl, riding me like you’re starved.” You whimper, biting at his lip, pressing your tits to his chest, nails raking down his sides as you finally tug his boxers down, your fist wrapping around the length of him, guiding him to your entrance. The head of his cock nudges your slit, and you’re both shaking, you from need, him from holding back. “You know I love you, right?” he pants, voice hoarse, eyes wild but clear. “I tell you every day, but right now, fuck, I need you to hear it—I love you, I love you, I love you—always have, always will. You’re mine.”

It isn’t a shock, not really, a thousand ‘I love you’s’ have already hung between you and Mark, braided through every part of your lives like a shared secret language. You say it when you’re laughing over burnt toast in the kitchen, when you steal each other’s fries, when you collapse together after an exam, when you find his socks in your laundry or your hairbands on his wrist. You say it every night, almost on autopilot, a soft “love you, idiot” as you roll over, or a muttered “love you too” when one of you leaves for class, or a quick “I love you more” lobbed across the hall like a dare. It’s part of the fabric of you, familiar and safe, a truth you both wear without thinking.

But this, this is different. There’s nothing casual or careless in the way he says it now, voice breaking, fingers digging into your hips as you ride him, sweat and salt and tears glimmering on your skin. There’s no armor, no routine, just the raw ache of it, the way your bodies slot together and all those words finally mean what they’re supposed to. It’s not a crazy thing to say “I love you” here because you both already know; it’s always been true. But when you’re desperate for him, bouncing in his lap, sobbing into his mouth, begging him to claim you with every thrust, it lands differently, stripped of every offhand joke and every safety net. You hear it in the way he gasps your name, in how his hands shake, in how you both cling tighter, desperate to make the words real in a way they’ve never been before. It’s the first time you’ve said it and needed it to hurt, to heal, to fill every crack left by the world outside this bed. Here, I love you isn’t a throwaway or a punchline; it’s a demand, a prayer, a promise you both bleed for and believe. Here, it sounds like home.

You sink down on him, body opening up inch by inch, the stretch perfect, obscene, your cunt swallowing him until you’re stuffed full, skin to skin, dizzy from the heat and fullness. You start to move, grinding down slow and deep, clenching around him, making filthy sounds in your throat as you ride him, hips snapping, fucking yourself stupid on his cock. Every thrust is a confession, every moan a worship, your mouth hungry on his throat, jaw, lips, biting and sucking, leaving him marked and breathless. “Say it again,” you beg, voice cracking as you bounce in his lap, thighs burning, tits bouncing with every movement, “say you love me, say it’s just me, please, Mark, need it—”

He grabs your hips, rocking up into you, his own voice cracking, “I love you, fuck, I love you, look at you—so perfect, all mine, nobody else gets you like this—” He can’t stop saying it, can’t stop touching you, every word poured into your mouth, your skin, your cunt, until you’re sobbing his name, coming hard on his cock, breaking open for him, every inch of you desperate and raw and safe, wrapped up in the kind of love that leaves you ruined, trembling, and whole all at once.

You sink deeper onto his cock, the thick, perfect stretch making you moan so loud it’s almost a scream, thighs trembling as you take him to the root. Mark groans, the sound raw, filthy, hands flying to grip your hips so hard his fingers leave imprints. “Fuck—so fucking tight,” he grits, voice already shaking, eyes glued to the place where your cunt swallows him, wet and glistening, obscene in the dim light. You can feel him twitch inside you, your walls clenching around him, greedy for every inch, every throb, as you settle your hands on his chest for leverage. His head falls back, lips parted, jaw sharp with want, his chest already slick with sweat. “You love riding me, don’t you? Love showing me how this pussy was made for me.” The words are ragged, half challenge, half worship.

You start to move, slow at first, rolling your hips, grinding down in a circle, feeling every ridge and vein drag against your soaked walls. The friction is delicious, cruel, and you can’t help but tease, lifting yourself almost all the way off, just the tip buried inside, before slamming back down, making the head of his cock press against that sweet spot inside you. Mark hisses, hands flying up to cup your tits, rolling your nipples between his fingers until you arch your back, riding him harder, breath catching as he leans up and latches onto your nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing, tongue swirling. You grind down, rutting your clit against his pelvis, making both of you gasp. “You want it rough, baby?” he pants, voice gravel, one hand sliding down to slap your ass, the sound sharp, skin stinging as you bounce faster. “Fucking take it. Show me who you belong to.”

“Yours,” you whimper, picking up the pace, ass slapping down onto his thighs, the wet smack filling the room, your tits bouncing in his face, hair wild around your shoulders. “All yours, Mark—fuck, only yours, nobody else gets me like this.” You lean forward, licking a stripe up his throat, biting at his jaw, your cunt milking him, fluttering around him with every thrust. 

He growls, fingers digging into the meat of your ass, guiding you up and down, his voice low and sharp: “That’s right. Let them talk. Let the whole fucking building hear you scream for me.” He brings his thumb down to your clit, circles tight, ruthless, until you’re whining, legs starting to shake, tears welling again from the sheer intensity. “Look at you, bouncing like a fucking whore, taking everything I give you. You love being watched, don’t you? Love being my filthy girl.”

You nod, dizzy, drunk on him, on the slap of skin and the stretch of him splitting you open, on how you can feel every inch inside. “Want you to fill me up, want you to fuck me until I can’t walk,” you babble, riding him hard, hands braced on his chest, nails scraping red lines down his skin. “Want to make a mess all over you, want you to come inside me, want everyone to know you ruined me—” 

Mark snarls, bucks up into you, fucking you from beneath, the bed frame rocking, his hips slamming up to meet yours. “Say it again,” he commands, thumb circling your clit faster, his cock hitting so deep you see stars. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

“Yours, fuck, it’s yours—only yours, always yours, Mark, please, please, harder—” You’re sobbing, writhing, sweat slicking your thighs, bouncing faster, grinding down until your clit throbs, every muscle in your body burning with the need to come. 

He slips two fingers into your mouth, groaning as you suck, tongue swirling, spit dripping down your chin as you stare into his eyes. “Good girl,” he growls, pulling his fingers free, sliding them down to press into your ass, stretching you, filling you, making you moan even louder. “So greedy, so fucking perfect, taking everything I give you.”

You feel yourself unraveling, body shaking as your orgasm builds, the filth of it making you dizzy. “Gonna come, Mark—need it, need you, fuck, please—” He’s ruthless now, hips pounding up into you, his cock hitting that spot over and over, thumb punishing your clit until you shatter, orgasm ripping through you, cunt squeezing him so tight he curses, gripping your hips, rutting up as he follows you over the edge. You come undone together, a mess of sweat, spit, and tears, his name a broken sob on your lips as he fills you, cock pulsing, warmth spilling inside you, leaking down your thighs as you keep grinding, milking every last drop.

When you finally collapse on top of him, shuddering, boneless, Mark wraps his arms around your back, pressing kisses into your hair, your cheek, your jaw. He’s whispering, desperate, needy, filthy: “You’re mine, fuck, you’re mine, look at this mess you made for me. I’ll eat you out right now, clean you up with my mouth—want you dripping with me, want everyone to see. Let me, baby, let me taste you, wanna eat my cum out of your pussy.” You whimper, exhausted but high, moaning as he pulls you up, drags you back down onto his face, tongue greedy and relentless, licking you clean, humming filth into your skin as you twitch and shake, overstimulated and glowing, marked up for him and only him.

Mark doesn’t let you go, even when you start to squirm, legs trembling, breath shuddering in your chest. He’s ravenous, tongue working through your folds, lapping up the mess he left inside you, groaning low like he’s starved for the taste of you. “Fuck, you’re leaking everywhere,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and sweet against your skin. “So fucking pretty when you’re full. All of it is mine.” His hands grip your ass, spreading you wider, holding you open so he can lick every drop that spills out, the filth of it making your head spin. Your thighs quake on either side of his head, body arching up, overstimulation prickling every nerve, but you can’t stop grinding down, needing more, needing him, needing to be ruined all over again.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t pause, tongue flattening against your clit, sucking, swirling, fingers sliding back into your pussy, spreading you open, pressing deep, curling just right. “God, baby, you taste so fucking good—could eat you all night, fuck, never get enough of you,” he groans, the words vibrating right into your core. You’re sobbing, voice gone, hands fisted in his hair, hips jerking helplessly as he keeps you locked in place, tongue relentless, unrepentant, pushing you higher even as you whimper for a break. He kisses up your stomach, wet and hungry, lips dragging across every mark he’s left, then latches onto your nipple, sucking until you cry out, the sensation bright and sharp and aching.

“Can’t believe you let me wreck you like this,” he rasps, lips swollen, chin slick with you and him, eyes blown wide with hunger and something deeper, darker. “No one else gets this, no one else gets to see you fall apart. Just me, yeah? Just Mark.” You nod frantically, tears mixing with sweat, thighs squeezed tight around his face, cunt fluttering around his fingers as you chase another high. He fucks you slow, then fast, teasing, twisting, making you beg, making you sob for more. “Say it again, baby,” he commands, mouth hot at your ear as he pulls you down, grinding you onto his tongue, “tell me who’s pussy this is. Tell me what you want.”

“Yours, yours, yours, Mark—please, please, want you to fuck me, want your cock again, want you everywhere, fill me up, ruin me, make it hurt, please—” The words spill out in a litany, half-cry, half-moan, every one of them making him groan, making him fuck you deeper, his hands bruising your hips as you bounce, clit throbbing, every inch of you vibrating with the need to come again. 

He grins up at you, filthy and proud, eyes shining. “Good girl. Want me to finger you while I eat you out? Want to come on my tongue while you look me in the eye?”

You barely manage a nod before he pushes two fingers in deep, curling them just right, tongue flicking your clit merciless, eyes locked to yours as you writhe above him, moaning, gasping, begging for release. The tension snaps, your body convulsing, cunt spasming around his fingers, soaking his face as you come hard, the orgasm ripping through you, leaving you trembling and weak. Mark moans, licking you clean, fucking you through every aftershock, refusing to let go, refusing to let the high end. “That’s it, that’s my girl—look how pretty you are, how wrecked you get for me. Let me taste all of it, let me drink it down.”

He finally lets you collapse against his chest, holding you close, one hand soothing up and down your spine, the other tangled in your hair. You’re both shaking, sweat and tears and cum slicking your thighs, breath mingling as you press kisses to his throat, jaw, lips—each one messier than the last. “You’re mine,” he whispers, voice choked, desperate, reverent. “Always mine. No one touches you like this, no one ever will.” You answer with your mouth, tongue plunging into his, your hips rolling against his thigh again, not able to stop yourself, not wanting to, addicted to the way he makes you feel.

Mark shifts beneath you, hard again, cock twitching, leaking pre-cum between your thighs. He grins, crooked, wild, pupils blown, all the softness twisted into hunger. “Greedy little thing, huh? Didn’t get enough the first time? Need more?” He grabs your hips, grinding you against him, making you feel every inch, every pulse. “You want to bounce for me again? Want to come on my cock until you’re begging me to stop?” You nod, breathless, ruined, ready for anything he gives. He pulls you up, positions you over him, the tip of his cock nudging your entrance, eyes holding yours, burning with love and lust and everything you’ll never need to ask for—because he’s already giving it, over and over, as many times as you want, as many times as you need.

When Mark guides you down, there’s no rush—just a quiet, shared breath as your hips sink into the cradle of his, his cock slipping inside you slow and steady, letting your bodies meet with all the patience neither of you ever get from the world. The stretch is familiar, not urgent; it’s a filling you’ve known a thousand times, but it never stops being new. His hands rest on your hips, not gripping, just warming your skin, thumbs painting lazy circles over bone and softness. He looks up at you like you’re the only thing in the universe worth seeing, eyes gentle, a little glassy, his mouth parted and waiting for you to come to him.

You settle over him, rolling your hips in a slow, searching rhythm, chasing sensation but never hurrying it. Every slide is accompanied by a sigh, a whispered “good, so good, you’re perfect” from Mark, and you shiver with tenderness, hands coming up to rest on his chest, fingers curling in the faded cotton of his t-shirt. You move together with the easy grace of muscle memory—like dancing, like breathing, like the oldest story you’ve ever written together. He strokes your back, your arms, your thighs, caressing you as if memorizing every inch, grounding you in touch, in safety. When you start to tremble, he hushes you, murmurs sweet, secret things into the hollow of your throat: “I’ve got you, always. You can let go here.”

You lean down to kiss him, lips soft and plush, noses bumping, both of you smiling into it even as you start to moan. His mouth opens for you, tongue sliding gentle against yours, no teeth, no rush—just warmth, just home. You taste tears, both yours and his, and neither of you flinch from the salt. When you break the kiss, you press your forehead to his, your bodies moving in slow, rolling waves. The room is quiet, just the wet sound of your bodies, the creak of the bed, the stutter of your breaths tangled together. He cups your cheek, brushes his thumb under your eye, wipes away the last remnants of tonight’s pain, replacing it with the weight of his love.

He whispers every truth you need to hear, voice ragged with feeling, velvet and breaking: “You’re my favorite. My best thing. I’ll never get tired of you, not ever. You’re the reason I believe in good things.” His hands wander—tucking your hair behind your ear, smoothing the arch of your back, resting over your heart to feel it thump. You’re moving slow, hips grinding down so his cock drags along every sweet spot inside you, your clit rubbing perfectly against his pelvis. There’s nothing rough here, just the shared ache to be close, to give and be given, to be seen, to be known. Every time you gasp his name, it sounds like a prayer.

Mark presses kisses to your collarbone, to your shoulder, up the long line of your neck, breathing you in like he needs it to survive. His hands never stop moving—down your sides, up your waist, tracing every old scar and new bruise with a reverence that almost makes you cry. “So beautiful,” he sighs, voice slurred with love, and you can feel him shaking beneath you, holding back, lost in the wonder of you. When you slow, grinding down with your walls fluttering, his arms wrap around your back, pulling you to his chest so you can bury your face in the crook of his neck, clinging to him, rocking together in small, slow motions that make the whole world disappear.

You start to unravel, pleasure building slow and deep, every little friction a spark, every whispered word a balm. “Come for me, sweetheart,” Mark urges softly, thumb stroking your cheek, kissing your closed eyelids as your hips start to stutter. “Let go, I’ve got you. I’ll hold you together.” The orgasm creeps up, gentle but overwhelming, warmth spreading through your belly, stealing your breath, making you gasp and cling tighter, crying out his name as your body pulses around him, every muscle melting. He follows, shuddering, breath stuttering against your shoulder, cock pulsing deep inside, holding you so close you could almost swear you hear his heartbeat inside your own chest. After, you don’t move. You stay wrapped around each other, skin pressed tight, limbs tangled, chests rising and falling in sync. Mark strokes your hair, kisses your jaw, rubs your back slow and patient, humming the song you love under his breath. The room is dark, safe, your bodies glowing with afterglow and the simple, fragile wonder of being wanted—of being chosen, every part of you, again and again, in the soft, golden hush where you both finally belong.

Mark doesn’t let you go, not even when your bodies start to settle and your breaths fall quiet, content to just exist in each other’s arms. His hand slides up your thigh, slow and steady, knuckles grazing soft skin, his eyes still fixed on your face like he’s trying to memorize you in the half-dark. He shifts you gently, turning your bodies with a practiced, loving patience, rolling you onto your back so he can drape himself over you, cocooning you beneath his weight. There’s nothing hurried—just the slow press of his chest against yours, the heat of his cock nestled between your thighs, the soft sound of his mouth brushing your cheek, your jaw, the bridge of your nose. He kisses you everywhere but your mouth, as if saving the best for last.

He enters you again, slow and careful, never breaking eye contact, his cock pushing deep inch by inch until you’re full, breath caught, eyes fluttering shut at the sensation. Mark hooks his arms under your knees, angling your hips just right, spreading you wide, but every movement is reverent, tender—his thumbs drawing slow circles on the backs of your thighs, his lips never far from your skin. He starts to move in long, lazy strokes, hips rolling against yours, cock dragging against every sensitive place inside you, making you gasp and arch and shiver beneath him. He whispers your name with every thrust, a mantra, a worship, something holy spun into the dark.

Between each movement he pauses, leaning in to press his forehead to yours, brushing your hair back, kissing your eyelids, breathing you in. His hands cradle your face, fingertips stroking your jaw, and he murmurs little confessions—how good you feel, how beautiful you look, how he wants to spend the rest of his life learning every secret your body holds. The room is filled with your soft noises: the hitch in your breath when he pushes deeper, the shaky “I love you” you whisper back, the shuddering moans you can’t hold in as his rhythm starts to stutter, each slow thrust drawing you closer and closer to unraveling. Mark’s hips never slam, never lose that soft rolling tempo—he’s making love to you like there’s all the time in the world, like you’re the only two people left alive.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, fingers threading through his hair, heels digging into his lower back, grounding him to you. Your bodies rock together in the oldest rhythm, slow and deep, every inch of skin slick and warm, his mouth pressing open-mouthed kisses to your neck, your collarbone, your trembling lips. He tells you you’re perfect, that you’re safe, that there’s nowhere he’d rather be than right here, inside you, loving you soft and open and real. You whisper back, tell him he’s home, that he’s your favorite, your best thing, your only thing. Every time you moan his name, he answers with a kiss, with a squeeze, with another lazy, delicious thrust.

As the night bleeds on, he makes you come slow, again and again, never rushing, never letting the moment slip away. He draws it out—his cock dragging in and out, fingers finding your clit, his words spilling like honey in your ear, keeping you on the edge until you’re crying with the sweetness of it, the intimacy, the love that fills every space between your bones. When you fall apart for him, it’s soft and loud all at once, your whole body trembling as he holds you, murmurs “that’s it, let go, I’ve got you,” kissing away every tear, rocking you through every aftershock.

He doesn’t leave you empty. Mark stays inside, hips pressed tight to yours, chest heavy over your heart, mouth pressed to your hairline, humming your favorite song. You fall asleep that way—tangled up, him buried deep, his hands stroking your sides, your bodies sticky and spent and glowing in the hush. When you wake, it’s to the slow drag of his hips and the sweet, aching stretch of him moving inside you again, his voice low and thick with love, promising you a hundred more mornings just like this, a thousand more nights where it’s only you, only him, and the world outside fading into nothing at all.

Mark doesn’t let you go, not even when your bodies start to settle and your breaths fall quiet, content to just exist in each other’s arms. His hand slides up your thigh, slow and steady, knuckles grazing soft skin, his eyes still fixed on your face like he’s trying to memorize you in the half-dark. He shifts you gently, turning your bodies with a practiced, loving patience, rolling you onto your back so he can drape himself over you, cocooning you beneath his weight. There’s nothing hurried—just the slow press of his chest against yours, the heat of his cock nestled between your thighs, the soft sound of his mouth brushing your cheek, your jaw, the bridge of your nose. He kisses you everywhere but your mouth, as if saving the best for last.

He enters you again, slow and careful, never breaking eye contact, his cock pushing deep inch by inch until you’re full, breath caught, eyes fluttering shut at the sensation. Mark hooks his arms under your knees, angling your hips just right, spreading you wide, but every movement is reverent, tender—his thumbs drawing slow circles on the backs of your thighs, his lips never far from your skin. He starts to move in long, lazy strokes, hips rolling against yours, cock dragging against every sensitive place inside you, making you gasp and arch and shiver beneath him. He whispers your name with every thrust, a mantra, a worship, something holy spun into the dark.

Between each movement he pauses, leaning in to press his forehead to yours, brushing your hair back, kissing your eyelids, breathing you in. His hands cradle your face, fingertips stroking your jaw, and he murmurs little confessions—how good you feel, how beautiful you look, how he wants to spend the rest of his life learning every secret your body holds. The room is filled with your soft noises: the hitch in your breath when he pushes deeper, the shaky “I love you” you whisper back, the shuddering moans you can’t hold in as his rhythm starts to stutter, each slow thrust drawing you closer and closer to unraveling. Mark’s hips never slam, never lose that soft rolling tempo—he’s making love to you like there’s all the time in the world, like you’re the only two people left alive.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, fingers threading through his hair, heels digging into his lower back, grounding him to you. Your bodies rock together in the oldest rhythm, slow and deep, every inch of skin slick and warm, his mouth pressing open-mouthed kisses to your neck, your collarbone, your trembling lips. He tells you you’re perfect, that you’re safe, that there’s nowhere he’d rather be than right here, inside you, loving you soft and open and real. You whisper back, tell him he’s home, that he’s your favorite, your best thing, your only thing. Every time you moan his name, he answers with a kiss, with a squeeze, with another lazy, delicious thrust.

As the night bleeds on, he makes you come slow, again and again, never rushing, never letting the moment slip away. He draws it out—his cock dragging in and out, fingers finding your clit, his words spilling like honey in your ear, keeping you on the edge until you’re crying with the sweetness of it, the intimacy, the love that fills every space between your bones. When you fall apart for him, it’s soft and loud all at once, your whole body trembling as he holds you, murmurs “that’s it, let go, I’ve got you,” kissing away every tear, rocking you through every aftershock.

Mark folds his body over yours, the shift slow and hushed, the mattress sighing beneath the new weight, and you feel every inch of him settle like warm silk against your skin, a curtain of safety drawn around the night, his lips meeting your brow in a kiss that tastes of rainwater and promises that never rust, and for a moment you swear the room has no walls at all, only the breath of his devotion circling you, holding back every sorrow the world once pressed into your shoulders. His palm glides from the hollow of your throat to the soft underside of your thigh, lifting until your bodies open to each other with the reverence of a blossom at dawn, and he sinks inside with a patience wide as the ocean, inch by inch, filling every empty space as if sculpting new constellations under your ribs. He stays buried deep, forehead resting to yours, hearts hammering together in a shared drum, and you feel the evening inhale through the open window, the curtain billowing like a tide, carrying away the last shadow of hurt that clung to you when the door closed behind Jay earlier. Two hearts beat, two lungs breathe, two mouths search, and the silence between pulses feels holy.

Each slow thrust turns into a tide rolling over sand, smoothing every sharp edge the day carved into you, and you rise to meet him with matching softness, hips canting in a rhythm stitched from memory and wonder, your fingers weaving through his hair where curls spring loose like vines reaching for light, and he murmurs your name with each glide deeper, voice velvet and raw, a psalm for two. The lamp on the dresser casts a warm ellipse across his shoulders, revealing the shadows of freckles and half-healed bruises left by earlier hunger, and you map them with your lips, sealing every dark mark with a kiss that promises gentleness, while his thumb sweeps the curve of your cheekbone as though outlining a secret script only his pulse can read. He whispers you are safe, you are wanted, you are cherished, repeating the words until they seep into marrow, and with every breath you offer him your trust the way petals offer dawn, aching wide for warmth and color. Your bodies sway together, slow arcs, until the hush inside the room grows louder than any storm you have known.

When he moves faster it feels like a sunrise cresting the horizon rather than a blaze, gold pouring through unseen cracks and pooling beneath your ribs, filling you with gentle light, and your tears return, only these carry sweetness instead of salt, glimmering against your temples before slipping to his lips where he kisses each one away, drinking them like sacred wine. You whisper you love him in a voice small yet steady, the phrase that once floated casually through shared breakfast air now rooted deep as an ancient oak, and his reply sounds like soil and seed and future in full bloom, I love you, more than any morning, more than any sky, and the words thread through your pulse while his hips keep that slow tender rhythm, coaxing wave after wave of warmth through your belly until pleasure swells gentle and immense, an unfurling banner of soft fire behind your eyelids. You cling to him, nails grazing shoulders in silent applause, thighs trembling around his waist, and when climax washes over both of you it arrives like a slow-rolling thunder, low and resonant, leaving the air vibrating with quiet awe, bodies fused in a glow that feels unbreakable.

Afterward he never pulls away, his weight a quiet shield over your heart, breaths mingling as his fingertips sketch lazy spirals along your spine, and the outside world retreats to a distant hush while inside these four joined limbs the universe remakes itself calmer and brighter. You trade soft kisses that taste of sleep and spun sugar, the covers tucked around your sides like gentle tides, and you let your eyes drift closed to the sound of his hum, a lullaby older than memory, until dreams drift onto the shore carrying lanterns lit with his name, and the last thing you feel before slipping under is his thumb tracing the arc of your hip, sealing the night with a promise made of silken light and quiet infinity.

He doesn’t leave you empty. Mark stays inside, hips pressed tight to yours, chest heavy over your heart, mouth pressed to your hairline, humming your favorite song. You fall asleep that way—tangled up, him buried deep, his hands stroking your sides, your bodies sticky and spent and glowing in the hush. When you wake, it’s to the slow drag of his hips and the sweet, aching stretch of him moving inside you again, his voice low and thick with love, promising you a hundred more mornings just like this, a thousand more nights where it’s only you, only him, and the world outside fading into nothing at all. You drift in the hush that follows, your head cradled against Mark’s chest, his heartbeat slow and steady under your cheek. His arms never loosen, even as your breathing evens out and your lashes grow heavy, the sweat drying on your skin where his body warms every shivering inch of you. He tucks the blankets up around your shoulders, fingers sliding through your hair, thumb smoothing across your brow with a tenderness that feels older than language. He kisses your temple, barely a whisper of contact, but it glows through you like a fuse catching light. You melt into the bed, boneless and warm, body marked inside and out with the memory of him.

The room is thick with quiet and heartbeats and the spent hush of night after a storm. Mark’s hand rests over your sternum, palm rising and falling with your breaths, as if anchoring you to the present, or to him. You find yourself tracing small circles on his ribs, the two of you still tangled, legs and arms and the faint press of his chest hair beneath your fingertips, and it feels too intimate to be anything less than forever—but neither of you speak, both hovering at the edge of a truth that feels too new and too old at once. Your eyes close, a soft sigh slipping from your lips, and the world contracts to the space between your heart and his. You don’t say anything about how different it feels, about the way every slow thrust, every whispered promise, every sobbed I love you has rewired something permanent between you. You don’t dare name it, not tonight, not yet. But as you fall asleep with his hand still holding your heart steady and his body molded to yours in the dark, you know with a certainty that burrows deep and quiet: nothing about you and Mark will ever be the same again. Tomorrow, the world will shift on its axis. But for now, in this quiet cocoon of tenderness and heat, you let yourself rest, not knowing what’s changed, only that everything has.

You wake alone, sunlight slicing across the tangled sheets, the faint warmth of where Mark’s body should be already fading from the mattress beside you. The apartment is too still, the air holding its breath, no gentle snore or lazy arm thrown over your waist, no sleep-drunk smile pressed into your shoulder. Your heart gives a slow, uncertain twist, this isn’t how it goes, not ever. Mark always stays until the last possible second, always needs to be woken with your fingers tracing his ribs or your lips against his jaw, always rolls over with a muttered “five more minutes, baby” and holds you tighter, refusing to let you go. Today, you only have cold sheets and a pillow that still smells like his cologne, a ghost of last night clinging to the fabric.

You shuffle out to the kitchen, still wearing his old shirt, bare legs chilly against the floor, hoping to find some sign that the intimacy of last night wasn’t just a fever dream. But Mark’s already dressed, standing at the counter in his hoodie, head bent over a mug he rinses with mechanical precision. His movements are sharp, practiced, every edge drawn tighter than usual, shoulders hunched like he’s bracing for impact. He doesn’t look at you when you enter, doesn’t call you “trouble,” doesn’t offer that lazy smile you love, just keeps his eyes on the swirl of black coffee in the press. “Morning,” he mutters, and that’s all. You hover, aching for him to turn, to pull you in by the waist and kiss your temple, to ask if you slept okay, but he just pours a cup for himself, leaves yours untouched on the shelf. There’s no note on the napkin, no inside joke, no warmth in the simple routines that have always been yours.

You cross your arms, leaning against the doorway, watching him as he stirs sugar into his coffee. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t ask about your plans, doesn’t tease you for your messy hair or the way his shirt hangs off your shoulder. The silence grows heavy, the kind that drowns conversation before it’s born, and when you finally risk a gentle, “Did you sleep okay?” 

His response is little more than a shrug, eyes still glued to the mug. “Yeah. Fine. Hope you got some rest.” He glances at you once, fleeting and unreadable, before his gaze drops to his phone, thumb moving across the screen like you’re not even there. You want to reach for him, to close the distance, to say last night changed everything, but the words won’t come. It feels like talking to a stranger who wears your lover’s skin.

He sits at the table, scrolling through notifications, answering texts, never looking up, never reaching for your hand beneath the battered wood the way he always does. Every movement is careful, contained, like he’s built a wall in the night and you’re still outside, shivering. Even the sun seems sharper, more indifferent. When his alarm buzzes, he stands abruptly, drains the last of his coffee, and slings his bag over his shoulder. There’s a beat where you think he might stop—might cross the kitchen, gather you close, whisper something only for you—but he just slips on his shoes, fingers fumbling with the laces, his mouth a flat line. “Got class,” he says. “I’ll see you later.” No kiss, no “love you,” not even the habitual tug of your hair before he leaves.

The door clicks shut, the sound too soft, almost apologetic, and you’re left standing in the kitchen, clutching his shirt to your chest, every part of you ringing with the ache of what’s gone missing. Last night’s tenderness is still on your skin, the memory of his hands, his mouth, his whispered I love yous—now so distant you wonder if you dreamed it. The kitchen feels colder, the world newly unfamiliar. You sink into the nearest chair, press your fingertips to your lips as if you can hold in the shape of his kisses, and try to remember what it was like before everything changed. You stare at the closed door and realize you have no idea when—if—he’ll walk back through it the same as he was.

It’s been weeks. The seasons have changed, trees shedding gold at the curbs, but you and Mark have become strangers inside the apartment you once treated like your shared skin. He’s barely home, leaves early, comes back late, never brings you coffee, never collapses beside you with laughter still clinging to his collar. He’s always somewhere: the library, the courts, the party circuits, always with a different girl in tow. You’ve seen the stories on friends’ feeds, Mark pressed close to someone else, lips half-hidden by her hair, hands on hips, faces blurred in the strobe and sweat. You pretend it doesn’t cut, but it does. You both orbit the same social spaces, but where you used to gravitate together, tangled on some couch, legs thrown over his lap, the inside joke always ready, now there’s only the brittle clatter of small talk if you pass in the kitchen, the cold hush when he comes home and leaves again without looking up.

The silence is worst at night, when your room feels cavernous, sheets too smooth, the air carrying nothing but the faint echo of his laughter from down the hall. When you see him, he’s different—sharper, harder around the eyes, smirking too wide, flirting with anyone who’ll bite. You’ve tried to fill the space with other people: dates who feel more like distractions, long walks with boys who say the right things but touch you wrong, dinners that end in awkward hugs at your door. None of them fit. You lie to yourself, say it’s freedom, say you’re over it, but every time you open your phone and see his name, your chest knots up and the ache returns, raw and endless.

It all comes out over takeout one night, the carton half-empty in your lap, your face buried in Chaewon’s shoulder. She’s always been gossip central, the first to know who’s fucking who, who cheated, who got dumped, who’s lying about being over someone. Tonight she just lets you cry, stroking your hair, murmuring little comforts—“He’s an idiot, you’re better off, you deserve so much more, babe”—until the sobs fade to sniffles and you can finally talk. You tell her you miss him more than anything, that you feel like you’ve lost your best friend and your world at once, that you’d trade every kiss with every stranger just to get back the sound of his voice in the middle of the night.

After a while, Chaewon sighs, pulling you upright, pushing hair out of your eyes. “Listen,” she says, her tone shifting from gentle to sharp, “word on the street is that Mark admitted to Jeno he’s, like, actually in love with you. Not just in-love, like wrecked over you. Like, all his friends know it. Even Jeno told Donnghyuck and now everyone’s side-eyeing him when he walks into a room. The thing is—” She twirls a chopstick between her fingers, lips twisting. “—that’s exactly why he’s keeping away. He told Jeno he doesn’t know how to act around you now, like he’s scared if he’s close he’ll fuck it up or make things worse. You know how he is, doesn’t trust himself, hates losing control, especially with you. So he’s…what do guys do? He’s running. He’s fucking around, acting like it’s nothing, because if he lets himself feel it, he thinks it’ll ruin everything you have left. That’s how his brain works. He thinks loving you means letting you go. Classic Mark Lee logic. Absolute idiot.”

Her words slice through the haze, and you realize this mess,this constant blur, this never-defining, never-settling, is the only way you’ve ever known each other. You think about every night you watched him slip out to hook up with someone else, every morning you curled up in his bed and pretended not to care, every time you both went on dates just to avoid the way you looked at each other in the dark. Maybe you thought this loose, confusing dance was freedom. Maybe it was just fear, the slow decay of not daring to say what you wanted, the thousand half-truths you told yourself because you couldn’t bear to break what little you had.

Chaewon watches you, waiting for it to sink in, then nudges your knee. “So. Here’s what I think: you need to stop waiting for him to figure it out. He’s an idiot but he loves you, and he’s scared shitless. But you’re both just as miserable now, so what’s the point in pretending? Just go to him. Tell him the truth. Make him listen. Don’t let fear decide what happens to you. If you want him, fight for it. Someone has to go first. Why not you?” She smiles, a little sad, a little wise. “Besides, babe, you’ve spent too long missing each other. It’s time you let yourselves have something real.”

You nod, still blinking away the sting of Chaewon’s advice, half terrified she’s right, half wishing it were that simple. But before the ache can settle too deep, she straightens, a wicked spark flickering in her eyes. “Okay, then. Time to put your money where your heartbreak is, babe. There’s a party at Jeno’s this weekend, he’s calling it, get this, ‘the Fall of the House of Lee’ because he thinks it’ll be so wild someone’s gonna end up crying on the roof or falling in love in the kitchen.” She cackles, nudging you again. “He said he’s even bought fairy lights, disposable cameras, and a fog machine. Full main character moment.”

You laugh, in spite of yourself, but she leans in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Listen, Winter’s already been telling everyone that Mark’s taking her, that it’s basically a done deal and they’re the new campus power couple. You really want her running her mouth all over group chat tomorrow? Babe, you’re gonna walk in with someone else, make him squirm. Make him remember exactly who he’s losing.” She taps her phone against her chin, eyebrows wiggling. “So. Prospects. Let’s see… Jaemin? No, too pretty—he’d steal your thunder and probably try to make out with Jeno by midnight. Renjun? Absolutely not, you’ll both end up psychoanalyzing each other in the bathroom by 10 p.m. Donghyuck? Hah! You’d end up co-hosting karaoke and spilling all your secrets, plus he’s still banned from Jeno’s after the glitter bomb incident. Chenle? Please. You’d have to sign a waiver and split the tequila bill.”

You start to laugh harder, and Chaewon grins, triumphant. “That leaves us with the obvious. Jeno. He’s hot, he’s safe, he’s never minded playing boyfriend for a night, and you know he’ll hype you up so good Winter will pop a blood vessel. Plus, Mark has always, always had a weird thing about you and Jeno. You know he’ll notice.” She squeezes your hand, the plan already taking shape. “So that’s it. You’re going to walk in on Jeno’s arm, all legs and lipstick, looking like you’re the one having the night of your life—and you’re going to let Mark see every second of it.” She leans in, eyes glinting with mischief and something close to hope. “Trust me, babe. Sometimes you have to start the fire yourself and watch who runs through it for you.”

When the weekend finally hits, the air’s electric—Chaewon’s already on your bed before sunset, a tornado of silk scarves and lip gloss and scattered jewelry. She raids your closet with merciless glee, tossing out anything even remotely demure, crowing with triumph when she unearths the slinky black dress you only ever wear when you want to feel like chaos bottled in velvet. “This one,” she declares, pressing it against your frame, the hem barely grazing your thighs, neckline plunging, every curve on unapologetic display. She drapes it over a chair and sets her sights on you—“Tonight’s for revenge, baby, not for comfort.”

She props you up on the stool, dusts shimmer along your cheekbones, blends gold into your eyelids until you look like you’re glowing from inside out. Her fingers work deftly, threading your hair into loose, glossy waves, letting a few strands tumble artfully around your shoulders. You watch her in the mirror, her reflection grinning back, eyes gleaming. “No bra. Trust me. If he’s gonna stare, give him a reason.” The fabric skims your skin, clings to your hips, the side slit flashing smooth thigh with every step. She drapes a delicate gold chain around your neck, slides thin bangles onto your wrist, fastens hoops through your ears, every detail curated to make you look expensive, dangerous, absolutely untouchable.

You tilt your head, studying the final result: lips lacquered in wine-dark red, hair soft and wild, bare skin gleaming under the low light. Your perfume is the last touch, spicy and heady, dabbed at your throat and wrists until you can feel the pulse of your own want. Chaewon stands back, hands on her hips, admiring her work. “He won’t know what hit him,” she says, voice wicked. “Nobody will.” You laugh, nerves twisted up with something giddy and mean. For the first time in weeks, you feel powerful—predatory, a little cruel, the kind of girl who walks into a room and rewrites the story. By the time you slip into your heels and zip your dress, you’re grinning at your reflection, ready to burn the night down and let everyone—especially Mark—watch you glow.

You arrive with her at your side, arm in arm, laughter bubbling nervously and wild. Jeno greets you at the door with his usual bear hug, swinging you off your feet. “If it isn’t heartbreak herself,” he teases, ruffling your hair, “and Chaewon, my second favorite bad influence. You two plan on breaking anyone’s heart tonight, or just each other’s records for shots?” 

Jaemin’s there too, leaning against the kitchen counter, eyebrows waggling as he catches sight of you. “Who let you get this hot? Jeno, I told you to set a dress code, this is indecent—what if Mark’s delicate sensibilities can’t take it?” 

Donghyuck snickers, tossing you a lemon wedge. “You could wear a trash bag and he’d still combust. Not that I’m complaining.

Everyone’s in rare form tonight, the kind of party where the air’s thick with heat and risk and everything feels spun just a little too tight. Jeno’s living room is a glowing maze of bodies, Jaemin has commandeered the kitchen counter, charming his way into someone’s phone, Donghyuck and Renjun have staged a mock rap battle on top of the coffee table, making the crowd shriek and howl with every savage rhyme. The karaoke mic keeps cutting in and out, but nobody cares, someone’s always belting into it, half the party on their feet, the rest pressed close in little clusters, limbs entwined, voices lost in the music and the press of skin.

Chaewon is a vision in silver, already holding court by the hallway mirror, arms tangled with friends new and old, but she never lets you stray too far. You catch her gaze across the room—she winks, raises her glass, and mouths, don’t you dare stop now. Jeno materialises at your side, all effortless charm and mischief, leaning in until his lips brush your ear. “Chaewon’s told me what the plan is gonna be. Tonight, we’re raising hell. Let’s make him beg.” His hand finds yours, fingers lacing tight, and you squeeze back, grinning as he spins you straight onto the dance floor.

The music thunders, heavy and sensual, lights flickering gold and scarlet, and you let Jeno pull you close, one hand at your hip, the other guiding your wrist, both of you moving slow at first, bodies pressed chest to chest. He dips you low, makes you laugh, spins you wild until you’re dizzy and sparkling, the world a blur except for his smile and your own reflection in his dark, dancing eyes. When the beat shifts, he pulls you in tight, your back to his chest, his hands splayed wide over your hips as you roll together, letting every curve and sway broadcast exactly how good it feels to be wanted, to be watched.

Drinks appear, cold and fizzing, and you clink glasses, laughing against his shoulder. You toss your head back, arch into him, letting his hands trace your sides, the dress riding high, your skin hot where his palms press possessive. Jeno’s voice is warm in your ear: “He’s watching, babe. He hasn’t looked away once.” Chaewon howls from the sofa, egging you on, and you drop into his lap, straddling him right there on the couch, hands sliding into his hair, lips finding his in a show-stopping kiss—hot, deep, slow, tongue tangled, your body moving against him in time with the bass, both of you unbothered by the roar of the party around you.

You break away, panting, one hand cupping his jaw, the other gripping his thigh. Jeno’s eyes are bright, laughter and adrenaline mixing as he squeezes your waist, grinding you down just enough to make your skirt ride even higher. You feel the eyes on you, the energy shifting, the music drowning out everything but the heat between you and the promise of chaos in every touch. For the first time all night, you let yourself feel wild, and alive, and absolutely untouchable, knowing full well that across the room, Mark’s hands have gone slack on Winter’s hips, and there’s fire in his eyes that’s only for you.

Mark and Winter are sprawled across the couch directly opposite, the two of them a tableau of manufactured ease, her dress hiked high over tanned thighs, one heel digging into the cushion, her body twisted half into his lap. She laughs too loud at something he hasn’t said, lipstick smeared messily across his jaw as she clings to him, running painted nails through his hair with the sort of entitlement that makes your skin crawl. But Mark’s only going through the motions, barely even touching her, his arm flung along the back of the couch, bottle dangling carelessly from his fingers. His face is angled toward Winter, but his gaze never stops roaming, drifting past her shoulder, sweeping the crowd until his eyes lock on you, over and over, never subtle, burning holes through the haze and noise.

You catch the heat of his stare as you lean in closer to Jeno, the two of you performing for the whole room, your laughter ringing out, nails tracing lazy circles on Jeno’s chest. Jeno plays along with relish, hand splayed wide on your thigh, voice dropping to a murmur meant for Mark’s ears as much as yours. “He’s dying over there, you know. Can’t take his fucking eyes off you.” You glance back, meeting Mark’s glare dead-on, lips parting just enough for him to see your tongue dart out, glossy and wet, before you press your mouth to Jeno’s jaw, letting him tug you fully onto his lap.

Winter, sensing the shift, winds herself tighter around Mark, grinding into him with an exaggerated roll of her hips, breathless and brazen, but it only makes him stiffer, his fingers digging so hard into the leather you wonder if he’ll snap it in half. Every time you giggle for Jeno, Mark’s grip tightens; when you grind down, his jaw clenches, something ugly and wild flickering behind his eyes. Even Winter starts to falter, her laughter brittle, eyes darting between the two of you, her voice growing shrill. She leans in, mouthing something hot and dirty in Mark’s ear, but he just nods, gaze trained over her shoulder, watching the way you arch for Jeno, how your thighs bracket his, your hand tugging Jeno’s shirt open at the collar, the whole thing a dance you both know is for him.

You stretch your legs across Jeno’s lap, arching your back, laughter rising as Jeno whispers something wicked, fingers skimming the bare skin above your knee. You don’t miss the way Mark’s nostrils flare, the way he shifts under Winter, his own hips jerking almost involuntarily. Jeno grins, voice hot in your ear: “If looks could kill, he’d be dragging me out by the throat right now. You want to really break him?” His hands slip to your waist, tugging you flush against his chest. “Just say the word.” The tension in the room builds—thick, stifling, sexual in a way that leaves every inch of you buzzing, the crowd around you oblivious to the storm brewing between your couch and his. Winter grabs Mark’s face, pulls him in for a messy, desperate kiss, smearing her lipstick in a line across his cheek, but he barely responds, his eyes wide open, locked on you, like he’s daring you to stop, to come claim him, to end the game before it spirals past the point of no return.

Chaewon catches your eye from across the room, nods once, all teeth and knowing wickedness. “Ready?” she mouths, and you hold Mark’s gaze, something like a challenge written in every line of your body, heart hammering in your chest as you nod back. The room spins, time hanging suspended on the cusp of something dangerous, and you know—whatever happens next, there’s no turning back. Not tonight. Not for either of you.

The music dips, bassline giving way to a slow, dirty beat—something older, heavier, the kind of song that seeps into your bones and makes everyone move closer. Sweat clings to your skin, your dress hitching higher as Jeno keeps you tight against him, hands gripping your thighs as you grind in his lap, the old sofa creaking beneath you. The lights have softened, gold and violet spilling across tangled limbs, the crowd thinning as people drift to the kitchen or the balcony for air, but you stay, refusing to break the spell, refusing to look away from Mark, who sits opposite with Winter splayed across him like a threat he never asked for.

Chaewon starts a truth-or-dare in the corner, cackling as Jaemin kisses someone upside-down, but you and Jeno spin in your own orbit, laughter and showy flirtation pulling a small audience. Mark’s knuckles have gone white, jaw clenched so tight you see the muscle ticking as he watches, not even bothering to hide it anymore. Every time you throw your head back and laugh at something Jeno says, Mark’s stare burns through you, fingers digging into the couch, his chest rising and falling too fast. Jeno leans up, warm breath against your ear, voice low and playful: “He’s dying, you know. If he doesn’t do something soon, I really am going to take you home.”

You grin, emboldened, and let your hand slide up Jeno’s thigh, close enough that Mark sees everything. You nuzzle into Jeno’s neck, mouth open against his skin, moaning just loud enough for the people nearby to catch, and Mark—across the room—looks seconds from snapping. Winter’s all over him, lips smearing fresh red over his jaw, but his body’s rigid, his hands just resting on her waist, the light in his eyes growing feral every time your laughter cracks the air. Finally, Mark grabs Winter’s wrist, gentle but firm, says something low and final, and she yanks away, glowering, stalking off through the crowd with her pride in tatters.

Now Mark is alone on the couch, eyes locked to yours, and the whole party seems to press in around the two of you. Jeno smirks, nudges you off his lap, and with a quick stretch, he disappears into the crowd, catching Chaewon’s eye and giving her a little wink. She lifts her drink in a silent toast, her grin wide and satisfied. You sit there, heart pounding, adrenaline washing through you, not sure if you’re the hunter or the hunted anymore. Mark stands slowly, draining his glass, the buzz of the room warping and dulling as he closes the space between you. Every step is careful, his expression unreadable, until he’s there—right in front of you, so close you can smell the whiskey and something sharp and familiar. He kneels down, hands landing on your knees, fingers tracing circles over your skin.

Mark leans in, crowd blurring into a wall of noise, every nerve in your body sharp and exposed under his stare. His hands rest on your knees, and for a second you think he’s going to pull you in, but there’s too much distance in his eyes—something shuttered and dark, lips pressed into a hard line. You wait for him to say something soft, to apologize, to laugh the way he always does when things get tense, but all you get is silence and the furious pulse of your own heart. “You done playing?” he says, voice low but brittle, barely holding steady. “You get what you wanted out of Jeno, or do you want another round?” His thumb skims your bare skin, but there’s nothing gentle in the touch; it’s an accusation, every word sharp enough to cut.

You blink, disbelief rolling through you, the whole party vanishing from your mind. “Are you serious right now?” you shoot back, trying to keep your voice steady, refusing to let him see you flinch. “You’ve barely looked at me for weeks. You’ve been an asshole, Mark. Don’t act like this is on me. You ghosted me. You made me feel like shit, like none of it meant anything. Don’t fucking turn this around.”

You let out a shaky breath, fingers twisting the hem of your dress, pulse thumping everywhere you wish you could be numb. You lean back, meeting his eyes, voice trembling but relentless. “You don’t get to act like this is nothing, Mark. You hurt me. You really fucking hurt me. You just—left. You shut me out, you pretended you didn’t care, you let everyone think we were just friends again, like nothing happened between us. You went and hooked up with other people, you let Winter and a million of other bozo’s hang all over you, you stopped talking to me and just expected me to pretend it was fine. Do you know what that felt like? I was your best friend, Mark. You made me feel like I didn’t matter at all. Like none of it mattered.”

Your voice cracks, heat behind your eyes, but you don’t stop. “You didn’t even say anything. You just disappeared. You let me sit there, wondering what I did wrong, wondering why I wasn’t enough, why you couldn’t just talk to me. I missed you so much it made me sick. I still miss you, even now, and it’s fucking killing me to sit here and pretend that I’m okay. I needed you and you weren’t there, not even a little. I tried to move on because I had to—because I couldn’t stand the idea that you didn’t want me anymore, or that maybe you never did. So don’t you dare look at me like I’m the one who broke us. And you left after we made love, Mark—just slipped out like it didn’t mean anything, like I was just another girl you fucked at some party, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt lonelier in my life. I lay there in your bed, still smelling you on my skin, trying to convince myself it didn’t hurt, but it did. I felt empty and stupid, ashamed for wanting more, for thinking maybe you wanted me back. I just kept thinking, if you really cared, you’d have stayed—you’d have looked at me in the morning and made me feel safe. Instead, I woke up alone.”

He swallows, eyes shining, mouth open but no words at first—just the frantic rise and fall of his chest, the way his hand hovers over your thigh, needing permission to touch. “I’m sorry,” he finally says, voice raw and unsteady. “I’m so fucking sorry, I know I was awful. I didn’t want to hurt you, I just—I was scared. I was losing it, feeling everything get so fucking big, and I didn’t know how to handle it. Every time I looked at you, I wanted more. I wanted everything. And that scared the shit out of me. I thought if I kept my distance, if I acted like I didn’t care, maybe it would go away, maybe I could handle it. But I can’t. I couldn’t. You’re everywhere. You’re in everything I do. I didn’t talk to you because I didn’t know how to say any of this. I kept thinking I’d ruin us, that you’d leave if you really knew how much you mean to me. That you’d see how fucked up I am about you and run.”

Mark’s hand tightens around yours, thumb tracing desperate circles, his voice rough and ragged. “What I felt after that night scared me more than anything,” he admits, searching your face, shame flickering behind every word. “Making love to you—it wasn’t just sex, it was everything, it was all the shit I’ve been trying not to feel for years. I woke up and realized I couldn’t go back. I didn’t want to ruin us—I thought if I stayed, if I let myself be close, I’d mess it up and lose you for good. I was terrified that I’d break what we had, that I’d be too much, that you’d wake up and see I was never enough for you. So I panicked. I thought maybe if I acted like it was nothing, if I kept my distance, we could keep our friendship, keep something, even if it meant losing the part of you I wanted most. I’m sorry I hurt you. I just—I didn’t know how to handle what I felt.”

Mark exhales, thumb brushing the tear tracks on your cheeks like he can erase them molecule by molecule, and when he speaks his voice trembles with the weight of every unsent text, every middle-of-the-night thought he tries to bury. “I woke up that morning, sunlight spilling over your back, and it hit me so hard I couldn’t breathe, how right it felt, how badly I wanted to wake up beside you a thousand more times. And I panicked, because you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, the only thing I’ve never wanted to risk. I lay there counting all the ridiculous little ways you already owned me: the extra blanket you leave folded on the couch because you know I run cold, the way you steal my hoodies but always wash them with that lavender detergent so they still smell like home, the playlist you made for my 3-a.m. study nights and updated every semester without telling me. I thought about freshman year when you dragged me to the ER at 2 a.m. because I’d sliced my hand cooking ramen, and you sat on the hospital floor making stupid puns to keep me from passing out. I thought about sophomore winter when you lost your voice for a week and still showed up to my recital with a sign that said you’re doing amazing, Mark,’ shaking it like a lunatic. Every single memory said the same thing: I love you.”

“And that terrified me. All my life, people leave when I get too intense, when the fun slips and the real stuff shows. I kept thinking if I stayed in that bed, if I let the morning happen, coffee with you in my shirt, your laugh in my kitchen, my heart on my sleeve, you’d see how deep it goes and decide it’s too much. So I did the only cowardly thing I know: I ran. I tried to file the night away under ‘good memories,’ like it was a photo I could tuck in a drawer and visit when it hurt less. But then I saw you in the kitchen that first morning after, trying to pretend you were fine while I pretended I didn’t notice the way your hands shook around your mug, and it wrecked me. Ghosting you was never about not caring; it was about caring so violently I didn’t know how to hold it without crushing it—or you. I thought space would protect us. Instead it hollowed me out. Every song on the radio was you, every stupid campus rumor about who you were dating felt like a blade. I’d walk past the laundry room and see my hoodie missing, and I’d have to bite my tongue to keep from begging you to come home.

“I love you,” he repeats, the words fragile and fierce all at once, “because you’re the pulse under every quiet moment of my day. Because even when I tried to forget you, everything I did was a map back to you. I love you for the way you correct people’s pronouns without making it a spectacle, for the way you hum off-key in the grocery store, for the way you mouth ‘you’ve got this’ before every exam even when you’re the one who studied all night. I love you when you’re brave and when you’re scared, when you’re gentle and when you’re spitting mad. I love you because you make me want to write better songs, be a better friend, take better care of myself, just so I can be worthy of standing next to you.” He cups the back of your neck, forehead resting against yours, breath warm and trembling. “So yeah, I left that morning, but every step away from you felt wrong. I’m done running. If you’ll let me, I’ll spend every morning for the rest of my life proving I’m not going anywhere again.”

There’s a riot swelling behind you—Chaewon’s shriek, Jeno’s wolf-whistle, Jaemin’s howl, Donghyuck’s palms beating a slow, mocking clap that rolls through the room and ripples into a hundred shouts and laughter—but none of it touches you. You’re gone, lost in the heat and hunger of Mark’s mouth on yours, the taste of relief and apology and every unsaid word. His hands cradle your face, then drop to your hips, dragging you closer, crushing you into his chest until you feel your heart slamming against his, the world tilting on its axis. He kisses you like he’s starving, like he can’t believe you’re real, his lips bruising and soft, teeth biting, tongue sliding into your mouth and swallowing every protest. Your hands fist in his hair, pulling him down, grinding into his lap, letting yourself drown in the pressure of his hands, the way he groans when you roll your hips and press your body hard to his.

You’re half on his lap, breathless and dizzy, the room blurring into nothing but the urgent, frantic slide of mouths and hands. He breaks the kiss only long enough to rasp, “Come here,” and then he’s standing, hands gripping under your thighs, lifting you like you weigh nothing, carrying you through the crowd. The cheers fade, replaced by the thud of your pulse, your legs wrapped around his waist, fingers twisted tight in the collar of his shirt. Mark shoulders through the hallway, head bent to yours, lips never far from your skin. He finds the nearest empty bathroom, fumbles the lock behind you, and sets you down on the counter—his hands greedy, his eyes wild, the taste of you still on his lips. For the first time in weeks, you’re both exactly where you belong, nothing between you but heat and want and every promise you couldn’t say until now.

Mark’s hands don’t waste a second, skimming up your thighs, rough and sure, hiking your dress over your hips with a greed that makes your breath catch, his knuckles scraping your skin. He nudges your knees wider, dropping to his knees in front of you right there on the counter, the door barely locked, your body trembling from the rush. He palms your thighs, spreads you so wide the cool tile bites at your skin, and dips his head between your legs like he’s been starved for years, tongue flat and hot and immediate, licking a stripe up your slit, groaning at the taste. “Fuck, you’re already soaked for me,” he mutters, lips sliding against you, voice guttural and low, hands bruising your hips as he holds you in place, refusing to let you squirm away.

You arch into him, moaning loud, the sound ricocheting off the tiled walls, your hands flying to his hair, tugging hard, but he only groans, tongue pushing deeper, lapping at your clit, circles slow then fast, relentless and hungry. “Open up for me,” he growls, “Let me see how much you missed me.” Your legs shake, thighs clamping around his head, but he just grins against your cunt, hands splayed possessive on your stomach, holding you still as he devours you, tongue fucking you, nose bumping your clit until you’re a mess, already dripping down his chin. He spits on you, rubs it in with two fingers, tongue flicking vicious and quick, making you gasp, begging, “Please, Mark, please—don’t stop, fuck, don’t you dare stop.”

He eats you like he’s drowning, like you’re the only air in the world. “Taste so fucking good, baby,” he pants, pulling back just enough to watch your slick pool, then leans in again, sucking your clit into his mouth, humming deep in his chest until you’re nearly sobbing. You grip the edge of the counter, back arching, one heel slipping, toes curling as you grind against his face, chasing every filthy, wet sound, lost in the feel of his tongue, his lips, his teeth. He fucks two fingers into you, crooking them just right, curling deep, fucking you open, stretching you out for his cock. “That’s it, take it, all of it—let me ruin you, let me make you come for me.”

Your orgasm hits fast and mean, pleasure flooding your veins, your thighs clamped so tight around his head he groans, nose buried in your cunt as you cry out, body shaking. He rides it out, keeps licking, doesn’t let up until you’re twitching and oversensitive, begging for mercy, tears slipping down your cheeks from how much you need him, how badly you’ve missed him. He finally pulls back, mouth glistening, licking his lips, wiping his chin with the back of his hand, eyes blazing. “So fucking perfect, look at you, ruined just for me,” he whispers, voice raw, fingers still buried inside you, pressing against that spot until your whole body jerks with aftershocks.

He stands, kissing you hard, making you taste yourself on his tongue, groaning when you bite his lip, fingers fisted in his shirt. He grabs you by the waist, flips you around, bends you over the counter, your cheek pressed to the cool marble, ass bared to him, dress pushed up around your ribs. He drags his cock against your slick folds, teasing, rubbing the head through your mess, groaning at the heat, the slide. “Beg for it,” he murmurs, one hand gripping your hair, yanking your head up so you meet his eyes in the foggy mirror. “Tell me how much you want it.”

You whine, voice wrecked, desperate, “Please, Mark, I need you, fuck me, I need you inside me, want you to fill me up, want everyone to know I’m yours—please, don’t tease, just give it to me.” 

He laughs, mean and soft, lining himself up and slamming into you in one hard, smooth thrust, filling you so deep you cry out, clawing at the counter for purchase. “That’s it, baby, take it, take every inch, fuck, you feel so good—so fucking tight, so fucking wet for me,” he growls, hips snapping, his cock drilling into you over and over, the slap of skin echoing through the bathroom, filth pouring from his mouth as he ruts into you, unrelenting, desperate.

He grabs your hips, pulling you back to meet every thrust, the pace brutal, your breath fogging the glass, your tits pressed flat to the marble, moans bouncing off the walls. “Look at yourself,” he pants, one hand gripping your throat, thumb pressed to your pulse, making you stare at the reflection—your eyes wild, mouth open, cheeks streaked with tears and pleasure. “See how pretty you look getting fucked stupid? See how much you love my cock?” He slaps your ass, watches the red bloom, then soothes the sting with his palm, bending over to mouth at your shoulder, biting down until you gasp, your body shuddering under him.

He slows just to torture you, rolling his hips, dragging his cock out until you whimper, then slamming back in, hard enough to make you scream. “Say it,” he demands, voice wrecked. “Say you’re mine. Say nobody else gets this, nobody else makes you come like this.” 

You sob it out, voice raw: “I’m yours, only yours, fuck, nobody else, please, Mark, harder, I need it, need you, want you to fill me up—” He groans, hips stuttering, hand moving from your throat to your clit, rubbing furious circles, pushing you right to the edge. “Come for me again,” he pants, “Want to feel you squeeze me, want you to milk my cock while I fill you up.”

Your orgasm rips through you, every muscle locked, cunt spasming around him as you scream his name, stars bursting behind your eyes, whole body shaking. He follows, cock throbbing, slamming deep, hips jerking as he spills inside you, flooding you, holding you down so you can’t escape, both of you shaking, breathless, ruined. He stays buried in you, kissing your neck, murmuring every filthy, tender thing he never said, hands roaming your body, worshipping every inch like you’re the only prayer he’s ever known.

When he finally pulls out, your legs wobble, his cum dripping down your thighs, both of you grinning, wrecked and shining, skin sticky with sweat and spit and love. He pulls you upright, spins you around, kisses you slow, hands gentle now, holding your face, thumb brushing your jaw as he whispers, “Mine. Always.” He helps you fix your dress, smoothing your hair, still pressed close, foreheads touching, eyes locked, letting you breathe in the softness after the storm.

You stare at each other, hearts pounding, laughter bubbling up as you realize the party is still raging just outside, your world forever changed behind a locked door. He kisses you again, soft and slow, then grabs your hand, fingers lacing tight. “Let’s go make them all jealous,” he grins, wicked and soft, pulling you back into the night, your body humming, every inch of you branded by him. For once, there’s no question, no fear—just the wild, aching certainty that what’s yours will always find you, no matter how hard the world tries to tear it away.

author’s note

now, if you made it this far, i’d love it if you left me a comment, reblog, or even a like. i read every single one and they mean so much to me—it’s genuinely the best way to let me know what moved you, what you loved, or even what broke your heart. writing is a little lonely sometimes, it always takes me restless nights, and hearing from you makes it all feel worthwhile, like sharing a secret or lighting a candle for these characters. so don’t be shy! every little note is treasured and makes me want to keep going. thank you for reading, and for loving these messy, magical people with me. <3

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[solecize]

thank you guys!! 🥹

ᐟ.⭑ THE CELEBRATION COLUMN ⭑.ᐟ

Today, K-Vanity Magazine would like to reserve this section to highlight one of our members. Before we continue any further, we’d like to wish the ever so talented and amazing Juju @solecize a very Happy Birthday!! May your day be filled with joy and positivity.

—K-Vanity Staff

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[solecize]

i turn 23 in less than an hour and all i can feel is grief 🫩

[solecize]

six degrees of yearning

pairing: yoongi x reader

wordcount: 10k

glimpse: you're associated to yoongi through six different connections, and you're just hoping that he loves you back in atleast one.

alternatively, you believe in the six degrees of separation, and yoongi's just kind of sick of always coincidentally seeing you.

[ fluff, angst, mutual pining except yoongi's avoidant so He's An Ass At First, initial unrequited love, jealousy, not really a soulmate au (but looks like it w the way yoongi crashes out every time u ignore him (except u are jus reciprocating what he'd normally do!!), reverse cards aka the turns have tabled yippeeee, redemption ]

notes: now #that it think abt it, this is a relatively light fic amongst ALLLLL my yoongis (both tumblr n patreon)!! enjoy :P

as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!!

Yoongi doesn’t believe in connections.

He neither believes the power and the convenience of the supposed connections he has, not because he worries about the ethical parameters of pulling some strings (he literally could not care less if someone talks shit behind his back), but because Yoongi’s never found any real use for them.

His dad says that he has a friend who works as the head of security in the newly-opened outlet mall in the city, and unless Yoongi’s planning on shoplifting a pair of authentic, luxury cargo shorts (that’s in either a hideous color or has an outrageous factory defect like the zipper being stitched on backwards), he’s not really scrambling at the offer, if it even sounds like one to his dad, with his hands outstretched for the car keys.

Yoongi has also heard from his mom that she has a second cousin who’s a dean in this one university that’s hard to get into. Nevermind the fact that the department she’s heading has something to do with numeracy (and the other glaring fact that Yoongi has to whip out a calculator to make sure he knows what he’s doing with the numbers on the microwave) — his aversion towards even considering the offer of being directly enrolled stems from the fact that the said uni is literally hard to get into because the building’s two hundred years old and he doesn’t want to give himself the stress of having to talk to the walls.

It’s not to say exactly that Yoongi’s turning his back on the entirety of connections his family has and the opportunities they could offer. He’s not saying never to the chance of being able to enter a flagship frozen yogurt store three hours away from his house, thirty minutes early (he doesn’t even know for what reason) or shaking his head at the prospect of one day renting a comically large bounce house and rock wall bundle for a party free of charge.

It’s just that Yoongi has no will to exercise his connections, nor believe in them in the first place, because there’s not one that’s ever really benefitted him yet.

It’s to your understanding, however, that Yoongi’s your mom’s best friend’s son, and that fact alone makes you believe in the sheer beauty and providence of having connections.

The first time your mom’s best friend’s son, Min Yoongi, properly interacts with you— outside of seeing him in passing during compulsory family photos in reunions (where you had to take over for your mom multiple times in taking pictures because she just does not seem to ever grasp the concept of taking a photo without her thumb on the way) and video calls between your moms (where the two of you had no choice but to take over because they just kept making the mistake of calling the wrong people) — is at your family’s dinner table.

Yoongi thinks your family’s a hoot to be with, really, even with the way your dad’s dry sense of humor is rubbing off on his own and the way the wallpaper in their bathroom just keeps changing with every Pinterest board your mom could conjure. 

He doesn’t mind that much; he doesn’t mind the closeness nor the rapidly growing amounts of teasing, because although Yoongi’s always known that you and him basically grew up together without being around each other that much at all, he figures that it’s harmless.

It’s harmless for the both of you to know far too much about each other without having even been left together alone in a room, because he figures that it’s just what moms do. It’s harmless for your moms to keep telling the other random details about their lives and their children specifically, because while you know that Yoongi had once mistyped 40 seconds for 4 minutes in the microwave and almost gave their kitchen a very, very bad day, you don’t know if his eyelashes are short or how many piercings he has on each ear.

Now that Yoongi’s here though, right next to you at your family’s dinner table, because your parents are engaged in a heated debate about whether carrots are better eaten in their original or in their miniature form and you’re the only children here for this, you realize three things.

First, Yoongi’s lashes are long and dense that point downwards, and second, is that he has two piercings on each ear.

Third, is that you thank every auspicious thread in your life because Yoongi happens to be your mom’s best friend’s son, and you’ve never seen someone so charming and enigmatic up close. 

 "You could feed them to the dog so it's not as obvious," he leans down to whisper, eyes pointedly lingering at the way you’ve basically scooted all of your vegetables to the side.

"We don't have a dog," you mutter defeatedly, voice fading to a chuckle when you look up and realize that he’s too close; like he’s too familiar with you to the point that he doesn’t see any issue in having his face just inches away from you in attempt to be discreet, when really, it would take an earthquake and a half to even pull your parents out of their debate.

“You don't?" he tilts his head, scrunching his nose in confusion. "Why's there a collar and a leash in your coat rack then?"

"Because I thought buying them would pressure my parents into letting me adopt one.”

Yoongi chuckles softly, the amused smile that settles on his face making you blink once, twice, the weight of his lazy, comfortable expression almost distracting you from the way his hand moves to your plate.

"Here. That's my share," he nudges his head to your vegetables, chewing and swallowing the noticeable dent he had made on your plate without even flinching. “Rest is yours."

"But it tastes horrible," you frown. "You only want it because you're from a granola household," you murmur, the slip of your tongue making you purse your lips immediately. "No offense. Love your mom, by the way."

"What kind of example would I be if I don't force you to eat your veggies?" Yoongi rolls his eyes, resting his cheek on his palm with an almost bored (and slightly entertained, you hope) look to his face.

You should be grateful that he even considered helping you out, but it just doesn’t hit you yet. You don’t want to count your blessings immediately because Yoongi doesn’t look like he’s going to stop being gratuitous anytime soon.

Almost as if you don’t see him leaving your thread of connections within the future.

"Fine. Just one more spoonful,” he yields, mistaking the wistful, dazed, and slightly unhinged expression behind your eyes (you wonder if Yoongi knows about the sidewalk rule, or what side of the bed does he sleep on, and whether or not he’s the type to jump to your family plan or the other way around) for genuine distraught over him not helping you.

You can’t help but feel a little too fulfilled; a little too prideful of being connected to Yoongi, who’d clear the mountain of vegetables on your plate when your mom’s in a crazy, nutty health kick, even if you’ve never gotten the opportunity growing up to ask him what flavor of scented erasers he liked nibbling on or when his first kiss was.

You like Yoongi.

You like him and his ginger hair and the undercut that’s working really well for him, even more than your older sister’s best friend’s cousin who sells imported factory overruns of your favorite jeans (read: the Japanese selvedge denim that you’d never tell anyone where you got it from when they react to your pictures).

You like him and his habit of chewing on nothing when your conversation dwindles and you’re still racking your brain for tangents to continue it, even more than your uncle’s ex-wife’s (who always had you as her favorite) new husband’s food truck that sells your favorite baked potatoes.

You know you would like Yoongi, whether or not he’s your mom’s best friend’s son — it’s that simple.

It’s not so simple, however, when he lingers by the edge of the living room when he hears the telltale patter of your parents ramping up to say their goodbyes, right after decimating each other’s Letterboxd reviews. You didn’t want him to go just yet; you wanted to hear more of his stupid opinions and see his stupidly handsome face even longer.

"You know, it wouldn't be so bad if you just bring home a dog and then ask for permission later," he hums. ”It's not like they can do anything about it."

"And have me and the dog brought back to the shelter?"

"I can convince my mom to have your mom go easy on you," Yoongi shrugs.

"But she's a cat person and mom's just— she's a person, alright. She doesn't even want to have a pet fish."

"Who do you think made her a cat person?" Yoongi snorts, slightly struggling to put his coat on which makes you have the knee-jerk reaction of scrambling to help him, the sincerity (and almost rabid eagerness) of your hands making his eyes widen momentarily. ”I brought in a stray, then she made me sleep out in the porch for a night, but now? She literally cradles Miso to sleep."

It should just be another tidbit about Yoongi that you’re supposed to forget.

It should just be another seemingly insignificant nugget of information that would awe you, but never endear you to the point that you find yourself thinking about him and your red thread (one that you keep tugging on telepathically because although you exchanged numbers and socials, he’s not doing… anything) — something that wouldn’t keep you up at night.

Yoongi and his horrible, godforsaken influence don’t leave you at all.

Yoongi, your mom’s best friend’s son, and the stupid, detailed facts you know about him linger in your system like a red thread stands out on the pink linen runner in your family’s dining table.

You text Yoongi, late in the night, just once, with a picture of a comically large, skrunkly, and funky-looking dog on your lap, whom you could finally call your own.

her name’s veggie :]

Yoongi sends just one text back in the morning, attached with a picture of Miso sprawled out, sleeping on his shoulder with remnants of cardboard in her mouth. 

yippee!!!!!!!

( ♡ ) 

Yoongi’s your ear seeding guy’s roommate. 

Jin who’s not really a licensed auriculotherapist, but who’s your age and Just Happens to be fond of sticking little tiny beads on his ears and his clients (three including you and himself), doesn’t have an actual shop he could call his own yet.

To have one, it would mean he actually needs to get a certification for what he’s doing instead of practicing his self-taught degree from Reddit University, with his esteemed professors being his grandparents, his parents on a good day (when they’re not being undermined by their parents), and some person aliased Jay M. Rings on Etsy who not only sells him his equipment, but keeps answering his questions.

More importantly, Jin (whom you only knew of because he was sat next to you in the library and flicked your conch when he heard your stomach audibly grumble) would need to rent out a place that would bleed him dry, assuming nobody would pay the ideal 400% upcharge to your existing payment so he could keep the spot.

It doesn’t bother you at all that Jin keeps the ear beads next to the orange juice in his fridge. It doesn’t make your brows draw knowing that he forgets to ask you atleast 75% of the time what you were in for before he starts working. It doesn’t even perplex you when you hear Jin hum for two solid minutes right after you ask him what could possibly happen to you if said beads were to fall right into your ear canal.

The only singular time that Jin, your uncertified but family-trained auriculotherapist, actually makes you perk up into attention is when he leaves you momentarily in the living room of his shared dorm, muttering how you might see his roommate but you’ve got nothing to worry about because “he could be an ass sometimes, but he’s polite to strangers” — is that he’s never really told you that he lives with Yoongi.

Jin, bless his heart, who had no reason to ever assume that you know Yoongi in the first place, was right to leave you momentarily in the presence of his friend who’s just as confused to see you sitting on his stool in the counter.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he mutters, the supposed playful thrum of his voice sounding far too real towards the end.

Yoongi’s not even dressed for class or work by the looks of it. Instead, he looks every bit the other paying half of the dorm you’re in. From his ginger hair that’s toned down and a little longer than the last time you saw him (read: it’s much longer judging by his roots, but you can’t even think about that right now), all the way to how his sleep shirt features the silhouette of an actor for a superhero that’s long been cancelled before, you have no doubt that it’s your mom’s best friend’s son staring you down.

“Yoongi,” you smile, voice a little breathless despite having done nothing at all prior to seeing him in the flesh. “Why are you here?” you ask, the lump in your throat making it impossibly discreet that you’ve long connected the dots even before you could utter a response to him.

“I live here,” he snorts, running a hand through his hair in an attempt to make himself look a little more presentable (but not that he cares or anything). “Are you here… for me?”

You have no doubt that it’s your ear seeding guy’s roommate who’s making your brain fuzzy.

“I want to say so,” you chuckle, nibbling on your bottom lip. “But I don’t think you do ear seeding like your roommate does.”

“You know that Jin only has three patients right? Me, himself, and I don’t know who the third one is, but he told me that it’s his first client ever.”

“That would be me.”

“Oh,” Yoongi deadpans, narrowing his eyes. “You know he’s not certified, right?”

“I know,” you nod, trailing off as you look down at the floor to try and not to look like an utter fool in front of Yoongi who looks way too lax about your unexpected meeting. “And he doesn’t even charge that much for someone who can’t legally do this, but am I crazy?” you murmur, fading into a whisper as Yoongi stalks towards you on the counter, working around your figure as he fishes for the orange juice. “Am I crazy for feeling that Jin… makes it work?”

“I’ve been in denial about it for as long as I could, if that helps,” Yoongi whispers back, surprisingly not weirded out with the way your voice had dropped as he gives you your own glass wordlessly. “I pay him to do it, but I don’t want it to get into his head that he might actually be onto something.”

“Right? I think it’s a-…”

“What are we whispering about?” 

Jin comes out of nowhere and you practically jump out of your skin at his interruption, your ass just seconds away from dropping to the floor if not for the very glaring realization that Yoongi’s here; that your body’s split-second response could possibly dictate your entire future with Yoongi, and that your embarrassment would seal the horrid fate of both your threads.

“You guys know each other or something?”

“Sort of,” Yoongi answers for the both of you, looking at you with his eyes thinking out loud as he ignores Jin’s muttering of why he wasn’t poured a glass of orange juice. “Y/N’s my… mom’s best friend’s daughter.”

“Yeah,” you affirm, testing the words on your tongue. “And Yoongi’s… my friend?”

He only shrugs.

“That works too.”

It could and it would work for you, because the way Yoongi lingers around you as Jin works on your ears gives you a different type of constipation that not one cold, tiny bead could fix.

It should work for you, because you’ve never been this ecstatic over incidental connections in your lifetime; not when you learned that you can get 20% off your breakfast muffin orders from this famous joint in the city because your great-grandpa was the first cashier for it maybe a hundred years ago (you do not have a grasp on time past your parents’ ages), nor when you found out that the librarian is the stepmom of the kid you used to babysit and she’d let you bring home anything you want.

“Stop talking to Y/N, Yoongi,” Jin grumbles at some point, exhaling more pointedly than usual when he doesn’t get to stick the bead at the exact pressure point that he needed to. “Her ears are too warm right now.”

“No, they’re not,” you immediately retort, the sharp flit of your gaze to him making him mockingly curl his upper lip at you, rolling his eyes at your denial.

It must work for you, because even Jin, your ear seeding guy, could tell that whatever crush or admiration you have for Yoongi would be devastating — it’d be only endearing, if and only if, it was requited.

Yoongi texts you sometime in the evening, a few too many hours later after you left his apartment. You weren’t necessarily expecting for him to holler at you by the doorframe, asking you to give him a call to let him know you made it back safe; Yoongi didn’t require that of you, and it should be okay.

You’re only friends. 

You’re only a friend who unknowingly drank from his favorite, always-washed-and-dried mug, and he’s only a friend who had texted you at 8 in the evening with a picture of Miso on his mom’s lap 

one time i woke up with two less beads on my ear and i never questioned it

You’re only a friend who rapid-fire texts your dad for a picture of Veggie just to immediately reply to Yoongi, even if said image you receive is a live photo of her snoring with the flash going off on her snout.

there would be No Answers either :D

( ♡ ) 

Yoongi’s your little brother’s dentist’s godson. 

In an attempt at self-preservation (read: working a job wherein he doesn’t feel the need to brawl when faced with a customer with a phone whipped out), Yoongi finally relents to trying one of his connections over the break.

It’s fairly easy, really. He doesn’t have to spend his day looking down on other people’s mouths nor hold the suction for the dentist on duty or anything at all; Yoongi’s not exactly making bank, but all he has to do is be a pretty face in the reception area, schedule appointments here and there, type out a few Excel sheets, and his godmother swears that’s it.

You only wish those were the actual things in his job description, because as soon as you walk in through the double doors, you convince yourself through hell and back that Yoongi’s here for every other reason besides working his summer job.

You wait for the other shoe to drop, for him to telepathically communicate to you (without even making eye contact), that he’s been significantly older than you all this time and that he has a DMD degree and he’s only been humoring you during all your previous interactions, and all the aforementioned is a nudge to letting you down slowly.

You wait for it to hit you that perhaps it’s not really Yoongi-Yoongi whose side profile is facing you, but instead some random guy that has one of those faces, while your little brother waits for you to resume functioning again.

He’s dressed in scrubs, but Yoongi has one of those faces which you could tell have never worn scrubs before. It doesn’t look natural in his frame with the way he looks too foreign and polished in them, almost as if he’s never even stretched upward to pick up something from a cupboard or twisted his arms laterally to get rid of the aches in them. 

Yoongi looks like he doesn’t belong in the dentist’s office thirty minutes away from your childhood home, until he blurts out your name in equal confusion.

"Y/N?" he tilts his head, the unsure tone that coats his words making you snap into attention, walking towards him with a renewed purpose in your steps. “What are you... doing here?"

"I'm here to hold his hand," you answer as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, waving your occupied hand proudly (when just awhile ago you were complaining how clammy your brother’s hand was) with a hesitant smile. "What are you doing here?"

Yoongi’s lips part in astonishment, almost as if he didn’t count on you returning the question to him. He loosely points to the framed picture of the dentist behind him, the chuckle that leaves him making you nod eagerly even before the words could leave him, making it painfully obvious that you already connected the dots to some sort of degree, but you still want to hear him speak nonetheless.

"She's uh, she's my godmom and I'm putting in some hours.”

"Are you getting paid?" you blurt out, eyes later widening when it registers to you that your desperation to keep your conversation going knows no bounds as long as it involves Yoongi, making you swallow your own shame with a cough. “Sorry. I'm just a little nosy.”

Yoongi clears his throat at that, pursing his lips in genuine thought at the (valid) question. ”Uhm, not exactly, I think? I get handed money at the end of the day but really, it's not-..."

You wanted nothing more than to retract your question even before Yoongi could muster finishing his train of thought.

You wanted nothing more than the ground to swallow you whole when Yoongi can’t even finish answering your question, to which you already seemingly crossed a line with, because he’s preoccupied.

Yoongi’s not preoccupied with the way your brother’s started drifting away from you, even with his hand still clasped to yours, except this time he’s treading closer to the reception desk where he stands in, body language glaringly evident that if you were to even loosen your hold on him for a split second, he’ll hide behind Yoongi’s feet to avoid getting his routine cleaning.

He’s not distracted either with the way you keep blinking up at him as if you were communicating your admiration for him in Morse code, nor with the way your lips are still parted with the next awaiting conversation greaser if he were to stall.

Yoongi does stall, not because of you, but because of the woman that strolls into the clinic and past him, her manicured hand grazing past his midsection in the process.

"Hi, Yoongs.”

"Hey, Jisun,” Yoongi immediately replies with a sheepish smile, his hand buffering by his side to return the touch with a gentle pat as his eyes follow her, the flustered lump on his throat making him cough sharply.

Oh.

It’s not Yoongi who doesn’t belong here — it’s you.

"It's more for the experience, then? Not the pay?" you try to finish his thought for him, your voice on the verge of fading if not for the little drops of self-preservation in your throat that keep you standing upright.

Yoongi doesn’t look embarrassed over you seeing the interaction unfold, and he’s not uneasy either. He just looks sheepish… almost pitiful that you had to see something so unnervingly warm and intimate without even meaning to.

“That's one way to put it."

Without another word, you nod firmly and he takes that as his signal to actually do his job.

Without another glance, you do your job and hold your little brother’s hand throughout his appointment, steeling your nerves every time you hear the door to his room open because it would be pointless to look back. There’s no way it’s Yoongi finding an apt reason to linger near you, and there’s no way either for you to come back for conjuring such an expectation.

Yoongi rings you up with no discounts (he's not sure if he's even allowed to) yet he leans in just enough to ruffle your brother’s hair, gaze fixed on him before it flits to you briefly.

"Good job, buddy. Go pester your sister for some ice cream,” he hums, the almost-customary, dry-humored, and slightly playful goodbye rekindling a little bit of hope in you, enough to make you look up from your shoes without worrying if you have to see Yoongi’s midsection grazed by a hand that isn’t yours, again. ”Say hi to Veggie for me."

You nod tightly in obligation.

"I hope Miso's well."

( ♡ ) 

Yoongi’s sister is the amateur hairdresser who gave you a bad haircut for free in cosmetology school.

For the record, you weren’t searching up Yoongi’s family name and making up a family tree as you went in order to find ways to be closer to him. That wasn’t the case at all.

The only pressing situation you had last night on-hand was that your mind was plagued with the saying that hair apparently holds memories, and after a few barely-passing major exams here and there that hours of doom-scrolling and back-to-back partying couldn’t fix, and you decided then and there that you’d get a haircut first thing in the morning.

Your budget wasn’t that of a pressing issue (it’s no match to the marks on your university portal you could only blankly stare at), but it’s truly up there. You couldn’t afford to go to your usual salon, which although may not be the most expensive salon there is in the city (but they did serve iced drinks in-house so that atleast counts for something), would still set you back a few good meals throughout the next two weeks if you were to book an appointment.

You had no choice but to suck it up. You wanted change and you wanted it quick for a fraction of the usual cost, and that’s why you ended up in the cosmetology school just a few blocks away from your dorm. You only knew five minutes prior to walking there, thanks to a classmate, that they offer services for cheap and that most of the time they end up being actually really good, and you didn’t need to hear any more after that.

In hindsight, however, you should’ve stuck around to hear more.

You should’ve stuck around to hear that getting A+ (maybe even C-) treatment at a cosmetology school is basically entering the lottery, and that you shouldn’t have had a perk in your step walking to there because a higher power, whether it’s up in heaven or just a few blocks away, would mistake it for you being too confident in what you thought you deserved.

You didn’t think too much about the way the woman named Eunji, who happily sat you on her chair with a nervous smile and familiar eyes, kept glancing to the back of your head and to the reference picture on your phone.

You didn’t think too much when she engaged you in conversation and something about the way she laughed made you squint your eyes as you rack your brain on why she both looks and sounds familiar, nor the way your hair kept getting into your eyes as she blowdried you and how she made no move in moving it the last minute.

It’s a little bit funny that the one time you didn’t think too much is the exact moment when you should have, and the whole vignette stops being funny as soon as you turn your head sideways.

The whole bit goes sideways, just like your haircut, when Yoongi walks towards your hairdresser who’s not earned her actual license yet.

"Here you go, princess," he scoffs, handing her a cup of iced coffee. "Had the time of my life explaining your order to the barista in the drive-thru booth."

Yoongi takes off his sunglasses, ready to rip her a new one and detail how he had never been more embarrassed knowing the difference between the concepts (concepts, not actualities) of white chocolate and white mocha somehow, but he suddenly stills.

He knew there was someone sitting on his sister’s chair, and he wasn’t really bothered lecturing her in front of a stranger.

Except you’re not a stranger — you’re you, sat on Eunji’s chair, and you’ve physically never looked this unrecognizable to him.

"Y/N?" Yoongi mutters, unwilling to even wait for your acknowledgement before he snaps his heads towards his sister. “Why's she in your chair?"

"Being supportive," you answer clippedly, only looking at Yoongi’s reflection in the mirror instead of the very real, and very solid him beside you so you wouldn’t have to turn your head and see your haircut in a whole new sense. "Also saving my allowance and I needed to get a trim, so I-I figured... why not go to Eunji?"

Yoongi doesn’t want to beat a horse when it’s down.

He really, really doesn’t want to laugh at you, but with the way you’re blinking at him like you’re held at gunpoint (except the gun is his sister’s shears), he can’t help but put a hand over his mouth.

He’s not laughing, but he is smiling. Yoongi’s thoroughly amused and deeply pitiful for you all at the same time, and he doesn’t know how his smile figures into the scheme of your haircut just yet.

"I could think of a few reasons."

"What do you think?" Eunji cuts in, asking with a nerve-wracking grin on her face with her hands clasped together, the watery gaze she has set on you tugging at your heartstrings in a much different way than when she had tugged at your ends.

"I love it," you answer breathlessly, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes as you try to ignore how much length has been cut off and how the layers she gave you are more of an emotional, haircut-related crashout kind. “Oh my god, I love it so, so, so bad."

Eunji breathes a deep sigh of relief at that, her shoulder sagging before she picks herself up and gives you a hug from behind, dashing off to get her camera from her locker instead of her supervisor.

You love the Min family.

You love their warmth and their constant presence, no matter how incidental or fixed.

You’re trying to love the existing skills of their third-born, however, but you can’t tell if your love is that unconditional for a family that’s always treated you like their own.

"Do you need a hat?" Yoongi asks, his upper lip tucked in between his teeth as he continues to stand behind you. "You look like you need a hat."

"N-no. I really, really..." you hesitate, your exhale far too slow for someone who’s genuine, but far too stable for someone who’s pretending to keep it together. "...love the change."

Yoongi gets a full-body shudder.

"I don't," he quips. "I don't think anyone but Eunji would love it."

"Yoongi.”

It’s simple. 

It’s just a simple utterance of his name and yet Yoongi stops cold in his tracks. He reels back the emotion that’s clear on his face, and he lets go of the money he has crumpled in his fists inside his pockets for you to get another haircut at a salon you actually want to go to, because he doesn’t want you to mistake his genuine pity for you as patronization.

You’re on the verge of crying, but Yoongi doesn't wipe your tears. Instead, he just hovers; he’s still there, whether you like it or not, and he could only hope that his striking resemblance to his sister doesn’t further set you off.

"You need a hat," he quietly murmurs, removing his cap from his head and putting it on yours seamlessly. "You don't have to give it back.”

Yoongi leaves it at that, watching you walk out with gas as soon as Eunji finishes taking photos of your hair, before turning his attention to his sister. Her coffee order isn’t the biggest issue they have for the day, instead, it’s her shitty hairdressing skills and how you’re far too kind.

It’s close to midnight, right after you reschedule your ear seeding appointment with Jin for another day because you couldn’t bear seeing anyone with your fuckass haircut (he unfortunately doesn’t know any pressure points that would make your hair grow back longer, and he did research on that after being suspiciously silent when you sent him a picture of your hair), when Yoongi texts you.

He doesn’t talk about The Incident. He doesn’t apologize and go on a rant about how he could’ve reacted better awhile ago.

He just sends a picture of his cat sleeping snugly in a Dutch oven that he got from a blind box and drove to another city for.

sometimes miso throws up orange fur she is white btw

You reply not a minute later before locking your phone.

good night miso

( ♡ ) 

Yoongi’s your best friend’s best friend other than you.

You’re not one to gatekeep. In fact, you’re the number one hater for every creator who washes up in your feed and suggests for you to go manually type up and search a link or press another button to know the follow-up to the already lengthy, chatty video you already watched.

You know you’re not privy to most things; you’re not even privy to anything at all.

It’s not a conundrum with a tight space for it to be debated upon; it’s just the truth. 

The very idea of everyone in the world being connected to each other within six degrees of separation was shaky in itself. If you were asked to, you can’t exactly place the most far-fetched celebrity in the media and trace back the six or less people that would serve as the bridge for you to be acquainted to them. 

You believe, both in a pipe dream and the innate hope you harbor, that you can be connected to said celebrity or anyone just as significant (maybe even notorious), yet it’s the semantics of trying to pinpoint your exact link that you can’t be bothered to do so in your free time. You’re in no rush to discern how many degrees separated you are from the mayor of the city, and you’re not jumping at the opportunity to know how many handshakes away you are from the executive producer of your favorite show.

You believe in fortuity. You believe in the hope that contingency promises and how ridiculous your current chances could be. You believe in select customs when they serve you and you put your hands together to ward off what don’t. You take what resonates with you, even if your belief in tomorrow comes from a long line of whatever came before you that you don’t fully believe in or if it spawns from the clench of your chest that you get when you see something scribbled in a brick wall and you decide that it’ll forever echo in your mind.

You’re not privy to the general admiration you have for Yoongi, nor are you privy to all the connections you have with him.

You believe in fortuity and you believe in Yoongi, but the two aren’t always synonymous.

"Yoongi?" you ask, the slip of his name from your mouth appearing out of habit rather than actual disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

He looks like he belongs here. He belongs here as much as you do and as much as you’ve never questioned the specifics, he looks you up and down with a discreetness that doesn’t belong in a party as big as this.

Yoongi makes Jimin’s party feel small to you. He zeroes in on you with a gaze that you can’t begin to dissect because a grunt slips past his lips before you could even explain what you were doing in the same space as him, again.

"What are you doing here?" he purses his lips, exhaling sharply. "Y/N, it's great to see a familiar face and all, but please don't stand so close to me," Yoongi grunts through his teeth as if your proximity to him physically pierces through his clothes and sears his skin. "I'm seeing this new girl and she gets a little bit-..."

"Hey."

Before you could even try to recover from the recoil of stepping away from Yoongi immediately so he could entertain her, before you could even try to nurse the harshness of his words and his gaze that penetrated your belief in him — Yoongi gives you a further light nudge in panic before backtracking, his arm now across your shoulders.

"She's my cousin, baby," Yoongi breathlessly greets, the belated addition of your name never falling to your ears because you choose not to know her; because you’re rendered frozen anyway when you realize that Yoongi introduces you as someone far more personal to him, yet someone even more distant to anyone who could see you. “Say hi, Y/N."

You can’t even be introduced as his friend.

At the back of your mind, you doubt if being introduced as one would even make a difference because the woman before you doesn’t seem the least bit interested nor intimidated at however Yoongi introduces you as.

You weren’t competition to her, nor did it feel like you were viable opposition to practically anyone in Yoongi’s life.

"Hi," you nod curtly, the clench of your jaw doing little to ease the migraine that blooms from the back of your head.

"Pleasure to meet a family member of my boyfriend, finally. He won't take me home for some reason," she jokes, her outstretched hand being taken by yours that’s gone cold, making her raise a brow, yet she takes it in stride anyway.

Anything for Yoongi’s supposed family, it seems.

"What was Yoongi like growing up?"

"Oh. Yeah, we didn't see each other that much growing up," you swallow, the shallowness of your tone making Yoongi’s casual arm around your shoulders falter, the slyness of his gaze on you curving into something unidentifiable. “Every time I see him, I still... learn something new."

Your voice tapers off, and both Yoongi and his girlfriend let you be. She only pushes for a little right after, when Yoongi’s hand is back snug to her waist and her head is pressed to his chest, yet you can’t bring yourself to add to the conversation she so badly wants.

She should know that she has no reason to impress you. She should know that she doesn’t have any reason to be afraid of letting you down, because neither does Yoongi.

Jimin, yours and Yoongi’s best friend, claps. 

“I’m back! Got in this long-ass line and-..." he trails off, looking between you and Yoongi and his girlfriend. “Oh? You've met each other then. Great!"

Her eyes only narrow in confusion for a split second, but she lets it be.

Yoongi lets it go, right after he sends a few glances your way and realizes that Jimin’s talking to you animatedly.

You only let go of it when you get home from the party far too early than anyone could account you for.

The grasp you have on fortuity is barely firm, just barely getting by, so much so that you don’t even look at your phone when it vibrates on your nightstand.

jimin’s asking where you are

The grasp you have on Yoongi is barely solid, only enough to hold onto thread instead of cloth, that you don’t reply to his text when you see it in the morning, nor bring up the very fact that it was Jimin himself who hailed a ride for you.

( ♡ ) 

Yoongi’s a familiar stranger to you. 

He’s basically a crow to you, and to him, you remain to be the pesky, overeager, and insanely optimistic human who wants to domesticate him.

He’s a highly-intelligent, unforgetting, vindictive creature. He knows patterns when he sees them but never flukes, not because he thinks he’s too good for them, but because it felt impossible.

To you, the world had never felt smaller when Yoongi first sat next to you at the dining table.

To Yoongi, the world had never felt bigger since he’s first crossed paths with you. It wasn’t the dining table for him. It wasn’t every other interaction that came after — it was everything before.

As soon as his eyes lay on you from across the floor of the reception hall, the warmth that spreads across your chest is everything but welcome. It stings and it burns and it leaves marks in its wake because it’s Yoongi and it’s you and there’s no other explanation.

There’s no other plausible, full-bodied explanation for the way Yoongi hates familiarity, other than the fact that it’s from you.

There’s no salve for his lack of need for you either.

“Are you a fucking stalker?” 

“W-what? No!” you stammer, eyebrows drawn together as you try to level with him. “This is pure coincidence. I wasn’t even trying to— all the times before either, I swear! I never intended to bump into you.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes, the scoff that leaves his lips only adding to the uncomfortable warmth that burns your fingertips.

“Say that you’re right. That every interaction, every meeting, every discreet instance of you shooting your shot at me, which by the way is not discreet at all, is just pure coincidence— do you think I’m happy about it?”

You want to correct him.

You want to point out every thread between you that’s there yet you never pulled on. You want to write his name on a piece of blank paper and map out with yarn all the degrees you’re separated from him, and yet you don’t. You can’t focus on anything with regards to proving yourself right and him wrong when all you can zero in on is the little amount of self-preservation you have left.

“But you don’t hate me, Yoongi,” you murmur, shaking your head earnestly. “You said it yourself. Y-you said it’s nice to see me and-…”

“I said that in the past but I don’t mean it now! Yes, you’re familiar, and that benefits me when I get put into situations and all I happen to know is you,” he snaps, throwing his head back. “I don’t mean it now. It’s not very nice to see you when everyone, including the girl I actually like, just assumes that we’re together because you kept looking at me!”

“B-but I don’t-…. I-I don’t do so well in new-…” the words die in your throat, the gentle yet firm tug he has on your wrist making you freeze in its inescapable warmth. It should be familiar. Yoongi should be familiar, but he feels everything besides that. “But you’re the only one I know.”

“Here. I’ll introduce you to someone and then you can hang onto him.”

Yoongi wordlessly takes you across the hall, delivering you like you’re some misplaced package that ended up on his porch. He doesn’t even look back at you despite his hand being wrapped around your wrist, whereas all you can do is burn holes at the back of his head with your gaze, ignoring the curious onlooking to your predicament as you swallow the lump in your throat.

“Hey, Jungkook,” Yoongi makes his presence known as soon as he sees the familiar mop of hair within his eyeline, his holler effectively taking said guy’s attention.

“Oh, hey-…”

Yoongi, without sparing a second glance to you, nudges you gently to him.

“This is Y/N. Someone I know. Can you watch over her for a second?”

Jungkook, the guy you’ve known for a total of two seconds, hesitantly receives you with a pat to your arm, letting his hand linger there as the both of you look at the back of Yoongi’s retreating figure.

“…okay?”

Just two seconds ago, Jungkook was in a heated one-on-one with his friend Hoseok if it was ethical for one to let their hypothetical girlfriend’s hypothetical close friend sit in the front seat, if said hypothetical girlfriend was drunk and wanted to lay in the backseat (Jungkook’s on team not let close friend sit shotgun) — now, he’s in a silent one-on-one with you.

It’s silent, of course, until you sniffle.

“Oh my god, are you alright?” Jungkook panickedly asks, fishing out a handkerchief from his pocket. “Do the tears have to do something with how weird Yoongi was two seconds ago?”

“Yeah.”

“I figured,” Jungkook, someone you’ve known for less than five minutes, rubs comforting circles on your back.

You don’t mind.

“I’m sorry. I drank from this awhile ago but I swear I didn’t spit on it or anything,” he frowns, his hand outstretched invitingly enough for you to interpret it as friendly, but distant enough for you to have the chance to be wary. “Or do you hate drinking from a stranger’s water bottle that’s already open?”

“It hasn’t happened before, but I don’t think I’ll hate-hate it,” you mumble through broken sniffles, turning your head briefly, partly to wipe away your tears, but mostly to not look like a complete idiot. “Also, you’re not a stranger.”

“Right! I’m Jungkook again, by the way. I don’t think Yoongi even said my name properly because of how fast he was dying to get out of here,” Jungkook laughs, the sincerity flowing out of him being easy. Uncomplicated.

You drift to your default silence, nursing your cries to yourself while trying not to make a sound, but it’s proven difficult when you see two large hands underneath your downturned head: one holding the water bottle, and the other cupped underneath it.

Jungkook thinks your questioning gaze is directed to the way his hands are positioned instead of his default kindness for you, and just maybe everyone else he’s ever encountered.

“Because your hands are shaking.”

He lifts the bottle to your lips, being extra careful in tilting it and having his hand tuck right under your chin to ensure that not a single speck of water would drop to the elegant dress you’re wearing (that you’ve only borrowed, unlike his assumption that you just have the number lying around).

Jungkook sheepishly excuses himself right after you tap him on the forearm to let you know you’ve had your fill, the snort that leaves his lips almost disturbing his methodical pouring of the remaining water to the bottle cap.

“Sorry. I’m a little bit thirsty myself.”

“You could just drink from your own bottle,” you find yourself genuinely laughing the first time into the night, shrugging playfully. “Just a thought.”

“But I don’t want you to think I’m a weirdo for drinking from my bottle deliberately after you drank from it,” Jungkook frowns.

“Of course,” you nod eagerly, gesturing to the live image of a man as structured as him taking tiny little sips from an even tinier bottle cap. “This isn’t any weirder at all.”

“Thank you, pretty girl,” Jungkook bows in the most regal way he could, the grin that graces his face easing the weight that Yoongi had left on your chest. “Not bad for a first impression, hm?”

.

.

.

Yoongi has a habit of mumbling.

Jimin has a habit of eavesdropping, especially when it’s Yoongi mumbling angrily to himself.

“Well that’s fucking weird.”

“What?” Jimin clarifies, furrowing his brows at the annoyance that’s plastered clearly on his friend’s face.

Yoongi doesn’t explain. He just barks at him, arms crossed on his chest as he exhales slowly.

“Go bring Y/N a bottle of water. Don’t tell her it’s from me.”

“A please would be nice,” Jimin mutters. “And no? Give it to her yourself.”

“She’s your best friend.”

“She’s your friend too.”

“She’s not,” Yoongi corrects him, the adjustment falling short because Jimin doesn’t even flinch at the attempt.

It’s pure, utter bullshit. It’s a propaganda that he won’t fall for and it’s a movement that even Yoongi himself isn’t truly invested in.

“She’s not?” Jimin echoes. “The girl who hates driving in the dark and in the rain, who drove you to the airport in spite of all that because my car was in the shop last week, is not your friend?”

Yoongi’s breath hitches at the reminder. 

His heart buckles at the way he didn’t even know you were scared until now, because you only talked to him that day like normal. Like nothing bothered you.

Like warm, as always.

Like you.

( ♡ ) 

Yoongi’s not intentionally seeking punishment.

Frankly speaking, he doesn’t even know exactly what’s he’s asking from you. He doesn’t know if there’s a word for the hollow, all-consuming guilt that’s planted in his chest and grows roots in the pit of his stomach and blooms in the back of his skull.

If Yoongi were to hear his own words repeated back to him, with even just a fraction of the amount of vitriol and misplaced frustration, he would’ve called it then and there. He would’ve hurt himself and ran for the hills right after to recuperate because there’s no amount of distance that would ever stop the echoes of his own tirade.

You weren’t Yoongi, however, and he’s never hated that fact more.

It’s beyond good, maybe even immaculate that you weren’t him, because you were far too better. Far too warm and too good, because even though Yoongi doesn’t seek punishment from his own hands, you wouldn’t deal him the same deck of cards if he were to explicitly ask you.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. You didn’t— fuck — you didn’t deserve that at all and I’ve never been more stupid,” he apologized through the bedroom door of your childhood home. It was his parents’ monthly catch-up with your own and although the invite wasn’t really open for everyone (not one child from either families came with whenever it was this time of the month), Yoongi jumped at the opportunity to come over. You were still warm, although not for him, but not one second passed wherein you took out your anger for him to his parents who didn’t know any better.

“I didn’t mean any of it. I-I was angry, and I was frustrated, and I didn’t know how to juggle everything — but I’m not making excuses! I’m being honest, and the truth was that I was an asshole and I took it out on you,” Yoongi had apologized to you in his dorm when it was time for your session with Jin. You didn’t work your way around him to change your routines; you stayed rooted and despite being overwhelmed with guilt and the need to make himself better, it’s Yoongi who bended backwards by not fleeing at all. You didn’t take it out on Jin, and you didn’t even take it out on the apparently lucky succulent that Yoongi had slipped to your hands during one of your sessions.

“You can push me away. Please. Y-you can cuss me out and everything, and I know I’m asking for forgiveness and you can keep saying no, but I-I’m not doing this to absolve myself, y’know? I just don’t want you to have my… my own words linger in your mind,” Yoongi pleaded to you during your little brother’s return appointment at the dentist. It wasn’t even summer. He’s not even working for his godmother anymore, and yet Yoongi still came into the date he booked your sibling for. You didn’t give him attitude; you didn’t take it out on him in public.

What Yoongi seeks from you is indiscernable. It’s neither penance or punishment. It’s not forgiveness or absolution.

The only absolute thing that Yoongi knows he wants from you, even if it’s within his lowly means and that equates to being beneath you, is something akin to familiarity.

It hurts to see you there but not for him. It aches to see you everywhere and digest that the only times your gaze would land on him is when he makes himself painfully known for your anger and frustration to snag on, anything, really, just to be reminded that you know him enough— even if it’s just barely to get by — to be annoyed over.

You’re everywhere and Yoongi doesn’t complain, even if every single bone in his body is just yearning for the warmth that he took for granted when your shoulders would touch and your knees would brush and your eyes would meet. 

Yoongi’s being burnt alive from your frigid avoidance towards him, even if you’re practically everywhere he goes, but he doesn’t flee.

He’s not avoiding you. He’s taking the hurt and he keeps taking it, because although it’s not punishment enough, it’s close enough to warmth.

It’s close enough to familiarity, even as he pulls desperately at all the threads that bind the two of you close but never together — because it had only been him who had delayed the latter from happening.

“I’m not making excuses. I-I’m being honest and it’s ugly in hindsight, but it’s the truth,” Yoongi whispers, gnawing on his bottom lip as he stands outside of your dorm with no buffer this time; no other connection, no other degree of separation. “I-I wanted to be connected to you in every single way without— w-without anyone else bridging the way for me.”

“That’s stupid,” you mutter.

“I.. know. God, Y/N. You don’t know how much I think of you and all these stupid, fucking ways I want to be your guy for everything,” Yoongi throws his head back, running a hand through his face as he tries to regain his footing. “I-I want to be the guy who fills up your wiper fluid and double checks if you’re being ripped off at the shop because you’re too pretty. It’s stupid, and I know that, but I thought you’d have the tendency to be like your mom a-and be infatuated with wallpapers one day, and I want to be the guy who talks you down from sticking them to the granite your apartment came with-…”

“You sound like an idiot, Yoongi.”

“It’s idiotic. It’s so, so stupid. I want to be your bootleg designer sunglasses guy. I-I want to know how to cut your cuticles and touch up your layers. God, I even have handwritten notes on how I could be the most annoying, present being in your life and-…”

You slap Yoongi very, very lightly.

It’s practically just a tap on his cheek that wouldn’t even be enough to spook a bug off your arm, but it’s you. It’s you and your touch and your warmth and Yoongi literally jolts with electricity, the words stopping right at the tip of his tongue as you stare him down.

“That’s stupid, Yoongi.”

“I know. It’s so stupid,” he shakily affirms, cheeks impossibly warm at your touch. At your proximity, even if your chest is far from touching his own and even if your hand that was on his cheek is now back on your side. “It’s stupid that I kept pulling down the collar of my shirt when I first sent you that picture of Miso, a-and how I’m a grown man but hid behind my literal cat every time I felt that it was getting too real and I-I couldn’t keep up.” 

Yoongi didn’t always believe in connections, and you have no doubt about it.

You have no doubt about Yoongi’s stupidly honest and sincere outpouring either.

“Stupidest thing I know,” you affirm with a whisper, nodding your head tightly.

Yoongi didn’t always believe in fortuity. 

He didn’t believe in yearning and contingency until it dawned into his thick, stubborn skull that what— who — he wanted most is you.

“I want you in all the ways I already know you,” Yoongi relents, not out of surrender, but out of admission. Out of sincere, full-bodied truth. “I don’t want to stop, sweetheart. I don’t wanna stop thinking and being all the ways I could ever be connected to you.”

[solecize]

the thing is that childhood doesn't just end when you turn 18 or when you turn 21. it's going to end dozens of times over. your childhood pet will die. actors you loved in movies you watched as a kid will die. your grandparents will die, and then your parents will die. it's going to end dozens and dozens of times and all you can do is let it. all you can do is stand in the middle of the grocery store and stare at freezers full of microwave pizza because you've suddenly been seized by the memory of what it felt like to have a pizza party on the last day of school before summer break. which is another ending in and of itself

[solecize]

mnemonic feels so REAL and like college it hurts 🥲

ugh this makes me so happy honestly the fic is inspired by some of my own experiences and someone irl actually gave me my own box of souvenirs (in a different context) which lowk altered my brain chemistry

[solecize]

i forgot to add this lol but also i really wish she's the one to break it off and choose herself if they r gonna break up before his enlistment (which seems like it bc of the "after 3 years" thing on the time zone post)

a lot of things have changed in the process of me writing ttm but the 3 years later epilogue has always stayed the same 😌 we gonna just have to wait and see

[solecize]

even tho it was painful to do so i jus reread ttm and i think i reallyy like the different time zone things you were doing like it might feel a bit forced or too fast to understand how she takes him back or how they find their way to eachother if it was back to back. idk how to describe it really but it think i like it that way?? also since i reread it and even tho my anger never died down in the first place IT DEFINITELY RENEWED FUCK JUNGKOOK AND HIS WEAK ASS. i hope the "breakup" the whole world witnessed that Nova was talking about is the time their pr stunt's done bc i really dont want her to do anything with him and his ass for a reallllyyyyyy long time. miss girl needs some healing and SHE NEEDS SOME FUN FOR HERSELF AND A NEW MAN (for a while ig) FUCK JK. he should taste his own medicine ty ily

LMAO ilyt yes exactly like this fic takes place over the course of 13-14 years a lot of shit has gone down and will go down further 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ and keep in mind jk and of are both super young and will be stupid asf for most of the time and they also have never even dated outside of each other so they dont even know what a healthy relationship looks like....rip

[solecize]

For real I really miss TTM

im working on some ttm content as we speak 🙏🏻

[solecize]

party 4 u | sjn

dj!ex!johnny x f!reader

summary: your ex left years ago to chase his dj dreams, taking your heart with him. now, johnny’s made it big and is back for a hometown show, except this time you make sure he takes all of you.

(or: he only threw this party for you.)

wc: 3.3k

genre: angst, smut, exes-to-lovers 18+ mdni

cw: unprotected pinv sex (no </3), mirror sex, backshots!, yearning, manhandling, sex in a dressing room, fingering, nipple play, possessive johnny, dirty talk, pet names: baby, love

the music is blasting, you can feel the beat of the bass in your chest, and people all around you are moving to the music.

you look up at the one they all surround, and you see him.

you haven’t seen johnny in years. he hasn’t been here in years.

he looks good—hair falling behind his ears, headphones framing his face, tattoos adorning his exposed arms. some you recognize and some you don’t.

you shouldn’t be here, not when he walked away from you all those years ago to chase his dreams.

you don���t blame him—he really had something going with his budding dj career, and the sheer crowd at his hometown show today is living proof of that.

that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt back then, doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt now.

when your friend sent you the post saying he was coming to town for a show, you couldn’t even see the account—you had him blocked. you’d heard he’d made it big, seen some clips, but you never let yourself indulge.

against your better judgement, you unblocked him, and indulge you did, taking in all the content you’d missed over the years—his travels, friends, highs, lows—everything he’d posted showing how he’d been doing in his time away from you.

and god, he looked happy—like he didn’t think of you nearly as much as you tried not to think about him.

you’re happy, in a way, but he’s always lingered in the back of your mind, hanging onto your subconscious like a vice.

so why the hell are you here?

maybe you were hoping that coming here tonight could help you let go—that maybe, just maybe, if you saw just how far of a distance you’d grown apart with your own eyes, you’d be able to close your chapter with him forever.

but as you watch him sway to the music, a soft smile on his face as he scans the crowd’s reactions to the magic he works on the turntable, you know you’ve made a mistake coming here.

you should’ve never unblocked him, never bought this ticket, never come over here. it’s stupid, but you can’t bring yourself to look away.

you linger by the exit, but stay for the rest of his set.

and as he thanks the crowd for a great night, you feel your entire body jolt as he looks straight in your direction.

there’s no way he could’ve seen you, not from this far, but the way his whole body freezes is too noticeable. quick, but noticeable. he resumes his grateful smile, waving goodbye to the roaring crowd as you turn to leave.

you rush out the door, cheers of “encore! encore!” drowning out behind you. the muffled music starts back up through the walls.

you let out a heavy sigh as you walk away with an even heavier heart. after tonight, you’ll go back to trying to forget him, though any progress you’d made was probably undone.

so much for closure.

a call of your name in a voice all too familiar stops you in your tracks.

you turn around slowly, scared of who you’re going to see. but you know exactly who it is. that same deep voice that called your name with so much love until it didn’t—how could you ever forget?

and when you finally look at him, it feels like everything’s stopped. you can’t even hear the music anymore, not over the sound of your own heart racing.

“johnny.”

he’s catching his breath. did he run over here? what about his encore? how did he see you from all the way over there?

you have so many questions, yet you can say nothing more than his name.

“come with me.”

he grabs your hand, leading you back to the side entrance you assume he came out from, and you let him. the second you feel his hand in yours again, any resistance you could’ve had dissipates.

when he doesn’t feel you fighting his hold, he interweaves his fingers with yours, and oh, how you missed this feeling. you could tell the feeling of his hands on yours with your eyes closed.

you can hear the music through the walls again, and he leads you to a random dressing room. you still don’t know what to say to him, even as he clicks the door shut.

you don’t get the chance to speak.

in a second, you’re up against the door, his lips on yours—it’s messy, hungry, greedy, as if he’s trying to eat you whole.

your first instinct is to push him away, to ask him why he’s doing this after all this time, but you don’t. you can’t, not when having his lips against yours feels so right. it’s the feeling you’ve been missing, only appearing in your memories and dreams.

he explores your mouth as if he knows it like the back of his hand—like he never forgot it.

so you kiss him back with just as much force, wrapping your arms around his neck, your fingers threading through his short locks, gripping them as if he’d disappear if you let him go.

he groans into your mouth at your reciprocation, pressing his body even tighter against yours. you shiver at how firm his body feels against yours. it was one thing to see him up there, but being caged between those arms you couldn’t keep your eyes of is another. he’s always been big, but he’s definitely bulked up since the last time you saw him.

one of his hands makes its way to your waist, down your hip, and back to your ass, giving a light squeeze. he trails it down, hooking it behind your knee as he raises your leg to wrap around him, slotting himself between your legs.

you can feel how hard he is, aching against the confine of his perfectly fitting jeans. he rocks against you slightly, your mouths still melded in a heated embrace, and you can’t help but moan into his mouth at the feeling.

it feels like there’s a fire in your stomach, but there’s also a giddy feeling—like butterflies fluttering around.

you can still get a reaction out of him. he still wants you, even if you can only see it from the way his body reacts to you. for now, that’s okay.

you move your hips to meet his eagerly, and with your arms still gripped around his neck, his other hand falls to your other thigh, lifting you into his arms. your mouth separates from his in shock at the feeling of your being lifted into the air, clinging tighter to him so you won’t fall. you’re both breathless, but his mouth chases yours, settling right back into a deep kiss.

your ass lands on gently on the vanity table jutting out from the wall, and as johnny parts from you, a trail of saliva separating your lips, you finally get a good look at him. the lights on the mirror behind you illuminate him.

he’s grown so much. you can see the way his face has lost the roundness it had in your younger years and the slight bags under his eyes, yet he’s still the same johnny you loved.

he seems to be taking you in, too, his eyes moving between your eyes, and back down to your lips. his hands bunch up the sides of your shirt, letting his hands run over the bare skin of your waist. you shudder as his fingers dip into the waistband of your pants, not quite reaching as far in as you’d like them to.

he tugs your shirt over your head, unclasping your bra from behind you with practice, and as he removes your bra, he breathes out in awe.

“fuck, you’re just as beautiful as i remember.”

you don’t get to reply before he drags you off the table, flipping you around in a flash. your hands move to steady yourself against the table, bent over slightly with johnny pressed up against you.

you look up and see the two of you in the mirror, and immediately you’re clenching at the thought of what you’ll see him doing to you. he runs his hands up your chest, loving the way your tits look in his hands, his fingers brushing your nipples carefully.

he watches the way your expression twists with every pinch and flick of his fingers, his mouth coming down on your neck. his warm breath fans along your skin before he’s leaving deepening kisses along your neck and shoulders, every so often nipping harder in a way that you know will leave marks.

you want him to leave marks, you want reminders of him to come.

you press your backside against him, whining out pathetically. “johnny, please.”

he obliges you right away, knowing exactly what you want. he’s always known exactly what you want. he wastes no time tugging your pants and soaked underwear down, and you gasp at the feeling of his fingers sliding between your folds, coating his fingers in your juices.

“i’ve got you, baby,” he mutters, mouth falling back on your shoulder, and your head dips at the feeling. he runs his fingers up and down your slit, dancing around your entrance, before carefully teasing a finger into you. you gasp at the feeling of his long digit easing into you, feeling each knuckle until its to the hilt.

he feels you clench around him, and after he slides his finger right back out to the tip, he dips back in with another finger in tow. mewls of pleasure leave your lips as he scissors his digits in you, stretching you just right, picking you apart like he always did.

with the way his other hand snakes around your front to toy around with your clit, you know he wants you to fall apart. you want him closer, to fill you up to the brim, but you know he won’t do it unless you cum first. he’d always made you cum first.

you move your hips in times with his hands, knowing this has to go exactly as he wants it to, and you’re okay with that. you’re more than okay with that—trusting your body into his hands.

he thrusts his fingers in and out of you in time with his swipes over your clit, and you can feel the knot in your stomach tightening as the seconds pass.

you finally gain the strength to tilt your head up just enough to see your reflection, and when you make eye contact with johnny through the mirror, his gaze dark and fixed on you, you’re finished.

“go ahead, baby,” he instructs, and you fall apart in his hands, mouth parted in an oh as the knot unravels, legs closing around his hands as he works you through your orgasm. you can barely keep your eyes open with the way he still plunges his fingers in and out of you, fighting through the grip your clenching pussy and closed legs have on his hands.

he finally pulls his fingers out of you and you collapse against the table, supported by one of his arms wrapping around your middle to keep your legs from completely giving out.

he brings his free hand, the one he pulled out from your cunt, to his mouth, and you cry out as his tongue darts out, lapping up your juices from his fingers, his eyes still trained on yours. it lights another fire in you.

with some newfound strength, you reach behind you, palming at the painfully hard tent in his jeans, trying to blindly fumble with the buttons of his pants. you don’t care how desperate you look, you need him inside of you, now.

a smirk lights his face as he watches you fumble with his pants, his own hand moving down to take care of it for you, unbuttoning his pants with ease and pulling them down just enough to untuck his raging member from his underwear. “you want me that bad?”

you want him so badly, more than anything right now, and you let him know that.

“yes, yes—johnny, please fuck me.” you press your dripping mound against him, gasping as you feel the heat slot between your lips, grinding up and down. “johnny.. i need you.”

that seems to do it for him, and he wraps his hand around his cock, pressing his tip into your waiting hole. you hiss at the stretch as he slowly eases in, not quite used to taking anyone as big as he is in such a long time.

“so fuckin’ tight—fuck, so tight for me.”

you lean back into him, feeling every ridge of him as he inches in bit by bit and as he bottoms out, you feel like you could cry. he fills you up so perfectly.

he lets you settle for a bit, swiveling his hips to get you readjusted to him, little gasps and cries leaving you with each movement.

“god, baby—you feel so good around me.” your eyes, which closed tightly sometime during his bottoming out, open back up to meet his, and his gaze narrows into a glare that sends shivers down your spine. “have you had anyone else here? let anyone else in what belongs to me?”

you clench around him at his possessive streak. he was always a laid back lover, never one to get unreasonably jealous, but he knew how to remind you who you came home to.

you’d had a few flings in the past few years, even had one relationship that lasted a few months, but no one ever compared to johnny—you don’t think anyone ever could.

he pulls out, thrusting back in at once, your body jolting against the table. “answer me, love.”

love. his voice is still harsh, but he reminds you of a time where the soft nickname was synonymous with your name in your world with johnny. your voice trembles, but you’re honest. you could never lie to him.

“y-yes.”

he thrusts again, harder, his hands moving to grip at your waist, fingers digging into the plush flesh.

“fuck,” is all he says before he drives into you harsher, angrier, setting a steady pace that has you seeing stars, his front slapping against your ass with every thrust. “fuck,” he repeats, more agitated.

his pace picks up, slapping sounds and moans filling the room, his grip surely leaving bruises that will reveal themselves in the morning. you can barely form any thoughts, but an ugly feeling rears itself in your stomach.

“what about you?” you ask, quietly—scared of the likely possibility that he’d had other people in this position, that he’d shared himself with them. held them just like he held you.

his focus momentarily falters, but he returns his attention to you, still moving his hips against yours as he responds breathily.

“no. never.” his whole demeanor softens just slightly, but you think you still know him enough to recognize even the slightest shift. you watch as his face falls into a pained grimace through the mirror. “even if i thought about trying to, all i could think about was you.”

his words send a wave of both relief and confusion through all the pleasure. you remember the shell of a person you were after he left you, waiting for him by the window dreaming he’d come back, calling his phone only for it to ring and ring until you reached his voicemail.

“i’m yours, love,” he grunts.

how can he come back after all this time and tell you everything you’d needed to hear since the day he left?

you convinced yourself he didn’t love you, and part of you wishes he would just treat you like someone that he never loved—it wouldn’t have your heart clawing its way out of your chest as he fucks into you desperately.

but as if trying to rewrite every bit of uncertainty you experienced, this johnny is making it so, so clear.

“and you’re mine,” he growls, though underneath his strong facade is the hope that what he’s saying is true. “no one could make you feel as good as i do—no one can fuck you like this, fill you up like this.”

your eyes rake up and down your forms in the mirror. his hands around your hips, his lips on your shoulder, marks blossoming over your skin.

“say it—say you’re mine,” he almost pleas, his face still pained. as your eyes drag back and forth between the two of you, you know. you love the way you look in his arms, how he makes you fall apart like no one else ever has.

so you admit it.

“y-yeah—oh-,” you stutter with an angling of his hips. “i’m yours, i’m yours.” you cry out as he snaps against you even more intensely at your confirmation, like it’s broken the last bit of restraint he had.

that’s all the two of you need, your eyes not leaving his as he snakes a hand around your front between your thighs, rubbing quick, harsh circles into your clit, hissing as you clench around him at the sensation.

your eyes flutter, and your head threatens to fall, but you use your strength to keep your eyes on johnny through the mirror—on both of you. you want to burn this sight into your memory so that you’d never forget it again.

he bites his lip, deep, gravelly groans leaving his throat as he chases both of your highs, but as his lips part, words spill out before he can catch them.

“i love you, i love you, i love you.” his voice is still deep and rough, but filled with pure desperation, and it’s this confession that has you tumbling over the edge with a loud cry, your legs trembling under the force of his thrusts pushing you into overstimulation.

he follows soon after, pulling out at the last second and releasing over your ass and lower back, the warm spurts painting your skin.

you lean your head against the cool glass of the mirror as you both catch your breath. he slowly but carefully uses his shirt to clean his cum off of your back, tucks himself back into his pants with a sharp intake, and spins you around gently, holding you against him.

you let him hold you, not that you think you even have it in you to deny him. you don’t know if it’ll be the last time, but you don’t want it to be.

you break the silence.

“why did you leave?” you mutter against his chest. you breathe in his scent, taking in the combination of cologne, sweat, and a faint hint of cigarettes.

he pulls apart from you, holding your face in his hands before laying a sweet, deep kiss on your lips.

“because i’m stupid,” he admits with a sad smile. “i thought about coming back, but it also felt unfair to both you and me.”

a brief silence passes. you want him to expand on that, but you have an even more urgent question at hand.

“did you mean what you said earlier?” you ask. it hurts to doubt what you’ve wanted for so long, but you’re so scared it was in the heat of the moment. it’s the last confirmation you need before trusting yourself to him again.

“i told myself if i didn’t see you tonight, i’d let go of you forever. i—” he pauses, taking a deep breath, and you feel the way he tenses. “i only put on this show hoping you’d come.”

he holds you to him again, his embrace feeling just a bit fearful, yet still so certain. he lets his head drop onto your neck, breathing you in, rememorizing the feeling of you in his arms.

“i love you, and now that i have you back, i won’t let go of you again.”

you close your eyes, leaning your head against his. it feels as if you’ve just placed the last piece of a puzzle you left long unfinished, and it’s time to start a new one that you’ll figure out in time. together.

you love him, too—you never stopped.

end.

a/n: first song fic? is anyone else in emotional mental physical anguish whenever dj johnny comes up on the tl…. he’s crazy.. but anyways here’s something short and bittersweet, once again trying to get back into the groove of writing! feeling a bit freer now not including weed in everything tho i do miss writing stoner!nct (hopefully will be back soon)

i love this song and i love dj johnny be w my whole heart

feedback and shares always appreciated!

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updated for june 2025

⠀　 　⠀　 　⠀　 ⊹˚. ♡　⠀　titles in alphabetical order

Keep reading

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⠀　 　⠀　 　⠀　 ⊹˚. ♡　⠀　juju. 22. she/her.

⠀　── ★ 　⠀recent -> mnemonic.

( masterlist ) ( tag list ) ( about )

psd. net.

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tag list psa

hi if you signed up for my permanent tag list or a tag list for a specific fic of mine through google forms i'm resetting the lists as of june 2025 and i would love if you re-entered your information on the new form here as i want to make sure i'm only tagging active blogs (esp since theres 50+ tags for ttm at the moment and its super chaotic)

this doesnt rly matter if you've recently asked to be tagged for mnemonic but if you want to enter it through the google form just to be double sure go for it :)

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°⛧  ‧  ₊   　 　⠀mnemonic 　⠀⠀⠀　 　⠀⠀　 　⠀⠀ [5]

　 　⠀　 　⠀⠀　 　⠀　 　⠀⠀　 　⠀　 　⠀　 　⠀　 　⠀　 *ੈ  ✩  ‧  ₊  ˚  .ೃ

⇢ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: swimmer!jk x female reader, college au, slow burn friends to lovers to ??, fluff, angst, slice of life, coming of age

⇢ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut, substance use, college party and hookup culture, mentions of greek life hazing, characters experiencing just about every feeling a lost college student goes through, depictions of and discussions surrounding mental health (depression, anxiety, substance abuse), slow burn ish, disgusting amounts of yearning and clueless pining, yes he's her tutor at one point, yes they're in denial, also features other third gen idols, dare i say found family, there is a beach episode and a fireworks festival too lol

in which a little box of memories tells the story of how you and jeon jungkook slowly, but surely, fell in love against the backdrop of the growing pains of your college years. jungkook presents this box to you as a final gift at graduation and each item in the box is a snapshot frozen in time, capturing the forces that brought the two of you from strangers to friends to more. 

⇢ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐱: masterlist. / prologue. / the loyalty points card from the campus coffee shop. / ticket to the haunted horrors house (admission for two). / a worn out deck of cards. / handwritten no-bake cheesecake recipe. / cd soundtrack for stand by me (1986). / travel brochure to derry beach. / a clipping from the school newspaper. / pieces of confetti. / one empty tequila shooter. / epilogue & the final item.

⇢ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: if it wasn't clear in the last chapter, the characters go to college in a place where the legal drinking age is 18! anyway i am so sorry for what happens in this chapter i swear

handwritten no-bake cheesecake recipe

 everyone had an achilles heel and yours was the inability to allow yourself to feel negative emotions, rather than suppress and forget. there were a number of ways this manifested itself, such as your need to take on piles of work until you were numb. by spring of your first year in college, specifically around exam season, there was an abundance of things on your plate, including the daily struggles of a young adult learning how to be far from home. 

 getting sick and not having your mom around to make soup for you. failing an assignment for the first time. looking around and wondering why everyone around you seemed to have their lives together, while yours was falling apart. 

 the first year of college was pounds of stress, far heavier than you could have anticipated. you wanted to muster a tight smile and submit your assignments at 11:59, pretending that the weight of the world wasn’t crushing your shoulders. your friends were there to lean on, but you still felt so alone. 

 despite having an exam in two days and a final paper due that same week, you were set on helping out with the ceramics club - yes, the same one yeri was in and subsequently pulled you into - and their end-of-the-year bake sale. yeri insisted that you could pass on the initiative to focus on finals, but you took it on, hoping it would distract you from everything else going on in your life. 

 instead, you were crying on the floor of your dorm’s communal kitchen at two in the morning, with no dessert in sight.

 “y/n?” a voice echoed and you nearly jumped out of your skin, not expecting another soul around.

 jungkook emerged from the hallway, a crease in between his brows as he stumbled upon your frail figure on the ground. he was clad in plaid pajamas and a grey t-shirt, a plastic bag in his hand. you figured he was picking up a late-night food delivery order. it took you a second to realize it was him, as it’d been a few days since you hung out.

 this didn’t seem like much to anyone, but the fact of the matter was that you and jungkook became inseparable over these past few months. yes, your other friends were also present more often than not, but you didn’t have to keep track to know that you saw jungkook the most. living two floors apart helped. thinking about it further, you remembered the last time the two of you were together was at some dodgy nightclub on the weekend. 

 you shuddered at the memory - or lack thereof. he convinced you to go shot for shot with him that night and you ended up being hauled into bed by doyeon and jaehyun at the end of it all. flashes of smoke and strobe lights swam in your mind, as well as the pounding headache you felt the next morning. you figured that jungkook also suffered greatly that night and stayed home for the days following, as you did, and that was why you didn’t see him.

 bet you won’t do it, was what jungkook exclaimed that night, when he proposed the game.

 meanwhile, you don’t even remember how you ended up on the floor in the first place, a sad sight to behold. the only thing you knew was that you were exhausted, likely running on just three hours of sleep from the past two days alone. 

 you squeezed your eyes shut, cursing that he crossed your path when you were in such a vulnerable state. you elected to swallow a response, hoping your silence would trick him into moving forward with his walk, but it only attracted his presence to step in front of you. it was a hesitant step and he tried to not meet you right in the eye.

 you offered a weak smile, as if your cheeks weren’t stained with tears. “hi koo.”

 his gaze softened and you were prepared to take a deep breath, telling him you were okay and that you didn’t need help with anything. instead, he slid down the wall you leaned against. he sat next to you.

 “is that cheesecake?”

 the question made you blink slowly, not expecting such a casual tone - especially when it was obvious that you were just muffling your sobs on the cold floor. you saw that he was, in fact, gesturing to the half-forgotten bowl of liquid ingredients on the countertop ahead of you. 

 “mhmm,” was all you could let out. “ceramics club bake sale.”

 partaking in the ceramics club seemed out of the ordinary for you. you weren’t much of a physically creative person, but attending one introductory workshop at the beginning of the year was all it took for you to be enamoured with ceramics and pottery. the club had open access to wheels and kilns and you took most opportunities to attend open studio hours, eventually spending so much time with the club that you took on a role as one of the club officers. this led you to being roped into fundraising initiatives, thus the cheesecake. 

 “your cheesecake must be really good for them to be demanding it in the middle of finals,” he joked, setting his bag on the floor. “i’m surprised you have time, after we were just cooped up in the library.”

 this semester, you, jungkook and jaehyun signed up for the same philosophy elective that held its final exam last week. the three of you studied in the library for the entire day before, which took up the majority of your sunday. you’d actually been the one who requested the study session, as you’d been falling behind on lectures and missed several quizzes. truth be told, your other courses were simply getting too overwhelming for you and like a ripple effect, your grades suffered altogether because of one another. unfortunately for you, the exam didn’t go as you hoped and you were certain you fell short of a passing grade. 

 “i find time,” you shrugged.

 “hey, are you still bummed about the exam?” he asked, frowning. “i’m sure you’ll be fine! you worked really hard.” his tone was convincing, encouraging even, but the weight in your chest remained. 

 at the end of the day, philosophy wasn’t even the biggest of your problems. your grades were slipping as a whole across the board, as you didn’t realize the workload college would bring to your plate and it hit you like a car. the feelings of inadequacy were nothing but new to you, as you felt as though you were getting left behind. you were falling and failing. 

 you mumbled, “how was your hangover?” the last thing you wanted to talk about was that exam.

 jungkook looked at you strangely, seemingly stunned at your question. “huh?”

 sure, it had been a few days since the two of you saw each other, but you shared his look of confusion. you had even checked up on him the day after and he forgot to reply to you, so you assumed he suffered pretty bad. 

 “from saturday. when we went out?”

 an unreadable expression eroded across jungkook’s features - just for a split second. no one else would have caught it but you. from all the time the two of you spent together, it was transparent to you. however, it dispersed as fast as it appeared and he plastered on a smile. you caught onto its artificial corners, but kept silent.

 “god, it was awful,” jungkook shook his head with the same smile. “definitely not drinking for a while after that.”

 “same. all i remember is doyeon force feeding me gravol the next morning.”

 you nodded slowly and tried to ignore the way his eyes bore into yours, as if trying to read you. he gave up after a moment, looking back onto the tile of the floor. 

 jungkook then spoke after a beat. “that’s all you remember? how’s your head?”

 your eyebrows furrowed. instinctively, you touched your head, wondering what he was talking about. his eyes picked up on your confusion and he blinked slowly. 

 “my head? is something wrong with my head?” you questioned, patting your hair.

 jungkook laughed, but it was a dry one of disbelief. “your head. you hit it when we were out on saturday.”

 you hummed in realization. jaehyun mentioned that you banged your head into the bathroom door at the club, which you did not remember at all. probably because you fucking banged your head. it ached the next morning and you vaguely recall pressing a bag of frozen peas to your head.

 “oh yeah. way better,” you dismissed with a wave of your hand. “it was pretty bad, wasn’t it?”

 “so, you really don’t remember?” he raised his eyebrows. 

 you shook your head. “no. honestly, i don’t remember anything from saturday,” you said. “i guess that was the point of drinking so much.”

 jungkook laughed dryly once more, even though you didn’t find it that funny. you didn’t have much else to say. were you going to delve into how awful the past two weeks had been? it was probably glaringly obvious to him. 

 then, he asked the question that sat on the tip of his tongue since running into you. forgetting the previous topic at hand, jungkook eyed you with concern. 

 “y/n, what’s going on?”

 “this is really tiring, jungkook,” you whispered and he knew it had nothing to do with cheesecake. 

 after a moment, like jungkook was taking it all in, he sat up straighter and placed a gentle hand on your shoulder. he decided that you needed his friendship more than anything else right now. 

 in spite of everything.  

 you looked up at him through your eyelashes, trying your best to ignore the stab of pain in your heart, as you mulled over your troubles. jungkook saw it and smiled at you, a real one this time. 

 “slow down. you can only control so much,” he murmured. 

 the words were just as heavy as your exhaustion, but instead of weighing you down, they embraced you. it didn’t bury your yearning for success that seemed to be so far from your grasp. you weren’t sure until that moment what exactly was suffocating you - it was the weight of expectations. the expectations you had for yourself, the ones placed on you, the ones you had for your ideal college life.

 it burned to know that college wasn’t just parties and sex and cutting class. it came with realizing you’d gone days at a time without giving your mom a call. the feeling of loss in the moment you noticed that your high school friends - the ones who you never missed a single lunch with and watched you through all of your highs and lows - were just faces on your social media feed. you gave up so much and all for what?

 you let out a small snort. “you know, that’s what they told me during my first workshop with the ceramics club.”

 as usual, jungkook listened with an open heart. his touch was encouraging and he meant it. 

 “tell me more.”

 “well,” you shifted slightly, trying to steady your voice. “wet clay is extremely impressionable and can be molded so easily, but that also means you can make mistakes as easily.”

 jungkook encouraged, in a soft tone, “go on.”

 “and mistakes can be fixed without a problem, but it’s best to go slowly and understand that you’re working with the wheel, not against it,” you continued, staring up at the ceiling. “so, yeah. go slow because you can’t control everything.”

 as you explained, you made a shape with your hands in mid-air, as if feeling the pottery wheel around your fingers. jungkook watched intently, nodding and watching your delicate movements, just as though you were carving out vases and bowls right in front of you.

 he said, “i guess life and ceramics go together pretty well, huh?” he smiled. “maybe we’re all just wet clay.”

 this made you let out a genuine laugh at the comparison. “you make it sound bad.”

 “nah. i actually think it totally makes sense,” he replied. “wanna know why?”

 you raised an eyebrow. “do tell.”

 “clay only becomes ceramic through fire.”

 in that moment, you did feel a little bit like wet clay. grey and sad, practically melting on the floor of the communal kitchen. you weren’t sure how you even got to this point, the exhaustion creeping up behind you in the shadows and underneath nights of partying.

 you sighed. “fire still burns.”

 at that, jungkook just chuckled. “that’s the point, stupid.” he playfully flicked your arm, as if the two of you were bantering about the weather and not the weight of the world on your shoulders. 

 jungkook had an uncanny ability to do that, to make everything seem lighter than it actually was. he scooted slightly so that his legs were now straight in front of him, lounging on the kitchen floor with you like it was nothing. 

 “i didn’t know you were a ceramics expert,” you joked.

 “hey, i’m multi-talented,” he remarked.

 a beat of silence enveloped the two of you. while jungkook’s words certainly comforted you, it didn’t expel the fact that you were obviously not okay and that your eyes weren’t raw and red. you awkwardly tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, not knowing what to say because all you could think of were your grades and cheesecake. of being the perfect everything - student, daughter, friend, whatever - which you were far from.

 jungkook cleared his throat. “hey, it’s gonna be alright. it’s just freshman year grades, you can always get your gpa up later.”

 “i think i failed statistics, too,” you confessed, burying your face in your hands. “if i did, i’ll have to retake it next year.”

 “i can tutor you,” he offered without hesitation. 

 though the burden of knowing that you likely flunked stats ached in your chest, you knew you just had to admit defeat. a crack of a smile appeared on your lips at jungkook’s words. in all honesty, you were too prideful to even seek out your own tutor, but jungkook made the idea seem so casual, like he was offering to just walk you home or take notes for you in class.

 “really?”

 “really,” jungkook chuckled, ruffling your hair. “we can take it on together.”

 starting college was supposed to be a magic wand that waved everything bad that ever happened to you goodbye. it was naive to think that all of your problems would vanish because you chose to take on new challenges and make new friends, as if carving out a new identity would take away your flaws and shine your best qualities at the same time. 

 “i just feel stupid, koo. it’s self-centered, but i always thought i was smart. i was the only person in my high school to make it out of that town,” you said and the tears began stinging your eyes. “i’m supposed to go far.”

 instead, you ended up realizing that you were a small fish in a big pond. an ocean, even. everybody was a scholar, everybody had your unique qualities tenfold, everybody had your big dreams. you were just another number in a lecture hall full of hundreds of faceless visionaries. 

 “am i just. . .not as smart as i thought i was? special, talented?”

 “you are. your grades don’t define you,” jungkook asserted, shaking his head. “it’s our first year here. you have so much time and you don’t need to prove yourself to anyone.” 

 “but. .  .” you trailed off, not finding words. you could argue back and forth about how important grades were, but it only felt empty.

 jungkook said, “i get it. your parents are probably counting on your back home. all your teachers told you about how gifted you were growing up. everyone has all these expectations on you and you don’t want to fall short,” he sighed. “mine are the same. if i don’t become a doctor or a lawyer, i’m scared my parents will see me as wasted potential.”

 he began telling the story of his overbearing parents, who ignored jungkook in favour of his older, successful brother. although jungkook was raised miles away from you and under a completely different roof with his own story, you were surprised to find your reflection in him. 

 “he’s always gotten their attention and has always been their priority. i love my parents and they love me back. they provide for me and support me,” jungkook closed his eyes. “but i feel like they don’t even know me.” 

 you bit the inside of your cheek. “it’s not fair,” you said. “how could that feel that way about you? you’re. . . “

 in that moment, you had to stop yourself. who knows what you would have said? that he’s kind and courageous? one of the most hard-working people you knew? funny and beautiful? but, jungkook smiled weakly at your words and didn’t press further. 

 “i know. it tears me up inside, sometimes,” he admitted. “but, i try. that’s all we can do, right?”

 at this point, stray teardrops trailed down your face and you hastily swiped them away until your cheeks were raw. “ugh, i’m so fucking sorry,” you bitterly chuckled. “you wanted to just get your food and go back to your room, i’m sorry for dumping all this on you.”

 to your surprise, jungkook pulled you into a hug. you didn’t realize it until that moment, but you’d already memorized his scent. you shared hugs now and then, often when you greeted one another and bade goodbye - but, it was an odd feeling that you anticipated the smell of sandalwood and mandarin. you froze, as his embrace stopped time even just for a little bit. 

 “you’re not dumping,” he replied, not yet letting go.

 in a small voice, you spoke up. “jungkook?”

 “mhm?” he responded, buried in your shoulder.

 “you know. .  .you’re,  like, my best friend.”

 your cheeks felt hot when you said this. it felt kind of silly, declaring a best friend, and you didn’t think you’ve done such a thing since elementary school. jungkook stiffened in surprise, but didn’t let go. you felt a second, immediate wave of embarrassment for catching him off guard. but, then, he replied.

 “you’re my best friend, too. and our friendship comes before anything.”

 and he meant it. you could feel it. despite all of the crazy thoughts and worries running through your head about school and life, everything became quiet in the moment. even if it were for just a second, you felt calm. jungkook rubbed your back. 

 “i’m sorry for making you stay up like this.” you sniffled. “you have your own shit to worry about.”

 “exactly - everyone goes through it, so don’t apologize. it’s the whole becoming thing.”

 did becoming mean growing backwards? once a child with their head raised up high, demanding to be treated like an adult - only to bring your knees to your face and cry into your sleeves as a grown-up? you only ever wanted to get older and figure out who you were, but you were shocked to find that you were all but weak. all but human. 

 when jungkook held you, though, you didn’t feel weak. you didn’t feel judged. it was a certain safety that you struggled to accept in yourself. he held you as long as you needed it, until you finally mumbled something about cheesecake against his chest.

 you felt the rumble of his low chuckle, as he let go and glanced at the countertop. the microwave situated below the cupboards indicated that it was nearly three in the morning. 

 jungkook suddenly rose to his feet, as he uncrumpled an abandoned piece of paper that you scribbled instructions on, right next to the mixing bowl. he turned back to you with a raised eyebrow.

 “you should probably go to bed n - “

 “where’s your graham crackers?” he interrupted, eyes scanning the kitchen. “i can get started on the crust, you finish the filling?”

 knowing yourself, that was likely the only thing that would pick you off the floor that night. jungkook grinned wide when you reluctantly stood up. even though you’d fixed a permanent frown on your face that entire night, you couldn’t help but mirror his smile. it was inevitable and so was he. 

 several nights prior

 it was just you and the boys tonight, mostly against your will. doyeon cancelled after moaning about her period cramps and yeri was awarded with a dreaded saturday morning exam. while you never said no to a night out, especially since you were under so much stress, you had never been out with just them. 

 it turned out exactly how you thought it was going to go.

 seokmin ended up flirting with every pretty thing with legs, while jaehyun was surrounded by the friends of those girls. he was the perfect wingman, especially since his shy, boyish charm contrasted greatly with seokmin’s vibrant personality. they were currently at the bar, chatting up two girls in matching denim mini skirts. 

 you cursed doyeon out for leaving you here. the best part of going out to the club was dancing with the girls, giving fake names to guys who tried to hit on you, yelling at the dj. instead, for the first time ever, you were bored under the pink laser lights. 

 to be fair, it had only been about ten minutes since your arrival - which, honestly, made it more impressive that seokmin and jaehyun were able to get the ball rolling so fast. the four of you entered with a decent buzz already going and went straight to the bar. meanwhile, as this was all happening, jungkook offered to buy some drinks and the poor guy waited on the bartender for what seemed like forever.

 the nightclub was spacious, far more spacious than your group’s other usual choices, where you would be bumping into another body practically every step. it was your first time here and you breathed in your surroundings, as much as you could in your dizziness. the modern interior was accentuated by led chandeliers and had two floors, teeming with people. you could feel every single beat through your chest with the boom of the speakers, as it physically rumbled and spread throughout your entire body. it was like each song rang through the air, thick and heavy and forceful. if you let yourself stand still for more than one second, the atmosphere would you sway you in another direction.

 “here! it’s rum!” jungkook whipped around, relieved to finally have two shot glasses in hand.

 doyeon and yeri would have loved this place. the strobe lights captured and faded one’s features all at once and you noticed this upon looking over at jungkook. the way his tattoos adorned his arms were dreamlike. it was like you could see every speck of brown in his eyes, while also somehow blurring over him like a painting glaze. or, maybe you were just tipsy.

 you grinned. he knew your favourite. the two of you clinked glasses as gently as you could, since you always ended up spilling the liquid, and knocked the liquor back. a small drop still ended up falling on your chest, but you wore a lacy black tube top that was forgiving. 

 jungkook suddenly jerked away, his eyes shooting elsewhere across the room. you opened your mouth to make a remark on his fidgeting, but he already began chattering away about your friends.

 “aw man, look at them!” he yelled over the music, nervously laughing. “sorry! this is probably gonna be not as fun without doyeon and yeri!” 

 he pointed over to seokmin and jaehyun, who were still talking to girls. usually, the six of you would arrive to the club or bar together, only for the girls to split up to go to the dancefloor and leave the guys to their own devices. you grumbled under your breath, realizing your predicament.

 “sorry, am i gonna be cockblocking you all night?” you spoke into jungkook’s ear with a smirk.

 he cackled. “nah, sweetheart. we can have some fun.”

 jungkook knew just how stressed you were. your eyes made it obvious, but he’d also been helping you study and complete final papers all month. he knew you needed tonight.

“oh yeah?”

 “yeah. bet you can’t outdrink me,” jungkook declared, as he took away your empty shot glass from your grasp and slid it back onto the bar counter.

 he could have easily gone off and joined the other two to find their fun of the night. instead, jungkook stuck right by you and it didn’t even seem like he was forcing it, trying to be a good friend and not leave you hanging. his grin was inviting and he didn’t care that there were several girls eying him up from all directions, only focused on you. you didn’t want to ruin his fun, though.

 you raised an eyebrow. “are you sure you’re not just trying to babysit me?” you asked anyway.

 “sounds like you’re pussying out.”

 “ugh, shut up,” you retorted. “fine. order the fucking shots.”

 jungkook obliged without hesitation, turning around and managing to actually call the bartender over in seconds this time. you figured the night had just begun and it was too early to write it off, especially when he was still willing to make the best out of it for you. besides, if there was one person who you felt safe enough to have a drink-off with it, was jungkook.

 two shots turned into four, all drained with precision and speed. in between each shot, the two of you people watched and giggled about your observations. from here, the drinks continued flowing.

 “ew, that guy has to be, like, fifty and hitting on that poor girl. should we help her?” you gasped, now leaning slightly into jungkook as you handed him his nth drink.

 if possible, the music heightened even louder in your ears. the lights were now flashing a brilliant blue and purple, yet the two of you could see each other clear as day. the bar grew more crowded since your arrival, but jungkook ensured that you were tucked into a corner where people wouldn’t bump into you - in fact, he was mostly shielding you from the moving bodies. 

 jungkook shook his head. “nah, she’s into it. he looks rich, don’t get in her way.”

 upon closer look, you saw the girl’s subtle body language and the way her eyes smoldered - jungkook was definitely right. you laughed, as you took the shot glass from jungkook.

 “damn, you’re right. go her, honestly,” you responded and clinked glasses with jungkook again. “cheers - ohmygod.”

 he paused and looked at you quizzically, head cocked ever so slightly. you squealed and then stopped promptly when you realized that neither doyeon and yeri were here. 

 “what?”

 “it’s my favourite song,” you explained, shoulders now drooping. normally, the three of you, if you weren’t already on it, would practically sprint to the dancefloor. 

 jungkook chuckled. “your favourite song is a pitbull song?”

 “my favourite club song,” you corrected with a pout.

 he considered this for a moment, looking over at the crowd jumping excitedly to the beat. then, jungkook knocked his shot back and slammed it back onto the bar counter.

 “what are you waiting for?” he remarked. “drink your shit and let’s go!”

 you thought he was joking for a moment, but he then gently tugged your wrist. jungkook wanted to dance. in your drunken state, it sounded like the best idea in the world. even seokmin and jaehyun had long abandoned the bar for the dancefloor. you guys were in a club, the whole point of you going out was to get wasted and lose yourself in the music. 

 with a laugh, you took your shot and discarded your glass. everything felt so warm in that moment - the alcohol, the dancefloor, the feeling of jungkook’s hand on your wrist.

 it seemed like the club wasn’t as spacious as you originally thought. jungkook ended up leading you to the middle of the floor, where nearly everyone was shoulder to shoulder. 

 the two of you started off jumping around and you giggled the entire time, until you realized that, because of the crowd, your bodies were getting closer and closer. there was no room to leave space between you, especially since you were both drunk and barely had any awareness of, well, anything.

 “ow - sorry!” you squeaked when someone jabbed at your back by accident, causing to you lurch forward and grab onto jungkook’s broad shoulders for balance.

 his eyes widened, but he grabbed onto you and put his hands above yours. “don’t worry, i got you!” he shook his head, screaming over the music.

 your hands slid down to his chest, feeling the softness of the plain black t-shirt that he wore. the song was another upbeat pop song, but the rhythm no longer boomed happily in your chest. everything slowed down and your heart closed up on itself, clawing to maintain steadiness. meanwhile, the dancing continued - albeit, you were hyperaware of how close the two of you were and how jungkook didn’t move away.

 the lights were now red and the only thing more intense was your proximity. you swayed back and forth from the alcohol and jungkook’s hands flew to your hips.

 “whoa, easy there,” he said, laughing. he was just as gone as you were.

 you managed to flip him off and still not move away, the hand returning to his chest. 

 somehow, the two of you drew closer and closer to one another. like magnets and without even thinking about it. by the next song, your arms were flung around jungkook’s shoulders and you danced flush against him. 

 there was a surge of fortitude and boldness in your blood that would not have existed in a sober state, but you were too dazed by the intensifying grip on your hips. the more the gap between you shrunk, the firmer jungkook’s hand became.

 then, before you knew it, your faces were inches away.

 “hey,” jungkook said, voice low and the same alluring smile on his face.

 if you weren’t drunk, you could probably count the number of eyelashes on his face. you grinned back, enchanted by how good it felt to be so close to him. there was electricity buzzing about, in your ears and in the air. yet, the rest of the room faded until only he existed.

 you giggled. “hi there.”

 neither of you moved. not when the song changed and those around you changed the rhythm of their dance moves. not when you realized that you were actually completely frozen. a greater force grazed around the two of you, a bewitching ardor that you don’t think you’ve ever felt with another person. you’d been with men before, but nothing captured you like this. 

 you’re not sure who made the move. jungkook’s lips were warm and soft, kissing you like he meant it. your hands were tangled in his hair, groaning when his teeth grazed your bottom lip. if it was even possible for the two of you to press against each other any closer, you did. 

 “fuck, y/n -” jungkook moaned into your mouth, deepening the kiss and the words punctuated sharply, like he was using all his strength to not lose it with you in his arms. 

 you gasped and melted even further into the kiss, your hands moving from his hair to his biceps. you held on and his arms wrapped around your waist. if you could savour the taste of rum and strawberry lip balm forever, packaging it up and tying it with a ribbon, it would be because of this kiss and how it made you feel. his lips messily dancing with yours was like floating and everything was on fire, from his tongue to his fingers pressing into your ass.

 you’re not sure who made the move, but you did say the final words.

 bet you won’t do it, you had taunted, just a moment ago when your lips were inches away from jungkook’s. 

⇢ 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: @fancypeacepersona @petiteparler @lanie97 @httpjeonlicious @bleumornings @rpwprpwprpwprw @kikiflwr @kissyfacekoo @knivesdoingcartwheels @joyjunk @jksusawife @haru-jiminn @fancypeacepersona @softhaes @whoa-jo @kooloveys @mar-lo-pap @seokjinthescientist (reply to be tagged and if i forgot to tag you!)

[solecize]

°⛧  ‧  ₊   　 　⠀mnemonic 　⠀⠀⠀　 　⠀⠀　 　⠀⠀ [4]

 　 　⠀　 　⠀⠀　 　⠀　 　⠀⠀　 　⠀　 　⠀　 　⠀　 　⠀　 *ੈ  ✩  ‧  ₊  ˚  .ೃ

⇢ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: swimmer!jk x female reader, college au, slow burn friends to lovers to ??, fluff, angst, slice of life, coming of age

⇢ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut, substance use, college party and hookup culture, mentions of greek life hazing, characters experiencing just about every feeling a lost college student goes through, depictions of and discussions surrounding mental health (depression, anxiety, substance abuse), slow burn ish, disgusting amounts of yearning and clueless pining, yes he's her tutor at one point, yes they're in denial, also features other third gen idols, dare i say found family, there is a beach episode and a fireworks festival too lol

in which a little box of memories tells the story of how you and jeon jungkook slowly, but surely, fell in love against the backdrop of the growing pains of your college years. jungkook presents this box to you as a final gift at graduation and each item in the box is a snapshot frozen in time, capturing the forces that brought the two of you from strangers to friends to more. 

⇢ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐱: masterlist. / prologue. / the loyalty points card from the campus coffee shop. / ticket to the haunted horrors house (admission for two). / a worn out deck of cards. / handwritten no-bake cheesecake recipe. / cd soundtrack for stand by me (1986). / travel brochure to derry beach. / a clipping from the school newspaper. / pieces of confetti. / one empty tequila shooter. / epilogue & the final item.

⇢ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: yn and jk clock each other for being hoes here and the chapter jumps from freshman year to senior year briefly at the end, but will resume in freshman year in the next chapter

a worn out deck of cards

 against all expectations, these were the friends that stuck by you like a bee to honey. somehow, some way, you survived to the end of your first semester of college. it took a village and you were certain that no one would have been able to get through it without each other. such a bond was built brick by brick - beginning with the wonderful, non-intentional tradition of friday dinner.

 as all good accidents occur, this accident began with lee seokmin being an idiot. 

 with twenty minutes to midnight and a sudden snowstorm closing all roads, you and your friends were suddenly faced with ruined friday night plans. unfortunately, this realization settled in a little too late, as you were all deep into a pre-game session prior to the planned visit to royal oak, which was the local student pub. seokmin insisted that he checked the weather earlier in the day and that it would be a good night to go out. 

 jungkook, jaehyun and seokmin were huddled in your dorm room, somehow fitting their large frames in the cramped space. albeit, doyeon spent the majority of the evening on the top of her and yeri’s shared bunk bed and seokmin volunteered to take the floor. the six of you split a medium sized bottle of cheap vodka and some coolers, chatting about how your midterms went. soon, you had the sense to pull back your curtains, discovering that the snow outside was nearly knee deep. 

 jaehyun groaned, as did the rest of the group. “what the hell?” 

 “there’s no way we’re going out in that,” said doyeon, as if immediately sobering up at the terrifying sight. 

 the mood soured at the conditions, as all of you were looking forward to your first night out since your last midterms - not including that wretched halloweekend. everybody had been suffering big time after their first ever round of exams at college, especially an overachiever like doyeon. you nearly flunked all of your own and needed a serious stress reliever. even seokmin, who you learned to be a civil engineering major, was left on the verge of tears and in conflict about whether or not he already wanted to switch majors.

 jungkook pulled out his phone and after tapping at the screen a few times, let out a grunt of frustration. “roads are closed, anyway.”

 you wish you knew this before you got blasted off the vodka and a few white claws. hell, you’d already gone through the trouble of putting on a full face of makeup and picking out a cute outfit. huffing out a sigh, you hopped off your twin bed to take a look at jungkook’s screen, hoping that he was joking, only to verify that the news was true. 

 “i mean, if you guys want, there’s always something going on at the frat ho -”

 “no.” all three of you, doyeon and yeri instantly cut seokmin off. 

 seokmin glared towards you all. “what’s wrong with the frat house?”

 you muttered, “i’m tired of that place - ”

 “-  and it’s still off-campus, dumbass! i am not trekking through that storm,” doyeon responded.

 yeri added, “and your one brother gives me the creeps. he’s always instantly liking all of my instagram stories, like a bot.”

 the complaint stemmed from the last time your friends were swindled into attending one of sigma chi’s parties, where seokmin’s frat brother wouldn’t stop following yeri around the entire night. even if she actually thought of him to be cute at first, his obsessive behaviour became an immediate turn-off and she couldn’t get anywhere near the house again without his relentless chase trailing behind her. 

 seokmin said, “yeah, but it’s right outside campus and is closer than the bar,” he rolled his eyes. “no rebuttal about jason, though. he kinda is a weird guy.”

 other murmurs of protest rose from the group. nobody wanted to leave campus, much less the building. 

 “let’s just stay here for a while and chill,” jungkook suggested. “we can have a fun night in, look at all the alcohol we have.”

 from the stash that you and your roommates shared, there was still another bottle of tequila and a few other assorted seltzers. meanwhile, seokmin had brought over beer and if there was any need for more, jungkook and jaehyun’s dorm was just two floors away. you’d seen their mini fridge before and the alcohol to food ratio was atrocious. 

 with a wicked grin now slowly spreading on her face, yeri added, “i think that eva should join us.”

 while you and doyeon laughed, the boys exchanged confused looks.

 “who’s eva?” jaehyun asked, probably wondering if he knew her. bastard, he knew just about every pretty girl in your year - if that was even possible. 

 this only made the three of you laugh even harder. you stood up and walked over to your closet. upon swinging it open, you rummaged through and pulled out what was yeri’s birthday present: a shiny, tall and pink bong. by chance, you found out that yeri was a big stoner and you and doyeon split the costs of the bong last week to surprise her. 

 “meet eva bongoria,” doyeon said and clapped her hands together, excitedly. 

 eva bongoria was a beaker bong and kept meticulously clean by doyeon, who you were surprised even allowed smoking in the room. she declared that, as long as using it wasn’t constant and the window was open, it was fine. the base glass was a light coral that almost perfectly matched yeri’s sheets, to her delight. it was tall enough that when you sat cross-legged on the floor, it reached the top of your chest. you only tried it twice, having nearly coughed your lungs out each time. 

 eva was a bit intimidating, to say the least.

 by the looks on the boys’ faces, they were also intimidated by eva. seokmin’s eyebrows were raised, but you suspected that it was also partly because his cousin allowed such a thing in your sleeping quarters. jungkook looked more impressed by the size and took eva from your hands, observing every cranny of it. your fingertips brushed and it was hard to ignore.

 there was no future for you and jeon jungkook’s tantalizing smile. you blamed college hookup culture. there was no sense of commitment in the fall semester of freshman year, for anyone. you couldn’t even blame either yourself or jungkook because you also found yourself texting a rotation of boys you didn’t particularly care about. although there was always a spark of electricity between the two of you, you were also in the same friend group and quietly decided that it was for the best. being friends before things were ruined. and honestly, you were now certain that you weren’t ready for a relationship.

 “you’re joking,” laughed jaehyun, now looking over and taking eva into his lap, effectively creating enough of a distraction to extinguish these thoughts.

 at least, until you and jungkook were shooed away to locate some snacks a few moments later. after all, you two were the only ones who weren’t in the mood for a bowl. you shrugged it off when jungkook volunteered to follow you to the vending machines. 

 as the two of you walked down the hallway, jungkook sighed. “i was looking forward to going out.”

 your movements were uncoordinated, as the alcohol in your system made it feel like your ankles were tied together with rope, “unfortunately, your adoring fans will have to wait for you.”

 “what a shame. they don’t like to be left hanging.”

 “boo hoo. there goes your chances of surpassing jaehyun as royal oak’s most sought after.”

 “come on - ” he grinned. “nobody can do that. jaehyun is loved by every waitress in that pub. it’s that nerdy charm of his and he knows it.”

 you shoved him playfully and usually, he would pretend like you just hit him with a cannonball. instead, you wobbled a little too much and jungkook caught you, stabilizing you with hands on either side of your shoulders. you giggled and he laughed, as well, standing closer than normal. 

 “thank god you rejected that bong rip,” he mused. “you’re already wasted. and you expected to waltz into the bar with high heels.”

 “i’m not wasted!” you protested, continuing to walk with what you thought was conviction.

 when you realized that his footsteps had ceased, you whipped around to find that you passed the vending machine several paces ago. jungkook’s grin widened. 

 “you sure about that?” he said, as you begrudgingly walked back to where he was standing. “a non-wasted person would be able to use their eyes.”

 jungkook teasingly tapped the space in between your eyebrows and you scowled at him. 

 “i just wasn’t paying attention.”

 “that’s true, it’s not much different from when you’re sober.”

 you smacked his chest and turned to the vending machine. it was nearly empty, which wasn’t surprising considering that nobody was expecting such a huge snowstorm. everyone in the building seemed to be locked up inside their rooms and stocked up. the only items remaining were those sandwiches where the meat tasted a bit like plastic and the mustard was suspiciously thick. 

 jungkook eyed the glass. “i guess dinner is served.”

 only the quiet, whirling hum of the vending machine filled the eerily dead hallway, as the sandwiches were bought one by one at a snail’s pace. maybe you were wasted, you were swaying back and forth. jungkook laughed.

 “what?”

 “i forgot how much of a handful you are when you’re drunk,” he shook his head. you realized this seemed to be a recurring occasion - jungkook always ending up watching over you after you drink.

 thankfully you had yet to say anything stupid yet while under the influence.

 yet.

 “you’d make a good boyfriend.” the comment fell out of your mouth before you could even process the words in your mind. “you’re really caring and shit like that.”

 thankfully, jungkook doesn’t blink and instead, smirked back at you. “unfortunate that you refuse to date anyone,” he replied. 

 two alarming things flashed before you. the first was that jungkook was doing that infuriating thing where you weren’t sure if he was flirting with you or not. he was charming, sure, but you didn’t see him talking to yeri and doyeon the way he did with you sometimes - the subtle implications, the jokes bordering on too affectionate, the way you swore you caught him staring at you from time to time. 

 the second was that jungkook. . .  paid attention to you, enough so that he knew about your dating patterns. you discovered that you were more than content with fooling around like most college freshmen. it was easier and truthfully, you never had a serious relationship in your life. 

 “what’s that supposed to mean?” you shot back, wondering which of the two undertones his statement fell on. 

 to your disappointment, he dodged the directness of your question. jungkook was now cross-legged in front of the vending machine and creating a stack of plastic-wrapped sandwiches on the floor. 

 “it’s not a bad thing.” he shrugged. “jaehyun got cheated on by his high school girlfriend. my brother and yeri were in a toxic, back-and-forth relationship. everyone has their reasons to not want to commit to one thing, at least not yet.”

 you didn’t know what to say. it wasn’t like you could deny it. it just wasn’t something you thought too deeply about.

 “dunno,” you lamely replied and took a seat right next to jungkook on the floor. 

 “don’t worry, i’m not pressing. you don’t have to share anything - ”

 you shook your head. “ - no. you made me realize that it’s probably something i should reflect about or something.”

 jungkook took the sixth and final sandwich from the vending machine. neither of you moved, though. you rubbed your arm, the one that wasn’t shoulder to shoulder with his. 

 “you know. . .” he trailed off. “you don’t have to be so guarded all the time.”

 “i’m not guarded.”

 “that’s exactly what a guarded person would say.”

 though you scowled, jungkook’s words at least had a lighthearted undertone. lighthearted, but genuine. you weren’t used to people checking you like this. 

 he had a bit of a point, you tended to be guarded with people. despite that, you thought you were working on it as of late. would guarded people make five new whole friends, more friends at one time than you’ve ever had in your life? would guarded people join the ceramics club? would they smile at other random people from your floor when you brushed your teeth at the same time in the communal bathroom?

 “it’s just - “ you groaned, not knowing how to put it. “when it comes to relationships, i just think of my parents. they were such a mess, you know?”

 you weren’t sure what compelled you to open up about this. there wasn’t much hesitation, just thinking on your own end. jungkook’s calm smile and patience made you feel safe.

 he nodded, listening intently. “adults usually are.”

 “it’s insane to think that some of us are just a few years removed from being parents ourselves.” you shook your head. “before you know it, we’ll also be packing up in the middle of the night and leaving the family we’ve raised for seventeen years.”

 “you dad?” jungkook guessed and it was a pretty solid one, considering you only ever talked about your mom.

 you liked the way that you and jungkook were able to talk about things like this. he didn’t look at you with any judgement - a fact that didn’t only apply to just this conversation - and he never looked at you with pity. god, you hated being pitied.

 “yeah,” you answered. “he walked out at the beginning of senior year in high school. was a miracle i managed to keep my gpa up and get into this college after that.”

 jungkook scoffed. “you don’t deserve that shit.”

 “him abandoning me and my mom or him leaving me with obvious trust issues?” you joked.

 “that makes two of us.”

 the alcohol, once again, spoke for you. “is that why you stick your tongue down a different girl’s throat every week?”

 thankfully, jungkook found humour in your drunken bluntness. his head hung back onto the glass of the vending machine, as he let out a cackle. at least he didn’t try denying it. 

 he held his hands up. “hey man, i bet you don’t have the balls to show me the number of guys you have on your snapchat,” jungkook teased back. “i wonder how shocked i’d even be, since i’ve had guys bugging me to give it to them at every party since that beach bonfire.”

 if this wasn’t a friend zone, you didn’t know what was. but, you couldn’t ignore the racing in your chest when jungkook revealed that he knew that you were playing the field just as much as him and that he’d been approached by other guys about you. since the bonfire. 

 you wondered if these lines were unfortunately drawn way longer ago than you realized and suddenly felt silly for the small crush that had grown, even knowing that no one ever actually tied themselves down in the first semester. jungkook probably thought you were never interested in the first place. especially someone like you, who hadn’t even had a real relationship before. to be fair, you’d only been innocently collecting the contact information of these boys without action up until that halloween party at the frat house and only started messing around after giving up on jungkook. 

 “hmph. and what’s your story, since you pried into my daddy issues?” you shot back, tone lighthearted. “you’re, like, the nicest guy i’ve met since coming here. you really harbouring any trauma that excuses fuckboy behaviour?”

 jungkook stood up with a stretch, before extending his hand to you. he grinned widely, as he always did when he enjoyed your banter. you took his invitation to get off from the floor, letting him pull you up. he laughed as he steadied you again, a hand on each of your shoulders. 

 he said, “exactly what i’m exploring with my therapist.” 

 jungkook’s answer initially sounded like a joke, but you saw his overly nonchalant shrug and realized he was being serious. in a way, you did appreciate his straight-forward answer and how neither of you were afraid to call each other out in a way that showed genuine concern, but was still easygoing. it seemed like you and jungkook were quite similar, comfortingly so. 

 “touché.”

 with an armful of highly manufactured sandwiches, the two of you returned to your dorm room and thanked the heavens that everyone was too high to care about the chosen food. you fought a giggle at seokmin’s ravenous attempt at eating the sandwich in just two bites. 

 upon entering, you saw that someone located a deck of cards. it was one of those cheap, flimsy sets that were sold at the campus store with a hiked up price because it was themed with the school mascot. doyeon was just tearing the plastic off when everyone, by a miracle, managed to settle into a circle on the floor.

 “i brought the cards, by the way!” seokmin chirped with a hand raised, as if it erased the fact that he was why you were all snowed in after expecting to get drunk at a bar. 

 everyone simply glared at him, from all angles in the room.

 “if i wasn’t a respectable young lady, you’d be dead by now.” yeri scowled, shuffling the cards for everyone.

 “i mean, can you really say that you ar - ow!” 

 several soft thuds filled the room, as yeri whacked seokmin’s arm with your stuffed kuromi plushie. and then again. and again. by the end, she had moved her aim to the head and everyone was cracking the fuck up. nobody could hold back from falling over or clutching their ribs as yeri’s attacks intensified. 

 after the initial frustrations evaporated and the drinks flowed once more, everyone settled into a lighthearted mood. 

 “jungkook, you’re totally cheating, i can see the cards hidden underneath your leg!” 

 “can we play a different game? doyeon keeps winning, bro.”

 “losers have to take a shot!”

 a number of intense rounds of various card games were played and as all of you slowly became more intoxicated, the louder your laughter and voices grew. you realized that it’d been a while since you had a real night in, since your weekends seemed to only be filled with either intense studying, partying, or being outright asleep for your days off. it was the same for your friends and you quickly learned that freshman year worked in a time different than your own.

 not only did freshmen days equal months, but time also went by five times faster. how these two things were simultaneously possible, you couldn’t explain, but you found yourself in an alternate time loop where nothing quite made sense, but everything pieced together anyway. this theory didn’t just apply to time, but the fresh eyes you wore to your everyday life. the kind that only exists in eighteen year olds.

 sometimes, having a night in with your best friends and playing cards got you all through college. it mostly happened once a month and somehow always on a friday, but the six of you also gathered when it was just right. 

 at the end of freshman year, when doyeon got dumped by the first guy she actually liked, the boys showed up unannounced at your dorm with pizza boxes and the deck of cards. they wordlessly let themselves in and set up a game of poker. then, there’d been the accident you had the summer in between your second and third year, when you drank too much on your last friday before going on exchange and ended up getting your stomach pumped. it was funny to joke about afterwards, but you nearly died and as soon as you were permitted visitors, all five showed up around your hospital bed and played crazy eights. and, of course, when the swim team failed to qualify for regionals in senior year, everyone gathered on a mission to make seokmin and jungkook smile.

 you were impressed that no one succeeded in losing the deck or ruining it physically. it was the same set of cards with a cartoon version of a spirited hawk and although it was dressed with many creases and folded corners, it was insisted that the cards should be the same ones every time. they were special. 

  by the end of college, friday night dinners were now held at someone’s apartment and not the cramped space of a dorm room. shots of tequila, although just as frequently drank, were sometimes exchanged for glasses of wine. the cards were now worn and well-loved, a clear dent from the tight rubber band used to keep them together over the years. dinner went from vending machine plastic sandwiches to pizza boxes. sometimes, homemade pasta or cheap charcuterie boards and veggie platters - depending on if it was someone like doyeon in charge of food that night or if it was jungkook. 

 on this particular night in senior year, the six of you gathered as usual. this friday, seokmin volunteered his apartment and set down a tray of onion rings that were freshly pulled from his oven. you were sharing the bean bag with jungkook, sprawled on his lap, and slapped his hand away from the tray before he burned himself. on the couch, jaehyun snickered at the sight of you two, as times had truly changed over the course of friday night dinners, and then turned to the rest of the group.

 “kook, can you grab the cards? why don’t we play bullshit? it’s been a while.”

 “that’s because yeri can’t lie to save her life.”

 yeri shot daggers into seokmin and as she always did, reached for the nearest object to smack him with. unfortunately, it happened to be one of her thick biology textbooks left on the coffee table. seokmin expertly dodged the attack, having grown agile and recognized her movements all too well. she instead cussed at him under her breath, giving up after she saw that there was no winning.

 “you kinda can’t, though,” doyeon mused and everyone chuckled. 

 the deck of cards were something like the jeans from the sisterhood of the travelling pants. it didn’t have a real owner and it was magic. the last time everyone met for friday night dinner, jungkook took over responsibility of holding onto the cards. the group was waiting for him to grab the set from his bag when he let out a sharp intake of his breath.

 you were busy chuckling at yeri when you heard him. “what’s wrong?” you looked over at jungkook from across the room. you knew the flash of distress on his face from miles away. 

 a grave expression painted jungkook’s features. he looked like he just killed someone’s first born child. 

 “what?” jaehyun repeated, now also noticing the look on his face.

 a beat of silence.

 jungkook started with his hands up. “guys, please don’t kill me.”

 “dude, what’s going on?” seokmin asked.

 then, jungkook slowly raised his backpack. a deep teal colour pooled at the bottom of the bag, saturating the once light grey colour of a hue that only belonged to a monster ultra blue. a few gasps elicited. in the other hand was the suspected monster energy can, but in the same grip? it was the deck of cards. stained and ink rubbing off, your heart dropped at the sight.

 no one knew what to say. jungkook’s remorse only made the situation more heavy. the poor guy looked like he was about to drop on his knees for forgiveness, especially after yeri let out a shrill gasp. all of you took the situation in.

 “should we have a funeral?” murmured seokmin.

 doyeon sighed. “you lived a long four years.”

 upon realizing how long you and the others had kept the deck of cards, your sadness only grew. “i guess it’s fitting. . . “ you trailed off and didn’t want to continue, didn’t want to start talking about how you were all about to graduate and a stupid deck of cards had been through it all with you.

 that night, everyone picked their favourite card to hold onto and keep for themselves. seokmin convinced the group to watch as he “symbolically” lit the rest of the deck on fire to discard them. it was apparently time, or whatever that shit meant. 

 you all stood on the balcony, as the cards were laid out in the middle of your circle. yeri huffed a piece of her now brunette strands out of the front of her face. she dyed her hair in the middle of the semester and considering she never went more than three weeks for a root touch up since entering college, you all thought she had lost her mind. looking at her now, it suited her well. she looked older, but you figured that you all did.

 “this is silly,” she said, eying the serious demeanor of the group. “and how am i supposed to pick a ‘favourite’ card?”

 it was freezing for an april night. seokmin’s balcony was barely one and it was just enough space for all six of you to be shoulder to shoulder in front of the george foreman grill that he bought off of facebook marketplace. 

 jungkook interjected, “think of it like a patronus - ”

 “what the fuck is a patronus?” muttered jaehyun. 

 he got first dibs on going through the cards before anyone could protest. even since meeting four years ago, jaehyun had always been a bit of a brat and liked getting his way. the others let him get away with it most of the time out of exasperation. 

 “- or like your mbti.”

 seokmin gazed into the distant skyline, where the city sang alive through shimmering lights and colours. “i think my patronus would be a dolphin,” he spoke in a dreamy voice, ever dramatic.

 meanwhile, you were concerned with possibly setting the apartment on fire. “wait, we’re actually burning the cards?”

 “ugh, seokmin, you’re such an idiot.” doyeon shivered, pulling her cardigan tighter around her frame.

 “what if my patronus is a lame card like a nine of spades or some shit?”

 jungkook leaned into your space, whispering in your ear. “what the hell makes a card a good card?”

 in the end, you let the card pick you. after turning over the deck and shuffling what salvageable cards you could, the card you ended up with was one picked at random. with your eyes closed as you plucked it out of the pile, you turned it over and were surprised that it was pristine, completely clear of any trace of the monster ultra blue. not many cards survived without so much as a smear.

 “that has to be a sign.” yeri beamed. “y/n, you have good fortune coming if you picked a clean card!”

 “this isn’t a tarot reading,” you dryly remarked, but she ignored you. 

 jaehyun took the responsibility of firing up the grill, despite doyeon voicing her concerns about making sure that the whole ritual would be done as safely as possible. everyone picked out a card to keep and while the idea of what you were all doing would surely sound silly to the average outsider, you felt surprisingly emotional.

 you weren’t one to hold onto things or hoard material belongings. every year, you cleaned out all of your clothes and other personal items to both donate and throw out as needed. you looked over and doyeon was literally wearing your blouse from sophomore year. she and yeri often found themselves at odds at the end of spring when all of your things were up for grabs.

 jungkook once asked you why you did so and you never really had an answer. you thought that you were simply good at moving on. dwelling on things that no longer served you was never something you were keen on doing. 

 but, these cards?

 it was like throwing out memories. not right out the window without looking back, no. the whole process of picking out a favourite card to keep and burning the rest felt like slowly ripping off a bandaid - agonizing and you could only wish to get it over with. the last thing you ever did was slowly get over things. you always thought you were good at building a wall up to the forces of nostalgia and grief, until now.

 “you wanna do the honours, man?” jaehyun turned to jungkook, who still wore a guilty look on his face over the accident.

 jungkook nodded. “yeah,” he sighed. “you guys should go inside, i’ll take care of it.” 

 doyeon and jaehyun in particular were freezing their asses off, teeth chattering and rubbing their arms. they gladly accepted and scurried out, followed by yeri and seokmin. you lingered for just a moment longer.

 there was an awful, inkling sensation about this. you never felt anything like it before, the way it gnawed at you and wore your skin down until it was raw. it seeped through even your toughest of fences and rang in your ears - the feeling that things were never going to be the same. you met jungkook’s eyes and he was looking into a mirror.

 “koo, don’t feel bad,” you tried to comfort your boyfriend. “accidents happen.”

 jungkook forced a half smile. “yeah. i know.”

 you wrapped your arms around his back, as he leaned forward on the balcony to absorb the skyline. giggling erupted from the street below as a group of young girls emerged from an uber ride with no jackets to line up at the country bar a block away. you could see a middle aged couple waiting for the bus on the other end, huddling into each other’s embrace to keep warm. then, there was an elderly man walking alone, with just a pizza box tucked under his arm. there were so many lives down there, people experiencing all kinds of ends and beginnings.

 “for real. it’s fine.”

 he nodded again and leaned forwards, his soft lips brushing against your temple. funnily enough, it was a gesture that you noticed he did when he wanted to calm himself, as opposed to a comfort to you. still, you melted into his touch. you always did.

 “go inside, it’s freezing,” he murmured into your skin.

 when you finally relented and left, you didn’t dwell too much on how no one actually watched jungkook burn the cards. he eyed them on the wooden fold-up table next to the grill, as they laid out to dry. then, he collected them all and bound them together with a rubber band, pocketing them into his jeans like a thief in the night. sliding the balcony doors open and rejoining the group to watch a movie, no one suspected a thing. 

⇢ 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: @fancypeacepersona @petiteparler @lanie97 @httpjeonlicious @bleumornings @rpwprpwprpwprw @kikiflwr @kissyfacekoo @knivesdoingcartwheels @joyjunk @jksusawife @haru-jiminn @fancypeacepersona @softhaes @whoa-jo @kooloveys @mar-lo-pap @seokjinthescientist (reply to be tagged and if i forgot to tag you!)

[solecize]

dude i’ve just finished reading ttm cuz i’ve just discovered it and OMG IM OBSESSED LIKEEEE i cannot wait for more chapters cuz its sooo amazing i’ve never been THIS obsessed w a ff before😭😭😭😭

hi hi omg thank you???? that means a lot omg especially when it's been a minute since it's been updated ugh i promise i will never abandon ttm and will get back to it sooner rather than later!!