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jungkoode · 3 months ago

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𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 10

˗ˏˋ slow dancing ˎˊ˗

"Late night melodies have a way of slipping past your defenses. And maybe that's why he chose 2AM to show you a side of him you weren't supposed to see."

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⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 4.5k

content: electric guitar discussions, griffin being a crackhead like his dad, tiny moments, late night melodies, comfortable silence

✧ author's note ✧

FIRST OF ALL! I CREATED A PLAYLIST OF SONGS FMU!JUNGKOOK PLAYS ON HIS ELECTRIC GUITAR to make him feel more human and lived in. Go check it out! You can play it whenever he’s playing the guitar.

Hello everyone! ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ Currently writing this from the past since I'm scheduled to be stuffing my face with gyros in Greece right now. Which, honestly? Living my best tourist life with my partner. (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ

I know I said chapter 10 might be delayed because of the trip BUT Wednesday night hit different and suddenly my brain went feral. You know how it is - either write nothing for weeks or channel an entire novel in one sitting. There is no in-between. (；一_一)

Here's the thing about this chapter though - I'm actually proud of it? Which never happens, so cherish this moment. It's finally time to plant some seeds (about time, right?). ٩(◕‿◕｡)۶

Listen, I know I'm absolutely unhinged about slow burn. Like, genuinely concerning levels of commitment to dragging out emotional development. I kept second-guessing if 50k words in was too early for their first Moment™, but you know what? They deserve this tiny crumb of softness. (`･ω･´)

Before you get too excited - remember who's writing this. Your resident slow burn demon. What I consider a huge development, you'll probably read and go "... that's it?" (╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻ But I promise, if you pay attention to the vibes, there's something special here.

Quick question! I've sprinkled about three of Jungkook's trauma events throughout the story so far. Any theories? Some of you perceptive souls (looking at you, Koopsy) have probably figured them out, but I'm curious what everyone else thinks! ψ(｀∇´)ψ

See you next weekend! Mwah!

P.S. Written at 5AM running on spite and caffeine. If you spot typos, no you didn't. (￣▽￣*)ゞ

I am sorry but listening to THIS on the second part is MANDATORY. It’s the song Jungkook’s playing. So, you better listen to it or I’ll get mad and stop breathing and there will be no more fuck me up for you bitches. 😤😤😤

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

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Your hair's a fucking mess and it's all his fault.

You tug at your oversized pajama shirt as you emerge from your room, trying to look less... well. Less like you just had your roommate's tongue down your throat.

The living room's exactly as you left it, except now Jungkook's manspreading in the armchair like he owns it, arguing with Yeji about—wait, what?

"—can't seriously think the Stratocaster is better for metal," he's saying, gesturing with those stupidly nice hands of his. "The humbucker pickups alone—"

"The clarity though?" Yeji cuts in, looking personally offended. You've seen that look before—usually right before she launches into a thirty-minute rant about music theory. "You get way better note definition with single coils, especially for complex riffs—"

"Yeah, if you want it to sound like a tin can—"

"Excuse me?"

God. Two guitar nerds in one room. This is literally your worst nightmare.

Irya's sitting between them on the couch looking thoroughly entertained, phone in hand. "Jimin!" she calls out suddenly. "Check the one I just sent you!"

Jimin glances up from his own phone, that soft smile playing on his lips. He's claimed the other end of the couch, as far from the guitar debate as possible. Smart man.

The doorbell rings, and before you can even think about moving, Jungkook launches himself out of the armchair like an overcaffeinated jackrabbit.

"I got it!" He's already halfway to the door, and you roll your eyes so hard they might get stuck.

"Whatever." You grab one of the bean bags from near the big window, dragging it to the other side of the coffee table. As far from the armchair as possible, because you know exactly where he's going to sit when he gets back.

"Just saying," Yeji continues like the pizza interruption never happened, "if you're going to shit-talk Fender, at least have a decent argument."

"Oh, I've got arguments." You can hear Jungkook fumbling with his wallet at the door. "Want me to grab my guitar? I can demonstrate—"

"Please, god, no," you mutter, dropping onto the bean bag. The last thing you need is an impromptu concert from either of them.

"Pizzaaaa," he announces, kicking the door shut behind him. He's somehow managing to balance four boxes, and you definitely don't notice the way his arms flex under the weight. "Who's hungry?"

You end up sharing your calabrese with Jimin because he's literally the only person in this room with taste. Plus, watching him take small, careful bites makes you feel better about the way you just inhaled your first slice like some kind of starved animal.

Everyone else claimed their own pizza—Yeji's practically mainlining her extra spicy diavola, Irya's defending her hawaiian from Yeji's judgmental looks, and Jungkook...

God. Jungkook.

He's sprawled in that armchair like it's a throne, one leg thrown over the armrest, decimating his meat lovers' like he's getting paid for it. And it's annoying. Everything about him is annoying. The way he tears into the crust with those stupidly white teeth. The way his throat works when he swallows. The little appreciative sounds he makes that are way too similar to—nope.

Not going there.

"Want some?" He catches you staring and holds out a slice, cheese stretching obscenely. "Since you keep looking over here."

"I'm not—" You break off as a string of cheese snaps. "I was judging your eating habits."

"Uh-huh." He takes another bite, and you hate that you notice the way his lips curve. "Sure, phoenix."

"Fuck off."

"Make me."

Yeji makes a gagging sound. "Do you two ever stop?"

No. You don't. That's the problem. Whether it's fighting or fucking or whatever the hell happened in your room twenty minutes ago, you just... don't stop. Can't stop. Won't stop.

And maybe that should worry you more than it does.

"Pass me a napkin?" Jimin asks quietly, and you grab one gratefully. Away from thoughts of Jungkook's mouth and what it was doing to you earlier and—focus. Pizza. Friends. Normal things that don't involve your roommate's tongue.

Except he's right there, existing in your peripheral vision like some kind of extremely annoying sun. Being all... present. With his hair still messed up from your hands and that mark on his neck that your friends definitely haven't noticed but you know is there and—

"Phoenix." His voice cuts through your spiral. "You're staring again."

"I'm plotting your murder."

He grins, slow and knowing. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

He's still chewing. Like, unnecessarily loud? Who taught this man table manners, a pack of wolves?

You watch him demolish another slice with the same energy your mom attacks Facebook conspiracy theories. It's giving feral raccoon energy. No, worse—it's giving mukbang YouTuber who's about to get canceled for something weird. The way he's manspreading in that chair like he's about to start a podcast about cryptocurrency—

And then you see it. Griffin, the little menace, has somehow gotten onto the coffee table (again) and he's sniffing at—fuck, is that garlic bread?

You're out of the bean bag before you can think, nearly falling on your face in your haste. "Griffin, no—"

But Jungkook's already moving too, pizza forgotten, practically launching himself out of the chair. "G, don't—"

You snatch Griffin away from the bread just as Jungkook reaches for him, and for a second you're both frozen there—you with an armful of disgruntled cat, him with his hands outstretched and something raw and panicked in his eyes that makes your chest tight.

"He can't have garlic," you explain, which is stupid because obviously Jungkook knows this, it's his cat. "It's toxic for—"

"Yeah." His voice is rough. He swallows, hands falling to his sides. "Yeah, I know."

The silence stretches for a beat too long.

Something's off about his reaction—it's just bread, right?

But there's tension in his shoulders, a tightness around his eyes that wasn't there before.

"He's got this thing about human food," he says finally, aiming for casual but missing by a mile. His laugh sounds hollow. "Always goes for the stuff that'll fuck him up."

You raise an eyebrow, absently scratching under Griffin's chin. "What, like a death wish?"

"More like bad judgment." He reaches for Griffin, and you notice his hands aren't quite steady. "Likes the wrong stuff. Just like his dad. Don't you, buddy?"

Griffin just purrs, completely unbothered by all the drama he just caused. Jungkook checks him over anyway, like he might have somehow eaten the entire loaf in the two seconds you weren't looking.

"Devil cat," you mutter, but you find yourself reaching out to scratch Griffin's ears anyway. "Always trying to unalive himself with human food."

Jungkook's quiet for a moment, just watching you pet Griffin.

Then, so soft you almost miss it: "Thanks."

You blink. "For what?"

"For—" He cuts himself off, nonchalance sliding back into place. "For not letting him add 'bread thief' to his criminal record."

But there's something in his voice, in the way his fingers keep checking Griffin like he needs to make sure he's still there—

"Yo," Yeji cuts in, "can someone please explain to my girlfriend why pineapple on pizza is a crime against humanity?"

"It's not a crime," Irya's saying, waving her slice of hawaiian like a weapon. "It's culinary innovation."

"It's fruit on pizza." Yeji looks personally wounded. "That's like putting ketchup in coffee."

"Don't give him ideas," you mutter, watching Jungkook from the corner of your eye. He's settled back in the armchair with Griffin, but something's... off. The casual sprawl looks forced now, mechanical. His phone's out, thumb scrolling without really seeing.

Weird.

"Some people actually do that," Jimin offers quietly. "The ketchup thing."

"Those people need therapy." Yeji steals a piece of pineapple off Irya's slice, examining it like it's evidence in a crime scene. "Like, immediately."

You should probably join in. Make some quip about food crimes or Yeji's weird vendetta against fruit. But you keep getting distracted by the way Jungkook's shoulders are still tight, how his other hand hasn't stopped checking Griffin. Like he needs to make sure he's still there.

Doesn't make sense. He was fine ten minutes ago, being all loud and annoying about guitars. What changed?

"Speaking of crimes against humanity—" Irya starts.

"We are not discussing the mint chocolate incident again."

"It was one time!"

Griffin shifts in Jungkook's lap, and you catch the slight flinch in his fingers. The way his eyes snap to check what the cat's doing. It's so different from his usual careless energy, from the way he usually lets Griffin do whatever the fuck he wants.

"Phoenix." His voice makes you jump. Caught staring. Fuck. "Take a picture, it'll last longer."

The words are right—that usual cocky bullshit—but the delivery's wrong. Flat. Like he's reading from a script of himself.

"What, and boost your ego more?" Keep it casual. Normal. Whatever's happening, he clearly doesn't want to talk about it. "Pretty sure that's like, directly against the Geneva Convention."

He tries for a smirk, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Didn't know you were so concerned about war crimes."

"Only the ones happening in my living room."

A ghost of his usual grin, there and gone. Then he's back to his phone, shoulders a hard line under his t-shirt. You watch him tap the screen exactly four times, precise and measured. Since when does he do anything precise?

"Y/N?" Jimin touches your arm. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just..." You gesture vaguely at your half-eaten slice. "Food coma."

But you keep watching. Can't help it. The way his jaw clenches every few seconds. How he's barely touched his pizza since the Griffin thing. The slight tremor in his fingers when he scratches behind the cat's ears.

He just... trusts the wrong people sometimes, you know?

What the fuck was that about?

"Earth to Y/N!" Yeji's voice cuts through your thoughts. "Back me up here. Pineapple on pizza—yes or no?"

"What? Oh, uh." You force yourself to look away from Jungkook. "Definitely no."

"Thank you!"

"Traitor," Irya accuses, but she's grinning. "I trusted you."

Trust. There's that word again. You glance back at Jungkook, but he's not even pretending to listen anymore. Just staring at his phone, one hand buried in Griffin's fur like an anchor.

Something happened here. Something you're missing. But the more you try to piece it together, the less sense it makes. It's just bread, right? Just Griffin being his usual chaos gremlin self. So why does Jungkook look like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop?

"Hey." Jimin's voice is soft. Private. "Sure you're okay?"

No. Yes. Maybe. You don't know why you're so fixated on this, why you can't just let it go. It's not like you care. It's not like—

"I'm fine." You reach for another slice. "Just tired."

But you can't quite shake the image of his face when you caught Griffin. That raw panic, like he was seeing something else entirely. Someone else.

“Alright I’m so done with this. We are watching Love Island.” Yeji jumps in.

“Since when do you like reality shows?” Jimin asks, smiling.

“Since, uh, never.” She replies, defensively. “I just like seeing stupid people doing stupid shit.”

And that’s how you end up watching Love Island reruns, because apparently that's what your life has devolved into. Jungkook disappeared to his room twenty minutes ago, taking Griffin and his weird mood with him, and you're trying very hard not to think about either of them.

You're failing spectacularly, but whatever.

"You good?" Yeji nudges you with her foot. "You've been weird since the whole bread thing."

"M'fine." You bat her foot away. "Just tired."

She gives you that look, the one that says she knows you're full of shit, but before she can call you out on it, the front door opens.

Yoongi trudges in looking like he's been through seven circles of hell and maybe a Walmart on Black Friday. His beanie's askew, dark circles under his eyes more pronounced than usual—classic post-studio energy. He stops dead when he sees your little gathering, letting out the longest, most defeated sigh you've ever heard.

Then he takes off his beanie, hanging his keys, and—

"You're fucking joking."

Yeji practically launches herself off the couch, dislodging Irya from where she was curled into her shoulder. What the—

Yoongi freezes. Turns. Very. Slowly.

"........."

"Mint????" Yeji's voice hits a pitch that probably only dogs can hear. "What the actual fuck?"

Yoongi closes his eyes like he's praying for strength. "Please god, no."

Hold up.

You look between them—Yeji vibrating with chaotic energy, Yoongi looking like he wants to evaporate on the spot. Since when does your anti-establishment new possibly best friend know your lowkey famous producer roommate?

"Wait." You sit up straighter. "You know Yoongi?"

"Know him?" Yeji's still staring at Yoongi like he's either Jesus or a sleep-deprived hallucination. "He produced my track six months ago and then ghosted everyone like—"

"I didn't ghost." He dumps his bag on the counter with maybe more force than necessary. "I was working."

"For six months?"

"Yes."

You regard both of them slowly. Because yeah, you knew Yoongi was Mint—Hoseok had dropped that bomb like it wasn't a whole thing. But Yeji? Your anarchist, fight-the-system best friend worked with him?

"Hold up." Irya's sitting up now too, eyes wide. "You're telling me this is the guy? The one who made that track that almost got you banned from three venues?"

"It was one track." Yoongi's already heading for his room, clearly done with this conversation. "Six months ago."

"It was fire though!" Yeji calls after him. "Could've been more if you hadn't—"

The door closes with a very pointed click.

"Well." Irya breaks the silence. "That was fun."

Another door opens and Jungkook peers out, probably drawn by all the noise. "Was that Yoongi? What's with all the—"

"Did you know Yeji worked with him?" you demand, because apparently this is your life now. Finding out your friend and your roommate have secret music history.

He blinks. "With who?"

"Our roommate? Mint PD? Ring any bells in that empty head of yours?"

"Oh." He shrugs, leaning against his doorframe. "Yeah, but I didn't know it was your Yeji."

"She's not my—wait." You narrow your eyes. "How many Yejis do you know?"

"Wouldn't you like to know, phoenix?"

"It’s not like Yeji is a super common name in New York."

His grin is insufferable. "Sure about that?"

"God, do you ever shut up?"

"Only when I'm sleeping." He stretches, all casual arrogance. "Sometimes not even then."

"Gross." You turn to your friends. "You guys don't have to leave just because he's being... himself."

But Yeji's already getting up, collecting their stuff. "Nah, it's late. Plus, I need to process the whole Mint thing. That was weird as fuck."

"Text me the story later?" Irya asks, helping gather the pizza boxes. "I want to know everything about this track that got you banned."

"It wasn't banned," Yeji protests. "Just... strongly discouraged from ever being played again."

Jimin helps clean because he's literally an angel walking among mere mortals. You walk them to the door, hyperaware of Jungkook still hovering in his doorway like the creep he is.

"Text me," Yeji mutters as she hugs you goodbye.

The door closes behind them. When you turn around, Jungkook's gone, door clicking shut like he was never there.

Typical.

You stare at his closed door for a moment, thinking about garlic bread and panic and things that don't make sense.

Whatever. Not your problem.

You're going to commit a murder tonight.

Your friends left hours ago, and you've been trying to wind down—reading, scrolling through TikTok, attempting to be a functional human being who sleeps before their 8AM class. But someone apparently decided 2AM was the perfect time to practice his goddamn electric guitar.

The electric guitar riffs pierce through your wall for the hundredth time, each note a personal attack on your sanity.

Who the fuck plays at 2AM? Who? What kind of sociopath—

Another chord progression. Louder this time.

You grab your pillow, smothering a scream into it as your nails dig into the fabric. Eight AM class tomorrow. Eight. Fucking. AM. And this absolute waste of oxygen is out there having his main character moment like he's the star of some teen angst movie.

Fuck him. Actually fuck him. And fuck past you for fucking him in the first place. Yeah, okay, he's hot. Fine. But does that really balance out this? The constant noise and the attitude and the way he acts like the whole world revolves around him?

The guitar gets louder, like he knows exactly what you're thinking.

Pain in the ass doesn't even cover it. Pain in places that don't have medical names yet. Pain in the fucking soul.

You snatch your phone off the nightstand, fingers flying over the keyboard:

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝟾𝚊𝚖 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 🖕🏻

The guitar stops. Thank god. Thank every possible—

A low chuckle filters through the wall.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚞

Your blood pressure spikes.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚜𝚝𝚐 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚗 𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚛 𝚞𝚙 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞,𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚑

A pause. Then:

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚢 𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛

You actually growl.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚏𝚌 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘 𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚌 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢 🙄

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝟷𝟸??

Another chord rings out. Deliberately slow. Testing.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚗?

You: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛? You: 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚔𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚢?

The guitar stops. Complete silence. Maybe you went too far, bringing up—

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚒 𝚊𝚖

Your heart definitely doesn't skip. Absolutely does not.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛? 🙄

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍

You stare at your phone. At the wall separating your rooms. At your reflection in the dark window, hair a mess and eyes too bright.

This is stupid. This is so fucking stupid.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚞𝚑 𝚑𝚞𝚑

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍

Fuck.

Your feet hit the floor before you can think better of it. And isn't that just the whole problem? You never think better of it. Not with him.

So yeah, you make it to his room. Where the devil sleeps.

Your eyes sweep over his walls, taking in all the black and red and—yep, exactly what you expected. Some alt-boy Pinterest board threw up in here. Black wooden bed with those lumberjack pattern sheets, gaming setup that probably cost more than your tuition, wardrobe that's definitely hiding at least three identical black hoodies.

No windows. Makes sense. Vampires and all that.

He's sprawled on the bed like some renaissance painting gone wrong, all long limbs and messy hair like he's been rolling around like a dog marking its territory. The guitar sits easy in his lap, familiar. Natural.

Not that you notice. Or care.

His eyes flick to you, that insufferable smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He doesn't stop playing, just watches as you hover in his doorway like—nope. Not finishing that thought.

"Didn't think you'd actually come."

"Didn't think you'd actually know how to play." You step into his space, ignoring how the air feels different in here. Heavier. "Yet here we are, disappointing each other."

He snorts, fingers still moving over the strings. Something slower now, almost melodic. "Always so sweet, phoenix."

"Always so annoying, rogue."

But you find yourself moving closer, drawn by the way the notes fill the space between you. It's... not terrible. Actually kind of good, if you're being honest. Which you're not. Obviously.

"What?" He catches you watching his hands. "Surprised I can do something besides annoy you?"

"Mostly surprised you can do anything besides game and be a pain in my ass."

His grin turns wicked. "Pretty sure I do more than that to your—"

"Finish that sentence and die."

He laughs, low and warm, but goes back to playing. Something different now. Softer. You hate that you want to ask what it is.

"Didn't take you for a musician." The words slip out before you can stop them.

His fingers stutter on the strings. Just for a second, barely noticeable. But you notice.

"No?" His voice is carefully casual. Too casual. "What did you take me for?"

"I don't know. Professional asshole? Chief Expert in Being Insufferable?" You comment, flicking a small plushie on his bed. "First Chair Fuck-Up?"

He huffs a laugh, but something's off about it. Like earlier with Griffin. That same weird tension.

"Used to play in a band," he says after a moment. Still not looking at you. "Back in high school."

"Let me guess—My Chemical Romance covers?"

"Nah." His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Original stuff. Mostly."

You wait for more, but he just keeps playing. That same soft melody, over and over. Like he's trying to get it right. Or trying to forget something else.

"It's good."

The words surprise you both. His hands freeze on the strings, eyes snapping to yours.

"The song," you clarify, because apparently your mouth's just doing whatever it wants now. "It's... not horrible."

He stares at you for a long moment. Something shifts in his expression—that cocky mask slipping just slightly. Then:

"Want to hear the whole thing?"

And maybe it's the late hour. Maybe it's the way he's looking at you, all quiet uncertainty beneath that usual swagger. Maybe you're just fucking tired.

"Yeah." You slide down to sit on his floor, back against the bed. "Show me what you got, rogue."

He starts playing something different. Not that angry teenage angst from earlier—this is... softer. More careful. Like he's showing you something he doesn't usually let people see.

Not that you care. Obviously.

The melody wraps around the room, settling into the spaces between your breaths. Your eyes track his hands, the way his fingers move over the strings with a gentleness you didn't know he possessed. It's... nice. Which is annoying. Everything about him is annoying, including the way he makes this look so effortless, the slight furrow in his brow as he concentrates—

Wait.

You know this song.

The notes hit something in your chest—a memory you didn't know you still had.

Your mom's old radio, the one she kept in the garden.

This exact song came on while you were planting flame lilies along the back fence. Then the storm hit—one of those sudden summer downpours that turns the whole world grey.

But instead of running inside like a normal person, your mom just... laughed. Turned the radio up louder, John Mayer's voice competing with the thunder. Grabbed your hands, still covered in dirt, and pulled you into a clumsy dance right there in the rain.

We're slow dancing in a burning room...

You'd both ended up soaked, mud-splattered, spinning in circles while the rain poured down. She'd sung along, completely off-key but not caring. Just you and her and this song, the rest of the world washed away in the storm.

The memory feels wrong now. Too bright. Too clean. Like looking at an old photograph and realizing all the edges have been carefully trimmed, the shadows cropped out.

Because that was before, wasn't it? Before the schedules and the expectations and the constant, crushing weight of—

"Is that—" You cut yourself off, but it's too late. He glances up, catches you staring.

"What?"

You blink. Jungkook's watching you, hands paused on the strings.

"Nothing."

His fingers hover over the guitar. "No, what were you gonna say?"

"Just..." Fuck it. "Pretty sure that's 'Slow Dancing in a Burning Room.' Right?"

Something flickers across his face. "You know Mayer?"

"Unfortunately." You pick at a loose thread on your sleep shorts. "My playlist's not just WAP and Carpool Karaoke, contrary to what you probably think."

He huffs a laugh, but it sounds different. Less cocky asshole, more... something else. His fingers start moving again, picking up where he left off. The notes fill the silence between you, and it's... peaceful? Is that the word? No, that can't be right. Nothing about him is peaceful.

And yet.

"Do you sing too?"

His hands freeze on the strings. Just for a second, but you catch it. The way his shoulders tense, how his jaw ticks slightly before he forces that easy smile back.

"Nah." He starts playing again, but it's different now. Mechanical. "That's... that'd be embarrassing."

There's something in his voice. Something raw that makes you think of earlier, of his panic over Griffin and bread. But before you can chase that thought, he's already shifting gears.

"What, you offering voice lessons, phoenix?"

"As if." You roll your eyes, but you clock the way his fingers are slightly less sure on the strings now. "Just thought maybe you'd want to torture me with your whole package of terrible talents."

"Oh, I've got plenty of talents to torture you with."

"Gross."

But he's relaxing again, that weird tension leaving his shoulders as the conversation drifts back to familiar territory. Safe territory. He keeps playing, and you definitely don't notice how the melody gets smoother, more confident, like maybe he needed the distraction of your bickering to find his rhythm again.

Speaking of distractions—you glance around the room, frowning. "Where's Griffin?"

"Thought he was with you."

"What?" You blink at him. "You never let him sleep with anyone else."

"Well." He sets the guitar aside, stretches like some oversized cat. "You can now."

"I can... what?"

"Have him." He shrugs, but there's something careful in the movement. "For the night. If you want."

You stare at him. He stares back, that almost-smile still playing at his lips.

What the actual fuck is happening right now?

"Who are you and what have you done with my asshole roommate?"

He laughs, and just like that, the weird tension breaks. "Aw, you think I'm yours? That's cute, phoenix."

"I think you're a pain in my ass," you correct, but it lacks heat. Maybe because you're tired. Maybe because he just played something beautiful and shared his cat and you don't know what to do with any of it.

"Only sometimes." He stretches again, shirt riding up. You definitely don't look. "Other times I'm a pain somewhere else—"

You throw the nearest object (a pencil) at his head. "And we're back to normal."

His laugh follows you as you leave, hunting for Griffin. You tell yourself the warm feeling in your chest is just satisfaction at finding new ammunition for future arguments.

He's actually good at something. Who knew?

And if you catch yourself humming "Slow Dancing" as you search for the cat... well.

Nobody has to know.

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queers-gambit · 2 years ago

Text

Affirmation King

prompt: ( requested ) attending university as a full-time student is hard, but your boyfriend makes some of the stress worth it.

fandom masterlist: FX's The Bear

word count: 3.1k+

note: author gives unsolicited advice in the form of sharing a citation website to make college essays a little easier! this is not meant as promotion or anything, it's just your author trying to share a resource they know of.

warnings: cursing, small hurt large comfort (reader snaps a little at Carmy but he handles it like a fucking pro), author gives unsolicited college advice in the form of a recommended website, reader is in a masters program and not undergrad, fluff.

The 16 inch screen glared into your retinas, fingers feeling numb from the hours pounding away at the loose keyboard. When the screen started to warble and darken, your head ducked down slightly to try and preserve your visual; glaring up at the offender when they pressed the screen closed after forcing you to retract your hands.

"You're cute and all, but not so cute as to interrupt me like that," you deadpanned, eyes wide and burning from your lack of lubrication via blinking.

"You've been sat here for hours, it's time for a break."

"Funny when I say that to you, it's always, 'Get outta my kitchen.'"

Carmy smirked, "Come eat something."

"Let me finish this essay and - "

"No, it's time for a meal."

You felt your irritation spike, narrowing your eyes slightly, "I'm on a deadline, Carmen, so either be fucking helpful and productive or get the fuck out of my space. I've got work to do and you're just slowing me down."

He offered a patient look, asking, "Is that what you really wanted to say?"

You paused, then shook your head, "No... May I try again?"

"Of course," he nodded.

"I appreciate you trying to... Alleviate some of my stress," you spoke slowly, stringing the sentence together in realtime, "but this project isn't something I can ignore right now, so, I'd like to finish this thing before we do whatever else."

"Better," he teased, knowing you ran a short fuse when stressed out and overworked. "What's got you riled up?"

"I have this 20-page paper due."

"20 pages!?"

"It's not that bad, honestly, once you have your thesis together," you chuckled dryly. "it's just time consuming and meticulous."

He frowned and stepped forward to press a kiss to your forehead, mocking in a sarcastic tone, "You're doing amazing, sweetie."

"I'm so tired," you pouted up at him. "Do I really need this degree? This is so much stress for such a little thing such as a piece of paper that cost me $50k just to say I'm allowed to join the work force."

"Hey, hey," he laughed. "Just remember what you're working towards. You're one assignment closer to your internship turning into a full-time gig, right?"

You nodded, "You're right. I want that job so bad... I just hate how busy I feel - it's like, how can I remember to eat let alone write 6 different response posts to my classmate's work?"

Carmy nodded with empathy, "Just remember that end goal, baby. Keep grinding, keep moving. Almost at the finish line, right?"

"Right," you nodded with a smile. "Thank you, angel face."

Carmy smiled at you before softly asking, "Want me to bring you anything? Something to eat, drink, a condom?"

"Stop quoting Mean Girls at me!"

His hands shot up in defense, deflecting, "I was just trying to be a gracious host. If the missus wants anything, I'll make sure she has it."

"Pretty sure 'missus' is a term used for wives - " His groan made you laugh lightly, then covering, "No, thank you, baby, I'm okay. I should only be about another hour or so...?"

"All right, yeah, sure. I'll start dinner in 30, okay?"

"Sure," you smiled, already distracted again as you lifted your screen again to stare at the Word document that had been haunting your hard-drive for about 3 weeks now.

"Hey," he interrupted, "don't forget your glasses."

"Thank you," you mumbled, reaching for the special, blue-light filtering glasses Carmy had gifted you when you first started your Master's program. He claimed staring at a computer screen was going to cause long-term damage (he read an article) and got you a pair, which, you had to admit, made a huge difference.

Your hair was raked into a new bun as you reread the last of your essay, trying to get back in the academic mindset in order to finish the last bit of your assignment. There were textbooks spewed around your work table; laptop plugged in, highlighters and pens and notebooks within reach and a nearly-finished bottle of water was set to the side. You wrote ferociously once you got back on the right mental track, feeling your headache stir to life as you blindly reached for your water bottle.

However, when you picked it up, you blinked in mild shock when the bottle was heavier than before. Glancing over, you realized Carmy had replaced the bottle because there, under where it had sat, he left you a handwritten note:

replenish what you lost from crying!

You chuckled, knowing you were a stress cryer and when tackling big assignments like this, you were ten times as stressed as usual. Still you worked, even putting your headphones on to play soothing background noise - like rainfall. Your neck cramped, back ached, temples throbbed, and hands were cramping. Still you worked, using sticky notes to flag the important quotes you wanted to use from your textbooks and notebooks. Your stomach growled, your eyes begged for reprieve, chest felt tight, and shoulders were too tense.

Still. You. Worked.

Deadlines were important to you, and while you were a professional procrastinator, you always turned everything in on time - no matter your mental state. You could smell whatever Carmy had started cooking, focused on writing as you only used spellcheck as you went - and still you worked. You knew you surpassed the hour limit you told Carmy, but you couldn't stop, you were so close to finishing, it almost put tears back in your eyes, but this time out of relief. You only paused to look at online sources and apply chapstick, cracking your tightly-wound knuckles, and when you finished the last body paragraph of the essay, grinned to yourself.

All that was left was your conclusion, to create a bibliography, and to edit - but you were almost home free!

Suddenly, you jumped in fright when a hand planted on your shoulder; whipping around to see your boyfriend's own startled expression. "Sorry," Carmy apologized with a wince when you removed your headphones, "didn't mean to scare you, just wanted to check on you."

You nodded, 'Yeah, no, I'm almost done. Like give me 20 minutes, almost done-almost done."

He smiled softly, "Dinner's ready when you are."

"I'll be there soon, thank you, angel face."

"Can I help with anything?"

"Uh," you cocked your head, "you know what? Maaaaybe..."

"Really?" He grinned, perking up. "You never let me help!"

"It's not really work, per se," you amended, "but would you mind letting me read this out loud to you - see if it makes sense? The mark of a good writer is to act as if the audience knows nothing about the subject and make them understand, and you're exactly that."

"Lemme hear it," he nodded, taking a seat, "I might not be much help but I can still try."

You agreed and finished typing the outline of your conclusion, then scrolled to the top of your word document, and explained to him what your class was before starting to read. He listened intently, sitting on a spare stool with his elbows resting on his knees; keeping him leaned forward to provide his undivided attention. You managed to reword a few sentences, only noticing they didn't make sense when you read them out loud. Once or twice, Carmy even offered an alternative phrasing you liked - making the changes and rereading, then continuing through your assignment.

By the end, you were able to beef up the conclusion and Carmy was grinning at you in pride. "That's real good, baby," he complimented, "it all made sense and rolled nice together. I think that has to be an 'A'-worthy paper."

"You should be the one grading theses, my professor's the worst," you frowned. "It's why I got so in my head, I got a fucking 76 on my last essay and need to do really well on the next few to help average my grade."

"What about the tests?"

"We don't have any, this class is all about writing material and turning it in," you pouted.

"Hey," he spoke seriously, making you look at him in question, "I'm really proud of you."

You giggled nervously, "Oh, yeah? Why? What for?"

"For doing this," he nodded to the desk. "Look at all you're doing, baby, there's no way I'd ever be able to keep up with this kinda shit. You're doing such a great fucking job - I want you to remember that. What you're doing ain't easy, but you're handling this like a pro."

"I cry, like, everyday..."

"So what? You still get shit done while emoting - call that multitasking, baby."

"Got me there."

"Seriously, though, you're not told enough what a fantastic job you're doing; how strong and resilient you have to be to deal with this kind of stress day-in and day-out. I see the hard work you put in," he promised, "and I want you to know how fucking proud I am of you. It's all gonna be worth it one day, but until then, I love watching you grind through school. I might not take the classes with you, but I'll help however I can, whenever I can."

"Thank you," you whispered. "It's really nice to hear... I feel myself burning out and it's nice to be reminded that what I do now will influence my future. Validates me in feeling stressed out, you know? Sometimes, I feel silly 'cause, like, there's so many bigger things to be upset about and here I am, stressed out at a place that's guaranteed to stress me out..."

"It's not silly, it's normal. College ain't easy," he reminded, "and you're just trying to keep yourself afloat."

"Yeah, but there's bigger things in life than something trivial as my education."

Carmy scoffed at you, shaking his head, "Ain't no way."

"What?"

"My girl just said her feelings are trivial... Nah, she said her emotions about her education is trivial," he shook his head again. "Should wash your mouth out with soap - talkin' crazy like that. Baby, you know, first and foremost, your education is high on our priorities list, but your emotions? You think they're trivial? Nah, if anything causes you to have any emotion, it's valid - it's not something silly or redundant."

You pouted slightly, "You always know what to say."

"Hungry?"

"You're the perfect man," you laughed, looking at your document again and humming. "Okay, so, lemme just cite my sources and turn this in."

"Then you wanna have date night?" He smirked.

"No, no, I'm so tired - "

"I meant we can stay in."

"Oh, then count me in!"

"Change into something cozy when you're done, we can watch a movie with dinner. Yeah?"

You agreed, accepted his kiss of encouragement, and then took his leave to reheat the dinner that had surely cooled off. It didn't take long to cite everything when you used an online citation source website - that IS N O T plagiarizing! It's a handy-dandy tool you discovered your undergraduate freshman year by an actual professor. It was as simple as choosing which style, APA or MLA, and then to either paste the URL of the website you need sourced or you type in the book's information. Hit the generate button and BAM! A perfect citation for your bibliography every single time.

Or if you didn't like that, you could always just Google citation examples and do your best to write it out yourself. But the website, Citation Machine dot net, was a great tool. After perfecting your in-text citations and saving your work, you uploaded it to your university's assignment portal, crossed the essay off your to-do list, and stretched on your feet.

Cleaning up your space minimally, you hustled to your bedroom to get a quick hot, relieving shower, change, and then met Carmy in the kitchen. "Hey," you sighed with a soft smile.

"Hey, doll. All done?"

"For tonight," you groaned, "but tomorrow's a new day with new assignments."

"That's a future problem we'll handle at a later time," he eased, showing you your dinner plate. "Ta-daaaa!"

You grinned, "Oh, baby, this looks amazing!"

"Yeah, well, I kinda figured as a full-time student right now, nobody was gonna remind you what incredible job you're doing, so, I'm more than happy to step up to the plate. And what better treat than your favorite meal, huh?"

"Thank you," you whispered, pecking his lips.

You often thought his love language was "food", but then you realized it was technically under the acts of service and quality time. He loved cooking for you - it was like a gift. He loved cooking with you - it was time spent bonding. He loved introducing you to new dishes - it's a present! He loved when you let him give you a culinary lesson - it was time well spent.

"C'mon," Carmy lead you to the living room, both crashing on the couch you had been gifted from your grandmother's house when she was put in a nursing home. Normally, you wouldn't have splurged on something like this, but considering it was free, you and Carmy were happy to use it. Settling together on the couch, you got cozy under a shared blanket and Carmy flicked some movie on for background noise, but instead of watching, he just asked you about your coursework.

You told him what you could, shaking your head and huffing about how annoying your program was. How hectic. How jam packed and fast-paced it all seemed to be. How your head felt like it was spinning. How you couldn't nail down workable coping mechanisms and just felt totally out of control. You were spiraling.

You needed this rant session.

Carmy listened intently.

He never once tried to say, "oh, but if you had time management," or anything like, "if you do THIS instead..." or some bullshit, "my way works better." His bright and wide blue eyes watched you the entire time, sighing when you got to the end of your meal and vent session.

"It just feels like, I turn in one assignment, I get three more right after. Turn in those three, and all of a sudden, there's another 10!"

"Does the syllabus say anything about that?" He wondered.

"No, it just said what our reading schedules were and when major assignments are due. But those dates all got shuffled around that it feels like a train wreck. You know, if the original schedule was kept from the syllabus, I wouldn't feel so worked up! It's the rearrangement and added assignments without warning that's throwing me off."

"That doesn't sound easy," he validated. "Anything I can do to help?"

"No, you're doing more than enough," you whispered, pecking his lips. "Thank you for dinner."

"I made dessert, too."

"No!" You gasped with a grin.

"Mhm - wait here. I'll grab it."

"Wow, dinner, movie, and dessert?" You teased, "I'm being spoiled tonight."

"You've been working your ass off for weeks now," he smirked, standing from his seat to pick up your plates, "this is the least I could do. I know I said it, but you know how good a job you're doing, right? Damn, baby," he chuckled, "ain't no way I could ever handle shit like that on the regular."

"I could't do what you do, either."

"We all balance our crazy different. Want some tea? Wine?"

"Tea would be great."

"Comin' up."

When Carmy returned, you pulled the blanket back to let him sit again with the dessert plate between you both; two steaming mugs of tea sat on the coffee table. "What's this?" You wondered, seeing a sort of pastry.

"Marcus told me 'bout this," he chuckled. "Kinda like a poor man's version of this one thing he makes. So, look, it's Pillsbury Crescent Rolls, right? In the middle, there's raspberry preserves - or jam if you want that instead. It's baked then drizzled in melted white chocolate."

"Wow, you got all fancy on me," you beamed.

"Hardly, more like I was a little impulsive after hearing your essay. Figured you could use some dessert - you really earned it, baby. You always earn dessert," he grinned, "but tonight, you were kickass. Know that? Hear me?"

You shook your head, "This is nothing compared - "

"Hey, hey, nah," he interrupted, "nah, nah, don't do that, don't try to invalidate or downplay yourself. Look, shit is always hard in college, right? But you handle it so well, I can see the work you're putting in and the little reward you receive in return, and know that shit's gotta add up for you. But my baby just keeps cool, does her work, and does what she can to earn the grades she does. Right?"

"I mean, I try to..."

"You succeed. C'mon, lemme hear you say it. 'I kick college's ass.'"

"I kick college's ass."

"'I work hard.'"

"Carmy - "

"Saaay it!"

You huffed, "I work hard."

"'I'm an incredible hard worker.'"

"I'm an incredible hard worker."

"'I am only human.'"

Another breath in, repeating, "I am only human."

"'I am a success.'"

"I try to be a success."

"That wasn't the quote."

"Well, I don't know if I'm succeeding because grades aren't finalized yet and I have - "

"No, no, no," he smirked again, "you're still successful 'cause you're doing such a kickass job. You could get a fucking 'D' on something, and guess what? You're still successful 'cause you don't let this tear you down, you learn from mistakes and apply whatever lessons you learn to your upcoming assignments. Some people say you might even learn more from losing and failing than from undisputed success. Look, I'll be honest, I thought my job was hectic as shit, but hearing your essay tonight? Goddamn, you're not just beautiful, but so fucking intelligent, too. Baby, I was shook - that sounded like some academic paper that college kids need to defend their thesis or some shit. Something scholarly, not some assignment you gotta hand in by a deadline so you just wrote down whatever. So, give yourself credit and tell yourself you're a success."

With a long, deep breath, you answered earnestly, "I'm a success."

"Good girl," he muttered, handing you a fork finally. However, unlike Mikey all those years ago, you didn't launch your utensil at anyone and used it to cut off a corner of pastry.

You moaned when you tasted the gooey goodness. You managed through a mouthful, "Mmhhh! Mhm! Mhm! If you make this every time I have some assignment pissing me off and stressing me out, I'm afraid I'll get used to this treatment."

Carmy grinned, "You deserve whatever dessert you want, whenever you want. Huh? Yeah? Lemme hear you say it."

With another grin, you mused, "I deserve whatever I want, when I want it... And however I want it!"

"Atta girl!"

"You're so fucking corny," you laughed lightly, feeling as if you were falling in love with him again, "but thank you, my Affirmation King."

requesting rules and masterlist

The Bear masterlist

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