#namjoon ff

[youmyjhope]

Hey can you post namjoon moan just only Namjoon plzz 🥺

do not repost

[alphabetboyluvr]

back to you | knj

REQUEST | @btsgotjams27

VIBES | angst 

SOUNDTRACK | back to you - alexander stewart

HOLLY'S NOTE | tense jaw namjoon gets me feeling a certain type of way so thank youuuu for requesting this!! no warnings - references to shagging cos ofc and approx (1) questionable reference to Saint Augustine lmao. also joonie is 25 in this!! don't shout at me!! i know he's not 25 irl!!

WORD COUNT | 2.5k

Namjoon watches the metronome on his desk tick... tick... tick..., ignoring the glare of the monitor screens in front of him.

There are two. One's open on the definition of a word that's been lodged in his frontal lobe for months, now, and the other is crammed full to the brim with dark grey producing software that he's sick of seeing. The windows open encase remnants of love songs that he can't seem to finish. 

It's not for a lack of trying. Just impossible, he thinks. 

They're an amalgamation of a love he never thought he'd lose, and the hopes of a future basking in it; notes of adoration dedicated to a devotion he didn't realise was quite so delicate, until his clumsy hands got a hold of it. 

Mementoes for memories he can't bring himself to relive, they sit; solemn, unchanged. It's been like this for months. They're artefacts, now. Relics. Souvenirs. Trophies of a conquest he never entirely won; a bygone era in which his hair was lighter and the sun shone more frequently. Eventually, they'll be laid to rest in the paper waste icon down in the far corner of his screen. 

No good. Not fit for use. Discarded before they've reached full maturity. 

"Maturity," he mimics the screen with great contempt. He's 25. Brain's developed. Science says so. 

And yet the loss he's mourning is all thanks to his perceived 'maturity,' or lack thereof. 

It's not like you're dead, or anything dramatic like that. He knows he's being irrational. Knows his immaturity is shining through as he wallows in self-pity, four empty takeout cups of coffee waiting to be thrown away on the edge of his desk. He only leaves the studio to shower. 

Doesn't even really sleep much these days. Has grown a little stubble; wonders if maybe that would make you think he was more mature. More grown-up. He sneers a little as he jots down a lyric idea; something about fine wine, how it ages, and how it was ironic you preferred cheap-as-shit soju instead of the bottles in his cooler.

In fact, when he really thinks about it, Namjoon thinks you were fucking mad to cite 'maturity' as a reason for you to break up. 

He's old before his time; grew up quickly cause he didn't have a choice. Took it as an insult when you said 'we're at different stages in our lives.' Knows damn well he'd have stood on any stage with you. Fuck Wembley, fuck Jamsil, fuck SoFi. Fuck 'em all if they meant he couldn't have you.

But Namjoon would never give it up. You knew this at the time, and truthfully, so did he. 

You would have never asked him to - but you can't dictate your life around him, and his plans, and his obligations. You've desires and goals of your own. Five years his senior, the impending pressures of your friends settling down - celebrating milestone anniversaries, moving back to your hometown to raise their families after their wild twenties spent in the big cities - was getting to you. It felt like you were lagging behind. 

Whether either of you liked it or not, your relationship was a huge factor in that. You couldn't even tell your friends you were dating him. It's not like you ever wanted a huge legacy, but the erasure of your history together hurt. 

A year of your life has been lost to a relationship that you can never speak of. There's an NDA. And even if there wasn't, you've too much respect for him to ever go against his wishes, or put him in a situation that could implode everything he's worked so tirelessly for.

So yeah, maybe you were out of line when you said he was immature, but no adult woman wants to live her life in hiding.

Nor does he - but he thinks the fact he that makes the conscious choice to live his life so privately is mature. Thinks if you were ever to call him, he'd block you. Show you what immature really looks like.

But you never do, so he never will.

Instead, he just scoffs again. "Immature," he mutters, shaking his head as he slouches into his desk chair. It spins ever so gently, Namjoon too irritated to stop it - but then he's facing the sofa and he's right back where he started.

See, Namjoon has been thinking a lot about you lately. It's time to submit his mixtape to the company; time for them to approve it for release. Trouble is, he hasn't been able to work on it since you left. 

You've been in California for eight months. Since last August. Eight fucking months, and he hasn't touched a single thing, because it's all tainted with you. Stained. Ruined. 

It's your favourite classical symphony sampled beneath the opening track; your lyrical suggestion in the bridge of his third track; your name he wordplays into obscurity on his fifth track. No one would ever be able to decipher it. It's just for him.

A little bit of you preserved forevermore; from a time when you were still his.

Kind of like the folder his mouse is hovering over. 

It's password protected. Called 'drafts'. Looks inconspicuous. Just another plain folder icon. Nothing interesting. At least, it looks that way. 

He can't bring himself to get rid of it - and yet the tick... tick... tick... of his metronome becomes the click-click-click of his mouse as he follows the electronic pathway back to you.  

Namjoon enters the password. Knows he shouldn't. Knows he should also change the password, because typing in your birthday is fucking painful at this point.  

There are six files in the folder. Voice notes. Audio files marked with dates and time stamps of last summer. 

Above anything, he knows he shouldn't press play.

But he's 'immature'. Of course he'll do what he shouldn't - or at least that's how the voice in his head taunts him as he presses down on the play icon.

"Is it going?" Your voice echoes into the room. You giggle. Namjoon hears himself confirm that it is. He can picture it now. Remembers the shirt of his you'd been wearing after he'd snuck you into the company building. Knows exactly which part of his studio sofa you'd been on. "Okay, okay. Cool. What do you want me to do?"

"Just speak."

His voice sounds tender. Far softer than it does these days. He thinks he's grown since back then. Thinks he's matured. Thinks maybe if you'd have met him now, instead of then, perhaps it would have lasted.

"About what?" You had said with a laugh, and Namjoon finds himself burying his head in his hands at his desk.

"Anything. Everything. Your mind fascinates me, gorgeous."

"You're the one with genius-level, IQ," you had fondly teased him. "No one more fascinating than you. Did you really have to wear those sweats, though? You know they turn my mind to jelly."

"I can take them off, if it'll help."

"Keep them on," your voice had lowered. In the studio, Namjoon groans into his hands. Knows what's coming next. "Wanna see how much of a mess I make when I ride your-"

His nimble fingers race to the space bar, pausing the audio clip. Has listened to it enough times to know exactly what happens afterwards. 

It's not like he needs the recording to remember. He remembers it all. 

Remembers the semi he'd had at the time, and how the way you'd looked at him had him growing to full stiffness. Remembers the way you'd carried on talking nonsense when you were straddled across his thigh; and the way the conversation had dissolved into you being incredibly vocal about exactly what you wanted him to do with you. To you. For you.

And so it had become a goal: he'd been after the perfect moan to hide deep within the layers of his closing track. Would record you every now and again in the midst of a fuck. Would tell you how good you sound, how much he wants the world to hear you. Would say shit like 'you've got a voice that'll ruin lives, gorgeous,' or something about Augustine, and how he'd have never converted to celibacy if he'd have met you. Would whine along with you, and thank the lucky stars his apartment spanned over two floors - his poor neighbours probably would have complained, otherwise. 

He puffs out his cheeks and sighs. Tilts his head back against the top of his chair, and lets his hand fall to his crotch. He palms it slightly; firm from the thoughts of your clammy body sticking to his, and the musky scent that he wished he could have bottled up for times like these.

"Get a grip," he berates himself, and spins back to the desk. He needs to get his feelings out. Speak them into existence. Admit that he misses you, and that he's been a bit of a mess since you've been gone. His mental block isn't going away anytime soon, so he may as well try a little honesty in its place. 

He opens up the software for the mic that he keeps on his desk for rough recordings, and clicks on the red circle. Kind of feels kind of like a stop sign to him.

"Stop what?" he questions into the void. "Thinking about her? Avoiding her favourite coffee shop, even though it was mine too? Wasting all this fucking space in my brain like it's a storage unit for memories of her? I don't want them. I don't need them. Why can't I let them go? Why is she still in my head? And why am I scared of the day she won't be?"

He rambles and he rambles. Cries not once but four times.  Goes on and on about why you're the fucking worst, and then he spirals into how much he loves the way you laugh, and how he's never felt anything better than your arms wrapped around his waist. Gushes about how committed you are to your work, and how much he's in awe of the way you prioritise yourself. Is proud when he mentions your achievements; is pissed off when he mentions the little quirks of yours he didn't love.

They're lies, of course. He loved everything you did - but it makes him feel better to feign hatred.

Makes him feel like it was his choice. Like he's the one who left. 

He's pulled from his thoughts when his phone begins to ring. It's on loud, so he lets it ring for a bit. Knows it could sound good on the recording. He reaches over for his phone and rubs his spare hand over his face to psyche himself up. 

It's probably just Yoongi, he thinks, like it normally is, wondering if he's at the office building. He doesn't check the caller ID - just answers it and automatically switches to speakerphone. 

"Wassup?" He says into the receiver, far chirpier than he was during his rant. He's still a little dry, but he's performing now. Pretending like everything is fine.

There's a moment of silence. Namjoon's eyes flick to his phone screen. Checks the caller ID. Blood runs cold.

And then, there's a 'hey.' 

Namjoon is the silent one, now. Doesn't know what to fucking say - and thankfully, you hate empty spaces in conversations. 

So you fill it. 

"I quit my job," you tell him. 

Why you think he would care is beyond him.

But the last he knew, you loved your job. Something feels... uneasy within him. He remains silent. Lets you speak.

"There's a red-eye flight that leaves in four hours. LA to Seoul. I know it's..." You cut yourself off, struggling to find the right words to say. "Look, I know it's been eight months, and I know it's been rough. I thought I could do this whole 'life' thing without you, Nam, but... Fuck. I don't think I can. I... I think maybe I was the one who needed to mature. I know I put you through hell, but if I get on that flight, will you be there at the other end?"

It's a simple question, really - yes or no - yet it feels so much heavier than that. Feels like commitment. Feels like something he isn't ready for. Feels like something you rescinded your right to a long fucking time ago.

And so Namjoon laughs. It's cold. Is guaranteed to make you cry. He doesn't care.

"No."

The call ends, his finger forcefully tapping on the red button of his phone. He knows it'll hurt. Thinks 'good'. Reckons you deserve it. 

But then he's scrambling; dialling your number back, holding his phone to ear, stomach in his throat, heart in tatters, swallowing back tears that threaten to fall on his part. 

Being a cunt was much less satisfying than he thought it would be. In fact, if anything, it makes him feel even fucking worse. 

All he wants is to see you. It's the only thing he wants.

You take a while to answer. He was right. It did make you cry. Mainly because you know you do deserve it. 

There's no 'hello' when you answer. You say sorry, instead. "It was out of line for me to ask."

"Yeah," he says. "Kinda was."

"I just... I had to know. Eight months is a long time, isn't it? It's really fucking long."

Namjoon pauses. Bites down on his lip as it shakes. Sighs. "The flight... when does it land?"

"Nine-thirty."

"A.M.?"

"Yes."

"Into Incheon?"

"Uh-huh."

He can hear the tears you're fighting. Wonders if you can hear his. 

"Get the flight," he finally says. "I'll meet you there."

"Wait... are you sur-"

He doesn't let you finish. He's had eight months of fucking torture without you. Eight months to think about all the things he wishes he could have done differently, eight months to play scenarios in his head. Eight months. 

He can't go through it again. Can't be without you. It's too fucking hard. 

"Get your ass on that flight," he says, stern in his tone. 

"It's one-way," you warn him.

And even though you can't see him, you know there's a dimple in his cheek. Know he's smiling. Know it feels like a weight has lifted from his chest, because it feels that way for you, too.

"It better fucking be."

[julieeeeette]

the one where Namjoon thinks she's beautiful

Pairing: Namjoon and original female character

Word Count: 253

Rating: PG-13

She was positively the most beautiful woman in the whole world. And she was his.

He tucked a hand into his pants picket and watched with a small smile playing on his lips as she threw her head back, her inky hair shimmering like a wave down her back as she clapped her long, slender hands.

After all the serious paintings they'd seen, this one of a small girl holding a fish and a cat plucked the strings of her humor and ignited her in a bright laughter that filled the empty hall.

"The cat!" She held her arm to mimic the cat and rolled her eyes with a meow. "It… it jus….!"

Her words trailed off as tears ran down her cheeks, glinting in the bright lights. 

He chuckled to himself as she stepped under a recessed light and was illuminated as though she were on display in her effortlessly elegant black gown that hung down to the ground. She patted her eyes as she caught her breath and sighed when she looked at him.

"Sorry. I don't know why that was so funny."

"You're beautiful."

"Oh." She dipped her head with a shy smile filling her cheeks and squishing her cheeks as she smoothed her dress down, her engagement ring glimmering in the light, blinding him for a moment. "Thank you, Namjoon. You're very handsome. I like glasses on you."

He smirked at her and walked towards her, wrapping an arm around her waist before ushering her into the next hall.

[liwaywaydreamer]

My Savior (Ch. 1)

(Time travel au, Royalty au, BTS x Reader)

Synopsis: As a hopeless med student that has been accustomed to the roller coaster of mishaps in life, you were sure nothing could get worse than the current situation you’re in. Unfortunately, that thought didn’t include being transported back in the 1400s, nor did it include you being an apparent reincarnation of the person you hated most. Now, can this get any worst?

Pairing: BTS x reader

Warnings: Inaccurate history, angst, bystander effect, verbal abuse (reader received some insults and humiliated), harmful thoughts, implied politics (in connection only to the story, there are no real politician mentioned here), corruption in politics, unreliable narrator (if I forgot something, feel free to comment or send an ask?)

A/n: university life is shit and I was eyeing for this to be at 5k words but if I stuck to that, I wouldn’t finish this. If you like it, please reblog. Reblogs are worth more than likes here right?

Masterlist

Chapter 1: Like fate, like destiny

You're fucked.

Two words you continuously repeat in your head as you struggle to gather the mess of thesis papers you've left messily across your table the night before. Glancing at your alarm clock not surprisingly on the floor blaring 10:30 at you, sporting a dent not so hidden even if you're three feet away, (a surprising quality for such a cheap thing).

Your class starts at 8.

You tried your best to get to your university as quickly as you can, wishing time would stop a little, or even just go back, afraid of what is about to come. Despite your efforts not to get annoyed (and failing miserably) with the bodies you bumped into on the way and the occasional yelling here and there — from the moment you almost forgot to pay the bus fare to when you're facing your professor right now in front of the faculty lounge, the same professor which you needed to pass your research to— coffee splashed onto his shirt, a cup on the floor, and you on the receiving end of his anger.

He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture that you might have found endearing if he had been more physically appealing. You waited with bated breath, so used to his antics. Although some might see this as an attempt for him to control his anger, you however can see past his huge ego and idiotic narcissism, he was only doing this to attract more traction, the audience for your humiliation.

His prolonged sigh was your calm before the storm.

"You can't do anything right, do you?" he sneered as if trying to prove a point to the spectators, relishing in every second of your embarrassment. 

If being a disappointment was a job, you'll be the CEO in no time.

"Sir, I'm really sorry, I didn't mean—"

"SHUT UP!" he screamed as he loosens his necktie. You can't do anything but wait and hope that whatever he does next would suffice for how much you've messed up time and time again.

"You, what can you do right?" With each word, he poked and prodded you, pushing you closer and closer to the deep end. You whimpered, trying to not lose control but failing miserably as there was nothing that you could do to stop it, and whether you were just failing by your standards or the fact that he does not care, he continued his barrage of insults, never letting up despite your attempts to apologize.

"How long do I need to put up with you?" he slurred as he now prods your shoulder, harder and harder with each word.

"Sir, I'm sor— "

"HUH?!" a smack and you were on the ground. All the people in the vicinity just stood there, watching, unwilling to help— being a mindless watcher to the abuse, the true definition of a bystander effect.

Why is it in every discipline, violence needs to be included? Is that how we're programmed to learn? Through nothing but violence? You hoped for someone to help you even if you already knew that no one would. Yet, you hoped still.

If this was your first day in school, you would've fought back. You would've stood up for your pride. That a spilled coffee is not enough to humiliate you like this and that not every misfortune is because of you. But you know better; this isn't your first day, nor is it your second. You know how the system works and who it favors, and unfortunately, it doesn't favor you.

"...waste of space. If it weren't for your parents..." You didn't hear the other words he spoke as he walked away not forgetting to throw the papers he held— papers that were your best effort at reaching your dreams, thrown away with your hopes of being better than what they said.

Needless to say, you were suspended due to behavior misconduct; words that you no longer know the meaning of anymore. You're back to your cage-like rented dorm, whilst your head is everywhere but.

What a cruel joke, you thought. The first time you wanted something so badly for yourself and had dedicated your whole life to had to happen with the world's hatred for you was at its peak. Or had it ever really stopped?

You gripped the handle of your balisong, tracing the delicate and intricate designs you engraved on it as waves of atrocious thoughts crashed into your mind. How morbid, you mused. The same thing that you want to hurt yourself with right now is the same thing that made you feel grounded. You're aware that these thoughts are anything but good, but you're also aware of the fact that no one is going to help you.

Simply because no one wants to.

A medical career was not your parents' choice nor was it ever in their choice, but it was in yours.

You're not unconscious of the fact that a career in the medical field is a lot to take financially, and to be the only one in the medical field in a family of lawyers? You alone destroyed the dreams put on you by your mother who vicariously lived through you, but you wanted it.

And you thought that was enough.

But now, as you sit back on the barren floor of your sparsely furnished room that you once hoped would've at least shown evidence of the life of someone healthy in their early twenties, you had nothing other than your worn-out bed on the corner and a circular dinner table doubling as your makeshift desk, cut off from all financial stability that your parents could've provided you if you only heed to their wishes. Now, you think about whether your current situation is worth the sense of independence you fought so hard for.

Was it a foolish decision to stand your ground? To try to live your life on your own terms? Because you know for a fact that it doesn't matter if you followed every whim of your parents as they will always find something wrong and below their standards with you. With every breath, every change of clothes, every food that you intake, even your education— you were taught that everything that they have given you was a debt you owed them, and because of that they are within their rights to choose for you.

After all, parents only want the best for their children, don't they?

You are by no means the most intelligent person on the campus, nor were you trying to be. But you're committed to what you chose, and you hoped that that commitment can be seen through your effort and hard work. And yet, despite your commitment, those words, those words still echoed in your mind— you can't seem to un-hear those words.

“If it weren't for your parents.”

You wanted to choose a life separate from them, to forge a path of your own. But no matter how much it pains you to admit, you know now, clearer than ever, that it does not matter how far you run, you'd always be hidden beneath their shadows.

To only be recognized as the black sheep of your family.

Instead of indulging your self-pity and sulking alone in your room with a blade on sight much longer than you had intended to, you opt to browse the internet for some fun things to do; a piece of advice you got from the internet since seeing a psychiatrist would be a luxury for you.

And whether it was your misfortune running out finally or yet another adventure of mishaps waiting to unfold an announcement caught your attention:

"Join us for a free tour down the historical lane to commemorate the House of Kim, with events set to reenact the life our ancestors had lived!"

There were more words to the article but as you read on, your eyes fell on the tour's schedule.

"Gyeongbokgung tour is going to take place at 1:30 pm," you murmured to yourself.

It was an opportunity you couldn't miss, a rare sight to see. Despite the mental baggage weighing you down, this was a chance to experience something new and forget about your troubles, even if just for a little while. Maybe this was the way of the gods trying to make up for all the shit storm your life is at right now, but whatever it was, you'll take it.

So, without hesitation, you got up, grabbed your purse, and with the little money you have left, you headed out. You knew you had to take on more shifts at the store or find other jobs to cover for your sudden trip, as your dream of becoming a doctor was fading quickly and surely anyway. But for now, all you cared about was the prospect of exploring a historical place that had opened its doors on a day it usually wouldn't.

Arguably, no one other than yourself knows what decisions made on a whim can do to anyone. Whether this is your intuition telling you to go back to your room to help you or just to spite you away from society, you didn't dwell long on the thought.

All you needed to know is that you're drowning quickly, and you would hold unto anything, even a pair of gilded chains to let you breathe again.

"Gyeongbokgung Palace, also known as Gyeongbok Palace, was the primary royal residence and the largest of the five grand palaces that still exist today in South Korea. Built-in 1395, this..."

As you don't have a lot of money to waste, you stuck to the free guides the palace provides although not very effective when you're standing in the back of 50 people. And looking at how detached and uninterested your tour guide is whilst speaking, without a doubt, you knew that this was just an additional job to her. Not really enough to complain about since the constant chattering of the people around you easily engulf her almost robotic voice anyways.

This trip already cost you more than you expected and standing still to nonsense chatter was not part of your nonexistent plan. So, with the palace map in hand, you left the group with ease.

"Gwanghwamun: the southern gate that became the main gate after some time. It is one of Seoul's iconic sights, having been restored after being largely destroyed by the war," you read while gazing up at the magnificent building in front of you, the swaying of windchimes singing their lullabies in the background. Your eyes carefully scanned every nook and cranny, not wanting to forget this beautiful sight. Although you can't be sure if the scenery is exactly as it looked when it was originally built, the idea of having remnants of the past soothes your soul.

You've always been intrigued about the things that have already happened, or perhaps that's an understatement as your mind always seems to be occupied with thoughts about what they could have done differently and the effects of it on the modern world. Whether it really is fascinating to you or just a form of escapism, you don't want to know. All you do know is that you're a product of the modern world, but something within you suggests that itself was a mistake.

Especially when the Kim dynasty has the best-looking aristocrats you had ever seen.

No, you weren't attracted to them, you tried to defend yourself from your inner turmoil as you gaze upon the paintings displayed. You just know how to appreciate beauty when you see one, even if it's just paintings on a wall. This was once again your Philip Hamilton but with much more injustice. At least with Philip, there were actual pictures of him to bestow the world with his beauty. And although you can commend the talents of the painters of the past considering they did not have the best art supplies during their time, you still cannot grasp the idea that these people existed. Not when they are reduced to the mere splat of colors made to resemble a person.

You couldn't clearly see the features of each man in the paintings, but it's not really anyone's fault for it's just the evidence of time. Nevertheless, your admiration for them never lessened, because it's more than their artificial perfection that deserved your admiration and respect. They were also the ones who did more than any other aristocrats ever did for their people. They were the true embodiment of a regime existing not for the regime itself, perfectly aware of who gave them power. Although yes, it wasn't a democracy, but even democracy has its problems.

All you can say is they did their best to lead their people. At least for some time, as they were the foundation that made South Korea what it is now. Sure, their reign could've ended better, still, they were an integral part of history.

And history should never be forgotten.

Although it disheartens you that their achievements and sacrifices are slowly being forgotten; the wars they've won are now taken for granted, you understand that life goes on and people have their own lives to live. It's another reminder that time doesn't stop for anyone.

As the wind chimes fluttering in the breeze, abruptly ceasing your thoughts. Somehow, you felt a sense of belongingness, despite their faintness that could easily be muffled by the chirping of birds. Nonetheless, it was truly fitting for the place as it only elevated the experience the palace could only give.

You couldn't quite understand why wind chimes would be placed in Geunjeongjeon, other than to elevate the experience, but since the cold breeze was constant ever since you stepped onto the palace grounds, you're certain that the people who are in charge knew exactly what they're doing.

You continued observing the place, trying to imagine what events had happened on the concrete that was paved hundreds of years ago. Was it quiet? Were the roads bustling with people constantly? Or were there just only a handful of people seen from time to time walking along?

You were so deep into your imagination that for a few seconds, you felt as though you were transported back in time. You were seeing groups of three to four consorts walking and talking to each other, palace women walking briskly with a basket on their sides, and a few eunuchs scolding some servants who probably messed something up. And then suddenly, everything came to halt when a booming voice from behind you commanded, "Make way for the Prince!"

As you turned to face the source of the voice, you found yourself making eye contact with a man whose attire you could easily recognize from the K-dramas you'd watched, and even with the distance between you, you can't help but feel he was looking straight at you.

"Excuse me, is this yours?" A little girl's voice interrupted your daydream, her voice so cute as she lightly tugs your shirt, holding out your phone.

"Oh, thank you so much!" you exclaimed, realizing that you were in your head so much that you didn't feel your phone fall off your pocket. You would have another problem added to your bulk of problems if it weren't for the girl.

"No problem, have a good day!" she gleamed brightly and ran off. The kid was so energetic you couldn't even give her something back. 

As you opened your map once again, you accidentally dropped your phone and with it, you see a pocket watch on the ground. And it didn't take you to think twice to know to whom it belongs. Hurriedly, you followed the kid toward the path of the Hyangwonjeong pavilion.

"Where did she go?" you murmured, you were sure that you had seen her walking towards the pavilion, but as you see the bare grounds of the place, you realized you had lost track of her. The pavilion was nearly empty except for a few tourists, and you felt torn between searching for the girl to return the watch or continuing to explore the palace grounds.

As you were going to turn around and try to find the girl, you stopped in your tracks. After all, did you really spend your money to travel here just to end up focusing on returning a girl's missing watch when the palace was only open for a limited time? It would be a waste of time going here if you didn't enjoy your time, right? As you stood there contemplating your decision, the constant breeze grew stronger, making the wind chimes nearby flutter and although messy, they still somehow created the most beautiful melodies. The sound disrupted your thoughts, but somehow provided an answer to your dilemma. You decided to keep the watch and continue exploring the palace. After all, you didn't want to waste your money and time searching for someone who would likely be enjoying the sights with her guardians. You could always return the watch to her later.

As you stroll on the bridge named Chwihyanggyo, your fingers lightly tapping the railings, you thought of one thing that could make this experience a million percent better.

"Why are hanbok so fucking expensive?" you huffed, frustrated at yourself for not being able to afford one. But since you can't do anything about it, you continued walking with a pout toward the buildings that housed the aristocrats of the past. The melodies of the windchimes grow louder as you come closer. And that's when it hits you.

How do you keep hearing them considering you haven't seen one since your first step on the palace? If this was a scene in a drama, you would've thought that the windchimes were following you, serving as the background music for the main protagonist's introduction. But this was no drama nor were you a main protagonist material, and you couldn't help but feel curious about it.

As you stepped inside the pavilion, you felt like you were slowly reaching your dream of going back in time as you gaze at the antique furniture that filled the place. Your fingers trailed the rough edges of the desk, which had subtle engravings that seemed unreadable at first glance: 다 괜찮을거야.

Everything will be alright.

The phrase repeated in your head as you wondered what it meant. Was it a message from the past or just a meaningless inscription? You felt a sense of longing to uncover the mystery behind it, and you wouldn't have noticed it if you hadn't felt it, but the pavilion was closing soon, and you had to leave to look around more. 

As you were about to exit, the chimes called out to you again, tempting you to get closer and follow their sweet melody— almost as if they could sense the curiosity in your mind. You followed the sound until you stumbled upon a backroom, which looked like a storage room that had been converted into a makeshift bedroom for the caretaker. You stepped across the redline, both figuratively and literally, unable to resist the urge to explore further.

From the balcony, you caught a glimpse of the wind chimes dangling from a branch over the lake. The constant ringing didn't falter from luring you in. You scanned the area for anyone who could catch you and when you saw no one, you leaped over the balcony and headed toward the chimes. There was something about the chimes that piqued your interest, but whether it was the chimes themselves or the confusion of how you keep hearing them from afar, you weren't sure, and nor were you going to find your answer.

Because as the popular idiom goes, curiosity killed the cat, and with a slip up your feet into the lake you go.

♛♛♛♛♛♛♛

The row of daisies sat atop the windowsill, bathed in the golden light of daybreak. The silent whims of the wind filled the space, stirring the dried leaves on the small makeshift table below, made with old planks with jagged edges, where jars of medicines sat alongside a worn notebook filled with hastily scribbled notes. There was the usual sound of footsteps and the creaking of floorboards. The palace's physicians and attendants began to trickle in, their visits indicated by the soft chimes of wind chimes hanging above the door.

And the wind blew one more time. As if it's intentionally done to send a message as the image of blurred sketches comes through.

All was well.

Until the peaceful scene was shattered by the thunderous galloping of horses that had shaken the rooms. Until there was the clash of metal on metal that filled the air as swords were unsheathed. And until there were faces with features you couldn't make up.

Muffling, shuffling, screaming, shouting.

It was only chaos and bloodshed, and as it worsened, the ringing in your ears grew louder and louder, drowning out all other sounds and leaving you with nothing but a sense of overwhelming disorientation.

Then, just as suddenly, it all heeds to a stop. The ringing faded away, and nothing could be heard other than the flipping of the pages, the smooth gliding of a pen, and the wind chimes outside the window that began to tinkle once again. You looked out the window and saw a tranquil scene: rows of green grass and golden hay, and the majestic curve of a mountain in the distance. There were no whims nor whispers of the wind.

All was quiet and still.

As if everything was at its stalemate; the equilibrium.

And then, as if a stick had been broken, it happened.

The scene began to shift and blur, colors and shapes warping and twisting like a nightmare. The ground trembled beneath your feet; the tremors so strong that you could've sworn you felt it all as images flickered before your eyes. You saw a crowd of men gathered around someone lying on the cold hard floor with colors ranging from black to white, their sorrows crystal-clear even with the constant ringing. Then you saw a field of yellow flowers, a scenery of green and gray with men running toward something in the distance, their faces twisted in anguish, kneeling and begging in the middle of a field.

The images kept shifting and switching back and forth. Everything was in chaos as if fate itself was unsure of what was to come. But through it all, you struggled to hold onto each fleeting image, desperate to make sense of the chaos that surrounded you. And then, with a sudden jolt, you were pulled back into reality, coughing up water as you gasped for air. As you opened your eyes, the last remnants of the dream slipped away, and you were left with only the memory of the intense emotions it had stirred within you.

Dazed, and confused. You looked up, meeting the gaze of the man who had pulled you from the water, his eyes filled with concern and relief.

You were certain you hadn't met him before, but you could've sworn that those almond-shaped eyes were something you could never forget, etched into your memory with an inexplicable familiarity.

To be continued...

Thanks for reading!

[dearestvante]

stuck with you; kth.

pairing: taehyung x fem!reader , namjoon x fem!reader genre: non-idol au, exes to lovers (?), roommates au, angst, smut, fluff (??idk), miniseries warnings: short chapters, lowercase writing, swearing, kinda toxic relationship, unrequited love, fear of commitment, use of petnames (baby & honey), tae is a menace and an asshole but that’s cause he loves you and you’re with someone else right in front of him + more added later preview: "taehyung was standing in the kitchen, ready to enjoy his bowl of jjajjangmyeon, when your bedroom door opened, revealing you and your boyfriend, hand in hand, smiling at each other. safe to say, he lost his appetite very quickly. to clear any misunderstandings, you weren’t the problem. your angelic smile that turned his whole world upside down wasn’t it either. the buff, six-feet-tall man on your right, and the fact that he was the cause of your joy, that was the problem. he hated namjoon with every little cell in his body. not because he was such a bad person - he was quite the opposite, actually, which made taehyung hate him even more - but because he had you."

parts: one; two; three.

[listening to layover while reading is advised ;)) ]

[hyunnows]

WHO YOU GONNA CALL | M.LIST

A series of tapes describing Namjoon's life since joining the Supernatural Investigation Unit.

PAIRING(S) | Namjoon x reader

THEMES | cop!au, x-files!au, ghostbusters!au, cop!Namjoon, cop!reader, youtuber!Seokjin, youtuber!Taehyung, ghosts, conspiracies, cryptids, the paranormal, and the supernatural are main subjects

RATING | pg13

SERIES/BTS TAGLIST: @imbonibi @fangirl125reader @geniejunn @akshreads @6-ucci @mickmoon @betysotelo18 @hgema

Navigation | Taglist

PARTS: Tape #1 | Tape #2 | Tape #3 | Tape #4 | +

PREVIEW

“The X-Files, the damn X-Files,” Namjoon mutters to himself, reclipping his tie to his shirt–he wasn’t a real detective yet, he didn’t need to look like one yet either. 

He takes slow, dragging steps towards the door in the corner of the precinct. He dreads opening the door, his distaste increasing when he hears the loud shuffling of papers and quiet rock music barely making it past the door. Fuck it. 

He swings the door open to be met with complete and utter chaos. The office is far past disorganized. There are files everywhere, tapes, cameras, and photographs all placed haphazardly across both wooden desks. He cringes when he notices the boxes filled with the same materials stacked all around the room. Not to mention the overflowing drawers with papers practically falling out of them.

The sound of papers being tugged out of a drawer catches his attention, the cacophony leading him to see a figure slumped over a file cabinet, sipping hot chocolate from a ‘repurposed’ ramen styrofoam cup. Awkwardly, he clears his throat. “Hello?”

You snap to look at him, a distressed looking uniform hanging from your figure. Swallowing the coco in your mouth, you greet him excitedly, “Oh, hi there. You must be Namjoon, right? My new partner?”

Not for long, he thinks to himself, before nodding. “That would be me. You’re [Y/N], right?”

“Yes I am. Are you excited to be in the SIU?”

“Not really, I’m sort of a skeptic, to be honest. Ghosts and cryptids and all that aren’t really my thing, I prefer science,” Namjoon says, eyes wandering the towers of paperwork.

You scrunch your face at the slight bit of arrogance in his tone, but shrug it off. “Oh, can’t relate. Personally, I’m a believer. You spend a while here and you might become one as well.”

Navigation | Taglist

[ggukzashi]

Black Pearl Pt. 2

Pairing: Namjoon × reader ft. Ot7

Rating: Adult, Explicit

Genre:NonIdolAu,BodyguardAu,Angst,Smut,Fluff

Word Count: 1.9k

Summary: You're with your friends drinking when suddenly your entire life is flipped around. You find yourself trapped in a house with 7 men you don't know and their Alpha gets on your nerves a little too much. What do you do when you realize that you like their leader and you're not supposed to? Can you resist giving in and sticking to your belief of no relationships or do you give in to the temptation?

Warnings ⚠️: Cursing

Author's Note: I decided to write this series inspired by Namjoon in a black turtleneck ( yes I'm weak and I know y'all are too). It's my first time writing a series so please do let me know your thoughts and engage with the post.

————————————————————————

Chapter Two

“Namjoon.”

It almost feels like an instant reaction, the way it rolls off of your tongue so easily. Almost like it’s a name you’ve known for a while. Your thoughts are interrupted when you hear your phone ringing. You pull it out of your purse that you managed to grab before you had to leave the club. Before you get the chance to answer, Namjoon grabs it out of your hand harshly.

“What the fuck?” You yell.

“Give me my phone back,” you demand, your hands crossed against your chest. Namjoon quickly pulls the car over and slides the SIM card out of your phone before throwing it out of the window. Your eyes shoot open at his action. You're about to yell at him again when you hear a gunshot in the distance.

"Sit back," Namjoon orders in a voice that leaves no place for argument, as he presses on the accelerator and speeds away from the location. He reaches his arm to the back seat with ease and retracts his walkie-talkie.

"How the fuck are they trailing us?” He asks and you can hear another voice answer through the mic.

"They must have pinged her phone location hyung."

"I just destroyed the SIM card,” he groans out in frustration.

You turn around and see a black car right behind you. Your heartbeat picks up its pace immediately and your eyes widen. "Namjoon, they're right behind us,” you cry out, your eyes fixated on the car trailing right behind you.

"I'm on it. Don’t worry," he says and before you know it, you're in a chase with the car behind you. Namjoon quickly maneuvers his own vehicle into a small lane nearby and follows along an internal route. You manage to lose the car and catch your breath as you're back on the road.

"We lost them, right?" You ask nervously and Namjoon turns his head to look at you.

"Why the fuck didn't you tell me you had your phone?” He says, instead of answering your question. “Do you even know how dangerous of a situation you're in right now? They probably would be still right behind us had I not found out about your phone,” he yells as you purse your lips together with a sniffle escaping your lips.

There’s an unspoken tension in the air surrounding you. If it was anyone else, you’d have yelled back but there’s something about him. An aura of dominance exudes from him that makes you nervous. You observe how his jaw clenches in anger, his hands gripping the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles turning white. You notice his biceps flexing underneath his black turtleneck as he runs his hands through his jet-black hair.

Goddamn.

You gulp before you shake your thoughts off. The man yelled at you and you’re here drooling. Jeez, get a grip, Y/n.

"I'm here in your car and I don't even know you. I don't know where my friends and family are. I haven't eaten a morsel in the last four hours. I'm drunk and vulnerable and there are a bunch of men with guns after me. You think I'm having any fun here?" You scream back, almost in the same harsh tone, he’s been using since earlier.

For a second you see his gaze soften but you quickly look away and stare out the window, looking at the night sky instead. You aren’t one to take shit from others, especially from one of your dad’s minions and you want to make sure he knows that.

Being tired and hungry, you end up falling asleep.

~the next day~

You wake up to the feeling of sunlight hitting you. Your eyes slowly open, adjusting to the brightness of the room, your head pounding from all the vodka shots. Last night’s events flood through your head and you grunt out in frustration. As you look down, you realize you’re wearing what seems to be a man’s t-shirt.

“Who changed my clothes now?” You whine as you get out of bed and make your way out. As you open the door, more sunlight hits you and you squint your eyes.

“The fuck? Is this Edward Cullen’s house or what?” You question as you follow the staircase and make your way downstairs. Your eyes immediately land on a man leaning against the kitchen counter, his eyes glued to your legs as you walk in further.

“Morning,” he says, his voice sweet and soft. Your eyes land on the way his abs peek through his shirt when he stretches his hands up in the air. You roll your eyes and open the fridge to grab some water.

“Had a rough night I presume,” he speaks again, his tone a little raspier but no less soft. You have a few sips of water and put the bottle back in. The moment you close the fridge, the stranger stands right next to you. You almost yell out loud but his hands are quick to cover your mouth, his eyes staring directly into yours. You notice his lips curve up into a playful smile as he runs his tongue along his bottom lip.

You quickly push him off of you as you hear footsteps. Your eyes dart to the hallway, where Namjoon walks in wearing a pair of blue sweatpants. Only sweatpants. Your jaw drops at the sight of his hard muscular chest and curved abs on display, choking on your own spit. The biceps that you had been eying since you sat in the car with him were now visible to you pretty clearly. As the heat rushes to your cheeks, you notice the way his sweatpants hang low on his hips.

Namjoon looks up at you and the angelic stranger standing at your side, his brows furrowed in confusion. “Morning hyung,” he greets, his voice sounding chirpier than earlier. Namjoon just nods in response before walking away from the situation.

The man turns to you and sticks out his hands. “I’m Jimin. Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Y/n, but I guess you already know that.”

Your eyes dart back to where Namjoon was standing just a few seconds ago and thoughts run through your head. “Hey, meeting in two” You hear a deep voice speak. Your head shoots up as your eyes land on the man in front of you, running his fingers through his long dark curls. You notice the way his eyes scan your body before landing on Jimin standing next to you. His brows knit in confusion as he signals Jimin to move with his eyes.

“Wait” you yell out as Jimin walks over to the dark-haired man. You quickly walk towards them.

“What meeting?” you question, your eyes squinting in confusion. The two men look at each other before the dark-haired man speaks up, “Namjoon hyung called for all 7 of us to assemble to discuss further plans”

“Can I come with?” you ask.

“Well, he told all 7 of us to gather so..” the man’s voice trails off. You roll your eyes at his response.

“Aren’t you all here for MY safety?” you say and Jimin shrugs before responding, “Fair enough. Come along.” As the three of you walk towards one of the rooms in the safe house, you look around admiring the simplicity of the house.

Jimin pushes open the door of a room and you see Namjoon talking to someone over the phone. The other guys seem to be engaged in conversation as you slowly sit down not wanting to draw attention to yourself.

“Why is she here?” Namjoon speaks, his voice coming off deeper than usual. You roll your eyes at his question before responding, “Because I wanted to” crossing your arms, staring down at him. You notice the way his jaw clenches at your snappy response.

“It's only fair we start by introducing ourselves right?” one of the men sitting next to you says. You notice the softer features on his face, his smile bright.

“Jung Hoseok at your service,” he says doing a little bow making you giggle at his actions.

“The name’s Seokjin,” The older one says and the others start chuckling at his introduction. Your eyes dart to namjoon and you notice how at ease he seems with the other guys. His eyes meet yours and a soft smile appears on his face. He fucking smiled. You feel your heart almost skip a beat at the sight of his dimples. You quickly look away and try to focus on the ongoing conversation instead.

“Lol boomer,” the seemingly younger man says giggling as Seokjin glares at him. You notice the way he plays with the ring near the right corner of his lip. “I’m Jungkook. Unlike Jin hyung, if you wanna hang out with the cool people hit me up.” you chuckle at his statement and you hear Hoseok whisper to you.

“You’re about to witness Jin hyung’s iconic rap yelling”

Sure enough, Jin does start yelling, dragging out his words as the younger man throws his head back, everyone laughing. You don’t recognize the smile on your face. It feels so natural to laugh around these people you’ve never even met before. Your mind takes you back to the dinner table at your house, back in Seoul where all you ever experienced was anger, sadness, and silence.

“I’m Taehyung. Nice to meet you” the deep voice of the dark-haired man brings you back to reality. You notice the smile playing on his lips, in complete contrast to his deep, manly voice.

“That’s Yoongi hyung” Hoseok says pointing to one of the men with long black hair, sleeping peacefully.

“Someone willing to volunteer as tribute?” Jimin asks as your brows furrow in confusion.

“I vote for Jimin,” Jungkook says and the others nod in approval. “Why me?” Jimin rolls his eyes before tugging at Yoongi’s hand and yelling into his ears ‘wake up’.

“Fucking hell. Can’t sleep peacefully for one second in this goddamn household full of lunatics.” Yoongi complains as his eyes barely open, still adjusting to the bright lighting of the room.

“Stop complaining cat man,” Jimin says laughing at Yoongi’s half-awake state.

“Now that we’re done with introductions can we get into the important stuff” Namjoon speaks, his dominant leader mode taking control, the softer side completely dissolving into the atmosphere.

He opens up his phone and slides it over to you. You see a tanned man with a scruffy-looking beard. “Do you recognize him?” Namjoon asks and you shake your head.

“As per our intel, he is the one who fired the shots at the club.” You look down again taking a closer look at the man. “I’ve never seen him,” you say shaking your head and Namjoon sighs in response.

“As much as we are here in a safe house, we must be on alert at all times. Never underestimate the enemy” he says and everyone nods in response.

“We also have only three bedrooms and before you all fight to death over being roomies, Jin hyung and I came up with a list of the least chaotic combinations. Jin hyung and Jimin will be in one room. Hobi and Tae can sleep in the living room. Yoongi and Kook will be in one room.”

“Wait where are you and I sleeping?” you ask and the realization hits you that you’re fucked.

You're gonna be sharing a room with Namjoon.

Taglist: @kookznoona @souryoong @gukkie01

Special thanks to @gukkie01 for proposing this idea. Love you ♡.

[emerald-notes]

Singularity

Fandom: BTS

Pairing: Namjoon × Reader

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~}{~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Shit!” I huffed out as I had to climb the stairs up to the third floor and my poor lungs wouldn’t want to cooperate as always, “I forgot my water bottle at home again.”

“You can have mine, no problem!” a boy handed me his half filled plastic bottle.

I usually follow one rule while drinking water from other people’s bottles. I ask them if they touch their lips to the bottles opening while drinking and usually refuse to drink from the same bottle if they do.

That day, however, I didn’t have the mind to do that as I straight up uncapped the bottle to finish the whole thing in one go. When I looked up to say ‘thanks’ and ‘sorry’, he was already gone. As it was almost time for the next class, I supposed he hurried to get to his. I remembered the boy’s name to be Namjoon.

Namjoon was a boy I would often see in between classes. Sometimes we would nod, ask when the next class was or simply smile at each other. And then, we’d go our separate ways. I knew him just like that. I didn’t remember ever having a full conversation with him.

I didn’t see him again after that day. But I heard some rumors about him around the campus not long after. He was accused of saying something that sparked controversy. Since I didn’t know him in person I never expressed my opinion on the matter. But I had a lingering wish to meet him again, to return his empty plastic bottle that I still carry in my bag.

That wish came true when I finally saw him again.

He was having lunch at an empty table at the corner of the cafeteria. There was no one around so I walked up to him right away.

“I’m so sorry I could not return your bottle that day!” I had told him.

“What bottle?” He looked at me with genuine confusion.

I took out the said bottle from my bag to put on the table. Namjoon let out a chuckle at its sight. “You wanted to return this?”

“I know, it might not be a huge deal to you. But I literally can’t sleep in peace until I return what I borrow from someone else. Be it a pen or book or whatever.” I explained myself clearly to which Namjoon nodded and took the empty bottle off the table.

“I’ll take it back then.” He said, “Hope it gives you some peace.”

He shook his head slightly and laughed. For some reason, I felt overwhelmed seeing him laugh like that. His eyes completely vanished behind the wrinkles as he laughed. He looked so unreal. I couldn’t make up my mind why I was feeling that way at such a small act of someone I barely knew. But I had a feeling that it was a moment I would never witness again. I felt the need to capture it in a picture so that I could look at it whenever I wanted to.

However, I didn't take his picture that day. Instead I stood there for a while, enjoying the moment as it was. He didn’t invite me to sit next to him. I wished he did.

The next time I heard about Namjoon was from a group of friends talking about college in general. I wasn't minding their gossip until I heard them speak about him.

"Good grades aren't everything, you see!" One of them said, "you need to have a better character to not be kicked out of school like that."

I was shocked to find what happened to Namjoon regarding those rumors. As much as I wanted to interrupt their conversation, I couldn't bring myself to do so. Yet my heart couldn't believe a word of the dirty talks I heard around. Even though I wasn't a friend of his, neither was I an acquaintance, in my heart, I still pictured him as the smiling boy who had helped me at the time I needed it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~}{~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Note: Inspired by a dream...

My Masterlist

[youmyjhope]

hello!! if possible can i please request rough passionate sex w joonie? w lots of squelching and skin slapping sounds please hehe

dis song fire idc who doesnt like it

[yoonjinsgirl]

HAPPY JOONIE DAY Y'ALL!!!!🐨💙🌱

It's joon's birthday today!!! And I'm so happy!!! Even though my entire draft got deleted I'm still trying to be happy coz it's joon's birthday and i wanted to be happy!!!!

I've always felt so close to joon since day1, he has always inspired me to love myself, to accept my own feelings rather then declining them, I've had hard times accepting myself, my inner feeling and thoughts, it's always been hard to talk with someone without having the fear to be judged! In so many ways I've found myself similar to joonie like love for reading books, love for art, love for nature, i had truly love visiting museums across my country if i had get chance anyday, i truly would love doing that and love for music ofcourse!!! So in many ways joon seems to be my closest friend but at the same time he truly is the man i want to have in my life! I'm sure no matter who must be our bias, at the end of day no one could literally resist the man namjoon is!!! And my love for him keeps growing by every passing day! On his birthday i wish for his well-being, peace and happiness with good health! HAPPIEST BIRTHDAY JOONIE! I LOVE YOU!💕

*******************************ʕ•́ᴥ•̀ʔっ****************************

NAMJOON X READER

Summary: Bestfriends to Lovers! Unplanned Love Confession! Namjoon and reader don't live in the same country!!!

Warnings: None, *not necessarily a fic, just a conversation full of comforting eachother and their honest confessions* and maybe tine tiny fluff!

A/N: since it's joons birthday i wanted to post something, so here it is! I haven't unnecessarily added anything, it's almost what joon had conveyed through his letter for us!💕

**************************✉*************************

we were always meant to be destiny!

*******************************ʕ•́ᴥ•̀ʔっ****************************

As i said before for joon's birthday i really wanted to post something, and yesterday when i read his letter i was so touched by his love…his sincerity and honesty, that i ened up crying over!!! So that's why i wrote this text conversation to something that i feel all of us could relate.♡

About the fic that i had said, that I've been working on, I'll post soon.. within a day or two, and most probably it will be a mini series, so please look forward to it!💜

AND AS I ALWAYS SAY, YOUR FEEDBACKS AND REQUEST ARE TRULY WELCOMED!!!💕

Click to check out my other works: Masterlist💌

AGAIN EVERYONE HAPPY JOONIE DAY 💙🌱🐨

[fentyjjk]

DISCLAIMER: all rights to me, all works written by me, all ideas credited to me.

do NOT steal, copy, and or translate any of my works.

18+ minors do NOT interact

© fentyjjk

➸ SONGSPIRATION M.LIST

synposis compilation of varying lengths of drabbles and or series based off of songs i've heard

KIM SEOKJIN

╰┈➤MINI SERIES

tba…

╰┈➤SERIES

tba…

╰┈➤ONE-SHOTS

tba…

MIN YOONGI

╰┈➤MINI SERIES

tba…

╰┈➤SERIES

tba…

╰┈➤ONE-SHOTS

tba...

JUNG HOSEOK

╰┈➤MINI SERIES

tba…

╰┈➤SERIES

tba…

╰┈➤ONE-SHOTS

tba…

KIM NAMJOON

╰┈➤MINI SERIES

✧ LOVE ME

genre angst, cheating

synopsis an affair with your husband's best friend leads to a messy confession on your wedding day. it all goes downhill from there.

chapters 1| 2 | on hold.

╰┈➤SERIES

tba…

╰┈➤ONE-SHOTS

✧ TENT FAVORS

synopsis in an attempt to finally ask your fuck buddy to be your boyfriend, you take him camping, your plans are soiled when he brings along his friend, jungkook.

PARK JIMIN

╰┈➤MINI SERIES

tba…

╰┈➤SERIES

tba…

╰┈➤ONE-SHOTS

tba…

KIM TAEHYUNG

╰┈➤MINI SERIES

tba…

╰┈➤SERIES

tba…

╰┈➤ONE-SHOTS

tba…

JEON JUNGKOOK

╰┈➤MINI SERIES

✧ LOVE, LOST

genre angst, heartbreak, cheating

synopsis your relationship with jungkook had been fizzling out for a while. for the last year of your five year relationship, you two had all but floated around each other, but after you catch him cheating that's the final straw.

chapters 1| 2 | completed !

╰┈➤SERIES

✧ DARK ANGEL

genre vampire fic, supernatural, unrealistic historical fic, romance

synopsis after dying and coming back to life as a vampire with an unrelenting thirst for blood, jungkook is on the run. it doesn't matter where he goes or how he just needs to keep running. away from the hunters, away from the people he killed the first night he came back, he just has to keep moving…but then he finds you.

chapters: dark angel navigation | to be continued…

╰┈➤ONE-SHOTS

✧ TENT FAVORS

synopsis in an attempt to finally ask your fuck buddy to be your boyfriend, you take him camping, your plans are soiled when he brings along his friend, jungkook.

[namsfuriousphantom]

Chapters: 2/? Fandom: 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Kim Namjoon | RM/Original Female Character(s), Min Yoongi | Suga/Park Jimin Characters: Kim Namjoon | RM, Original Kim Namjoon | RM Child(ren), Kim Seokjin | Jin, Park Jimin (BTS), Min Yoongi | Suga Additional Tags: Top Kim Namjoon | RM, Kim Namjoon | RM is Whipped, Sweet Kim Namjoon | RM, Kim Namjoon | RM is a Dork, Kim Namjoon | RM Has a Big Dick, College | University Student Kim Namjoon | RM, Kim Seokjin | Jin is So Done, Kim Seokjin | Jin is a Confident Gay, POV Original Female Character, ambw, Black Character(s), Good Friend Kim Seokjin | Jin, yoonmin, Cute Park Jimin (BTS), Soft Min Yoongi | Suga, Smut, Fluff and Smut, they fuckin, Vaginal Fingering, Dildos, friend sex, Accidental Relationship, Kim Namjoon | RM Has a Praise Kink, Breeding Kink, Accidental Pregnancy, Unplanned Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, Pregnant Sex, Kim Namjoon | RM & Min Yoongi | Suga are Best Friends Summary:

Best friends Traelin and Namjoon find themselves in a bit of a predicament after Namjoon's breakup with his girlfriend. Now they need to figure out how to go from just friends to college parents and QUICKLY!

[dearestvante]

stuck with you; kth. | 01.

pairing: taehyung x fem!reader , namjoon x fem!reader genre: non-idol au, exes to lovers (?), roomates au, angst, fluff (??idk), miniseries warnings: short chapters, lowercase writing, swearing, kinda toxic relationship, unrequited love, fear of commitment, use of petnames (baby & honey), tae is a menace and an asshole but that’s cause he loves you and you’re with someone else right in front of him wc: 1k

masterlist.

__________________________________________

your soft giggles fill the room as your boyfriend kisses you all over the face then moves down to your neck, even though he knows how ticklish you are.

“joon, stop, i might hurt you!” you say as your head falls back, against the armrest of the couch, still giggling.

“you could never hurt me, baby” your boyfriend replies, kissing you so gently, sometimes you wonder if he even wants to. you were not used to this softness, kisses with your ex were always so passionate, breathless, even.

nice, here we go again. you’re making out with your boyfriend yet still, you’re thinking about your ex. and his kisses. and the way his long, delicate fingers roamed your body every time he pressed his soft, pink lips on yours.

suddenly the lock on the front door turns and, speak of the devil, the person from your thoughts appears behind it. the scene doesn’t faze either of you, considering you still live together.

you push namjoon away, and sit up on the couch, smoothing out your clothes. your boyfriend does the same, though also throws his arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer to his chest.

“don’t stop for my benefit” taehyung says as he walks through the living room, towards his room, a cocky smile spreading across his face. he always does that. no “sorry for interrupting” or anything, just a childish joke or an insensitive comment, and every time, you wish you would’ve just kicked him out the day you two broke up, instead of letting him stay until he finds a new place. but something inside of you didn’t let you do that.

“why is he still here?” joon asks you, with one eyebrow raised, his jaw tensed. he’s angry, and you can’t exactly blame him.

“cause apartments are not cheap” taehyung answers instead of you, ignoring the fact that he’s not really part of the conversation. “but i don’t expect you to know that, having mommy and daddy resolve everything for you”

namjoon is seconds away from breaking your ex boyfriend’s perfectly sculpted face, you can already see him clenching his fist. yes, he was wealthy - well, his parents were - but he never bragged about it, nor he took everything he got for granted. you knew about his status, because he was your boyfriend, but how did taehyung find out about it was a mystery.

you take namjoon’s hands, rubbing them with your thumbs, comfortingly.

“don’t listen to him, baby” you say, making taehyung scoff and retreat to his room. “he wants to see you pissed off, don’t give him that”

“next time, you’re coming over. i can’t deal with this shit anymore”

“i will. and i’m sorry” you say, lowering your gaze, but he lifts your chin up.

“it’s not your fault that he’s a dick” he claims, and leans closer to kiss you once again. and you’re waiting for those butterflies to finally wake up and cause that sweet feeling in your stomach, but they never show.

taehyung was standing in the kitchen, ready to enjoy his bowl of jjajjangmyeon, when your bedroom door opened, revealing you and your boyfriend, hand in hand, smiling at each other. safe to say, he lost his appetite very quickly. to clear any misunderstandings, you weren’t the problem. your angelic smile that turned his whole world upside down wasn’t it either. the buff, six-feet-tall man on your right, and the fact that he was the cause of your joy, that was the problem. he hated namjoon with every little cell in his body. not because he was such a bad person - he was quite the opposite, actually, which made taehyung hate him even more - but because he had you. he could hold your hand, kiss you, touch you. all the things taehyung couldn’t do anymore. but who’s fault was that, actually?

he turned his back to the two of you, but still kept watching, from the corner of his eye. namjoon talked about something as you walked through the living room, you watching him so attentively, even if it was something you didn’t really understand or cared too much about. the same way you used to look at him, every time he tried to explain to you one of his new projects. eyes glued on him, nodding continuously, always asking questions or sharing your own ideas to show that you care. cause you did, you always cared about him. the memory makes him smile faintly.

“don’t tell me your little prince has a curfew, it’s not even ten pm” he says after you close the door behind namjoon. “damn, maybe living in a luxury apartment for free isn’t all that”

“he doesn’t” you reply, as you walk into the kitchen area, with your arms folded, brows furrowed.

“want some?” taehyung asks, pushing his bowl of ramyeon towards you.

“taehyung, i don’t understand you. you broke up with me, now one minute you act like we’re friends and then in the next, you treat me like i don’t even exist. not to mention your attitude towards my boyfriend…”

taehyung’s jaw tenses cause of that last word, the one he wishes you would never use for anyone else. he doesn’t say anything, mind too blurred to formulate a coherent thought, so he just storms into his room. on his way he can hear your last words and your sigh.

“my point, exactly.”

he’s leaning against the door, aggressively wiping away the stray tears, born from frustration and anger. he’s not angry at you, he could never be. he’s angry at himself, for being a coward, an idiot, for letting you go so easily. he fucked up, badly. you probably hate him by now, and you have every reason to. you should hate him, he thinks, for treating you like this. but at the same time, he can’t help but selfishly hope that someday, somehow you might take him back. he knows he has to fix this, he wants to fix this, but he doesn’t have the courage to do what it takes.

he sits there for a while, like the sad, little boy who’s afraid of his own feelings.

__________________________________________

a/n. hey lovelies! i'm back, with a new fic and im planning on making this one mature, something i've never done before, so bear with me pls and minors stay away!!! anywayss i hope you will enjoy it as much as i did writing it hehe. take care ❤️‍🩹

[gldrushh]

GUILTY AS SIN | JK

"You are stuck in time, and Jungkook doesn't stop running from it until he eventually does, and you learn that grief doesn’t wait for death, that love isn't all that dignifying."

→ Pairing brother in law!Jungkook × widowed fem!reader

→ Genre forbidden love! au, childhood friends to lovers, angst, smut

→ W.C 17. 32k

→ Warnings unrequited love :(, oc is in love with his older brother, early character death of the said older brother who is haunting the narrative, cute childhood sweethearts who are doomed by me, mentions of dealing with grief and acceptance, mention of cancer, a minor scene where harassment is attempted,emotionally troubled! oc, emotionally troubled and detached! jk, simp jk, pathetic man in love, he's so so lovesick, ceo! jk, protective jk, yearning, pining, loads of angst, fluff if you squint, breif yoongi mention, namjin yay!!,rich people party, mentions of anxiety,sexual tension,slow burnish,smut (omg everyone look away), kissing, unprotected sex (raw and deep, next question),dirty talking, oc is insecure,hickies,oral (f! Receiving), he cums in his pants,big dick jk, soft Dom Jungkook, fingering, penetrative sex, creampie, praise, cuddles if you squint again

→ Playlist Guilty as sin, control, killing me softly with his song, do I wanna know?

→ A/N the idea of this one shot came to me at 1 am when I was supposed to be studying for a test that probably my future depends upon and after much much complementing I'm finally posting it. To me, its very experimental and I was just trying to explore my writing style and writing things that I haven't before, like smut 🫠 so please please bear that in mind!! I hope you enjoy reading and if you did please comment!! It makes my whole day 🥰💕💕

P.S: cross posted on wattpad.

It is a believed fact that it takes three to four short months to fall in love. 

For you, it took one summer. The summer spent watching him sketch galaxies in the dirt with a twig, summer spent learning the way his laughter sounded after stealing popsicles from the freezer, summer spent holding his hand as they made paper planes under the blazing sun. It was the kind of love that grew roots so deep, you couldn’t separate where he ended and you began.

That summer, you met Minho. The boy next door with a mind as wild as his curls and a heart so warm it seemed to shine blindingly bright. He showed you how to climb trees, told stories he'd crafted all by himself, convincing you that the universe could be held in the palm of your hand. He shared his world with you, and you fell in love with it.

You kissed his cheek on the porch of your house one late July evening, bold and brimming with the kind of confidence only childhood summers could bring. “Now you’re gonna have to marry me, Min Min,” you teased, hands behind your back, your toes curling against the wooden floorboards.

He blushed, a shade of red that rivaled the setting sun, but his grin mirrored yours.

The porch of your house was a witness to many things. Your first steps, held your first scraped knees, your first dog and Minho's new brother; your new friend.

A boy of your age, younger than Minho had appeared from right behind him, his hands clutching onto Minho's flannel, his watchful eyes going everywhere all at once. The kind of boy who never spoke unless he had to, the kind who was more familiar with loss than comfort, lingering on the edges of things, unsure if he belonged.

Jungkook.

Now, Jeon Jungkook.

You and his brother had taken it upon themselves to bring him into your fold, turning your duo into a trio. With time, he laughed with you both, trusted you both, became one of you both.

The three of you were inseparable— in the backyard of your house, in elementary school, in high school. How could you not be? You had tied the promise in the form of handmade friendship bracelets around the wrist of both boys.

Even though what you wanted with minho was far from friendship. A bold dreamer, you always have been. But not so much when you turned sixteen. Sixteen; what a awkward age.

An age of overthinking haircuts, dreams, and the lives your peers are gonna live all at once. Visits to the school councilor are doubled. Relationships happen; Friends part.

But you only grew closer with Jungkook. He didn’t seemed interested in making a move on the timid, short haired girl who passed him notes in chemistry class, neither did he talk much about the future. When you asked him what he wanted to do, he’d shrug and say something like, “Whatever makes sense at the time.” He wasn’t aimless, exactly—just grounded in a way that made you think he didn’t feel the need to plan everything out.

Minho, though, was spiraling.

He now spent more time with the councilor that he spent with you both. Had this bitter look on his face every morning you saw him on the bus stop that will have you sharing a knowing look with Jungkook—Minho had been having a lot of fights with his dad, had been overthinking a lot more because the world seemed so much bigger than he had imagined.

Maybe for the eldest son and heir to a family that ran a company as old as the town itself, the world really was big. But to you, he was just a hopeful boy with all the colors in his eyes. The colors that you loved. The colors that didn't belong in a office, crunching numbers.

Your heart ached for him, but you didn’t know what to say. At sixteen, nobody has the answers.

Seventeen is a different story. It's a starlight dream. It's you acing the college entrance test. It's Minho surfacing back. It's Minho kissing you on that very same porch, promising, “One day, we’ll have our own porch, and I’ll kiss you there every day.”

And he was one to keep his promises.

You married him at twenty-five, in crisp autumn. To your family and friends, it was "About time." To you, it was nothing short of a dream as you walked to promise forever to the man you love, a vision in white. It was nothing big, just a dreamy intimate affair with soft twinkling string lights. Something you both agreed on. Because you were content with what you had, overjoyed actually after picking out a quite cozy apartment for the both of you and landing a job as a humanities professor in a university that wasn't too far from the said apartment. Minho was too and while things weren't the same with his father now, he did what he loved. Ever the artist at heart.

It was like everything you ever wrote in your middle school diary, everything you wished for was now laid under your feet like a carpet unfolding.

You were given a good time before it started pulling away from your feet.

At first, it was subtle. A missed dinner here, a canceled hangout there. Then he told you both he’d taken up an opportunity abroad to manage the family business, something Minho had no interest in, just on the night of your wedding after he had fulfilled his role of the groom's best man, watched you walk down the aisle.

You hadn’t seen the decision coming—not that night, not like this—but you couldn’t deny it either. Jungkook had seemed restless here, especially after finishing college.Conversations with him in those days had been brief, distracted, his eyes darting to the distance even as he smiled at you. It felt as you were trying to talk to the Jungkook who had appeared on your porch the first time. He hadn’t asked for understanding, and you hadn’t known how to offer it. His reasons were vague, more like placeholders for something unsaid. And so he left, quietly, with little fanfare, and though Minho seemed sad to see him go, you could tell he understood.

“It’s good for him,” Minho had said. “He deserves something for himself.”

Relationship happened; Friends parted.

You weren't sure if you understood. While you agreed with Minho, you couldn’t help but feel the loss of a friend now that his calls became less frequent until they stopped altogether. One day, he was simply gone, leaving behind only the memory of the boy who had once trusted you with his rare, precious smiles.

"You’d laugh if you saw me right now. I tried to fix the leaky sink in the kitchen, and now the entire floor is flooded. Minho’s being no help—just standing there laughing."

"Hey, stranger. Our anniversary is next weekend. We’re just doing a small dinner. You should come. Seriously, koo, don’t make me guilt-trip you."

"Saved you a slice of cake, but Minho ate it. You’d better show up next year, or I’ll stop saving you anything."

"Hey, Koo. Just checking in. Hope you're healthy and happy. Would love to hear from you"

You'd text him timely, in hopes that he still knows how to use a phone. But apparently, not.

Still, you had Minho. Your husband, your best friend.

Until you didn't.

Until the carpet was at last, snatched right down from your feet.

The diagnosis came in the spring. It started with a faint weakness in his voice. A shortness of breath he dismissed with a wave of his hand. “Just tired,” he’d say, smiling that same easy smile. But tired turned into tests. Tests turned into results. And results turned into a diagnosis that was oh so cruel.

Leukemia. Early stages. Aggressive.

The months that followed were a blur of hospital visits, treatments, and quiet nights where you held him as he cried. You tried to be strong, for him, for both of you. Told him what the doctor in the sterile white office will tell you. "They've caught it early so we're not at a great risk here." You'd reassure him. "You have yet to get away from me, min min." You'd try making him laugh but he had always been better at that.

Now, suddenly he wasn't. The next two years, your life was just the slow, agonizing process of watching the man you loved fade away, losing every bit of his lively soul to the cancer, holding his hand when he was too weak to hold yours back.

Perhaps it wasn't only Minho who was chipping away. It was you too.

You turned into the woman who knew exactly how to track medication schedules, who could list every side effect of his treatment in order of severity, who spoke with doctors as if reciting a memorized script. You learned how to bite back the frustration when he snapped at you because he was in pain, and how to smile when all you wanted was to scream at the unfairness of it all.

You started to measure time not in days or months but in cycles of chemotherapy, in percentages of remission and relapse. Life was divided into hours spent in sterile hospital rooms, waiting for results that were never as hopeful as you needed them to be, and hours spent at home trying to pretend those results didn’t exist.

You had stopped dreaming. And minho had stopped painting.

Grief doesn’t wait for death— or so you've realized as you often found yourself grieving the life you had built together, the one you knew would never be the same. You grieved the sound of his laugh, which became quieter as the months passed. You grieved the way he used to tease you about your love for terrible reality shows, You grieved the mornings spent tangled together, talking about everything and nothing.

By the time the end came, you had already lost so much of him that you thought you might be prepared.

You weren’t.

And then he was gone.

With an, "I'm sorry. I love you." He was gone.

The house was too quiet without him, the days too long. You withdrew, not just from the world but from yourself, letting grief shape the edges of your existence.

The world moved on, even if you didn’t. They tell you how long it takes to fall in love but not how long it takes to get over it.

2 years, 240 days. And you're still counting.

Time passed in pieces—fractured and unrelenting.

Your family, Minho’s family, even well-meaning friends—none of them knew what to do with the mess you’d become, so they did what people often did. They tried to fix it. To fix you.

Blind dates were their answer, little nudges toward what they called healing. The word had been said so many times it began to lose its meaning. Healing. As if it were something—a destination you could stumble upon.

You didn’t have the energy to argue anymore, so you let them dress you up, hand you phone numbers, and convince you that this—whatever this was—was what you needed.

But your heart wasn’t in it.

Because as the man sat in front of you in the dimly lit bar continued to talk about how his ex couldn't handle his success, the trials of being a man with ambition, you really couldn't even bother to pretend you were interested. He was nice enough—tall, well dressed (consdering the dingy bar) with a confident smile but your thoughts kept drifting, as they often did.

2 years, 240 days since Minho had died.

2 years, 240 days of waking up alone in your bed, his side untouched.

2 years, 240 days of trying to find your way back to the woman you used to be.

“Hey,” the man interrupted your thoughts, leaning forward with an eager grin. “I feel like I’m talking too much. Tell me about yourself. What do you do for fun?”

You forced a smile, your stomach twisting. “I paint. It’s... therapeutic.”

“That’s nice,” he said, reaching across the table to touch your hand. You pulled back instinctively, your stool scraping against the floor. His brows furrowed.

“Sorry,” you muttered. “I just—”

“You don’t need to apologize,” he said, but his tone was tighter now. He leaned back, shrugging as if trying to dismiss the moment. “You know, you should loosen up a little. You’ll never find anyone if you keep acting like you’re still married.”

The words hit you like a slap, your chest tightening as you struggled to process the audacity of his statement. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying,” he continued, ignoring the warning in your tone, “you should give people a chance. I mean, you’re here, right?” He smirked and stood, coming around the table. “Let me take you home. We can—”

“Stop,” you said sharply, rising to your feet.

But he didn’t listen. His hand reached for your arm, his grip firm.

Then, just as suddenly as he’d grabbed you, he was gone.

The man stumbled backward, a hand jerking him by the collar. The force was so swift, so unexpected, that it took you a moment to register what had happened.

And then you saw him.

“..Jungkook?” The name caught in your throat as you turned.

You took in the man standing before you, taller and broader than you remembered, the years etched into the sharp lines of his jaw and the set of his shoulders. His dark eyes were fixed on the man who had dared to touch you, glinting coldly.

His voice was low, dangerous. “She said stop. I suggest you listen.”

For a moment, the world tilted.

You weren’t in a dingy bar anymore.

You were standing at the edge of a memory—the first time you’d ever seen Jungkook, the quiet boy who clung to Minho’s shadow.

And the last.

The last time you’d seen him, a looming figure in an ocean of black suits. A barely recognizable shadow among the mourners at your husband's funeral.

Now, standing before you, he was real, tangible—and so was the flood of emotions crashing over you.

It was so loud, you could barely hear as the the man stammered out an excuse, something about a misunderstanding.

“Leave.” Jungkook snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut and bring you back to the moment.

The man hesitated, his mouth opening as though he wanted to argue, but one glance at Jungkook’s expression and he decided against it. Without another word, he turned and stalked out, muttering something under his breath that neither of you caught.

Silence followed.

Only then did you felt his gaze on you. His presence was larger than life, and you were suddenly hyper-aware of how much had changed. How much he had changed. You hadn’t registered that at the funeral. Now, you didn't know what to say, you could hardly manage to look at him. While he wasn't Minho's real brother, didn't share any resemblance with him, it still hurt you, sucked you back into those times when it was the three of you, when it wasn't.

He too didn't reply right away, his gaze searching your face, as though he was also trying to piece together the version of you he remembered with the one standing before him now. When it landed on the arm you were clutching, the arm that dipshit had grabbed, you saw his eyes glint again.

"Did he hurt you?" It sounded more like a demand rather than a question but you couldn't even deciper the words, too focused on how his boyish tone had turned sharper, harder.

"W-What?" You fumble out like a fool.

"Did he hurt you, y/n?" This time, you heard him.

Letting your hand fall, embarrassed, you shook your head, finally managing to utter something sensible out. “No—yeah. I’m fine.”

He glanced back at the door that man had fled from before looking back at you. Finally, he exhaled, his voice low and quiet.

“You weren’t answering your phone.”

You blinked. “My phone?” You don't remember getting a call from anyone but then you realize your battery had died down as you looked down to see your dead device laying flat. "Oh. I didn't realis—"

“Mom said you’d been gone a while. Told me where you were.” He interrupted. There was an edge to his voice now, faint but undeniable.

You feel more embarrassed now that you know it's because of your mother in law's anxious nature that he is here. Your fingers brushed against the strap of your purse, desperate for something to do, something to hold onto as he speaks again. "Are you ready to leave?"

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out before you could think them through. “I can get a cab.”

His brows furrowed, just slightly, and you noticed for the first time the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the hint of weariness in his expression. “It’s late,” he said simply.

"So?”

“So,” he echoed, his tone calm but unyielding, “I’ll take you.”

You hesitated, your pride and your exhaustion warring within you. Finally, you exhaled out in defeat, reaching for your coat. It's just a thirty minute ride. You reassured yourself. It'll be fine.

The cool night air wrapped around you and so did your coat as you stepped outside, and the streetlights cast long shadows that flickered as you walked toward his car. He opened the passenger door for you, his movements deliberate, and waited for you to slide in before closing it softly behind you.

The drive started in silence.

It wasn’t the silence of old friends, the kind that felt easy and safe. This was different—fraught, taut, like a thread stretched too tight.

You stole a glance at him as he started the engine, too aware of the small space you were packed in with him.

“I didn’t know you were back,” you said finally, your statement sounding more accusatory that you or he would have liked.

“Just for a little while,” he replied, his tone ofcourse, unfazed. “Business.”

Buisness. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes at the word. If someone could look like that word, you thought, it'd be the man in the fine tailored suit with eyes fixed on the road ahead and a rolex that didn't look any more cheaper than the car he was driving and you wondered.

Wondered if the lines of his palms—the callouses from late-night basketball games, the way they had felt solid and familiar when he held yours to steady you on the wobbly bike Minho had convinced you to ride—had changed too.

Had they turned forigen, unyielding? Had time eroded their familiarity?

When the car slowed, you glanced out the window, expecting to see the acquinated sight of your apartment building. But instead, the streetlights gave way to a quieter, darker road. You frowned, turning to him.

“This isn’t the way to my place.”

“I know,” he said simply, not bothering to elaborate. "You're coming with me."

You felt your chest tighten, your pulse quickening as unease prickled at the back of your neck. “Jungkook,” you started, the word heavy with protest.

"Y/N." He ends, sparing you a glance that has you sinking back into your seat, arms folded across your chest like a petulant child that you could swear made his lips twitch at the corner, you could swear you saw your old friend who had grown a sassy tounge at the age of fourteen that'd earn smacks at the head from his older brother for a fleeting cruel second there. But that was it. It was gone as fast as it had appeared, summoning the return of the silence that felt like its own living thing.

The house was still the same.

That was the first thing you noticed as the car slowed down in front of the building that loomed at the end of the road like a memory waiting to consume you.

The overhead lights still flickered faintly, casting shadows across the steps where you and Minho had once sat, daring each other to stay outside until the stars disappeared. Even the smell was the same—faintly woody, with the comforting hint of whatever candle Jungkook’s mom always lit in the hallway.

You hesitated in the doorway, the memories rushing in too fast, too loud. It's not like you haven't been here in ages but since the year you celebrated your first marriage anniversary with Minho here, it felt like you have lived a thousand lives.

Lives that haunted you still, made you randomly pause in the grocery aisle and now before this house until you felt Jungkook’s presence press behind you as if silently urging you on.

Clearing your throat, you slipped out of your heels that have been as much as pain as the man you had been on a date with. The floor creaked softly beneath your feet as you stepped inside, the sound jarring. The same hardwood floors, polished to a faint sheen. The same floral wallpaper lining the hallway. The same photo frames arranged along the wall—a collection of childhoods captured and frozen in time.

But as you glanced toward the corner of the living room where the three of you used to pile up pillows and blankets for makeshift forts. The corner was bare now, save for an old armchair, but in your mind, you saw it vividly: Minho’s determined grin as he shuffled the pillows, Jungkook, always following the lead but never quite competing for it. You would snuggle a pillow to your lap, nestled between the two brothers, peeking from behind your fingers and giggling at the the way Minho’s face would light up in triumph when he won another round of rock-paper-scissors.

A type of smugness that came from knowing he’d get to flick Jungkook’s forehead next. But your smile would fade as soon as you would realize that it's your turn next. “Wait, wait!” you’d plead, wide-eyed, deploying the best puppy-dog look you could muster. It was the same look that had, on occasion, earned you extra TV time with your dad. Jungkook would glance at you and chuckle. Relent like your father would and sheild your forehead with his palm that'd have Minho pouting. "Hey! That's not how you do it!"

"Y/N?" A well recognized voice pulled you back to the where you were supposed to be, back from the fort of pillows and blankets.

You turned around and instantly found yourself wrapped up in a tight hug. You managed a small smile, letting your arms wrap around the warm frame of your mother in law, the scent of her jasmine oil and apprehensive energy pulling you in. "Mom." You greeted back.

Mrs Jeon hadn't always been this.. overbearing. Though after the passing of your husband, she had teamed up with your mother and been on a determined mission to make sure you are well and on a road to healing.

The next few minutes, she did what she had been doing best—fussed over you, asking how you’d been, if you’d eaten, if you were warm enough. In that time being, Jungkook had resigned to wherever his room was.

You planned to do the same, especially now that you could see on her face how she is on the brink of asking about the disaster tonight. You showed some obvious sign of weariness, in hopes she'd let it go for the night and tell you where you're supposed to go to bed for.

"Third on the left, my dear. And I'm gonna need you to stay for breakfast, okay?" You wondered if stubbornness was a running streak in this family.

Hours later, sleep had yet to come.

You lay awake, staring at the ceiling, counting the faint grooves in the plaster as if they could somehow lull you into rest. The trick didn't work. It hadn’t worked in your own apartment either—the one you and Minho had picked out together, picked the colors of the walls together, and argued over where the bookshelf should be. Yet, it was still your space. You could control how you faced the memories there, pacing them, deciding when and how to confront them.

There, at least, you’d managed four or five hours of sleep on a good night. Here? In this house that held so much of him, so much of them, you weren’t sure you’d manage even one.

The room you were led to was neat and welcoming, the kind of space that had been carefully prepared for guests. But there was no comfort to be found in the knowledge that two doors down lay Minho’s childhood room, untouched, a shrine to a boy who grew up into the man you loved and lost.

At some point, you gave up.

Sliding out of bed, you wrapped your arms around yourself as you padded quietly downstairs. The house was silent as you made your way downstairs, the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound, the indistinct glow from the kitchen spilling into the dimness. You didn’t expect to find anyone there, but as you rounded the corner, your steps faltered.

Jungkook stood by the counter, a glass of amber liquid in his hand, his other resting on the marble surface. His jacket was gone, abandoned somewhere, leaving him in his dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

Tattoos.

They sprawled across his skin, intricate designs etched into muscle and sinew, that you didn't think you'd ever see on him.

Perhaps you thought wrong. Perhaps you never knew. Never knew him.

He glanced up, his dark eyes meeting yours that looked just as caught off guard as yours did. For a moment, you didn't feel comfortable moving from your spot until he eventually spoke.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, his voice quiet.

You shook your head, stepping into the kitchen. “Needed some water.” You said and opened a cabinet, finding the glasses exactly where you remembered, and filled one with water.

Behind you, Jungkook leaned against the counter, his presence impossible to ignore. Funny, how he always preferred to blend in the background as a child, now his mere cologne—earthy and warm—demanded attention, filled the room before he had even entered.

“Do you… do you drink often now?” you asked hesitantly, glancing over your shoulder, at the way his fingers curled around the glass, the tattoos on his hand shifting as he tilted it.

“Sometimes.” he said, his tone vague.

If things were anything like before between you two or anything like before at all, maybe you'd have pushed further, asked him if this was growing to be a unhealthy habit.

Now, it didn’t seem right when there was an ocean between you—a chasm of time. Felt intrusive. And you know it would only sound hypocritical from your mouth—talking about unhealthy mechanisms. Hah.

You ended up only nodding and put the washed glass back so you could go back to counting the grooves in the plaster. Resume your restless attempt at sleep.

But Jungkook spoke again.

"How long have you been going on.." He started suddenly, setting his glass down with a quiet clink. His voice was calm, but the muscle in his jaw twitched as he spoke. "These dates?"

You blinked at him, taken aback by the question. "Uh—for a while now, I guess?"

“Are you willing, or are they forcing you?”

The question, the way he asked it—sharp, direct—left you off balance. So did the way he was looking at you now, his eyes no longer holding the casualty as they once did when he had the glass of alcohol in his hand.

“I—” You faltered. “They just want to help. They think it’s time.”

“And what do you want?”

To go back to your room. To ask him what did it even matter to him, after all this time.

But what came out was forthright honesty. “I don’t know,” you admitted, “I don’t know what I want anymore.”

He stepped closer, his feet padding softly against the kitchen floor—a contrast to his rigid frame that now towered just close enough. Close enough to see how his chest rose and fell with every breath. Close enough to see how his eyes lingered on you, like he was trying to unravel something he didn’t understand.

“You don’t have to do anything for them or anyone,” he said, his voice soft but no less rough. “Not if you’re not ready.”

You opened your mouth to respond, to deflect, to do something, but his gaze held you in place, tracing down from the dark circles that weighted your eyes to your parted lips. All you could feel was his gaze burning on you and hear your own pulse in your ears.

“Jungkook…” His name escaped your lips in a whisper, barely audible.

He lingered for a beat longer, his eyes searching yours, then he stepped back, his jaw just as tight. “Get some rest.” He clipped out before he turned and walked away, leaving you alone again.

You didn't got any sleep that night.

8:00'o clock. The time's a etched number in your brain ever since you started your job at the university.

It's a routine that needs no alarm clock. It's a number you keep waiting for as you blink at the time passing. And you're more than eager when the morning comes softly along with smaller needle stopping at 8, sunlight slipping through the curtains in streaks too gentle to match the weight in your chest.

With Minho, you were the one to wake up first but here you find that the house was awake before you.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee drifted through the air, mingling with the faint sound of voices coming from the dining room. Breakfast was warm and lively, much like your mother in law. She greeted you with a brightness that almost made you feel guilty for your somber disposition.

“Good morning!” she said with a smile that could have been plucked from a painting. Reaching for a plate of toast, setting it down in front of the empty seat beside her.

“Good morning.” you murmured, sliding into a chair.

Across the table, your father in law sat at his usual spot, his attention fixed on his phone, only looking up to give you a nod of acknowledgment. You had never fully understood him, not as Minho’s father, not as a man.

Perhaps, It had always been because of the sore spot between him and your husband, the way his father disapproved of his wishes—choosing art over business, passion over practicality. You remembered the arguments you thought would never hear after the age of sixteen, the way Minho would come home, his face tight with frustration. “He doesn’t get it,” he’d say. “He never will.” You saw the way it wore on him, the way he carried the weight of his father’s disapproval like it was stitched into his very skin.

Even now, as you sat across from him, you wondered if he ever regretted it—if he ever wished he had spoken softer, loved louder. But his face was as impassive as ever, his thoughts a mystery.

“Jungkook left early this morning,” his mother said, breaking the silence. “Something about a meeting downtown.”

You nodded, relief washing over you in a way that felt almost shameful. You hadn’t realized how much you were dreading seeing him until you knew you wouldn’t have to.

“Busy as always,” you said lightly, reaching for your coffee.

The conversation drifted into familiar topics—neighbors, extended family, stories you half-listened to with polite nods. The table felt both too full and too empty, the gazes of all the people that sat there never straying to the right one in the left corner, just right beside yours.

The older woman turned to you, her tone bright with enthusiasm.

“There’s a party this weekend,” she said, her smile widening. “Just a small gathering with some friends and business partners. It would be lovely if you came with us.”

The suggestion made you squirm uncomfortably in your chair. “Oh, I don’t think—”

“It’ll be good for you,” she interrupted gently, her gaze soft but insistent. “Everyone would love to see you.”

You hesitated, the thought of mingling with people, of putting on a brave face for strangers already making you want to go back to bed. “I’m not sure I’d be good company,” You glanced towards your father in law, half-hoping he might say something to discourage the idea, but he couldn't be any less bothered.

“Nonsense!” she pressed. “You don’t even have to stay long. But it would mean so much to us.”

There was no malice in her persistence, no attempt to guilt you, just a genuine desire to include you in their lives. You couldn’t bear to disappoint her.

“Okay,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll come.”

Her face lit up with a smile. “Wonderful. Jungkook will pick you up and bring you there. That way, you don’t have to worry about driving.”

You froze, cup midway to your mouth. "There's no need for that, mom."

"Oh hush." she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “He’ll be coming from the office, so it’s no trouble.”

You nodded slowly, your appetite not too great or you just wanted to get out of here.

8'30. You glanced at the rose gold wrist watch, your first anniversary gift. Your first class is due in an hour, the perfect excuse wrapped around your wrist which you use to excuse yourself from the suffocating walls that always feel like they are closing in on you.

You have come to prefer the morning buzz of the university more—the hum of young adults chatting in the hallways, the scrape of chairs against tiled floors.It was a rhythm you found comforting, predictable in its own way. Here, you were just a professor, the one who explained history and philosophy with hands that only shook sometimes.

The teenage year you would have thought predictable as boring but you— a woman gone through a dubious sets of events found a fellow feeling in it.

Found the task of grading thesis, making power point presentation better than you would have ever imagined.

But Gods, your students need to realize that they can't dump about their toxic ex in every essay. A woman can only take so much.

You were sorting through the said papers in your office when the door creaked open, and a woman peeked her head in, the light from the outside catching in her curly locks.

“You busy?” she asked, her voice light and familiar.

You looked up to see Mira, the economics professor and one of your closest colleagues, walking toward you with her usual warm smile. Mira was more than just a coworker though—being practically family, the wife of Minho’s dark haired cousin who didn’t talk much in family gatherings, and over the years, she had become a friend you could rely on and share lunch with.

“Not for you,” you said, smiling as you waved her in.

She dropped into the chair across from you, setting her bag on the floor. “You look like you didn’t sleep a wink.”

Was it that obvious?

“I didn’t,” you admitted, sighing softly. “I stayed at the Jeons’ last night.”

Her eyebrows rose, but there was something in her eyes—a softness, an understanding—that made you look away for a second. “How’d that go?”

You hesitated, picking at the edge of a notebook on your desk. “It was… fine.”

“Just fine?”

“Jungkook’s back,” you said, and her eyes widened slightly, the topic seeming to catch her attention.

“Really? I didn’t know he was in town.”

“Neither did I, until yesterday.” You shrugged, leaning back in your chair. “Just for a while, though. Business stuff, y'know?”

Mira tilted her head, a small, knowing smile tugging at her lips. “And how’s that going?”

You frowned, caught off guard by the question. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged, but her eyes stayed on you, curious. “I mean, it’s been years, hasn’t it?"

“Yeah,” you said slowly. "It's fine, I suppose. We didn't talk much."

“Hmm.” Mira hummed thoughtfully as if tasting the question she was gonna ask on her tounge. “Are you okay with him being back?”

Were you okay with him behind back? Okay with him stepping in your vicinity after years of acting like you were not even family, let alone a friend?

“I don’t know,” you admitted finally. “It’s strange seeing him again after all this time. But he’s been… kind. Quiet, mostly.”

Mira didn’t press further, but there was something in her expression that made you uneasy, as if she knew something you didn’t.

You cleared your throat, desperate to change the subject. “There’s a party this weekend. His mom invited me. Please tell me you’re going.”

Mira winced, her smile apologetic. “Date night with the husband. Non-negotiable.”

"Oh." You tried not to show the dejection on your face but it was there. "Lucky you."

She studied you for a moment, her expression gentle. “Are you okay with going?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I feel like I have to.”

“You don’t have to do anything for them. Not if you’re not ready.”

If only he understood how much easier it was to do things for others than to face yourself.

“Y/N…” Her voice softened, and for a moment, she looked like she wanted to say more. Instead, she reached out and squeezed your hand. “You’ll be fine. And if you’re not, you can text me. I’ll make up some excuse to get you out of there.”

You smiled, grateful for her before bidding bye to her for her next class and focusing back on the pending work spread across your desk while simultaneously going through your closet in your mind.

Minho had always said red made the brown of your eyes excel more.

And you have really tried to believe it, looking at yourself from above your shoulder, from the side of your arm in the mirror but perhaps it's not only this red, off shoulder dress that's not doing your eyes justice. It's every color you have once known, once loved.

It's like, it's you that's not doing them justice.

As you stared into the mirror, your eyes flitting from one detail to the next—the slightly uneven tuck of fabric, the exposed skin of your collarbone—it felt wrong.

The little things were missing—his hands fixing the clasp of your necklace, his voice telling you not to overthink it, that you looked beautiful. That it didn’t matter what you wore, because it was you who wore it.

But he wasn’t here.

With a sigh, you adjusted the necklace you had chosen yourself, a simple silver chain that rested delicately against your collarbone. The mirror wasn’t forgiving, but you looked anyway, searching for something familiar in your own reflection. You smoothed your hands over the fabric, told yourself this was just another party, and dodged the doubts of this being a mistake.

The knock at your door came too soon, sharp and punctual, like everything Jungkook had become.

You felt your stomach clench, nerves twisting with something else you couldn’t name. Smoothing your dress one last time, you crossed the small space of your apartment, pausing just before the door.

When you opened it, Jungkook was standing right before you.

He had stood on the edge of cliffs where oceans met skies too, in countless countries at that, walked through streets that droned with history. Scrawled through the wonders of the world—the kind that made poets immortalize them in verse—but nothing—nothing—would ever measure up to this.

To you.

You, standing in the doorway, framed by the soft glow of the hall light, your hair falling in waves that he had memorized long ago.

His chest tightened, the memory of another doorway bleeding into the moment as gaily as if it had just happened. He had been in the room meant for waiting, where your parents had sat moments before, your mother sniffling into a tissue, your father pacing in his polished shoes. Now it had been his turn.

The thought alone of being the second person to see you before you walked away from him for good had made his tie that he had been trying to get the hang off felt too stressed around his neck, his palms clammy despite the air conditioning. He rubbed them on his pants, glancing at the small clock on the mantle every few seconds. The minutes dragged, each one seemed longer than the other.

What would you look like?

The thought ran circles in his mind, only for a creak of the door to startle him back.

Footsteps had echoed in the quiet, minimizing the distance until he could practically feel the nervous energy of a bride bounce against his. "Okay. You can turn around now." He had heard you speak, had seen the skittish smile on your face before he even turned around.

And when he did, he felt as if the air had been sucked out of the room.

The dress hugged you like it had been designed with only you in mind, its soft fabric flowing as if in defiance of gravity. Your veil cascaded behind you, catching the light, and your smile was small, almost shy, as you looked up at him, waiting for his reaction.

“Well?” you prompted, turning slightly, your hands brushing the fabric at your sides. “What do you think?”

What did he think? He thought the universe was wicked for allowing him to witness this and still expect him to let you go.

He had swallowed hard, forcing his voice to steady when he finally said, “You look—” His tongue had faltered over every adjective that came to mind. Beautiful wasn’t enough. Breathtaking felt like a cliché. “Perfect.”

You—Beautiful, Devastatingly, so.

You—who weren’t his to look at this way.

He feels his breath catch, his hands clenching at his sides to keep himself from reaching for you.

Because while that version of you had been a dream, this version—worn, weathered, but still so unmistakably you—was real. And the reality of you had always been what he wanted most.

Fuck. He shouldn’t be here.

He shouldn’t have agreed to pick you up, shouldn’t have stepped into this space, should have kept the distance he had spent years bridging.

But he has always found himself hopeless and running back to wherever you were concerned, hopeless in a way that had him studying for a test he didn’t even have to keep you company or show up.. here. Content to be near you in whatever capacity he could. He told himself it was enough. That it would be enough to watch you from the sidelines, to sit across from you at family dinners.

It wasn’t.

Because Jungkook wasn't a virtuous man. He never had been.

Virtue belonged to his brother—the one who could weave dreams out of thin air, who saw the world in colors Jungkook had never learned to name. His brother—Minho—who had been the light, the warmth that people, he gravitated toward. He had admired Minho, even envied him, resented him in ways he never admitted aloud and kept it in shadows.

When Minho died, the shadow became a man. And that man had spent years running.

Running into work, into unfamiliar cities, into the kind of purpose that left no room for thought. No room for the times when everything was right, when he tasted family and friendship for the first time ever, no room for the last time he tasted it when you walked down the aisle to his brother looking at him like he was the sun and how it burned, how he had burned with nails biting into his palms.

And only men with no integrity burn. Men who are cowards, restless, afraid of thier own greed try to run, in hopes that the distance would save them.

But distance didn’t save men like Jungkook.

Because here he was again, standing before you, the fire still smoldering.

“Hi,” you said softly, your voice pulling him back, creating a doubt in his belief.

“Hi,” he replied, his own tounge feeling heavy in his mouth.

“You’re early,” you said, your tone carefully light.

He cleared his throat, his hands slipping into the pockets of his slacks in an attempt to keep them to themselves. “Traffic was lighter than I expected. Are you ready to leave?"

You nodded and he stepped back, revealing his sleek Mercedes benz parked just right in front. He let you walk before him, watching how your movements were hesitant, as if the ground beneath your feet wasn’t entirely steady. He wanted to ask you if you were okay. He wanted to tell you it was okay if you weren't.

He settled for opening the car door for you.

“Thanks for this,” you said, your gaze fixed on the passing streetlights. “I know it’s probably the last thing you want to do.”

His grip tightened against the leather of the steering wheel with a force that made his knuckles ache. There was a rancorous way that you spoke to him, carefully restrained, that he couldn't even blame you for.

"It's not." He gritted out. "It's not a problem."

He had earned every inch of this gap between you, had spent years building it brick by brick, mile by mile. He's all to blame for. For carving the space between you with every ignored call, every excuse he made to avoid family dinners where you’d inevitably be.

For the leaving the wreckage in his wake—yours, his, theirs.

It wasn’t fair to hate the consequences of his own choices.

But hell, if he didn't outright loathed feeling like he was staring at a wall of frosted glass when he looked at you—where he could see the outline of you, but the details were blurred, distant. Like he had lost the privilge of knowing you from one glance, lost the privilge of having you speak up to him whenever you wanted, call him out, intoxicate him with your laughter that lightened up a room he wasn't even aware was dark. Found it fucking unbearable.

So much that he felt relief washing over him when the venue of the gathering came in view. A grand mansion, framed by manicured gardens and sprawling oaks that seemed to whisper old secrets to one another. It had a timeless elegance that made you wonder how many lives it had seen pass through its doors.

Small gathering, she said. You scoffed internally at rich people and their definition of small.

“Nice place,” you murmured as you walked beside him, your steps careful on the stone path after the car was eased into a parking spot.

“It’s the Kim's family home,” Jungkook said. You nodded, though the name didn’t spark much recognition. The Kims had been mentioned here and there at family dinners—names dropped in passing between sips of wine and shared laughter. You had barely paid attention then, too busy suppressing laughs at the jokes that Minho whispered near.

The front doors were open, the faint scent of fresh flowers and expensive cologne wafting out to greet you. Inside, the space was as opulent as expected—high ceilings adorned with crystal chandeliers, polished floors that gleamed under the soft light, and clusters of well-dressed guests milling about with drinks in hand.

A tall man stood near the entrance, his broad shoulders and sharp jawline making him impossible to miss. Beside him, another man stood with a softer air, his eyes crinkling with warmth as he leaned into the first man’s side.

The taller of the two men turned, his expression lighting up as he spotted Jungkook. “There he is,” He said, his deep voice carrying effortlessly.

"Hyung." Jungkook softened, clasping hands in a firm shake before pulling each other into a brief hug, the kind that spoke of collaboration and respect.

You shifted awkwardly on your feet, your fingers curling around the strap of your purse as you wondered whether to step back and leave him to his conversation or stay and risk being out of place.Would it be rude if you chose the former?

You were saved from your uncertainty when the two of them pulled away from Jungkook and took you in, a gleam of recognition passing through their face. Recognition, shock, then pity. You know how it went.

“You must be Y/N,” the taller one said, his gaze shifting to you with a warm smile.

You blinked, clearly caught off guard by the direct attention. “Yes, that’s me.”

“Kim Namjoon ” he said, offering his hand. “And this is Seokjin, my partner.” You smiled, nodding in acknowledgment before taking the hand of the charming one in the beige suit. “It’s nice to meet you, both. This is a beautiful venue.” You assume that they're the hosts of the party. The Kims that this house belonged to.

“Thank my father for that,” Namjoon said with a chuckle. “Sixty years old and still insists on hosting the most extravagant parties. He’d never let me live it down if I didn’t pull out all the stops.”

“Extravagant is an understatement,” Seokjin chimed in, his tone playful as he glanced at Namjoon. “I’m pretty sure half the flowers in the city ended up here.”

You smiled again, but it faltered when Seokjin's expression changed in a beat.

“We’ve heard a lot about you too,” he said gently, his gaze dipping briefly to Jungkook before meeting yours again.

You tilted your head, curiosity flashing across your face. “All good things, I hope.”

“Of course,” Namjoon assured you. “Your family is well-regarded, and we-we're sorry about Minho. He was brilliant in every sense of the world. We can't even imagin—"

“Thank you,” you said softly, trying really hard to not let the tightening of your throat strain your voice. “He was.”

Jungkook watched as your smile faltered, just slightly, at the mention of Minho. He decided to steer the conversation away but you recovered quickly, offering a polite nod and beat him to it.

There was a brief, loaded pause before you glanced at Jungkook. “I should find mom. She asked me to join her earlier.”

"Yeah, right.” Jungkook said, his voice steady despite the way his chest tightened again when he looked at you.

You walked by Jungkook, brushing close enough that your shoulder brushed against his chest, the faintest hint of your vanilla perfume that was so maddeningly you lingered in the air. He tensed, his breath catching before he could stop it. His fingers twitched at his sides, an almost imperceptible motion, but it was enough.

Subtle as he tried to be, he caught himself leaning slightly, his chest rising with a quiet inhale as though he could take the ghost of your scent and keep it for himself.

"Not as subtle as you think." Seokjin snickered by his boyfriend's side who also raised an eyebrow, his expression knowing and somewhat giving away his discomfort. “Is there something you’d like to share with the class?”

Shit.

Jungkook straightened, his jaw clenching as he avoided their eyes, fixing the collar of his shirt hoping they won't catch on the heat creeping up on his neck too. “Don’t.” he said quietly, his tone low and edged with warning.

"Maybe you don't sniff her like a dog in public? Maybe you have some decorum?" Seokjin judged, proud and loud.

"I have plenty, hyung." The younger male side eyed the older one, his eyes narrowed and the tips of his ears already crimson red like he was a boy caught watching porn for the very first time.

Namjoon sighed, though there was a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Let him be, honey.”

But the look he gave Jungkook was far from dismissive. It was the kind of look that saw too much, that peeled back layers Jungkook wasn’t ready to confront. Gods, he needed new friends.

He turned his attention back to the crowd where you disappeared.

The soft hum of conversations and the faint clinking of glasses followed you as you weaved through the grand hall, your eyes scanning for your mother-in-law’s familiar figure. The air in the mansion was heavier than it had been when you arrived, the brush of silk against silk, the way every movement seemed calculated, observed, and weighed.

You navigated through the crowd like a ghost in a gallery, your steps measured and slow, eyes flicking to the floor more than once to avoid the speculative stares. With rich circles came dirty gossip—whispered words disguised as laughter, false smiles that hid daggers. You’d learned to let them roll off your back, like rain on stone.

The Jeon matriarch had mentioned being near the back, closer to where the banquet tables were set. You followed the direction she’d gestured toward earlier, passing servers who moved seamlessly with trays of sparkling champagne.

Halfway through the journey, your steps faltered as your gaze landed on the centerpiece of one table—a chocolate fountain. Warm, rich, and cascading like liquid satin, it stood surrounded by an array of treats. Strawberries gleamed like rubies in the low light, their surfaces polished and inviting.

You hesitated, glanced around as if expecting someone to berate you for indulging in something so ordinary, but eventually, you plucked a strawberry and dipped it into the cascading chocolate.

You let the sweetness settle on your tongue, closing your eyes for a brief moment. For the first time all evening, you found this place somewhat tolerable.

Free food always making things better.

“Excuse me, miss.” a small voice piped up beside you, tugging on the flowy end of your dress.

A boy, no older than six or seven, stood by your side, his wide eyes flicking between you and the fountain. He looked as if he had stepped out of a luxury children’s catalog, his little suit tailored perfectly, his bow tie slightly askew. “Can you grab one for me? I’m not allowed to reach it by myself.” he asked, pointing at the fountain. His voice was polite, but there was a hopeful edge to it, as if he wasn’t used to asking for things twice.

“Of course, love.” you said, your lips curving into a small smile. You picked another strawberry, dipping it with care before crouching slightly to hand it to him. "There you go."

“Thank you!” he chirped, grinning immediate and radiant, the kind that softened the edges of a hard day.

"What's your name?" You asked him, crouching down to his level.

“Do-yun!” came a sharp voice, the kind that turned your stomach before your brain even processed it.

Who you assumed was the boy's mother stepped forward, her elegance severe, her lips painted in a red that matched the strawberries. She took her son’s hand but not before her eyes raked over you, head to toe, with an expression that left no room for interpretation.

"What did I tell you about bothering strangers?” she scolded do-yun who stared at the skewer in his hand apologetically.

“He wasn’t bothering me,” you said gently, straightening up and having the woman’s eyes flicker to you again, assessing.

“He just wanted a treat.”

Her eyes flicked to the chocolate fountain, then back to you, her lips pressing into a tight smile. “how kind of you.”

There was no warmth in her tone, no hint of gratitude. Just a faintly dismissive air. And with that, she turned, her child in tow, leaving you with the faint scent of something floral and the taste of bitterness on your tongue.

You'd learned better than to expect warmth from people bound by history.

You'd learned not to mind it. To overlook it. To not pay attention to them at all.

"That's her, isn't she?"

“Such a shame, losing her husband so young.”

“Yes, but you know, they weren’t exactly power players, were they? He was an artist, wasn’t he?”

The words hung in the air like cigarette smoke, acrid and inescapable.

A laugh, soft and cruel. “I suppose she’s lucky the Jeons still keep her close. Poor thing, all alone now. Must be awful.”

You stopped in your tracks. The sharp sting of their voices cut through the party’s hum, louder than the music, louder than your own heartbeat.

You could feel your palms start to get sweaty, eyes suddenly unable to meet anyone's.

Breathe. You reminded yourself.

One: Find your breath.

Two: Focus on something neutral—the fountain, the floor, the chandelier above.

Three: Remind yourself: They don’t know you. Their words are weightless.

But weightless wasn’t the right word.

“Though, you’d think she’d be a bit more modest. That dress isn’t exactly… widow-appropriate, is it?”

You tried to focus on your numbers but you lost it.

You turned, your fists clenched, your lips thinned, the polite demeanor cracking away from your face under the weight of your frustration.

“I’m sorry,” you said, your voice sharper than you intended. “Was there something you wanted to say to my face?”

The women froze, their eyes widening in surprise. One of them, a younger woman with a nervous smile, tried to backpedal. “Oh, no, we didn’t mean—”

“Because if you have an issue with me or my dress, feel free to say it outright,” you continued, your voice clear despite the way your heart hammered in your chest. “I’d hate for you to waste any more time whispering behind my back.”

The group exchanged glances, communicating in a language of their own, you couldn’t care less about. Atleast not in this moment.

“We didn’t mean to offend,” one of them muttered, her tone brittle.

“Of course you didn’t,” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “How could I possibly take offense to strangers dissecting my life as if it’s some dinner party entertainment?”

Stupid old hags with no life of their own!

You kept that to yourself.

Then, without waiting for a response, you turned on your heel and stormed away.

The chandeliers above blurred as tears pricked the corners of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. Not here. Not now.

You weren’t looking for anything specific—just distance, just air that wasn’t thick with judgment and whispers. A bathroom, maybe, though you weren’t going to ask for directions not when your voice felt like it would crack the moment you opened your mouth.

People brushed past you, their scents of expensive perfumes swirling in the air, their muted voices blending into a hum you couldn’t quite focus on. One or two bumped into your shoulder, but you didn’t apologize, didn’t bother looking back.

You just needed to get away—you just needed out of here.

And then, as if the universe wasn’t finished testing you, a firm hand of another one of a frame you jerked into, closed around your wrist, halting your momentum.

You looked up, brows scrunched, eyes glossy and mouth parting, ready to snap but then you were met with a amicable pair of dark eyes.

A crease of his own wrinkling his forehead as he looked down at you. "Is something wrong?" He asked and you almost wanted to laugh mockingly.

Instead, you did what you initially wanted to do. Your eyes flicked to his hand, then back to his face. “Let me go.”

He hesitated for a moment, tounge poking his cheek, grip on your hand loosening but not releasing entirely. "What's wrong, y/n?"

“I said, let me go,” you repeated, your voice firm, frangible at the edges before you pulled your hand away from him and pushed past to walk away without another word.

The next random hallway you stumbled into was quieter, emptier, and for that, you were grateful, stretched ahead like an endless corridor of polished wood and muted gold accents. The noise of the party faded into the background, muffled by the thick walls and heavy doors.

You couldn’t find it in yourself to roam around mindlessly any further. This should be good enough, you told yourself and leaned against one of the walls, your forehead pressing against the cool surface as you tried to breathe through the wave of vehemence emotions that crashed through you.

One: Inhale.

Two: Exhale.

Three: Forget the words they said. Forget them.

But they echoed, persistent and savage, circling in your mind like vultures.

Poor thing, all alone now. Must be awful.

You’d think she’d be a bit more modest. That dress isn’t exactly widow-appropriate, is it?

Your chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, your hands clutching at your dress as if the fabric could somehow hold you together. But nothing could, nothing had. You had tried and tried and tried.. and fuck you didn't wanted to do it anymore.

Turning around, your head tipped back against the wall, the ceiling swimming in and out of focus as your vision blurred.

You shouldn’t have come here.

You should have stayed home, buried yourself in the comfort of your quiet apartment where no one whispered behind your back or looked at you with pity thinly disguised as deference.

Why did they care? Why did it matter to them how you dressed, how you existed, how you grieved?

It shouldn’t have mattered.

But it did.

You pressed the heels of your palms against your eyes, trying to will the tears away. Crying wouldn’t help. It wouldn’t change anything.

Your hands gripped your clutch tightly, the edges digging into your palms, and for a moment, you considered throwing it—hurling it across the hall just to feel something break.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Because even here, in this quiet, empty hallway, you felt the silent expectation that you hold yourself together, that you keep smiling, keep nodding, keep existing in a way that made other people comfortable.

You hated this. You hated being you. You hated being the one who was left behind. And God you hated being alone. No Minho to make a quiet joke about the ridiculousness of it all and pull you toward something fun and irreverent.

Just you.

It will be always be just you. You've never admitted that to yourself but now that you did, you feel such panic rise in your chest that you don't hear him at first. Not until his voice broke through the haze.

“Y/N.”

It was soft, tentative, but it still cut through the silence like a blade.

You flinched, your head snapping toward the source of the voice. Jungkook stood a few feet away, his dark eyes searching yours, his expression shadowed with concern.

He had followed you.

“I told you to leave me alone,” you managed, your voice trembling as you turned away, willing him to disappear.

“I’m not leaving,” he said, his footsteps growing louder as he moved closer with a cautiousness that made you feel like a wounded animal. “Talk to me.” He added, the pleading in his voice almost running free.

"I mean it, Jungkook.. go away." You tried putting distance between the both of you again but far too quick for your slowed senses, he was now standing right in front of you, hands hovering in the air as if he didn't know what to do with him while also knowing.

"And I told you, I'm not leaving." His tone had coarsened and your dam had broke.

“Why now?” you cried, stepping closer to him, your fists balling at your sides. “Why do you want to stay now? You’ve spent years acting like a stranger, Jungkook. Years acting like I didn’t exist. And now—”

You shoved at his chest, your fists pounding weakly against him, but he didn’t move.

“Now you want to act like you care?” you yelled, your voice cracking as you hit him again. “Now you want to be here? Why?”

Jungkook stood still, his arms at his sides, his chest solid and unyielding beneath your fists. He didn’t flinch, didn’t step back, didn’t even try to stop you. He just let you hit him, let you pour out everything.His silence infuriated you, and yet it steadied you in a way you couldn’t explain.

"Why do you care now?" you repeated, your voice cracking, trembling like your hands as they hit his chest incessantly. Each word felt like it scraped raw against your throat. "Where were you, Jungkook? When everything fell apart, when I—when I needed someone. Where were you?"

“I don’t need you now!” you snapped, your tears falling freely now. “I don’t need you to come here and act like you care, like you’ve always cared, because we both know that’s not true."

“Because you left!" your voice cracked, the words laced with betrayal. The hurt from the breach of faith weakening you and your punches on his chest until they finally stilled, your hands trembling still as they curled into the fabric of his shirt. Jungkook caught your wrists, his hold firm but gentle, and for a moment, you fought him, your breaths coming in sharp and ragged. But when he didn’t let go, when he didn’t flinch or step back, the fight drained out of you.

Your knees buckled, and his arms came around you slowly, hesitantly, as if he were afraid you might push him away. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. You were too tired now. Empty hands that had been holding onto something for as long as you could remember were too tired, have forgotten the feeling of what it felt like to be held instead.

You allowed to let yourself feel that. You allowed yourself to feel someone else other than the woman you couldn’t even recognize in a mirror as you sagged against him, your head pressing against his shoulder as your tears soaked into his shirt, body shaking and shivering from the quiet sobs that you let out.

"I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, angel." You heard him say those words like a mantra against your hair, arms tightening around you, nestling you close against his chest.

For a moment, you heard pain there, raw and unfiltered, pain that felt similiar to your own in ways you hadn’t expected. You clutched his shirt tighter. You didn't wanted to be alone and Jungkook felt and smelled of times when you weren't. Earthy and Warm. Like that one time when he pulled you in to him after the death of milo- your first dog, and didn’t even mind your snort.

You had clung to those memories but it felt better clinging to him. A small, desperate part of you wanting to drag him closer, to cling to what little you had left of the past. The rest of you wanted to push him away, to keep screaming at him for daring to come back after all this time, after all this distance.

The sobs subsided slowly, leaving behind the kind of stillness that felt fragile, as if it might shatter with the wrong word or movement. Jungkook didn’t push you away, didn’t loosen his hold. If anything, he pulled you closer, as though he feared you’d slip through his fingers if he let go.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him, your gaze searching his face. His eyes shadowed, a stupid perfect strand of his stupid perfect hair falling on his forehead with tension prominent in his jaw and you wondered if there was a time there wasn't.

You wondered if it would make you any more vulnerable that you are right now if you say the words that sit on the top of your tounge, sting in the tears that linger in the corner of your eyes.

“I missed you,” you said softly, the words slipping out before you could stop them. They felt dangerous, like exposing a wound that had barely begun to scab over.

His eyes darkened, a low sound rumbling in his chest—something between a growl and a sigh. “Fuck,” he muttered, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your head as he pressed his forehead to yours. “I missed you too, angel."

The rawness in his tone made your chest clench, a part of you craving more, while another part shrieked at you to stop this before it went any further, gather whatever semblance has left of you and walk away, play his cards against him.

But you have never been too good with cards or walking away.

“Then why did you leave?” you croaked. “Why did you stay away for so long?”

His gaze dropped to the space between you before meeting your eyes again, his own breathing now getting uneven. You could feel it beneath you. Rising. And Rising. And Rising.

"I didn’t knew how to look at you and not feel like I'm.. betraying him." His voice trembles as he drews in breath and you're so close you feel the heat of it brush against your temple. "And I can not, not look at you. That became a problem."

Your body stiffened at the confession, the world around you shrinking until it was just the two of you, his voice echoing in your ears.

Your first instinct was disbelief.

This can't mean what you think it does.

This can’t mean what you think it does!

The words replayed in your mind, over and over, refusing to settle. Each repetition twisted something deeper, something buried in the hollow space that had once been you.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him, needing space, needing air.

He didn’t move. His gaze followed you, his expression resolute, like he was determined to lay everything bare now that the first truth had slipped out.

But you didn’t even wanted to acknowledge it as something, let alone, a truth. “That’s not—” Your voice cracked, and you forced yourself to start again. "Are you drunk, Jungkook?" You found the thought so repulsing, you could only think of ways to brush this up, put all the blame on the champagne.

From the way his eyes narrowed and brow ridged, you could tell that it was not the champagne.

“Y/N.” he says with a warning. “I’m not fucking drunk.”

“Well, you sound like you are,” you shot back, your tone sharper than you intended. “Because that—what you just said—sounds like something someone says when they’re not thinking clearly. You're not making any sense, Jungkook!"

“It makes sense,” he was starting to get frustated now. “It’s the only thing that’s ever made sense to me.”

And you were starting to get scared. You needed him to stop talking. Anything and everything he said made you physically want to recoil. You took another step back, your arms wrapping around yourself as if you could shield yourself from the weight of unsaid words that are no longer so.

“Don’t,” you said, your voice breaking, hands tempted to cover your ears like a child. His confession felt like a pin pulled from a grenade, and now the blast was unfurling within you. “Don’t do this. It's not fair. It's-It's not fair to him. Or me. Or you."

I know. He admits quietly to himself because he doesn't think anyone knows better than the man who was holding the jagged ends of a once delicate thread. And he hates himself for it because hating you was as unrealistic as the existence of a greater being to him. He had tried. Tried turning to salvation. Tried to despise you for being the one thing that has turned him the best and worst person he can be but he just can't. He prefers hating himself better.

He wants this punishment, that is you. He wants to whisper I'm sorry- I'm sorry for leaving- I'm sorry for coming back in every crook and nook of your body for the rest of his life so you'd feel his expression of regret that could only be a product of love so consuming embedding into you.

Because it's truth. It's his truth, has been for years and years, before he even knew what are the consequences of being a honest person. Now that he is seeing you in front of him—you with a revolting look, a stray tear rolling down your eyes that is nowhere near as angry as it had been before, he understands that it's not a consequence he can take.

He dares to step forward again and even if takes a whole lot of power in him not to pull you into him again, he doesn't and only raises a hand and catches the tear with his thumb.

“You don’t get to do this to me.” you repeat, your voice low and trembling.

And so does his. "I know."

Jungkook didn’t know what he expected you to say, what he hoped for. Forgiveness? Understanding? He wasn’t sure he deserved either.

Yet when you don't pull away, look back at him with the same daring he had stepped forward with, a silence understanding passes between the space that is separating you from him. And he's done being separated from you.

He tilted his head down, his breath stirring your hair when he inhaled deeply, his nose tracing a path down until it rubbed against yours—softly, deliberately—as if giving you time to move away. You didn't and his eyes fell on your inviting mouth again.

Fuck it.

Jungkook surged forward, his hands cupping your face, tipping your face up to him as his lips crashed against yours. The way he kissed you was nothing like the way he had touched you. It was rough, desperate with the way tounge and teeth clashed, filled with years of pent up desire and regret and emotions too tangled to name.

He kissed you like the nights he’d spent staring at the ceiling in places too far from home, wondering if you’d be happier without him there to complicate things, wondering if things had been any different if he said something before. Will you have looked at him like the way you looked at his brother? Would that choice have saved you from years and years of tragedy? Would that have saved him from the weight of his guilt, his love—love that had been a silent, unwelcome presence in his life for so long that it felt like another organ, vital and inescapable?

When he felt you grip him again and kiss him back. Nothing else mattered. The world stopped spinning and he didn't wanted to run anymore.

His hands found your waist, gripping tightly. A low groan slipping from his mouth to yours at the feeling of how you melted against him when he deepened the kiss, tounge proding and exploring all that your sweet mouth had to offer. Gods, he was drunk now.

"Shit." He shuddered as the taste of you finally started to settle in, pulling you closer and closer, then pushing you back until your back met the wall of the hallway.

You should be scared, anxious and pushing him back. The mere thought of someone walking in on you kissing him, your supposed family. Should make you want to end this because you could only imagine the stake they'd pin you on. They'd be not wrong to.

This is traitorous—what you're doing, what you're allowing yourself. But so is a shameful part of you that had always reached for him. Something that whispered to you, so soft it felt like it came from inside your own chest.

It's not so bad. His lips feel good.

But oh, it is. It makes you sick from just thinking how bad it is. Anger, confusion, guilt—oh, the guilt—swirl together and make you so sick.

"W-We shouldn’t.." You gasp against him as your unpracticed lips suck on his in a contradiction.

"No, we shouldn't." He kisses you harder, his mouth only leaving yours to trail a train of kisses along the column of your accessible throat to him, making you whimper out loud that he takes as an sign to nibble and bite.

Your hands find their way to his shoulder and his to your hips. "Legs around me." He licks the length of your neck, narrowing your world down to the feeling of his provoking wet tounge on your skin, his calloused fingers squeezing your hips. It felt all too real now. And despite you being balant enough to start this in the first place, you're not sure if you're still feeling bold. What you are feeling is this sinful, unexplainable craving seeping into your bones, curling around your ribs, making it hard to breath and think. Or maybe it's him.

Whatever it is, you get yourself to pause his eager hands and hungry mouth and speak, your breath coming in short, hot puffs. "Jungkook.. I don't think-" He straightens up and the vulnerability in his voice and eyes is gone as he squeezes your hips tighter.

"Finally gave me that perfect mouth of yours and now you want to walk away? Do you like tormenting me, angel? Do you like knowing that I'd fuck my fist to only the thought of you when you do?" He growls against your ear and you feel yourself flush so hard you're sure he even feels the heat coming off you in ripples.

"Please, baby." He pleads unapologetically, fingers tugging you closer even when all of you is pressed against all of him. "I want you." So bad it hurts.

Gone is the man who had once been so armored, seemed so unreachable and untouchable. And left is Jeon Jungkook, who looks like he will crumble to the ground if you pull away now.

You wouldn't want that. But the words came anyway, right from where shame twisted in your stomach, tangling with the guilt that clawed at your throat. "Do you still want me even if I'm nothing like the woman I used to be?" It came out breakable and in segments, and the second they left your lips, you weren’t sure what to except as a answer.

For a moment, all you could hear was the ragged rhythm of your combined breathing.

You swallowed hard, pulling back slightly to meet his gaze. The intensity in his dark eyes was almost unbearable, raw and unrelenting as they searched yours.

"Don't ever say that again." he bit out, every syllable heavy. "I want you always. I want you with my every breath. There's always been only you for me, understand?" He added with a brief grind of his hardened arousal against your front, making you mewl.

The words, though, hit you like a physical forcek, breaking through the walls you’d built around yourself, the ones you’d convinced yourself were impenetrable.

Before you could respond, he moved.

His mouth fell onto yours again and with practiced ease, his hands slid to the backs of your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing. "Now. Legs around me, baby." he murmured in the kiss, and though your mind was a whirlwind of what seemed like every single thought you've ever had, your body obeyed.

You could barely figure out to where he was taking you, too engrossed in the kiss that you steered towards a softer, mellow one, fingers tangling in the hair that has grown a little bit on the nape of his neck. Feeling like you both were two audacious college students trying to find a space in a messy party where you both won't be interrupted.

When he halted in his steps, you assumed that he found it as he kicked it open with a firm nudge of his boot, the room beyond dim and quiet but he barely give you time to register anything else, his movements urgent and frantic as he carried you over to the bed in the middle after swiftly locking you both away. You bounced on the silk mattress as he set you down, though his intentions were grave, his actions or the way he held you was gentle, tounge swiping over his glistening lips like chasing the taste of you that made you want to give him once more.

Audacious, you were.

Your eyes on his face, shadows played along the planes, softening the hard edges of his jaw, but his gaze burned. Dark and piercing, it held you in place as if daring you to look away.

You didn’t.

Your eyes followed the sluggish movements of his hands as he reached up, his fingers deftly working the knot of his tie. The fabric slid free, whispering against the buttons of his dress shirt before he cast it aside, forgotten on the nearby chair.

Next came his jacket. He shrugged it off with practiced ease, the broad span of his shoulders rolling beneath the fabric. Your breath hitched as he discarded it, leaving him in the crisp white shirt that clung to his frame, the outline of him barely hidden.

And then his hands moved again, this time to his wrist.

You watched, mesmerized, as he undid the strap of his watch, the silver buckle catching the faint light. He pulled it free and set it down on the nightstand, the movement so fluid it felt almost rehearsed.

It wasn’t until he turned his wrist slightly that you noticed it—the worn thread of a bracelet wrapped around his wrist, faded from time and use but unmistakable.

The one you’d tied around his wrist when you were kids in an action of promise to stay friends for years to come.

But he still wore it.

He still wore it.

Your fingers twitched against the bedspread, the urge to reach out and touch him almost overwhelming.

And as if understanding your anticipation, he soon followed you down, your breath catching as he hovered above you. You waited for him to kiss you again because god help you, you liked a little too much but he only pressed a chaste one, smirking subtly at the pout that subconsciously formed on your lips that soon parted in a gasp when he started to suck on your neck again, this time with the intention to claim the spot with the scrape of his teeth.

He hummed against your skin, the sound deep and satisfied, before he drew your flesh into his mouth again, harder this time. The sharp pull sent a jolt of pleasure-pain coursing through you, thighs clenching together.

"My angel." he said softly, yet nothing was soft about the way he pulled down on the straps of your dress. The fabric slipped, baring the smooth skin of your shoulder, and he pressed his lips there, warm and firm, before trailing lower, his mouth following the path he’d just uncovered. "My undoing."

The red fabric gathered at your arms as he pushed it further, exposing the tops of your collarbones and the swell of your chest. His gaze flicked up to meet yours then, dark and questioning, seeking permission even though his hands were steady, his intention clear.

You nodded, perhaps with too much enthusiasm and earned a chuckle from him that you were sure was the reason for the wetness pooling between your legs.

You had missed that sound. You had missed him.

And he was hell bent on making up for lost time as he dived face first into your chest, humming again when he took in your pebbled nipple in his mouth, swirling his tounge around the roundness of you.

"Oh shit." Your back arched, hands finding their way to his hair again. Pulling and tugging. Urging him on until his hand was fondling the other, abandoned tit. Squeezing under his rough palms that made the heat lowering your stomach worse—all of it felt too much, too soon. And yet, it wasn’t enough.

It had been so long.

Too long since someone had touched you like this, with a reverence that made you feel seen, whole, wanted.

You told yourself it was natural, that anyone in your position would respond this way. That it wasn’t about him—it couldn’t be. But your body betrayed you before your mind could even catch up. Your legs wrapped around his waist once more as you ground yourself against him. Against the print of his bulging length you could feel pulsing against you.

"Fuck yeah.." You cursed low, head falling back on the pillows and Jungkook looked up, his own cock twitching at the sight of you, at the feel of you. Of everything he has ever wanted. Of everything he thought he would never have. But here you were straight from his flithest wet dream that would have him taking more cold showers that he could keep count of.

A goddamn miracle for him, this wasn't a dream.

"This here needs some attention too, hmm?" He rasped, hands slipping down from the curve of your waist, to bunch up your dress to your hips. Wasting no time in finding the wet mess you made of your panties. "Look at this." He grunted, hand cupping your clothed mound. "So wet."

You exhaled out like you'd been freed from shackles that felt too heavy and a whimper followed right after when he disposed you of them, exposing your deprived cunt to the cold air that had you clenching around nothing. "And so fucking responsive." He breathed against your bare sex after moving his head down.

You hadn’t expected that. You breath was bated, cheeks were flushed and heart was pounding at the view alone of his face between your thighs.

Then again, he was all about surprising you today.

Though, it didn't make it any less overwhelming.

The way his hands gripped your thighs, firm yet careful, as if he were both anchoring you and holding himself back. His fingers dug into your skin just enough to leave the faintest imprint, a reminder of where he had been, where he was. Your legs draped over his shoulders, trembling with a mix of anticipation and disbelief, as though your body was still catching up to the reality of this moment.

Never in your wildest dreams, it would have come to this. Come to Jungkook licking a greedy strip up from your folds.

"Jungkook—oh God!" You gasped and he groaned, feeling all of his restraint and the plan to savor this, to savor you, slip away from his tightening hands. One taste of you and he wanted to grasp every drop of like it would be his last.

And so he did.

Burying his face in your wanting pussy like a man with purpose, he lapped. His mouth wrapped around your clit, tounge swiping and licking with a reverence because you were something sacred, something he had put on a pedestal so high, others in his life barely mattered.

"Oh- mhm. Feels so good!" You moan out, mind in a haze of pure fog and he takes it as his cue to plunge his digit inside your dripping core. You're sure you've got no mind now. Grunts of his own leaving him at the thought of your heat wrapping around his aching cock instead.

He felt no shame in that. No shame in what he was doing right now. Because then you moved, your body arching toward him as if to erase every doubt. Your fingers found their way to his hair, tugging as selfishly as he fed on you, flatenning his tounge on your slit to take all he can get, to give you all he can.

A shaky exhale brushing against your folds. The sound was low, guttural, and filled with more longing than he knew how to contain. "Does it, baby? Sweet pussy's feeling good?" His fingers—knuckles deep now—worked you faster, curling and testing ways to get you closer to the edge.

This was more desire that he knew he was possible of as his hips started to rut on their own, seeking friction in a way that was both instinctual and helpless. Brain flat lining. Face drowned in the essence of you. Desperate, as you pulled on his hair. Pathetic, as he chased his own high from just the taste of you, from just how you enveloped his curving fingers. Ecastic, when you finally reached your breaking point from how he alternated between broad strokes and targeted flicks, making you come all over his mouth that kindles his face, that he swallow all because he refuses to let anything go to waste.

"Ah fuck—Oh lord!" You fingers tear in his scalp and hips bucked against his face, eyes rolling back until they whitened.

Oh.

Oh.

It was in this moment, with your thighs braced against his shoulders and his name spilling from her lips, that Jungkook knew.

He would never be the same again.

That he too would be coming in his pants like a high school boy.

It wasn’t enough—nothing would ever be enough—but it was all he had, and it drove him to the edge faster than he would’ve liked to admit. The tension inside him snapped before he could stop it, his body tensing and toes curling because he found everything else secondary to the sheer joy of watching you fall apart beneath him.

"Oh shit, y/n. Shit. Shit. Shit." He whimpers against your cunt, his hips finally slowing down their mindless movement. His forehead pressed against your thigh as he caught his breath. His chest heaved, his heartbeat thundered in his ears, and his entire body felt like it was vibrating, the aftershocks of his release making his muscles twitch.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry, and shifted slightly, pressing a kiss to your clit before leaning back up to feel another wave of release threatening to overcome him when he sees your content expression, hands loosening their grip in his raven hair, half lidded eyes meeting his own before they trail down. "Y-You.." You didn’t know what to say, couldn’t have spoken even if you tried.

A lazy smirk made it's way to his lips that caught the light before he licked whatever remnant what was left of you on his fingers.

"I'm a starved man, angel. Cut me some slack." He panted, pinching your bud in emphasis and moved back up before you could even process it, the warmth of his breath retreating, replaced by the cooler air of the room as he straightened. The absence of his lips against you left you gasping, your chest heaving, your pulse thundering in your ears or maybe it was you still riding your orgasm or maybe it was the knowledge that he came in his pants from just eating you out.

Then he was there again, his hands sliding from your thighs to the mattress on either side of you, bracketing you in like a secret he refused to let escape.

"Hi." He breathed against your forehead.

You felt a shy smile twitch on your lips. "Hi." You reply just as breathlessly.

He presses another kiss, this time to the tip of your nose. "I'm gonna fuck you now, yeah?" You couldn’t reconcile it.

How could he say things that made your cheeks flush, your body respond in ways you couldn’t control, while his lips brushed against your temple with a tenderness that felt like an apology?

How could he make you feel like you were unraveling and being held together all at once?

You wanted to know. "Mhm. Please." You mewl, hands softly going through the beautiful mess that you made of his hair.

"Please, what?" He demanded, lips on your cheek.

"Please fuck me." You whine and he bumped his nose against your face, chest rumbling from a sound so feverish that you can't help but grind against him again. Coaxing his cock back into hardness with your bare cunt against him, from the realization that you shared the insatiable urges with him.

It got his hand trembling when they reached down to unbind his belt, pushing the fabric down his hips to reveal predicament he's made of his boxers that were bounding his hard, leaking cock but hell if he had it in himself to care.

He had been bidding his time for far too long. Waited enough—longer than any man should have to wait for something that felt this inevitable, this right, this his.

Ridding himself of the last piece of clothing on him, other than the white dress shirt that flexed against his coiled muscles, he took himself In a fist, groaning when he pumped himself in one slow stroke. Eyes never leaving your wide ones like you weren’t sure if you should be impressed, intimidated, or both.

Your breath hitched audibly, and your chest rose and fell as your eyes darted from his face to the undeniable evidence of his arousal. Heat bloomed across your cheeks, but you couldn’t seem to tear your gaze away, couldn’t stop the thought that immediately took hold.

"You're too big." Your throat dry, and your fingers fisted the sheet beneath you, trying not too think too much about how thick he would feel down your throat. The sounds he'd make when you would lick him just right.

"And you're gonna take every inch." He said it like a statement, a prominent vein popping in his neck when he finally let go of the locked gaze and focused instead on compressing the tip of his angry, veiny cock to your slick folds.

"Won't you, angel?" He asks with a confident smirk passed your way for a second before his breath wavered again, brows scrunched together and if it wasn't for his tip nudging inside you, you'd thought him endearing.

But once his tip is actually is in, you're left with no thought. Rendered speechless, eyes falling shut when he starts to jab inch by inch.

"Dear lord—" You gasp out loud. The sheet beneath you not providing much semblance so you switch to his shoulders. And you swear, he feel him shake when he is finally all in. Closes his eyes and relishes in your heat stretching around. "Fucking hell." The sensation was overwhelming—heat and softness so consuming it felt like his mind short-circuited, every thought dissolving into static.

But you feel that its your pussy that feels like it's going to split apart any moment now that's stopping him from moving. And partly it is. "You're so..tight." He hisses out and squeezes your hips with great roughness.

"Been long since you've been fucked, eh?" He muses, dark hungry eyes devouring yours when he makes an attempt to move inside you like he was testing your limits. Your mind reels, caught between the sharpness of the initial sensation and the overwhelming desire that followed.

He felt impossibly big, like your body wasn’t prepared for the sheer intensity of him, and for a fleeting moment, doubt crept into your thoughts.

It’s been so long.

The thought came unbidden. Your body had grown used to quiet nights and cold sheets, to the impersonal hum of a vibrator and the absence of warmth.

"Been so long." You confirm, nails clawing at his shoulders, mimicking the roughness that only spurs him on. His lashes fluttered shut, his forehead drops to your shoulder and with a whine of disagreement from you, he pulls back fully just to (to your satisfaction) bury himself back to the hilt.

An unadulterated moan from you broke the silence, a sound so sweet it made him want to come right there and then again. But he'd much rather have you convulse first. Priorities.

His jaw clenched, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he started to move his hips against yours, slow and deliberate, like he needed to feel every inch of your.

Your legs tensed around his hips, pulling him closer. You couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop the way your body reacted to him, your mind a dizzy blur of heat and need and overwhelming sensation.

He pulled back again, the drag of him leaving you feeling empty, only to return with the same slow, measured thrust.

“That’s right,” he muttered, his voice rough and uneven, barely coherent through the sounds your free spilling moans and the fact that his face was buried in the crook of your shoulder. “You’re—fuck, you’re perfect.” His voice unrefined at the edges, raw with honesty and disbelief, like he couldn’t believe you were really here, with him, like this.

Your hands slid down his back, clinging to the flexing muscles beneath your palms. You suddenly didn't like that his shirt was still on. Wanting to map out his bare skin with every graze of your nails. But with each thrust, pleasure sparked at the base of your spine and spread outward, your thoughts scattered like autumn leaves.

"Yeah- Oh mphm! Just like that!" He flourished in your cries of encouragement, his grip on your hips tightening, his fingers digging into your skin as he was afraid he'd lose control too soon.

And you wanted nothing more. "F-Faster! Please go faster!" His pace was unhurried but devastating, every pull and thrust deliberate, designed to drag you to the edge and keep you there, teetering. You couldn’t take that anymore.

And Jungkook couldn’t take keeping you unsatisfied. His lips found the corner of your mouth, brushing against it in a fleeting kiss before moving lower, his teeth grazing your jaw. His hands moved to your thighs, urging them higher, wrapping them around his waist as he drove into you with more force, more intent.

“taking me so well, was made for this cock.” Were made for me. he praised, his voice sounding like a backdrop to the obscene sounds his hips snapping against yours as your own body moved with his, meeting him with the same intensity, the same desperate need. "Yeah." He grunted, punctuating his words with a squeeze to your boob. "Fuck me back. Use me. Feel me."

All you could possibly do was feel him.

He felt like fire and electricity all at once, a heat that spread from your core to the very tips of your fingers and toes.

“Jungkook…” you whispered again, your voice catching on the syllables when his head tipped forward, his forehead pressing against yours, his damp hair brushing your skin.

He whimpered in response, a deep, guttural sound that reverberated through you, and he pistoned his cock harder, pulling a cry from your lips that you couldn’t hold back.

"I-I missed you." You can feel tears gather in your eyes again. You don't even know why. Why you're repeating what you've already admitted. Why the words feel more vulnerable now. All you know that you missed him and the coil is tightening in your stomach.

Jungkook, too feels like he will break down any moment when he stares down at you. But he’s got a impending orgasm to deliver.

He kisses your eyelids, is tempted to lick the tears that slowly make their way down to your chin but doesn't. He's not sure he'll be able to handle the taste of your despair without feeling like he has to chastise himself for ever being the reason for it.

"I know. I know." His cock thrusts with renewed vigor. "I missed you too. I missed you." He says through his gritted teeth, feeling how your walls fluttered around him.

"Gonna cum now?" He knows what your answer will be. There's a smug underline tone in his rasps that gives him away. How he takes pride in knowing that he's the one to make you release all this tension; once on his mouth; then on his cock that is pulsing with an reoccurring ache.

You can only manage to nod, lips tightly tucked between your teeth, hands scratching and marking on his once crisp shirt that is now crumpled from the fate of your hands.

"Gonna soak my cock, huh? Go ahead, baby. Go ahead and come with me." He demands, his hand slipping between you to rub tight circles against your puffy clit that is just enough to tip you over at last.

"Koo.. ah..oh god!" The name you've always called him with a fondness falls unintentionally from your lips when your walls tighten for the last time and you release all over his cock that is now stuttering with it's every thrust.

"Oh fuck. Call me that again." He all but snarls. Cock turns firmer inside your heat that hugs him. And balls screw up.

"Koo.." You whine and that's all he needs before thick ropes of white hot cum is spilling inside you, filling you to the brim. "Mhm, take it all. There's my girl. Pussy looks so good stuffed with my cum." He grinds the best his spent body can into yours that still welcomes him and fuck if that doesn't make him never want to leave.

And he doesn't, for a moment, when he collapses onto you. Just not enough to crush you under his weight. Just enough to latch his lips where ever he can find and whisper words of affection. "Could'nt fucking breathe without you." He's yet to get enough of you. This life won't suffice, he thinks. Then finally pulls out his softening cock from your slick hole with a hiss.

You too feel the loss the of the connection that had pulsed faintly between you, leaving you achingly empty.

He moved with the same carefulness, reaching for the tissues on the bedside table. The room was quiet save for your mingled breaths as he knelt beside you, his touch impossibly tender as he wiped at the inside of your thighs. You shivered under the cool press of the tissue against your skin, the sensation making you acutely aware of the aftermath—the way your body still quivered, the way your breaths still came uneven.

You stared at the ceiling while he did so, the edges of your perception blurred as you tried to silence the tingles that still hummed across the length of your legs. A reminder of how throughly he had disentangle you, how throughly his very essence had penetrated into you.

You were ruined by him.

There was no going back from this. You knew that.

What scared you was the realization that you didn’t want to.

You just didn't know how to admit that out loud where everyone and he could hear you.

Your eyes seeked out for him as if that alone could answer all your questions. He returned back against you without a question. Hands finely adjusted the strap of your dress and drew you closer to him with a soft voice, hoarse from the strain of everything he’d given you. "Come here, angel." Bundled you up in his arms and then only did he breathe out.

Your breath stayed differing. “Why do you call me that?” Your voice was curious but tentative. “I don’t think I’ve ever asked you.”

You felt his lips curve up against your temple. "You were wearing this really pretty white dress the first time I met you." he began, his voice quiet, almost wistful. “Had these frills on the sleeves. I thought you looked like an angel."

You tried to piece together the memory. “That was so long ago."

It might be understood that it takes months to fall in love but Jungkook had been falling all his life.

[ggukzashi]

Black Pearl Pt. 1

Pairing: Namjoon × reader ft. Ot7

Rating: Adult, Explicit

Genre:NonIdolAu,BodyguardAu,Angst,Smut,Fluff

Word Count:1.3k

Summary: You're with your friends drinking when suddenly your entire life is flipped around. You find yourself trapped in a house with 7 men you don't know and their Alpha gets on your nerves a little too much. What do you do when you realize that you like their leader and you're not supposed to? Can you resist giving in and sticking to your belief of no relationships or do you give in to the temptation?

Warnings ⚠️: Alcohol, Slight cursing, Gunshots

Author's Note: I decided to write this series inspired by Namjoon in a black turtleneck ( yes I'm weak and I know y'all are too). It's my first time writing a series so please do let me know your thoughts and engage with the post.

Click here for Part 2

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Chapter One

“That was disgusting” you comment, wiping your lips of the trace of the clear white liquid you had just consumed. Laughing at your reaction, Minju picked up another glass and handed it to you. “On the count of three,” she mouthed before bringing a glass to her lips and downing the clear burning liquid.

Bringing the glass to your lips, you plugged your nose with your other hand and gulped the liquid in one go, the burn surfacing on your tongue as you furrowed your brows in disgust. “Another one?” Minju questioned and you nodded. Despite the horrible taste and the unpleasant burn, you hoped the vodka would wash away all your problems.

A couple of shots later

“Yo who is that handsome hunk staring right at you? Another one of your dad’s men?” Minju asked, darting her tongue out against her lips to collect the remains of the vodka she had just downed. You turn around to see a tall man staring right at you from across the dance floor, his gaze fixed on yours. You take a step closer, squinting your eyes a bit, trying to recognize the man but you couldn’t.

“I’ve never seen him,” you say picking up another shot and gulping it. You stumble and grab onto the counter as you turn to pick up another glass. “Woah easy there tiger. I think that’s enough vodka now” Ben says holding your arms and helping you stand properly. You adjust your skirt before turning your attention back to the man. His eyes were still fixed on you, observing everything you do.

“He’s hot” Minju comments and you laugh.

“Didn't you just break up like yesterday?”

“Exactly. The best time to get laid” she exclaims before picking up two cans of beer and giving you a wink. You and Ben laugh out loud as she sways her hips making her way to the mysterious handsome stranger.

As you turn your attention back to the vodka, Ben slowly pushes the remaining shots away from you. You pout and give him your best puppy eyes hoping he’d give in but he remains calm.

“You do realize that vodka isn’t going to solve your problems right?” He sighs, handing you a glass of water instead.

“Okay, Dad. I won’t drink anymore” You raise your hands up in defeat and he lets out a low chuckle.

“I’m just worried about you. You’ve been drinking quite often lately.” He says, a soft smile playing on his lips. His lips. They look soft you think to yourself as your eyes dart back up to look into his eyes, and back to his lips.

You’ve always had a tiny crush on Ben. Probably ever since you’ve known him but you’ve never had the courage to speak up. ‘Relationships aren’t my thing anyway’, you’ve always told yourself but maybe it’s the alcohol in your system messing with your head, you wanted to kiss him in that moment. Your thoughts were interrupted when you hear Minju throwing a can of beer in the dustbin, “Asshole” she mutters under her breath before turning to you.

“What’d he say?” Ben asks, chuckling at the very annoyed Minju gulping down another shot of vodka. “He ignored me” she mumbles and all three of you laugh out loud.

“Are you sure you don’t know him Y/n? He was talking to a couple of other guys and I heard him mention the name ‘Christian’.” She says and it all clicks in.

“That’s my Dad’s code name. His bodyguards call him that. Do you think my dad sent them to watch me?” Minju shrugs her shoulders and you turn to the counter before grabbing the shot of vodka from her hand and gulping it down.

Pushing your hair back, you make your way to the man, who was talking to a couple of other guys dressed in the same black turtle neck and black trousers. As you make your way towards him, it becomes clear how tall and big he is. Wide shoulders and a tiny waist. You notice how the turtle neck hugs his body, his biceps straining through the material.

“Did my dad send you?” you ask and the man turns around, his height letting him practically tower over you. He doesn’t respond to your question, instead, he studies your annoyed expression before turning back.

You look back to see Minju giggling at you. You mentally face-palm yourself for even bothering but you had to know if your dad had yet again sent men to babysit you. “Look I know you’re just doing your job but can you just please talk to me? I just want to know if my dad sent you here.”

He turns back around and pulls his phone out of his pocket and snaps a picture of you. Your mouth hangs open at the action and you attempt to snatch his phone but he is quick to put it back in his pocket. “I hope that answers your question,” he says, his deep, husky, manly voice sending chills down your spine. You gulp down the saliva in your mouth as your throat goes dry.

Quickly turning around you walk back to your friends before making a fool of yourself even more. “He fucking snapped a picture of me” You groan as you sip on water. Minju giggles before asking,” Do you think he sent it to your dad?”

You shrug your shoulders when you hear a sound echo through the club. The music stops and people are running and screaming. Another loud sound is heard before you hear the glasses behind you shatter. “They’re gunshots” You hear Ben yell.

All of a sudden you see a figure running towards you. It was him. The man from earlier. The grabs your hand before pulling you. “We need to go,” he says pointing towards the back door of the club.

At that moment you notice the other men he was talking to approach your friends. You turn your head to look at your friends. “We’ll be fine. Go” Minju says and Ben nods. You turn back to face the man when you see him pull out a gun.

“Who are you?” your voice comes out, a mere whisper. He tugs your hands and you run out of the club along with him. As soon as you run out of the back gate, you see a black car waiting. He quickly ushers you to get in before jumping in and you speed away from the location. In the faint background, you hear another gunshot.

You grab onto the hem of your skirt, your knuckles turning white. “Will my friends be okay?” you ask and he turns towards you, his gaze stern and for a split second it knocks the air out of your lungs.

“They’ll be under the care of my men don’t worry” He replies before turning his gaze back to the road. You hear a buzz before a voice speaks up.

“Alpha do you copy?”

He reaches back with one hand and pulls out a walkie-talkie. Pressing a button he brings it closer to his mouth before speaking,” I copy. Are they safe? Did you get out of there?”

“We’ve made it out safely. Heading to the safe house. Meet you there”

He throws the walkie-talkie to the back seat and grips the steering wheel.

“Who are you?” you ask, hoping he answers this time.

He turns his head, his eyes meeting yours, “I was sent by your father to trail you. My team got your friends out safely. We are now headed to a safe house. Your father has been informed of the situation so there’s nothing to worry mam. Rest assured you are in safe hands.”

You shake your head in disbelief at the information he just gave you. Those men were there for you. Your hands grip the hem of your dress harder as you take deep breaths. You turn to look at the man. His eyes meet yours and for the first time since you’ve seen him, you see the corners of your lips curve up slightly, almost as if he was giving you a reassuring smile.

“You can call me Namjoon”

Taglist: @kookznoona @souryoong @gukkie01

[kooksbunnnn]

HOW WAS YOUR DAY: NAMJOON

Summary: Just namjoon fingering you in his studio as he asks you about your day.

Words: 1.3k

Warnings: idol!Namjoon×reader. fingering, squirting, namjoons lap (it's a warning, yes), kissing.

Authors note: I want him. SO BAD. ___________________________________________

"I was uh..I was walking by her when I c-came and she g-gave me such looks-" you try talking as Namjoon’s fingers abuse your clit. He had you sat on his lap, your hands around his shoulders, your hips sat on his left thigh as he spread your legs slightly to fit his hand under your skirt.

"She did?" He asks, you nod whining. His hands work slowly as if he had all the time in the world.

You had visited him at his studio because you missed him. It had been days since you saw him, so you came bearing coffee and food. But as soon as you entered the building, the new recruit in his managing team gave you a dirty look.

You were his girlfriend for fucks sake!

"I wanted to smack her so bad, ohhh my-" you trail as he dips his fingers inside you to gather some wetness getting back to your clit again, rubbing it in faster more precise circles.

You gasp, squirming as he lazily sucks a hickey on your neck while making you see stars.

"So good joon fuck I love your fingers." He hums against your skin, squeezing your waist with his other hand resting against your back while his fingers tortured you back and forth from your climax.

"Did you eat something, love?" You nod, feeling the knot inside you, forming slowly and very gradually. His hands slow down his ministrations, and you whine as you feel your legs shake out of sensitivity.

"Joon-" you breathe out as he smiles proudly at the purple mark he gave you on your neck, marking you as his.

"What did you eat?" He asks with hooded eyes admiring the mark he left while you try to make phrases inside your dizzied head.

"I- some- ah fuck- I had a gimbap with my colleagues, mm-" You words stop with a hitch in your breath as he slides two fingers slowly inside you. You try holding his wrists, but then your hands end up clutching your hair because you feel so good.

"Colleagues, huh?" He says, curling the tip of his fingers slightly to tickle that spot.

"Oh shit right there!" Your head falls back as you feel that spot being rubbed in a way that makes your eyes roll.

"Was Mark there too?" You just gasp as his fingers rub your insides and his thumb rubs your clit from the outside. Your brain short circuiting at the amount of pleasure you're receiving.

You squirm in his hold as his other hand makes you stay still. His tongue licking around your earlobe while his fingers abused the little spongy spot inside you.

"I asked you something, love." his voice was so gentle yet firm, making your mind search for the question he asked. Your brain was too dizzy to think with his thick thighs underneath you along with the hard on he had, so you just moaned, clenching hard around his fingers.

He pulls his hand out and smacks your swollen cunt, shoving his fingers once again. Asking you again, silently.

Was he?

"I dont know, I dont know-" you repeat with a high-pitched whine, your voice echoing and bouncing against his studio walls. You're glad the studio was soundproof, or people might think Namjoon was killing someone in there.

He chuckles mocking your thoughtless face, "so dumb, my baby, look at you, my baby can't answer coz I fuck her open with my fingers huh? My perfect little cocksleeve." You clench hard as he makes you feel smaller by each syllable. You squirm in his hold, making him bite your skin underneath your ear.

"I'm close so close oh-so cl-so-" he chuckles as you babble dumbly, breathing heavily against your ears that it makes your mind wander to how hard he must be right now.

The moment your mind travels to his dick you miss it inside you, you want to feel him inside you, the stretch of his fingers making you miss the way his cock split you open 3 days ago.

3 fucking days.

You think you might die if you dont get fucked by him today.

Your eyes water as you feel your orgasm coming closer, his hard on pressing against the back of your thigh, making your mind swirl with dirty thoughts.

Your fucked out brain getting reminded of the way he pounds you against the mattress, the way he fucked you in his balcony 35 floor above the city. How he fucked you open with his cock in front of his mirror, fingers inside your mouth as he pumped himself dry inside you filling with his warm cum.

His warm cum. Oh god.

"Jesus, you're crushing my hand so hard." He says through his teeth as he feels your thighs tightening around his hand, your face buried in his chest.

He keeps you open to the cold air in the room while his warm fingers plunge deep inside you. Squelching so loudly you wanna hide of embarassment, but you're so close you think you'll go crazy.

When he fastens his pace, he pulls your legs apart by his other free hand, making you spread open for him on his lap. Your other leg now in his hold from under your knee, resting on the table in front of him. You were exposed to the studio walls, making you feel seen.

"Oh god--" you breathe out as he picks up his pace, his stimulation on your clit and the spot inside you constant. You legs shake in his hold and your eyes start tearing up.

"Oh make me cum make me cum please? Please? Oh god please!" You mumble mindlessly, pleading him, requesting him, begging him to make you cum as he coos, his fingers never faltering. Your fingers clutch his hair desperately as you look into his eyes, begging, your eyebrows furrowed as he smiles almost mocking you.

Evil.

"Cum baby, cum whenever you want, make a mess, go on" he says, his breathe heaving in your ears. It's as if he had turned a switch inside you that made you arch your back in his hold. Your cunt squeezing around his fingers as your cum sprays all over his lap. He groans as he feels your walls pushing his fingers out, making him fill you up with his fingers again, making them squelch loudly.

He holds your hips chuckling darkly as you squirt all over his joggers, his fingers fucking you through your high but he needed more so he pulls his fingers out to rub your clit sloppily and you sob.

He pulls you in for a kiss, and you feel your teeth clash as you breathe hard against him. Your body vibrates and thrashing in his hold as he growls against your lips.

"Yeah, good girl," he groans against your lips as you gasp, twitching.

His tongue plunges inside your mouth, and you squeal against his lips, your lips not even moving as you just gasp. Your eyes roll back, your hand clutching onto his neck desperately as his fingers rub your folds, making sure you spill everything you have inside you.

"Thats it thats it, my perfect girl." He coos against your lips, you breathe heavily, tears flowing down your eyes.

You whine, holding his wrists out of oversensitivity, smiling, feeling light-headed.

He smiles looking at you and teases your clit, flicking his index against it. Your body twitches as he does so, just to laugh at how pathetically your body squirms in sensitivity.

"Tch-tch-tch" he mocks you, grinning as your head falls back, his hand cupping your pussy making your eyes roll back. He squeezes, massaging your folds to calm you down.

"You did so good, my baby." He kisses your forehead, caressing your hair. "You okay?" He asks, his voice calming and deep. You nod tiredly.

"Good," he kisses your cheek, "because you're gonna do that again, but on my dick this time," he says, kissing your cheek again, tenderly.

Well, fuck.

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