To Build A Home | Chapter Four

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.

Americans be really give you lecture about women empowerment, human rights, equality and then elect a president like Trump :)

"You fell in love with a romantic, so let me romance you" ahhh this line gave me butterflies. Why these things always happen in fiction and not in real life :((

pretty hallucinations (jjk)

summary: Drunk words are sober thoughts, and now Jungkook knows all of yours — even the ones about him. And you know what they say, once a secret’s out, it’s hard to take it back.

word count- 3.9k 

pairing- best friend!Jungkook x Reader

rating- PG 15

genre- f2l, idiots in love, fluff, slight angst, slight crack

warnings- reader is wasted, jungkook is a softie, SO MUCH PINING, mention of bondage and spreader bars lmfao

a.n- a birthday fic to celebrate my favourite bunny! happy birthday jk! this fic came to me after I read a scene in ten trends to seduce your best friend that had me cackling. read that book if you enjoyed this, that ones a real f2l slow burn hehe

special s/o to @daechwitatamic for beta reading, helping with the summary, and leaving the most hilarious comments on my doc haha I will cherish them forever💕

As always feedback appreciated, a reblog and a like goes a far way. Send me an ask! 💌

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The room was spinning. A kaleidoscope of colours twirling in the air and you couldn’t help the bitterness rising through you. This used to be your favourite place, a library you had created after years of collecting your favourite words. Systematically organized, it seemed now that a hurricane had passed through.

Well, after ten drinks, you were nothing less than a hurricane. Books with their once perfect spines laid dog-eared and haphazard. You couldn’t find it. Couldn’t find the perfect words for the moment. There was always supposed to be something for every emotion in your collection.

Some may think losing yourself in fictional words was cowardice, but to you it was a reprieve. Reality was boring. In the real world you were just a nerdy overgrown virgin who would never confess your feelings to a man — to the man. In reality, you would always be the girl who talked big about sex and hid behind bravado instead of ever opening yourself up to the vulnerability that came with it. The real you was a phony.

Keep reading

to build a home | chapter one

pairing: Jungkook x reader. ceo!jk + dilf!jk x nanny!oc

genre: strangers to lovers. angst. loads of plot. eventual smut

word count: 6.8k (y’all need context okay)

warnings: oof. oof. buckle up. angst, loads of angst! (im sorry), touches on subjects such as: depression (hints), postpartum depression, abandonment, mild prescription medication talk, loads of jk crying :(, loads of crying baby :(, swearing

author’s note: hi! this is a very self-indulgent storyline that sort of came to me and I just had to put thought into paper. well, I ended up really liking the plot and my mind started going places and now it’s all I can think about. i do have to say it’s going to be a bit of a slow burn but! not like this chapter though – this chapter had to be informative to set the context. my mans jk did not suffer for nothing! i hope cute baby / loving dad jk made up for all the angst in this! also! It’s gonna get sexy, ~sexy so just u wait! also! I don’t have a set schedule but this story is coming to me in heavy bursts of inspiration so I might be whipping chapters left and right (cross ur fingers). also! (the last one, promise) I hate Ira too :)

This is a work of fiction. Please respect the members and their privacy. x

Chapter One

The digital clock on the console of his car marks six thirty pm on the dot. It makes Jungkook’s gaze shift to the sky – a synchronicity so perfect the sun begins to set right upon his eyes. Spring is easing into Summer and he can’t wait for the longer days and shorter nights the hot season bestows.

“We need one last look-over the contracts to finalize. I think the visit this weekend will finally see us wrapping this up. And then inauguration one month from now.” Seokjin’s voice fills the enclosed space of Jungkook’s car, a slight echo to his voice coming from the speakers.

“Sounds good, hyung. Good work.” He tells his cousin, right hand and the COO of his company.

“Hey, is Ira coming this weekend?” He asks. His question leaves Jungkook wondering. He assumes she will.

“Haven’t discussed it yet, could be good for her though. We can make a getaway of it.” He replies, head already swimming with ideas of how refreshing a family trip could be for the three of them.

“Alright, kid. Send my love.” Seokjin says, making him let out a light chuckle, before the line goes silent.

In the road ahead, the sun resumes its steady descend. His home comes to view at the very end of the street, the colours of the sky dancing against the sleek white walls. It’s been a long day and he’s tired. Now more than ever, with the inauguration of the new addition to his chain of hotels nearing, he craves the grounding feeling of being home – two familiar faces awaiting. One full of unconditional love.

He parks his cls next to hers, the sleek white shade contrasting against his black one. Grabbing his phone and keys from the cup holder, he exits the car, climbing the steps to his front door and inserting the code that unlocks it.

Home. He takes pride in the need he holds for it, how much he craves it, how much he wants to be the backbone of the one he built. The idea of family gets morphed when you’re brought into an immeasurable amount of wealth. His parents, although good intentioned, lacked the warmth he so badly wants to install in his own roots.

He wants his daughter to grow up in a house that doesn’t look like a showroom, a distinctive smell swarming its spaces, one she’ll hold in the back of her memory until she has kids of her own. Home, never lacking the coziness a touch of love can bring a space, no matter how vast. He wants her mother to be half of that love, more than anything. Because he wants that love for her, more than anything.

He heads upstairs, the house eerily quiet. It’s two hours to bed time and he assumes Ira is winding Soori down for the night.

He reaches the top of the stairs and begins walking down the long corridor, passing a room, then two, until he finally reaches Soori’s nursery. The door is wide open and as he steps in, he sees Ira standing in front of her crib, back to him, almost hovering. He sees Soori fast asleep, blanket covering her tiny body, pacifier moving gently to the in and out of her suckling, a tight grip on her favorite giraffe plushie on her chubby baby fist.

“Hey, beautiful.” He says to Ira, though she doesn’t move from the place he found her in. “Why is she asleep so early? Fun day?” He asks, voice filled with hope. He pictures the two of them by the warm sun, basking in the easiness of the season. They’ve been introducing Soori to the water – the idea of the two of them splashing in the big pool pulling his lips upwards in a soft smile.

It doesn’t linger, the smile. Ira turns around, a sombre look to her face, unable to hold his gaze for more than a second as she redirects her eyes to the floor.

“Jungkook…,” She begins, voice barely a whisper, but ever so stern.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” He asks, approaching her, instinctively resting his hands on her arms before they come up as she holds herself, bracing her front.

“I booked a job. In New York.” She says, eyes finally meeting his.

“Ahh! That’s great! That’s amazing, Ira.” Jungkook says, pulling her into a hug she doesn’t return. He knows how badly she’s been craving this. A breakthrough, a taste of independence – the power of knowing she could hold all titles whilst still being mom. “We can make a trip of it! We could all go.” He muses, excitement lacing his voice as he pulls away, eyes scanning for hers.

“It’s this weekend-” She begins, but his words bring hers to a halt.

“Ah, I have that business trip but hey, you take the plane, alright?” Jungkook knows how much Ira hates flying. Long haul flights doing a thing to her nerves that require a dose or two of her therapist’s strongest prescription drug. This all comes ironically, considering her title – It girl, world-renowned model, Ira Sommersmith.

“No, Jungkook. No.” She says, arms coming to rest at her sides, pushing his hold on them away as she takes one step back, creating distance between them. The action is loud to Jungkook, the emotional space between them being too much to bear for his heart and her actions breaking it all over again.

“Bab-” He stops himself, the pet name fresh on his tongue, remembering how she’s come to despise it as Jungkook began adapting it to Soori, too. “Ira.” He says, his voice a plead, a prayer. He doesn’t know what the prayer entails but he’ll start mentally chanting it, bracing himself for impact.

“I’m leaving, Jungkook. I need to- I need to go. For good.” Her voice lacks hesitation, no pause. He simply stares at her, dumbfounded, numb to the effect his body is taking, cold sweats breaking through him. “I’m sorry. This is- you play this role too well, Jungkook. I just can’t seem to follow the script.”

“It’s not a role.” Jungkook says, voice a whisper that makes his words hard to grasp to Ira, but she knows what he said. She knows he would say that. She takes him in, takes one last long look at his face before it breaks her. She’s not scared of backing down from her plan, she’s scared of seeing his eyes full of heart look into hers, a lack thereof.

And she can accept it. She can wholeheartedly confess she doesn’t have the heart it takes to become selfless, to give into the three that makes the whole – Jungkook’s line that he’s adapted to bring hope into the immense cloud of blue that fell upon her when it all became too real. When the idea of three became a reality one morning after he’d gone to work and she stared at the mirror, a bump bulging at the center of her otherwise lean physique. Her first thought wasn’t that of excitement but of confusion. It felt foreign and it took her aback so frantically she found herself calling her OB/GYN, voice shaky as she repeated, “it came out of nowhere, I just- I wasn’t showing yesterday…” Her panic was received by a faint laugh on the other line, reassuring her pregnancy had no fixed agenda and that her “little one” had decided to make him or herself known. She waited for the doctor’s words to hit, for the excitement to follow, but it didn’t. What truly broke her came next as the doctor took her silence for something else and ended her discourse with a, “surprise, mama!”

Ira brought her phone down, staring at the screen before abruptly hanging up. She’d hope the doctor would blame it on poor connection.

She went about her day in autopilot, waiting. Waiting for the new curvature her body was taking on to simply be an add on in the sea of hopes that her pregnancy had brought until that very morning. But it never came. It never came, and the tears that would stream down her face late at night when the world slept and the darkness accepted her thoughts as they came, weren’t due to the impatience of her heart longing to love the life she was forming inside of her. They came out of fear it would.

Ira’s heart wasn’t fragile. Quite the opposite – it lacked the fragility it requires to love unconditionally.

When Soori came into the world, she made her entrance kicking and screaming. Ira understood; the overwhelm of the space was getting to her, too. At least on that they could agree. Her wails filled the room and muffled her hearing, everything in slow motion as shock set upon her. The pain between her legs from delivering her minutes prior subsided as numbness took over. She could hear her cries nearing and she finally came out of her trance the moment the nurse placed Soori on top of her chest. She looked down at her, arms coming up to hold her tiny frame in place. And when she did, dense silence filled the room as she found comfort in her mother’s arms and her cries came to a rest, opening her eyes for the first time. Ira looked down once again and understood the meaning of unconditional love. Soori was warm against her and that’s when she knew she’d never be able to reciprocate said love. Cold shivers ran down every corner of her body, settling into her heart. She understood it, but she couldn’t feel it.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, “I tried.” The last words fade away as she turns around, taking one last look at her daughter, a part of her tries again, focusing on the heartstrings of her soul, waiting for the pull. Nothing comes and she closes her eyes, breathing in, knowing that'd be the last time she'd take in her daughter. She turns around, looking at Jungkook for a split second. He’s frozen in place, gaze lost, fixated on the pastel pink wall in front of him, unable to look at her. “Goodbye, Jungkook. You-,” she can’t tell if he’s listening but she finishes anyway, “you were good to me. Okay? You-,” she needs to get out of there, now. “Goodbye.” And with that, she leaves. Past the door of the nursery, not a beat behind, without second guessing. She leaves and doesn’t turn back to witness Jungkook’s world coming to a slow, quiet shatter. The sort of silence that settles into your bones uncomfortably.

His world stops and, in the numbness, he becomes hyperaware of his senses. He doesn’t miss her steps down the corridor and back, the sound of wheels against the floor distinct this time, down the stairs and finally, he hears the front door close.

Soori stirs behind him, a faint whine leaving her mouth as she begins to wake up.

~

Jungkook’s legs feel heavy, glued to the floor, and his eyes haven’t left that spot on the wall they fixated in when he realized that watching Ira leave would make it all that more painful. And so, he stands there, mind empty yet hazy with incoherent thoughts he can’t puzzle together. An ominous cloud fills the space as the sun finally sets and the room goes dark around him. For a minute, Jungkook basks in a thought surprisingly comforting: the worst thing has already happened. It takes him in and cradles him as he goes with that narrative.

It doesn’t last long. Soori’s cries from behind him sound distant, faint, for the briefest of seconds before they fully snap Jungkook out of his trance. His baby. He turns around and sees her little figure propped up against the bars of her crib, looking up at him, pacifier hanging from the string that attaches it to her sleeping gown. Her eyes are red and glassy with tears and he wonders for how long she’s been crying.

“Hey, hey…,” his voice is gentle, a soft coo as he reaches for Soori, flushing his chest to hers once he has her in his arms. His free hand coming up to cradle her head as he softly sways back and forth, “it’s okay, baby. I’m here… I’m here.”

Her crying comes to a halt but she fusses in his arms, little whines escaping her mouth as Jungkook settles into the rhythm he knows she finds soothing. It’s then that it dawns upon him – his brief encounter with comfort was a lie his brain told his heart. Delusion a form of survival. His hold on Soori’s head tightens a bit, almost as if to ease the impact his thoughts might have on her. The worst is yet to come. His tears fall freely now, fear and uncertainty tugging at his chest in a way that takes him aback with how physically painful it is. His hands shake and his legs feel weak, like they won’t be able to hold him, or the burden that settles through him for much longer.

He gives in before they give out, slowly lowering his legs as they cross until he can finally feel the soft fabric of the carpet underneath him. Soori’s tears release yet again the moment the swaying stops, the new position on the floor in her father’s arms making her even more restless. He holds her, whispering a string of sorry, sorry, sorry against her ear as he brings her soft cheek flush to his until their tears form an even stream of droplets falling down their faces, settling uncomfortably on their necks.

He loses track of time and he can feel, ever so distinctively, as his spirit weakens by the minute. Mind still in that haze that makes it hard to distinguish between an empty mind and a racing one. He can’t find the words and as soon as his worries fixate on one thing in particular, he swerves around it. Not really letting his brain linger on just one to nit-pick, instead preferring the overwhelm of them all combined, thrown at him together. He rather not know what exactly scares him the most about this situation.

Usually enticed by challenge, this one finds him unwilling. He wants nothing more than to lower his whole body to the floor, hold his baby and close his heavy lids until he falls into a deep slumber. But he knows he can’t. Soori can’t stay still. Soori crawls. Soori is small but mighty and it would take her a matter of minutes to find her way to the stairs. Soori’s cries bounce on the walls, getting louder and louder. He wonders if she had her night bottle. Soori nibbles on her hand the way she’s come to do as she teethes, face scrunched up in discomfort. Soori needs him.

Soori came into the world kicking and screaming and with a healthy shade of pink adorning her tiny body that finally made Jungkook release the breath he’d been holding from the moment he could see her head from his position next to Ira as he held her hand. His first thought was how small she was, he couldn’t shake the fear of having her in his arms, wondering if she’d fit just right. Her cries restored something inside of him he’d long lost when he was very young and the harshness of the world tumbled down upon him, stripping him of an innocence he knew he’d want his daughter to carry for as long as she could. The overwhelm in his heart when he cut her umbilical chord was the sweetest he’d experience; and when she was finally placed in her mother’s chest and he could allow the world to slow down around him to take in his daughter for the first time, he made an unspoken vow. Love would always be stronger. Hope would always prevail. As long as she needed him, those two would be the root of his every action. Strength found its way to a corner of his heart that was growing by the second the more he stared at Soori. He’d take on the bravery of the world so as to make hers softer. And he’d love her in all of his lives.

He gets up, body feeling lethargic but adjusting his grip on his daughter’s body, putting his whole consciousness there. He doesn’t trust his limbs.

“Are you hungry, baby?” He asks her. It’s rhetoric, for various reasons. “Yeah, you are.” He says, even though he’s not sure. He begins the trip towards the kitchen, forcing a mental strain to go about his every step. To wrap around his every thought. To figure out where to go from here.

He reaches the bottom of the stairs, stopping by the living room first to lay her gently on the couch before removing her sleeping gown, setting her free from the restraints and letting her legs kick at him. Her demeanour changed and when he stares into her eyes, slightly envious of how her tears have seemed to dry, she smiles at him. It’s a wide grin that flashes him her two little bottom teeth that are beginning to come through and his heart melts at the sight. His heart hurts but she nurses the wound slowly and he can’t help but smile back at her. It takes him aback at times – how in nine short months he’s come to grow so enamoured with this fun-sized version of a human that demands so much time, attention and energy from him. But it’s moments like these, when she shines light into his dark corners with just a smile, that he understands. She holds more power in her two peeking bottom teeth than half of the things Jungkook thought gave him purpose nine months ago when she made her entrance into the world. Kicking and screaming and pink.

He cradles her in his arms once again as he stands up and positions her to rest at his waist. She instinctively grabs his ear – another one of the habits she’d picked up recently. Jungkook likes knowing he’s able to soothe her, almost mindlessly. Something catches his eye and he recognizes it immediately. Ira’s phone, resting on top of the coffee table. He leans, tapping the screen until it flashes back at him. Her wallpaper is a picture of her and Jungkook, taken three years prior, at the beginning of their relationship. Their happy faces stare back at him – mocking him. He scoffs. Nothing’s funny but he’s laughing because he can’t allow himself a fit of anger right now. And crying sounds too exhausting, his eyes too tired.

It hits him again, not that he needed much confirmation. It hits him that she’s not looking back. It hits him that she left with every intention to not spare them a second glance. It hit him that wherever she is, their realities are so different now. The moment she walked out that door she left nothing and everything that mattered behind. She freed herself from her role and walked steadily into the direction of whatever she deems as freedom. Ira was never one to ease into things. It used to be something that excited him. He looked at her and at times his brain painted flames of fiery orange seeping through her. Bold, confident – fearless.

He stands in front of the kitchen counter, one handing the process of making Soori’s bottle. Eyes lost, not really following the formula as it goes inside the bottle, the water – its temperature. Too hot? No, too cold. He puts it inside the bottle warmer, pushes the button and waits. He asks himself if he’s surprised or just heart broken. Mentally, he shakes the Jungkook from two hours ago and asks him, “did you not see it coming? Were you trying or were you lying to yourself?” The conclusion he draws feels like not enough. He saw it coming, yes. For over a year now he’s felt like the path he’s been walking went from eggshells to shattered glass – unavoidable, painful, way too fucking loud. So, he knew. He knew his feet would give out. He knew she was going to cut through all of him one day. Yet as much knowledge as he held when it came to his situation, he could’ve never seen this coming. He’d imagine their impending doom hitting him in the face eventually. They weren’t married, she could just leave at any moment. She could leave him at any moment. He’d set her free and he’d still give Soori a home, doubled in love to make up for her parent’s distance and the back and forth she’d have to endure. He would’ve tried. More couple’s therapy, individual counselling, all the help he could muster to get from friends and family. Trips to bond, trips to escape. He did all that and he would’ve done more. Because he loved her. He loves her.

He’s not sure when their love became mechanical, a form of habit. Disappointment tends to do that to people, he reckons. But he still did love her and he tried. Not just because of Soori but because of Ira, too. And because of them. Not the three, but the two they used to be. The same two that rest on top of his coffee table, trapped inside a memory forever, unaware of the future ahead but so hopeful. He loved the love they had and so for that reason, he loved her.

The bottle warmer beeps and he takes it out of the sleek looking machine. Soori bounces in his hold, excited. “Come on, missy. Let’s have dinner.” He tells her and she throws some unintelligible baby noises at him.

He heads back to the living room and sits them down on the couch. He props Soori against a pillow and feeds her the bottle. What are we going to do, he thinks, but brushes the thought away. This weight falls on his shoulders and he makes yet another unspoken vow as he stares down at her. He promises her a soft impact, painless whenever it can. He promises to hold her and coax her through it, to ease the burden and to explain with lullabies when the time is right. He stares at her until her eyes flutter, beginning a sleepy dance as she fights to stay awake, holding her feet in her small hands. A silent tear falls down his eyes and that’s the last sight, slightly blurry because of her long eyelashes, between her heavy lids before she falls into a peaceful slumber.

~

He paces around the living room. He paces the way he does when ideas are brewing inside his head at work – new locations, new investors, new partnerships. Ideas, ideas, ideas. He’s good at coming up with them. He’s good at quick solutions to whatever problem might arise – it’s what made his father ease so effortlessly into an early retirement after teaching Jungkook the ins and outs of the so-called empire he now calls his.

Soori sleeps on the couch. The pillow she’d been propped up in now besides her, building a barrier between her body and the soft cushions. He knows she’d be off better in her crib but the idea terrified him, made him feel alone.

Ideas, ideas, ideas yet he can’t come up with a single one. A part of him tells him there’s not much left to do. It tells him that it’s been done. That it’s time to move on with his life, with their lives. But the mere idea of taking the leap – of moving on, finds him scared, confused and shatters him more and more. It also reminds him of the way she so casually walked out, like it didn’t matter. She set flame to the fire and didn’t even linger around long enough to watch it burn. It angers him, her carelessness. He’s not like that, never has been, and he’s not going to start now. He knows forcing himself to move on will only repercuss in him breaking even further in the long run. So, his first idea is to face the reality. But he can’t right now, he feels too alone, too small. He has to push his heroic persona aside and admit defeat. And so he does.

His second idea finds him seeking comfort. He can’t be comfort to Soori if he’s just breaking. He knows he’s going to break; he knows this is just the beginning, but he needs there to be more to it. He retrieves his phone from his back pocket, inhaling loudly as he unlocks it. He needs a friend. He has a couple, another thing he takes pride in, but he knows this situation is way too sensitive. He thinks of Seokjin, his contact the most recent call on his phone, but he quickly diverts. Suelgi, his wife, had grown rather fond of Ira and in a way, she’d become her confidant amidst the whirlwind that was motherhood. He doesn’t feel like delivering news that will require him comforting someone else to that extent – he can barely comfort himself, let alone his friend.

His eyes find Taehyung’s name on the screen, also a recent contact on his call history. Yes, good – this is good. Taehyung is good. Him and Mai have been a constant in Jungkook’s life for as long as he can remember. He’s seen them go from high school sweethearts to a painful college breakup that luckily ended up in them finding their way back to each other. It took Taehyung approximately 37 days to ask her to marry him. He’d never seen two people sport a last name with more pride – The Kims. Nowadays they also go by mom and dad. They’re Soori’s godparents and Jungkook’s best friends. He taps on his contact and the first ring against his ear sounds obnoxiously loud. His head pounds against his skull.

“Yo, you’re on speaker phone!” Taehyung’s voice, enthusiastic as always, fills the speakers. Jungkook stays quiet.

“Ggukie, we were just about to call you!” It’s Mai’s voice on the phone now. “Dae is down for the night and we just popped open that bottle of Don Julio 1942 Tae got after the inauguration of the gallery. He had an early mid-life crisis after Monsters Inc had him shedding tears before bedtime.” Jungkook can hear Taehyung’s gasp of offense at his wife’s confession somewhere in the background. He’s unable to make a sound as Mai continues. “He’s insisting we do something crazy to ‘feel young again’ so shots on a Wednesday it is!” she mocks.

“I…,” Jungkook begins – but where does he even start?

Taehyung grabs the phone from Mai, “come on, tell Irie. Soo can sleep in Dae’s old bassinet.”

“Ira’s gone.” He blurts out. It’s abrupt and probably not the best way to break the news but the pet name breaks him and he doesn’t think he can stay in their bliss for a second longer.

“Gone where?” Taehyung asks innocently and even though his question makes Jungkook’s temple throb in pain he doesn’t pin it against him.

But silence is all he can offer.

“Oh…,” Mai starts – intuitive as ever. Her voice is soft, and already Jungkook releases a bit of tension in his shoulders, knowing she understood. “Oh, Gguk…”

“I just-”

“Come over, Gguk. Or we can go – as you wish. Just say the words.” Mai comforts.

“No, I’ll go. I need to get out of here.” And those are the surest words that leave his mouth that night.

~

He’s gentle with Soori as he straps her into her car seat. She’s a heavy sleeper, just like him, but he still holds his breath as he settles her down and gets her ready for the road. He double checks the diaper bag and when everything ticks off his mental list he heads for the driver’s seat.

Soori sleeps and he tries to focus on the road and just the road. No music on the stereo. Just full focus on what he can see from his windshield as he takes turns on the wide streets of his neighbourhood and mental turns in his head, swerving all the painful thoughts away.

The quiet lasts maybe a total of three minutes before Soori’s wide awake and back to inconsolable crying. She’s not a whiny baby – her demeanour often praised for being so peaceful, big eyes taking in the world around her as she graces it with her softness. But she’s been in and out of sleep, out of schedule, and Jungkook knows she misses Ira.

Because when Ira said she tried, she wasn’t lying. She tried, she did. She breastfed until it was physically painful. She did the exhausting night feeds right alongside Jungkook and then what felt like ten years with no rest as Soori was sleep training. She gave her baths, took her to Thursday brunch with her friends, read her books before bedtime. When they took weekend trips to get away from routine, Ira got this aura about her – something bordering on happiness that she carried so effortlessly. It would leave Jungkook hopeful – but his hopes would crash the moment they settled back home. Her therapists’ suggestions for bonding with Soori all made sense to Ira. In fact, they were so good she almost believed them. Sometimes they would have long days in the sun, fun family gatherings where the affection Jungkook’s parents would give Soori would fill her with something that almost felt like pride. They would sit in the grass of their big garden and watch her play with his family dog and a glimpse of hope would knock on the closed doors of her heart. Those days felt so good, but the sun eventually set and the air would feel sombre again as they drove back to their house. Totheir lives. Deep within, Ira wished she could enjoy the day without having to take it back home with her.

The love Ira gave Soori was also mechanical. But Soori didn’t know better – all she saw was love. And warmth. And the smell of her mom’s clothes as she rocked her to sleep. The sound of her voice as she begged her to, ‘please be good. Please don’t cry. I can’t take it anymore,’ when Jungkook would leave and she’d have a whole day ahead of a life that felt like a chore. All Soori heard was lullabies because she doesn’t know better.

“We’re almost there, baby. Shh, Soo. You’re alright, pretty girl.” He says, but he doesn’t think she can hear him with how loudly she’s crying.

Soori misses her mom.

Jungkook cries, too. And, taking advantage of her high-pitched mewls that fill the confined space, he sobs too.

~

Jungkook parks behind Taehyung’s car in their driveway. He grips the steering wheel, afraid the moment his friends take them in it will all become too real. He sits there – Soori’s cries less sporadic this time, almost like she gave up on getting her father’s attention. He opens his door, welcoming the soft breeze inside his car for a brief moment before he’s closing it and heading towards the backseat.

Mai had been standing next to her window for the past fifteen minutes. Heir brain had been running around in circles, wondering how exactly things escalated, how they got to this point. She fears for her friend’s sanity, knowing Jungkook had been walking a thin line for as long as her memory remembers her very own excitement over Soori’s prompt arrival.

She sees his car drive in front of her house, taking a swift turn until he’s finally parked in her driveway. She can’t see much but she can paint a mental picture of Jungkook just sitting there, lost – an expression she’s seen him adapt more and more lately. She perks up at the sight of him but her face falls into a frown the minute she sees him walk back to the backseat.

“What-?” she whispers to herself. “Tae, Gguk is here. With… Soori,” she says, watching her little head come out of the backseat of his car.

“Soori?” Taehyung asks, confusion lacing his voice, a frown adorning his face.

Mai walks quickly to the front door, opening it before Jungkook reaches it. His eyes meet hers and he sighs. He notices her eyes fixated on Soori, who’s own are red and swollen from crying, whimpers still leaving her lips. Her breath is erratic and Jungkook feels her little body jolt as she begins to let out another cry. Mai’s confused expression lets Jungkook know that of course, his friends were expecting Ira to leave him. They were expecting Soori to leave him, too, by pure default. That’s just how the narrative usually unfolds, doesn’t it?

But the narrative isn’t catering to Jungkook’s best interests. Their narrative is far from what you would consider normal.

“Come in, Gguk. What-,” she begins, but opts not to bombard him with the hard questions right away. “Come in.”

Taehyung immediately reaches for Soori who falls into his arms seamlessly. “Hey, princess. Hey, you’re alright Soori girl. Come here.” He coos and she begins to soften at his voice, “that’s a big girl. Stop growing up.” He tells her, his last request a whisper, as he brings her cheek to his, holding her in embrace – comforting her.

Jungkook steps inside their home, its warmth embracing him immediately and he’s glad he came here.

Taehyung and Mai got an unexpected influx of money before Dae was born. The gallery they’d been running attracting a different sort of crowd all of a sudden. The curiosity and modernity of the curation they’d put their hearts and souls (and savings) into attracting a crowd of curious yet wealthy collectors, investors and sole lovers of the craft. One turned into two galleries, then three and now recently, four. They amount their success to the faith of the people, the artists and the consumers and the ones that were simply driven by the passion for it. Mai was seven months pregnant when they upgraded from their small one-bedroom apartment to their four-bedroom, white picket fenced home. The very first materialization of that first taste of big-time money.

The first words she let out when she stepped inside were, “I can’t wait for toys to litter these shiny floors.” And litter them they did, giving it a feel of family Jungkook admired and promised himself his own wouldn’t lack. Ira hated clutter though.

“Let’s sit down, okay?” Mai says calmly, holding onto his arm. His steps are a bit hesitant and wobbly – if she didn’t know better, she’d think he was drunk.

“Okay.” He returns.

Taehyung follows behind him, a quiet Soori nuzzled against his shoulder, breath fanning the crook of his neck that grows steadier within the second. Now more than ever, Jungkook is grateful for the soothing effect he has on her.

He sits down, Mai occupying the spot besides him. Taehyung stays positioned on his feet before them, gently swaying Soori from side to side as her body grows limp, temping sleep.

His head comes forward, gaze fixated on his shoes. He breaks. “She left us. She just… left. Said she’d booked a job in New York. I thought she’d be gone for a week at most. But then she said she’d be gone for good. She,” his words get stuck in his throat, pain unleashing inside of him all over again at the fresh memories, “said she tried. Took one last look at Soori and then just… left.”

As soon as his recollection of the story comes to an end, he realizes just how short it was. His life came to an abrupt stop and then took a 180 degree turn in the span of what Jungkook deems to have been five minutes.

He never wants to utter the words she said again.

He’s crying and Taehyung wants nothing more than to hold him, let him know that it will all be okay. But he’s finding it hard to believe it himself, so he leaves the words of comfort to Mai. His arms instinctively wrap tighter around Soori – heart breaking at the realization she’d been abandoned, too.

“Come here,” Mai says, wrapping her arm around him and letting him cry, head against her shoulder, his own shaking as silent tears spill from his eyes.

“Do you think she’ll come back, Gguk?” Taehyung asks, even though he knows the answer. He’s always found it easier to console after knowing the facts, not believing in the whole ignorance is bliss bullshit.

He shakes his head. His voice is quiet when he says, “No. She left her phone behind, her half of the closet was empty. I’m not even sure it’s New York where she was headed.”

Mai shakes her head in disbelief. Her motherly instincts take on flight or fight mode as she tries to grasp just how someone could do something like that.

“Okay…,” Taehyung begins, sitting down next to him. “Listen to me,” but Jungkook’s gaze is still transfixed to the floor. “Jungkook-ah.”

“Huh?” He says, voice distant, eyes still lost.

“We’ll figure it out. Okay? You and Soori- you’re not alone. We’re here and we’ll figure it out. You’ve got us, the both of you.” Jungkook nods at his friends’ words. Taehyung rests his head on top of his shoulder. He’s grateful for his reassurance, even if he doesn’t fully believe it.

They don’t press on any further, well aware this is not the time to dissect the situation. He lets Mai pull him to his feet. She asks him a couple of questions that he can’t fully follow so he shakes his head at every single one of them. With Soori asleep in Taehyung’s arms, he lets himself disassociate.

He follows Mai up the stairs, Taehyung right behind them. He doesn’t complain when the darkness of their guest bedroom impairs his sight slightly, finding comfort in its density. The feel of the bed against his aching body lulls him into something that almost feels like peace – senses calming down slightly, as if telling him the day has finally come to an end.

Taehyung is detaching Soori from his body, lowering her down towards the bassinet besides the bed. Jungkook jumps from his resting position in the bed, startling Mai who tries holding him back instinctively.

“No. Put her here. She- she needs to sleep with me, she-” His voice is frantic.

“It’s okay, Gguk. Look, she’s here.” Taehyung places her in the bed next to her father who follows the baby’s movement as his own head hits the mattress.

Mai builds a makeshift fort of pillows that surround Soori’s tiny frame, stacking one on top of the other for good measure. She makes a mental note to check up on her throughout the night.

“Baby monitor. Just in case he doesn’t wake up.” Taehyung says, placing one of the devices in the bedside table.

“Tae,” Mai starts but she doesn’t really know where the sentence was going. Shock settles upon her.

“I know.” He says.

“Fuck, Tae. What is he-,” Mai makes sure to hear for Jungkook’s soft snores before she finishes, “Soori’s only nine months old. How could she just leave?”

Taehyung wraps his arm around Mai, bringing her close to his chest as the same fear she’s feeling begins taking over him, too. He shakes his head. “I don’t know, baby. I- we’ll figure something out. It’ll be alright.”

Soori twitches in place, letting out a loud sigh that has Mai sure will be followed by another restless string of sobs. But Jungkook places his hand on her tummy, eyes still closed, gently rocking her as he lets out a soft coo, something so faint they can’t quite make up his words. But his daughter relaxes against his touch, falling back into a peaceful sleep.

Fear plagues him but Taehyung is sure of the words that fall past his lips next.

“They’ll be alright.”

~------------~

i hope you enjoyed! stream butter to mend those hearts if you’re hurting as much as me over this mess! if you liked this I would love to know and to chat all about it – or about whatever u want, i want army friends :) lots of kisses!!!! xxxxxx

if it isn’t me

pairing: jungkook x reader

wordcount: 4k

glimpse: protecting jungkook with your life is your job — raising his daughter isn't.

alternatively, jungkook's a single dad for the meantime according to his own words, and lowering down his pride will not stop at anything in begging you to help him with things outside of your paygrade.

[ no applicable warnings!! ]

notes: heh just a silly goofy angsty drabble </3 i got sent an ask abt this trope just this morning and after a few hours of frying my brain and getting the urge to write this, here we are now!! tell me what you think :)

Jungkook always tries to handle more than what he could carry.

If there’s a particular thing he’d pride himself in being good in since he was young, it would be multitasking. He’d want to do everything at once simply because he doesn’t want to spend a minute longer than necessary for a task he can wrap up just as quick.

He carries all the groceries in one trip even if the handles of the bags dig onto his palm and leave a sore pink mark. He’d rather put every item he bought into place rather than sitting on the couch for a minute, wanting to everything get over with before he relaxes.

When Jungkook gets ahold of his scripts, he reads and memorizes the current page and subconsciously highlights the other page just by skimming alone.

He multitasks then he packs his gym bag and his daughter’s diaper bag at the same time, the two of them side by side on the bedsheets he’s going to change out anyway. He takes turns grabbing each of their things from their separate closets, the baby’s growing in quantity each day.

Sunhee’s eight months old now and therefore a little more fussy when she wants her milk wherever, a blubber already in her throat even before her dad could soothe her with back rubs.

Jungkook doesn’t know to the highest extent if everything he does as a father to Sunhee is right because he’s still learning — he continues to learn everyday that he’s with her. The unease and insecurity in his ribs never leave but they would calm down when he sees that she’s happy, even if she spends twenty minutes crying over him holding her cereal the wrong way.

Jungkook knows that he’s doing right when he boils water to the right temperature to put in a tiny thermos he bought specifically for her, then scooping in formula to a tiered container that would just require him to pour down the powder before he shakes the bottle, no measuring and fussing needed.

He recalled scouring baby stores twenty minutes before closing with a hood on his head and sunglasses on his face. He wanted to sniff BPA-free milk containers to ensure safety even if it meant looking suspicious, as long as he knows Sunhee would only have the best and he wouldn’t run the risk of being recognized in a baby store of all places.

He knows he’s doing somehow right when he bring Sunhee to his schedules and sits her on his lap as he rehearses his lines. The two of them are together and Jungkook gets to work at the same time.

She’s not exactly a high-maintenance baby, but she immediately notices when her dad gives her kisses on her cheeks and passes her to Seokjin, a scent she’s somehow familiar to at this point. He’s Jungkook’s manager and one of his most trusted confidants, already a brother to him at this point.

Jin handles practically everything for him and protects him to no end, even from his own staff members that look at his niece a second too long. They’re aware — they are aware of Sunhee.

They’re aware of Sunhee and her chunky bread rolls for limbs, so soft and pure under their loving gazes. Knows about her babbles and the words she’s sometimes able to form from only hearing it a couple of times around set.

They know about Sunhee and how her obvious cuteness and prettiness come from two of her parents. Her parents that are on the big-screen despite appearing separately, known for their incomparable talents and charms.

They know about how the world is for her taking but little miss Sunhee doesn’t quite know about it yet, the wideness and shine in her eyes only making them hope that she’d never lose any of those.

Jungkook knows too. Knows all about how only the few select people in his life are aware that he’s a dad and Sunhee is perhaps the most loving baby there is. He’s thankful to say the least, seeing how if he decides to try and not handle more than what he could carry, there’d be people looking for both him and Sunhee.

Yet if there’s just one particularly bad thing Jungkook doesn’t pride himself in being prone at succumbing to, it would be his state of overwhelm.

He’s overwhelmed whenever Sunhee shrieks at the same time he’s frustrated with his mouthful of lines. She’s pretty early and advanced for her age to even babble and sometimes form audible words, but she’s obviously not an adult Jungkook’s used to communicating with on a daily basis. He can’t be mad at her for being her age seeing to it that she’s a literal baby, but he can’t help himself when his throat gets stuffy because he can’t understand her sometimes.

He’s overwhelmed when he doesn’t know what exactly Sunhee wants. Even if he’s changed her diaper and put rash cream just in case the friction is what bothers her, she still thrashes around. When Jungkook prepares her milk and takes the time to submerge her bottle on a water bath rather than using the instant bottle warmer, she shoves his hand away.

He caves in and tries to coax her to calm down by giving her snacks, and yet the mild sweetness her cereal puffs have that Sunhee would go crazy for in any other situation, is barely glanced upon. Even when he carries her and walks up and down the stairs, even if he takes her outside to get fresh air, or even when he drowns her in loud kisses with the mwah! audible in each one — Jungkook doesn’t know what Sunhee wants and lets her cry it out even if he wants to help, even if he’s alone and overwhelmed.

He gets overwhelmed now when he can’t figure out what Sunhee wants because just from two minutes ago, she wanted to fiddle with the tube of lip balm that her dad gets back from her because she keeps putting it in her mouth. She’s since recovered from her makeshift toy getting taken away from her, but even now that she’s not in her dad’s arms being rowdy, he feels panicked.

He’s engulfed by god knows what when he responds to texts on his phone and sees countless notifications pop up, all of which that revolve around Nari, his girlfriend (put on pause as she suggested) and most importantly, Sunhee’s mom. The articles picture her around filming a drama on the other side of the globe across from where they are, a bright smile on her face that puts a ghost of it on his lips yet at the same time, make him slightly bitter.

Jungkook’s overwhelmed when he whips his head around and sees Sunhee being bounced up on Jin’s arm, clearly happy and in a fit of giggles, all while you stand beside the two of them.

It’s Jin, who loves Sunhee enough to carry and throw her up with his arm even if his wrist is sore and is equipped with a support band, but has given her up to you because for some odd reason, she’d be calm and even more happy when she’s laid in your arms.

Jungkook’s overwhelmed to see you in your casual wear with your earpiece in and Sunhee’s dribble towel slung on your shoulder, placed snugly on your hip where your radio isn’t situated.

He’s overwhelmed but maybe it’s a good type of overwhelmed to see his daughter in his personal bodyguard’s arms — his heart safe and steady to know that she’s protected by you.

If anything, if anyone needs to watch over Sunhee when he isn’t there for her, Jungkook would want you to be her guardian.

For one part, it’s because he knows you could literally shelter her and keep her safe no matter what. He could see it on how you carry her in the same way that you have put one hand on his elbow in walking him through crowds and one hand outstretched to ward away anyone that could get too close to him — it’s dedicated. It’s motivated in a way that their safety is your priority, perhaps maybe even if it isn’t merely your job.

Yet for the other half, it’s because Jungkook trusts you the most.

He trusts you the most when he looks at you with Sunhee in your arms, your other hand responding back to your radio as you entertain her in the same breath by letting her put her hands on the device.

You feel his eyes on you.

Jungkook finds himself chasing after you around the dressing room even if you sternly tell him to go back to his chair and memorize his lines instead, a desperate look on his face once Seokjin left him to talk to the director.

You want to leave the room and yet you know you can’t, instead choosing to take big steps to try and put the most distance between the two of you as much as possible.

His daughter is in her playpen right between the two of you because her dad has chosen to chase you around in circles until he gets you close enough; until there’s only a literal ball pit in between the two of you.

You’re familiar with how he looks when he’s desperate for something.

“Sunhee looks good with you.”

Jungkook doesn’t bother giving yourself a long-winded intro because the two of you have went through this pleading conversation too many times before, the outcome being the same each time.

Sunhee is an endearing baby, that much you’d admit. Bright, wide, and warm eyes just like her dad’s and a contagious laugh, the whole world already within her little fist. You know she’s loved beyond measure when her cries are equally as paining, rather than annoying, to anyone who comes across her.

“Don’t start with me.”

Your words leave you in utter seriousness but if he listens just a tad bit more closely, he’d know that it isn’t a threat — it’s a plead.

Jungkook should know your tone. He’s known it for years. Should know how you could lie through your teeth with precise skill or how you’re able to communicate what’s needed through gazes alone. Knows when he shouldn’t cross the line but he toes it anyways, always for this topic, taking his chances with you.

“You can start with her.”

Your lips purse as an automatic reaction to what Jungkook is going to ask of you again, making you exhale heavily in a way you barely even recognize nowadays.

He seems to have no problem giving you a quip almost instantaneously, the words tumbling out from his mouth as if they’re instinct and no just afterthoughts at this point.

Jungkook told you once, in confidence and in confinement where it’s only the two of you in an elevator and there’s a crowd right outside, that he’s a single dad.

A single dad for the meantime.

He’s been one for almost the entirety of eight months Sunhee’s been born but you don’t know if he realizes it. You don’t know if he knows that he’s been raising her Sunhee like one even before Nari up and told him that she’s going to leave for a little while, planning to make her comeback even if she’s not a year postpartum.

Come to think of it, she wouldn’t be labeled out of postpartum if no one knows anyways that the reason she’s been gone for more than a year is that she was pregnant — that she’s also long been dating Jungkook for three years now and that she’s given birth to her child; that she’s a mother.

No one would know about Sunhee because after all, she is merely a career break worth a year and some months, in Nari’s own words when she’s asked where she’s been in an interview.

You don’t know if Jungkook knows he was practically already a single dad even before Nari suggested a shift for the meantime and he just chokes it down each day.

Four months. Just four more months before Nari comes back to him, to them.

Just four months before Sunhee’s first birthday, four months before Nari comes back in time.

"I'm not supposed to raise her, Jungkook. I shouldn’t be the one.”

You grit throughout your teeth because the shame in your mind overpowers the dwindling endearment in your heart, the rationality sinking into your head even before your emotions starts to float.

“I’m not Sunhee’s mother.”

It’s merely a fact but Jungkook seems to recoil anyway as if you insulted him, chewing on his bottom lip while he looks down on his shoes.

“I know that,” he says gently, looking at you in the eyes before they set downwards to Sunhee who’s in the middle of you, oblivious to the gravity in your conversation that concerns her because her happiness in brightly-colored balls matters more.

Jungkook motions to his daughter, lips set in a straight line as he puts out his hand for her to give a high-five to, the sound ringing in your ears even if the clap was faint.

“But she doesn’t know that.”

Sunhee can look at you either as her mother or not but it wouldn’t matter because at the end of the day, it’s only the concept of one that he hounds for you to take.

“I will pay you triple than what Seokjin could ever pay you,” he’s not oblivious to the fact that Jin hired you solely for your skills and dedication to the job, your work being compensated more than generously. Jungkook also knows that his manager hired you for yourself, unaware at the time of your past relation to your then-job of protecting; him. “What would it take?”

Jungkook is not one to beg.

He’s hardworking, sure. He’s never had anyone pull him and recommend him for the roles and places he’s now a proud titleholder of. He worked from the ground up and made a name out of his own, not one thing behind handed to him.

Yet of all things, Jungkook wants to retain his pride. He wished to retain his pride even if he was merely a rookie and the word no to your director would cost you much more than saying otherwise. He retains his pride even if he used to get treated like dirt as extras in the background, bowing to producers when they make him clean up spills that he isn’t the cause of, but never gets a rag to appease them.

Jungkook loses his pride when it comes to you.

“I just need you to be a placeholder, Y/N. Please.”

You’re out of breath just for even thinking how he could be so selfish of asking such a thing from you out of all the people he could pitch the concept to.

There’s a line-up of girls you’d know that would want to be Sunhee’s placeholder for a mom, even if Jungkook doesn’t come with it in being their partner for the duration.

It’s not within your complete judgement to feel offended but you feel it on your bones anyway. Him asking you to be the personal bodyguard to his eight-month old daughter sounds much better, because after all, its a job.

Jungkook knows it. The two of you know it. There’s a clear difference between asking you to be Sunhee’s protector from being her mom, the first option being much easier if it’s what he asked of you.

The latter is much, much more different and difficult and Jungkook knows it, but he asks you anyway.

“I just need you to be a stand-in for her. Just for a while.”

You are not Nari, nor will you ever be her.

“She’ll come back to me, I know it,” he promises, tilting his head as he tries to get you to tone down your glare on him and hear him out more attentively. “But for now, I’m begging you to be Sunhee’s mother figure. She needs it.”

“I can’t be who I’m not.”

You’re not related to her at all.

You and Jungkook have history between the two of you and Sunhee doesn’t come from yours. She isn’t a part of your history because she’s from Jungkook’s present and future with someone who isn’t you.

Sunhee’s cute. Like her father and like her mother.

She doesn’t look like you nor does she resemble you in any way. When you look at her, you see her parents in her features. Her attitude is her own and yet you wouldn’t entirely know because you weren’t there when she was born, nor do you know of how Jungkook and Nari conversed about their childhood to try and foresee Sunhee’s.

Nari was born at 8 pounds and she foresees that their baby would be born on the heavier side, seeing to it that she started showing early into the pregnancy.

Jungkook gave his mother a hard time and would always kick inside her belly actively, apologizing to his girlfriend in advance because he has a feeling that their daughter would be just like him.

They were both crybabies, and instead of apologizing to each other for the hard loud times they foresee, they laugh it off.

Sunhee isn’t yours. She is of her mother’s and father’s blood and flesh. She’s neither your pain nor your relief. She’s a product of their love.

You are no one to her, as much as she is no one to you.

“You can be her mommy,” Jungkook pleads, bottom lip trembling as his state of overwhelm continues to bubble up, “you can be her mommy for the time-being.”

“Fuck off with that,” you mutter under your breath, jaw clenching in thought if he knows what he’s asking of you. If he knows how selfish he sounds even if what he’s asking of you concerns his daughter and not him solely.

You love Sunhee in the way an aunt would love her niece who she’s never met and resides on the other side of the world. You’re familiar with her and you know her to a degree, but you’re distant. She crosses your mind only when you walk past parents who has the same stroller as hers or when you see babies with the same pair of socks. The thought of her doesn’t come home with you.

“Who are you speaking to?” you scoff, poking your tongue on your cheek in curiosity and anger. “Me, your ex? Or is it me, your bodyguard?”

The two of you have moved on and never even talk about the past the two of you have shared. Your history is older than Jungkook’s relationship with Nari and their daughter and you find no need in bringing it up.

You’re with him because it’s your job, and he’s with you because he’s your responsibility.

Jungkook’s surprised and chokes on nothing when you raise him the question, eyes wide and unblinking before he silently confesses what the two of you know is the truth under his breath.

“Every version of you knows me.”

His tone is defeated even if desperate.

He’s asking in behalf of Sunhee’s sake, even if he sounds selfish by extension.

Jungkook asks you to be Sunhee’s mother for the meantime as your ex; as someone who you once loved the most in your life. He asks you as a friend, a neutral relationship that’s been built from being with him almost everyday. He asks you as his bodyguard, one who’s meant to protect him to no end even if it’s his wellbeing in question, one that revolved around Sunhee.

You merely smile in recollection but there are only two things that fill you up.

Pity, for Sunhee, because at eight months, her supposed mother figure would be you because her real one thinks of her as a mere variable and cause to have a career break.

And feelings, that are all too consuming because Jungkook knows you in this way still, even if he obliterates his pride for the sake of his daughter’s, at the expense of yours. He knows you in this light still; the part where he asks something from you in every version of himself, and he takes a chance for you to answer him in every version of yourself.

You half-heartedly laugh when Sunhee reaches out for you to carry her up, and you do, but you mean it with every fiber of yourself that your flaw is knowing Jungkook in these lights.

“I wish I didn’t.”

deal

what do you do when your teenage brother’s cancer is too far gone? well, you summon a cocky crossroad demon to make a deal; your life for taehyung’s.

pairing: demon!jk x reader

genre: angst, fluff, smut.

word count: uhm, …19.5k

warnings: some parts are very sad, reader is prepared for her life to end and her brother has terminal cancer :/ it’s not really described in-depth since i’m not a doctor and it’s a sensitive topic. she also has the beginning of a panic attack. penetrative sex, switch/very soft dom/slightly sub jk lmao, his dick is…ribbed. also blood, mentions of killing, branding skin, wounds by arrow…

masterlist

© deal is copyright jeonstudios 2020. this fic can not be modified, re-posted, or translated without my permission.

author’s note: inspired by the crossroad demons of supernatural who seal their deals with a kiss and then collect the humans’ souls. also this is pure shit so im sorry :( tumblr literally did NOT want this fic up because it gave me H E L L trying to upload so if things shit then it is what it is im having an aneurism

It’s empty. Not a single soul present, except for you. You should’ve picked a different location, surely crossroads are abundant. But this one was desolate, no one around to witness the massive fool you’re about to make of yourself. Maybe it’s also due to the fact that it’s in the middle of the night. Probably.

Your trusty old car waits a couple of meters behind, lazily pulled over on the side of the thin, dirt road and with the headlights on to guide you. There are a few sparsely placed streetlights, but none that’s emitting actual light. You’ve retrieved the plastic bag containing the three components needed, and it swings heavily from your hand. You won’t deny that you’re nervous.

Keep reading

—prologue: october sky

this is a part of my an ode to a broken heart drabble series.

pairing: jeon jungkook/reader

genre: unrequited love, best friends to (?), heavy angst, future smut

word count: 751 words

summary: it’s october, the sky today is clear and cloudless, just like your love for certain raven-haired boy. first is abnormality, second - a cruel reality.

chapter one

Keep reading

to build a home | chapter three

pairing: Jungkook x reader. ceo!jk + dilf!jk x nanny!oc

genre: strangers to lovers. angst. loads of plot. eventual smut

word count: 9.2k

warnings: angst. swearing. mentions of alcohol. mentions of abandonment. mentions of death.

author’s note: hi again <3 i am in love w this chapter. time is speeding along everyone – hearts are healing?? babies are growing?? and these two fools?? mutual pining mode on 🤧🤧🤧. i don’t want to give much away but oc and jk had my heart in a frenzy in this one!! i truly hope you enjoy, it’s been so rewarding to read your kind words and feedback so from the bottom of my heart thank u <3!

p.s. softly by Clairo. that's their song.

This is a work of fiction. Please respect the members and their privacy. x

Texts in bold + italic resemble a recollection of past events.

Chapter Three

Blue-jean baby, L.A. lady, seamstress for the band…

You groan. A single eye, the one not smushed by your pillow, opens half-way. It’s 6:15 AM and Elton John’s soft vocals are waking you up to the dreamy beat of Tiny Dancer. Why would you want the dreadful tune of Marimba doing the job if you can have this?

“Five more minutes, Elton.”

Pretty eyes, pirate smile, you’ll marry a music man…

You smile, soothed by what feels like a lullaby. Your body relaxes against the mattress once again and your eyes close – you’re not asleep. Just easing into consciousness.

You drift.

Hold me closer tiny dancer, count the headlights on the highway…

Elton all but screams at you. Well, that has you jumping from the warmth of your bed.

6:18 – time to wake up. You’re not a morning person and neither are you a night owl but, a sudden burst of inspiration found you sat at your desk until way past midnight. By the time you went to bed it took you a good thirty more minutes to fall asleep. Constantly disrupted by the drunk party goers that were making their way back home from wherever the night had taken them. Youth and Tuesday nights, you remember those. You could’ve just closed the window but the chilly breeze coming from it felt like summer. You did it in the name of nostalgia.

So, it is due to your late night writing à la Bukowski that you find yourself running into every piece of furniture you stumble upon, eyes still half closed, incessantly rubbing at them to let them know it was time to adult. You try to wake your brain up, too, but all it does is demand coffee.

And coffee you shall get. The smell hits your nose before anything can hit your eyesight but already, you’re lazily smiling at a blurry vision of Lucy from behind the kitchen counter. Her computer is in front of her and her eyes never leave the screen even as she feels you come in.

“Jeon Jungkook.” She half sing-songs, half affirms.

Are you sleep walking?

“Huh?”

She clears her throat and starts reading, “This year’s most eye-grabbing addition to Forbes 30 Under 30 list belongs to twenty-eight-year-old Jeon Jungkook. The young entrepreneur is the heir of the luxury chain of hotels, The West End.” Now you’re awake. She continues, “The high-end resorts have an ever-growing list of locations taking up the most coveted, bustling destinations all around the globe. Jungkook inherited his family’s legacy at the young age of twenty-four and has often been praised by his sharpness and boldness when it comes to business. His first duty as CEO and Chair of The West End Collection proved him more than capable, as he went on to re-brand its various hotels, location by location. His diligence and cut-throat ideas earned The West End a spike in stocks of up to 200%-”

“You are,” you interrupt her, fingers pressing at your temples for emphasis, “the nosiest person. Ever.”

“Okay so he’s rich. And smart. And in Forbes. But when where you going to tell me he looked like this?” She spins the laptop around in her hold, shoving it in your direction for dramatic effect.

And there he is, in all of his glory. Black suit over a black dress shirt. His hair a bit more tamed than it usually is on his day to day.

“I did tell you!” You protest.

“No, you did not. You said he looked like an angel. This man is a God.” She scoffs.

“Is this for me?” You ask, pointing at the cup of iced coffee sitting pretty on the kitchen counter.

“Well, it’s not for me.” She remarks, eyes still glued to the screen as you take a sip. “I found the baby mama, too.” She blurts out so fast it takes you a second to register it.

“Lucy.”

“What? It wasn’t that hard! She’s a model or something, if we’re going by anything Vogue has to say.”

At this, you give into the snooping. Your eyes divert to the screen and surely there she is. She looks just like what you’d expect at hearing her name alone. Ira Sommersmith. She’s beautiful, and the word alone cuts it short. Long blonde hair, dazzling smile, eyes looking away from the camera in that lost gaze model way. You’d look like a fool if you even attempted it. And you know because you’ve tried.

“Look, here’s them together. At some rich people party. Why is everyone wearing white? That’s a recipe for disaster if I’ve ever seen one.” Lucy says before changing the tabs, a picture of the two of them on the screen.

They look happy. He’s smiling at the camera and she’s smiling at him. It’s dated from two years ago. What happened? You can’t help but wonder.

“Wait a minute. Soori looks nothing like her. I don’t think she’s the baby mama,” you say, imitating the tone of suspense Lucy takes on when in conspiracy theory mode.

“No, no. She might be all daddy but that’s her baby. I read an article about it. Apparently, Ira went all MIA on social media shortly after the baby’s birth. She also went on a modelling hiatus.”

Her words sink into you. You try really hard not to pry, you do. You contain it as much as you can. But your brain can’t stop running in circles, that avid writer’s imagination of yours doing you no favours to inflict any sort of self-control.

“I want to go on a hiatus, too.” Lucy says, earning a loud cackle from you. “Not you, though. Come on, can’t be late for hot, heir, angel God, daddy Jeon Jungkook. Emphasis on the daddy.”

“Lucy!”

~

You’re in the bus on your way to the Jeon abode. Every morning dulls into afternoon in somewhat an identical rhythm. You don’t mind, though. You’ve come to find it comforting.

The bus ride is relaxing – there are not many people heading to the residential part of town this early in the morning, allowing you the commodities of not one but two seats all to yourself. You read, write or listen to music. Out the window, you start to make out the proximity of your destination as the pretty houses start to breeze past your line of vision. Every time the bus halts at a stop you’re able to take them in, full detail. You wonder if you’ll ever make it big enough to live in this side of town, in a pretty house of your own.

Your mind starts to float into that cloud of pink you call daydream. You picture a family. Do you want a big one?You don’t know. Kids are expensive. But, then again, if you can afford a house with more than one bathroom you reckon you could afford a couple of kids.

You picture Soori. As a reference, you tell yourself. She’s a cute baby, why wouldn’t you want a cute baby like her?

“But I don’t want this exact house!” You tell Lucy. A sea of magazines spread out around the two of you.

You’re in your tiny living room, coffee table pushed to the side as you invade the floors with glossy paper cut outs. You’re in vision board making mode, and even though you haven’t quite grasped the idea, it’s a fun Friday night activity. Also, you’re wine-drunk. Cheap wine-drunk.

“It’s for reference, ___.” Lucy says, accentuating every consonant, “it doesn’t have to be exactly what you want, as long as it encompasses the same energy.”

“You’re doing that thing where you throw big words at me when I’m drunk.”

“You’ll be fine as long as you don’t do that thing where you nod and pretend you understood. This is important, okay? We’re manifesting.” She returns.

Manifesting is her new favourite word.

You grab a wrinkled picture of a very shirtless Brad Pitt. The whole look of the image feels vintage. You had grabbed a bunch of old magazines from the library that were due to be thrown out for the longest time now.

“So I won’t get 2003 Brad Pitt but!,” you start, shoving the picture in her face, “I will get a sexy, toned, tall, tanned and successful man that can sport low rise jeans like this?”

“Exactly.”

“Let’s manifest, baby!”

Reference. It’s important.

Sometimes it worries you how when you think about your future you don’t hold an ounce of desperation regarding it. People talk about goals and dreams but they never do it with the softness something promising should hold. It’s always with edge. Fear, uncertainty.

But you think you can amount your bliss to your lack of knowing. Truth is, beyond writing, there’s nothing that passions you enough to pursue. And society has already installed the notion in you that writing careers are in extinction. You’re not above fears. You just mentioned one. You just don’t attach your future to them. You’ll never stop writing, though. That’s your one sure-thing.

Your future doesn’t have to be panned out for you. You can dream by reference.

You’ll never own a touch screen doorbell, though. That’s just presumptuous.

You press on the screen of said reference you are not taking after. It’s 7:15 sharp – you’re a legend for this one, considering how much time Lucy’s snooping took out of your morning routine.

Every morning Mrs. Chae opens the door for you and this one is no different. Her sweet smile matches her sweet voice. Overall, she’s a sweet lady and you can tell Jungkook has a soft spot for her. She’s the one getting the big smiles around here, not you. But let’s not rush into that just yet.

“Good morning, ___.” She greets you with a tender smile.

“Good morning, Mrs. Chae. How are you today?”

“Oh, just wonderful. Come in, come in. Have you eaten?” She always asks you this, even if your answer is always the same.

“Yes, Mrs. Chae. Thank you for asking, though.”

“Young people these days!” she begins, “you don’t give breakfast the importance it deserves. Mr. Jungkook only has that coffee of his. And half of it is ice.” She whispers the last bit, almost as if she was letting you in on a secret.

“I’m sure Mr. Jungkook compensates with lunch, though.” You tell her and she smiles, nodding at this. You both know Mr. Jungkook can eat.

By the time your brief, but almost always comical, morning chat with Mrs. Chae is over, Jungkook is usually making his way inside the kitchen. This morning is no different either.

“Good morning,” he says, a pyjama clad Soori resting at his hip, giraffe plushie in hand that she repetitively smacks into her father’s chest.

“Good morning, Mr. Jungkook.” Mrs. Chae says, placing a tray in the kitchen counter in front of him, a single glass of iced americano.

“Morning,” you say, making your way to him. “Morning, pretty girl.” This is directed at Soori, who jumps excitedly in Jungkook’s hold at your words. She lets out some sweet unintelligible baby babble, “I agree.” You tell her and she giggles, her pacifier falling from her little mouth.

“She had her bottle about two hours ago so she should be ready for breakfast any time now.” Jungkook informs you, passing her to you, hand coming to caress at her little head once she’s in your arms.

“Perfect.” You turn to her, “what’s for brekky today? What about oatmeal? No cinnamon this time, promise.” Jungkook smiles. But it’s not directed at you. It usually never is.

Now, let’s not put him in total bad lighting. He’s civil, polite even. But he never humours you. And you’re funny. I mean, yes. Your track record is babies and toddlers and an easy-hearted Lucy but come on.

Soori laughs though, and it’s all that matters.

He’s almost done with his coffee. That was way too fast. You wish you could tell him but then again you wouldn’t. You still can’t decipher what’s worst – the attitude he was giving you on the day of the interview or the indifference he gives you every day.

You don’t think he necessarily hates you. In fact, you don’t even think he dislikes you. You just think he’s not very happy with the world right now and it reflects on pretty much anything that hits his line of vision.

Everything except Soori, though. She gets all the big smiles and praises and cuddles. So many cuddles.

Jungkook goes to the office most days but there are days when he stays home. He’s usually locked inside his office, immersed in paper work. But he always makes sure he’s out just as Soori starts getting fussy with hunger.

He makes her a bottle and lays her down in a plush pillow that doesn’t quite match the décor of the sofa. But it’s the Soori pillow, so it stays. She drinks her bottle, eyes glued to his as he talks to her. Most of the times you can’t make out what he’s saying but one time you did hear him give her a run-down of a business call he’d just had, his voice never losing the softness he saves for her. His Soori voice.

Sometimes both their eyes begin to get heavy with sleep and he rests his head next to her tummy, nuzzling his nose into it until she giggles and jerks under him.

It’s cute. And it tugs at all of your heartstrings. So much so you have to fight with every pull to not walk in front of him and tell him, ‘Hey Jungkook! You’re such a good dad! You’re doing great. Don’t be sad. Ever again, please!’

But you remember where you stand with him: sole professionality. You keep telling yourself this is fine by you. You still get to play with his cute baby for a living so who’s the real winner here?

You walk with him all the way to the front door so Soori can spend as much time with him as possible. He never asked for this but you started doing it anyway and you know he appreciates it.

“Alright, baby. Be good, okay? I love you. So much. I’ll see you soon.” You know the words by memory now. He litters kisses all over her soft cheeks, tickling her until she hides in the crook of your neck. He pulls away.

“Say bye-bye!” you tell her. She makes grabby hands at him. Bye-bye is a dreaded set of words.

You see him try to fight it but he breaks, grabbing her and hugging her to his chest. More kisses, this time all over her face.

“Okay. Daddy has to go. I love you.” He says and hands her back to you.

Her little mouth forms the most endearing pout, chin wrinkling and you know she’s about to cry. But you’re faster – your baby voice in full mode when you say, “No cry, Soo. Daddy will be back soon.”

Jungkook has turned around by the time the words leave your lips so, naturally, you miss the way his eyebrows come up so high they nearly touch his hairline and his steps falter a bit at your words. At the word.

And so, with that, your work day begins. It’s easy and you’re lucky – you know you are. You spend time with Soori, who happens to be a great companion. She’s easy going and tooth-ache inducing as her big starry eyes, courtesy of her father, are glued to you throughout the day.

You play with her and read her books you bring from the library, she’s a good source of research when it comes to testing out book club options. You already tried sticking to her age range but figured she’s advanced.Well, maybe you’re biased but she does get through the baby books fast, promptly losing interest. So, you read her the big kid books and that’s when she stills – her full attention on you as you read to her, putting on a show as you dramatize every scene.

Nap time usually finds you a bit bummed out that you have to part ways with her as you exit her nursery, lit only by twinkling stars adorning her ceiling, imitating a starry night sky. It’s pretty cool, you sort of wish you had one, too. You wonder if she’ll ever grow out of it. You hope she doesn’t.

You tidy up, read and write during this time – it stretches as plenty and you keep yourself entertained enough until it’s time to do it all over again.

You’re lucky, you think, realizing just how much you look forward to doing it all over again.

~

Jungkook is fond of you. He comes up with this conclusion as he parks his car in his driveway, the ignition coming to a stop as he unbuckles his seatbelt.

Jungkook is fond of you and he knows you don’t know that. He also knows it’s completely his fault. Hell, he even doubts his own friends still know he’s fond of them, if he’s being honest.

The thing about pain is that it doesn’t put other people’s happiness on hold. It doesn’t magically put a halt to the collective joy of the world just so one person can experience it in peace. A very far-fetched concept of peace, anyways.

He’s in pain but the world around him is sort of hitting him with an abrupt, ‘and what about it?’

It’s been four weeks since Ira left and the world has stopped suffering with him. His friends have gone back to their normal lives, his family stopped asking questions and Mrs. Chae stopped walking on eggshells around him. Even Soori has resumed her normal scheduled programming. She sleeps through the night, eats like she never made Jungkook cry in the bathroom more times than he’s willing to admit, and keeps growing up. Doing new things, leaving him in awe as she wonders about the world, taking it in.

She’s a happy baby and he knows it’s because she has a happy you by her side. So, he lets her bask in your aura, mirror your essence and that is enough for him. That is all that truly matters to him – her happiness.

As for him, your aura inflicts more heartbreak than it does healing. He doesn’t resent you for it or anything but he doesn’t give you the opening to shine your light into him either. He doesn’t know if its guilt or suffering – maybe it’s both. All he knows is that there is something about you that makes him feel profoundly unpreparedto start living again.

So that’s why he remains impassive as you hand Soori back to him, ruffling her silky hair before giving her a kiss that has her keening at your touch.

“Bye, Jungkook.” You tell him, a smile adorning your face as always. Soori’s hold on your finger pulls you into them.

You stumble forwards and he takes a step backwards.

“Goodbye, ___.”

~

If it weren’t for his friends, Jungkook’s weekends would be spent stuck at home, sulking in between trying to keep Soori entertained with screen time she should not be consuming and his lame train of thought he sometimes shares with her. He runs her through his list of chores, movies he wants to watch, endless options of what they could have for lunch. You name it, she listens.

And that was all good at first – his friends had given him the space to mourn his loss, cry his tears and settle into his new dynamic as a family of two. But they wouldn’t be any good of friends if they’d let it drag on the moment they found him getting a little too comfortable with said sulking.

So now Jungkook tags along family outings that require him and Soori leave the house and put on outfits that are more weekend-casual, as opposed to the suits and pyjamas they sport throughout the week.

It’s easy to dress himself but Soori, on the other hand, is a feat that challenges his three-coloured-palette fashion senses. Her wardrobe is so colourful, filled with pastels and different prints. It suits her, it does. But Jungkook has no idea how to make all her clothes harmonize into one simple outfit. It used to be Ira’s job – one of the few ones she actually enjoyed.

He takes one last look at her before he unbuckles her seat belt, picking her up from her car seat before they start walking towards Mai and Taehyung. The streets are busy today – a sunny Saturday that has the city full of people, restaurant tables officially propped outside to welcome in the warmer weather.

Today’s attempt at matching has Mai throwing her head back in laughter as she takes in a very happy and oblivious Soori in. A pair of baby pink denim pants, green Kermit the Frog shirt Jungkook had gotten for her during a trip to New York and a yellow sweater. But the cherry on top of the cake was the shrunk down version of Jungkook’s favorite Balenciaga sneakers adorning her tiny feet.

“What?” Jungkook says, even though he knows exactly why she’s laughing.

Mai takes Soori from him, smacking her lips into her cheek in a loud kiss. “You’re lucky you’re so cute, Soori girl.” She beams at Mai’s affection, “is daddy on a steady road down colour blindness?” She still has her baby voice on. Soori laughs, a full pair of bottom teeth in full display.

Jungkook giggles at the sight but Mai doesn’t let him have it.

“Kermit the Frog? Really?” she says, voice lowering at him.

“She can rock it.”

“I agree,” Taehyung steps in, taking Soori from Mai’s arms. He throws her in the air, hands catching her swiftly at her descend. Loud baby giggles fall past her lips.

“That’s because you are actually colour blind.” Mai says.

“Baby, I’m not? I literally dress better than you.” He retorts, words not matching his sweet tone as his lips form a signature pout.

Before Mai can protest Jungkook steps in, “that’s enough, children. Let’s go get Dae, I’m starving.”

“Library’s around the corner, but it’s still five minutes ‘til pick up. He doesn’t like it when I’m early,” Mai returns.

“Yeah, because it’s not his super cool uncle picking him up.”

“Good point.” She gives in – it’s good to hear his witty remarks again, even if they run scarce.

As they turn the corner the library comes into view. They step inside and a peaceful silence fills the air. Jungkook finds it comforting. He thinks about how he hasn’t stepped foot inside a library since his college years. That can’t be good. Soori has been extra keen during bed time stories. She’d usually fidget a lot in his grasp as he swayed her back and forth in her rocking chair – it almost felt like a bonding moment he had to force into her. But lately she just lays back in his chest and listens to his voice as he narrates the stories. He’s also aware this is because of you.

He’d expected to see you but it still takes him by surprise. Maybe it’s the change in setting. This is the first time he’s seeing you outside his home. How you manage to grasp the attention of six children at the same time is beyond him, but there you are, reciting a story about crayons going on a strike. He spots Dae, mouth agape in awe as he listens to you attentively.

Mai walks forwards, hiding behind a book shelf and observing the sweet scene that unfolds as the kids discuss the story.

“That’s your nanny?” Taehyung says, voice a whisper.

“Yeah.”

“I mean, your life has always somewhat resembled a movie but this is beyond.” He laughs, a little too loudly, earning himself a scowling from Mai as she looks back at them.

Jungkook frowns. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Your nanny’s hot.” He tells his friend, unabashedly, “you are allowed to acknowledge objective attractiveness, you know?”

But before he can answer you’re wrapping up today’s session, turning to the kids and asking them if they enjoyed it. The loud cheers startle him a bit – he turns his head around as if making sure he was still in a library. The commotion is followed by a chorus of, ‘Yes, Miss ___.’

“Miss ___...” Taehyung sing-songs in a mock sultry voice, waggling his eyebrows at Jungkook.

“Shut up,” is all he says.

The kids get up, beginning to disperse, some coming to you for hugs or to sit at your lap to tell you things Jungkook can’t quite make up from a distance. They hand you books, offering their suggestions for next week’s book club and you accept them with a smile. You seem genuinely happy and excited – he finds it refreshing for some reason he can’t pin-point. Your nails are painted all a different colour, Jungkook notes. Toned down shades of yellow, green, blue, orange and pink. Maybe his colourful choice of an outfit for Soori wasn’t that far off. It looks good on you.

“Uncle Jungoo!” Dae’s voice breaks him from his trance and he comes to his knees, arms wide open as the little boy runs towards him. He picks him up in a hug once he crashes into his chest.

“Hi, buddy. Missed you.”

“Missed you, too.” His voice is sweet and Jungkook feels recharged already, his mood lifting. “Hi Soori Blue,” he says, turning to Soori.

“Soori Blue?” You ask, coming to stand in front of them.

“Hey, hey-” Taehyung is startled as Soori throws her entire body weight towards you, free-falling. Your reflexes don’t fail you and, thankfully, you catch her quickly. “Phew. You should be a baseball player.”

Jungkook is relieved to see her in your arms. For various reasons.

“She’s getting too fearless.” You say, shifting her around until she rests at the crook of your waist.

“I’m Taehyung, nice to meet you.” He extends his hand and you shake it.

“Nice to meet you, too. Dae has told me a lot about you.”

“Oh, likewise.”

“Hey,” Jungkook says, putting Dae on the floor.

“Uncle Jungoo, you know Miss ___?” The little boy asks, looking from you to Jungkook and back.

“Yes, buddy. She takes care of Soori when I’m away at work.”

“Wow, how cool!” He says and you smile at him.

“Come on, let’s get your backpack so we can go have pizza!” Taehyung says and that’s all it takes for Dae to run off excitedly.

“Kermit the Frog?” You ask, pulling down at Soori’s shirt to get a better look.

“Everybody keeps saying that.” He says, slightly irritated.

“I think it’s cool. But that’s because you’re the coolest. Aren’t you, Soo?” You coo at her.

“It’s her middle name,” he says, answering your previous question.

“Blue,” you state, looking at Soori. It fits her. “Cute.”

He simply nods.

Mai comes to you, warm smile adorning her face, “look who found you!” she tickles Soori’s tummy.

“A more than pleasant surprise,” you flush her plump cheek to yours.

“Hey, I love your dress.” Mai says. You look down at what you’re wearing. It’s a plain lilac dress. You thank her anyways. “Maybe you can give Ggukie some pointers.”

Dae calls for her and she excuses herself, leaving you and Jungkook alone once again. He’s a sight to behold today, that’s for sure. Out of his usual dark suits and dress shirts he looks even more youthful. A plain white shirt, somewhat oversized, resting a bit low over his collar bones. You have to mentally scold yourself for staring at his neck for that long. Light wash blue jeans with cuts at the thighs – Jeon Jungkook can dress his age.

Your next remark is inevitable.

“Ggukie, huh?” On a common day you wouldn’t dare joke around with him, let alone in such a condescending manner. But today you can’t help yourself.

“Miss ___, huh?” He jokes back. It leaves his mouth before he can process it and he regrets it immediately. What if you think it’s inappropriate?

But you laugh, chest fluttering a little at the fact he bit back. You give into the joke fully and say, “now who’s in charge?”

Jungkook hates how your words make his brain short circuit for a second too long. But he can’t help himself when his gaze meets yours and he gives you a smile. A big, genuine smile. Bunny teeth and everything. What a day.

He stares at you, taking you in. Taehyung’s words echo in the back of his head. He observes you with that objectivity he was talking about before. He sees it. It’s in your smile, he thinks. You smile with your whole face – it starts at your eyes, opening wide before they close in crescents, making the sides crinkle a bit. Your whole expression softens before it finally falls on your lips. Your lips which, objectively speaking, are full and cherry red. A natural pout to you that throws endearment into your every expression. You never fully look annoyed, he realizes. And it’s because of that pout.

But he knows there’s more besides objectivity when it comes to you. And before he allows his eyes to linger down your face to your body, he stops himself.

He cuts your moment short and gets back to business.

“I wanted to ask you if you’d be able to work this weekend?” He says, face back to his normal nonchalant expression it takes on around you. You pretend to ignore the way your heart sinks a little.

“Uh, sure. My friend Lucy can cover for me here at the library – the kids love her.”

“Great. It’s a short trip from Friday to Sunday. I have to attend the inauguration of my new resort. It’s only two hours away by plane.”

You don’t even have time to control the way your mouth drops, staring at him in utter confusion.

He remains unfazed.

~

“Jeon Jungkook is taking you on vacation?” Lucy asks, mouth parted in surprise.

“Lucy, no-” you start, but it’s to no avail.

“To the beach?!”

You haven’t even made it past the living room yet. Bag still over your shoulder, keys in hand. Lucy is buzzed for the early stages of a Saturday afternoon. She’d been perfecting her French baguette recipe and she simply could not not pair her success with an experience. So, she made a charcuterie board out of it. Red wine and everything – your glass had been placed in your hand the moment she opened the door.

“It is not a vacation. It is the inauguration of his new hotel. He wants Soori there so that throws me into the equation. By default.” You explain.

“Uh… it’s not even 1 pm, stop throwing his sexiness in my face by reminding me he owns hotels!” She huffs, pointing her index finger at you in a scolding manner.

“So, being drunk by noon is acceptable but don’t we dare throw sex in there?”

“Who said anything about sex?” her grin is wicked, to say the least.

“Lucy.”

“Hey, I am not to blame for the places your mind goes! But I’m also not one to blame you. I wouldn’t be any better at the prospect of seeing Jeon Jungkook in swim shorts.” You roll your eyes at this.

“I hate flying.”

“You’ve flown twice.”

“And I hated it.”

“You’re probably going to fly first class, courtesy of Mr. Jeon.”

“No,” you say, mind still fixated on your fear of heights, “we’re taking his plane.”

“What the fuck, ___?!”

~

Jungkook doesn’t think he’s ever seen you so quiet. And it’s not only the way you’re not trying to make small talk every chance you get the way you usually do. You’re eerily still, which is even more abnormal.

You’re both standing at the gates of the private airport, waiting for the SUV that will take you to his plane. Soori’s in his arms but she keeps trying to get your attention, offering you her plushie. When that doesn’t work, she attempts to hand you her pacifier – that doesn’t work either.

All through the short car ride you only get more nervous, leg bouncing in place as you stare out the window. A plane takes off in the distance and your eyes widen. You’re way too close. What if it just… fell down? You frown at your morbid thought.

As you step outside the SUV, you’re met directly with your means of transportation for the day. It’s a decent sized plane, creamy white with dark blue stripes grazing the middle. There’s a blue mat by the stairs that lead you to the entrance of the plane – the words The West End Collection written in white cursive letters. If your mind wasn’t too preoccupied with thoughts of how you feel like your life is nearing its end, you’d be able to form a witty remark on how presumptuous that is. But instead, you’re thinking about sending your mom a dramatic goodbye text. You know, just in case.

You hold tight onto the railing as you climb up the stairs, a bubbly air-hostess greeting the three of you as you step foot on the plane. The furniture in here looks more expensive than all of your belongings. Witty until the very end, you’ll claim that one.

“Welcome. Good morning, Mr. Jungkook. Miss Soori, long-time no see,” the air hostess coos at her. If Soori can do this, then you can, too. Right?

“Morning, Lydia. How’s the forecast looking today?” Jungkook asks, sitting Soori down in one of the cushiony seats.

“Blue skies ahead, Mr. Jungkook. A bit of wind up north will probably have us experiencing some turbulence through the second half of the trip, but it shouldn’t be too bad.”

You gulp. It’s loud enough to have them turning their heads, puzzled expressions searching for yours. You avoid their gazes.

Lydia senses your discomfort, though, and she walks over to you, motioning to one of the seats for you to sit down. You smile at her, unable to form many words. “Is there anything I can get you,” she asks.

“Huh?” You look up at her, eyes still a bit lost.

“Two iced americanos, please, Lydia.” Jungkook’s voice brings you back.

“Coming right up,” she says before turning around, making her way to the small kitchenette at the front of the plane.

Jungkook thinks about heading towards the back seats, his favourite single-sofa waiting for him. But he can clearly see the uneasiness you’re in and so he takes Soori in his arms, plopping them both in the seat in front of you.

“You okay,” he asks, looking for your gaze that seems to be fixed on nowhere in particular.

“I hate flying,” the words come out of you at speed lighting. “Well, I hate heights, more so.”

“Ahh,” but before Jungkook can find the words to calm down your nerves you hit him with a set of loaded ones.

“I also read somewhere that private flights amount to more deadly crashes than commercial ones do. Small planes are, statistically, more dangerous. As opposed to the big planes that are even safer than cars. Did you know that?” You’re word vomiting, something you do out of nervousness after your brain can’t tolerate stage one of fright: speechlessness.

Jungkook raises one brow at you, a small smile tugging at his lips and then he chuckles. Out of all your attempts at humouring him, this is what gets to him? He must be a sadist, you conclude.

“If Google says so…,” he says, a playful ring to his voice.

“It was a very reliable source.”

“They’re right.”

“What?” your voice shakes, you were hoping him and his big brain would refute your theory.

“Statistically, I mean. They are right. A lot of the crashes are due to poor servicing, though. We service our planes monthly, and always right before flying. So, unless the odds are not in your favour today, we should make it there in one piece.”

“The odds are never in my favour.” This has him full on laughing now and you have to admit the sound eases your nerves a little.

“Here, can you hold her for a minute?” You nod, reaching for Soori who falls into your arms effortlessly. You watch him head to the front of the plane.

You bounce her in your lap. She’s calm and unbothered and it eases you a little – your shoulders relaxing, releasing tension you didn’t even know you were holding.

Jungkook comes back after a bit – two iced coffees in his hands. He hands you one before he settles back on his seat. You thank him and he hums in return, letting his body melt into the cushions. His elbow rests on the armrest next to him, fingers coming to his lips as he observes you. You take a sip of your coffee and wince at the taste. He laughs.

“What is this?!”

“Iced americano,” he responds, feigning innocence, but the smile on his face gives him away.

“It is not.” You retaliate.

“Fine. Iced americano, pump of scotch.” His nonchalance astounds you.

“Jungkook! I’m- Soori-,”

“Relax, I’ve got her. No fun coffee for me. Plus, it’s not enough to have you seeing stars. Just enough to take the edge off.”

“This is not very appropriate work hours behaviour.”

“I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Now, you try. You try really hard to not fall into the cliché that is Jeon Jungkook. You try really hard to not take his words as anything other than what they are. In retrospect, he’s never even given you enough rope for you to second guess his actions. But seeing him in less impersonal contexts like this one, or the library last week, is playing dangerous games with the left side of your brain. You know, your rationality.

Being out-of-office suits him. His whole demeanour slows down, becomes a bit more mellow. He’s easier, to put it bluntly. He wears baggy, comfy clothes. His hair looks ruffly and you notice how soft his features look when he’s well rested. His duality is, pardon your French, mind-fucking. And so as much as you try, you’d be lying to yourself if you didn’t admit Jeon Jungkook has officially crossed the line of ‘yes, he’s attractive but also your boss’ to ‘yes, he’s your boss but he also sends a whole troop of butterflies straight to your tummy every time he throws that slow blink, tendered smile at you.’ And it might be the scotch but you’d also be lying to yourself if you didn’t acknowledge that you, in all of your cliché-loving glory, are in trouble.

He looks to the side, eyes falling to the window next to you. He reaches for it, bringing the panel down.

“Out of sight, out of mind,” he says, settling back into his seat, legs spreading as he makes himself comfortable.

So much trouble.

~

Jungkook’s less than conventional recipe to cure fear of flying seems to have worked for you. By the time the plane had taken off you were a bit more relaxed and, needless to say, hazy minded. It was quite amusing to see you fall into the effects of a little bit of hard liquor in the early stages of the morning.

Soori had fallen asleep soon after, the white noise coming from the plane’s engine getting to her. She now rested peacefully in a travel bassinet in the seat next to him.

The lights in the cabin grew dim and the both of you went into airplane mode. Headphones in, falling into a comfortable silence. Jungkook can’t quite remember when was the last time he’d fallen into comfortable silence with someone. And by someone he means an adult. He found himself enjoying it in a way that eased him. Jungkook has never experienced fear of flying – or heights. But he supposed the nervous edge you’d carried could pretty much resemble the one that had settled upon him the moment Ira left. That fear that convinces you that the end will see you crumbling – crashing. The type of fear that has the odds against you. So, when you fell back into that tranquillity that characterizes you, he felt himself relaxing, too. It wasn’t conscious but he welcomed it. He was tired of fighting so as to keep his pain comfortable.

He fidgets in his seat, eyes closed as he tries to fall asleep, but his attempts are failing. He’s not necessarily tense so he should be drifting – the white noise usually gets to him, too. Maybe he’s not comfortable enough, or warm enough. Or maybe his mind can’t stop thinking about the last thing he witnessed before closing his eyes. Your weight had shifted to the closed window of the plane, a dark brown leather journal propped on your knee, pen gliding against the ivory pages as you wrote away. You hadn’t paused once and he couldn’t help wonder what had your thoughts running at such a rapid pace. Plane crash statistics, probably.

His inability to fall asleep has him feeling restless so he finally gives in, opening his eyes. You’ve remained in the exact position they’d last left you in. He stares, taking advantage of how hyper-focused you seem to be. Your hold on the notebook is delicate and he notices how well-lived it looks. The soft leather has wrinkled at the corners and you’ve inked a couple of phrases he can’t quite make up into the fabric. He notices a little star in blue ink, slightly lopsided. Before he can stop himself, his lips form a smile. It lingers, softening his expression.

You feel it. His eyes on you. Your eyes leave the page, gaze shifting up, though he can’t tell your eyes are on him. You feel nervous at first but his smile pushes that feeling aside. It’s contagious so you mimic it, enjoying the built-up fuzzy feeling at the pit of your stomach. You’re not sure it’s inhabited by sole butterflies anymore. Something else makes way inside of you, a feeling which you keep unnamed in hopes you can tame it by doing so.

He breaks himself out of his trance, looking up. His eyes meet yours and his smile falters a bit. Yours doesn’t, though. It doesn’t lose its warmth, its welcoming nature. So, he lets his lips move to the beat of your actions once again.

You break the little eternity your exchange held, hand resuming your stream of consciousness. He lets himself watch you for a couple more seconds – lets himself indulge in your light, the same light he’d been avoiding.

His eyes flutter a couple of times before sleep settles upon him.

You’re the last thing he sees before he fully drifts.

~

You wouldn’t say you’re seasoned when it comes to hotels stays. Let alone five-star ones. The last time you stayed in one you and Lucy feared for your health to such extent you ended up showering with flip flops on.

The West End is nothing like anything you’ve experienced. Not only is it top-notch luxury and comfort from as early as stepping into the lobby but, you also get to experience your first taste of said luxury with the benefits rooming with the owner brings you. Not to mention the fact that the hotel doesn’t technically open its doors until inauguration tomorrow night – leaving you, Jungkook and Soori with an entire hotel to yourselves with the exception of the staff, of course. Staff who also happen to be at your service twenty-four-hours a day. Their words, not yours.

Well, there is another exception. It comes in a pair of five-inch heels and hair so sleeked back it’s giving you a headache.

“Mr. Jungkook,” her voice is the definition of cool, calm and collected. All of her, really.

“Kaya, nice to see you,” he retorts. You don’t miss the way he takes a less formal tone with her.

“Likewise,” she looks at Soori, who’s head is resting in her father’s shoulder. “Hi, sweetheart. Did the plane ride get you sleepy?” her voice softens but not enough to lose its sharpness. Soori gives her a loopy smile.

“Kaya, this is ___.” Jungkook turns to you and you proceed to shake her hand.

She smiles, nothing but politely. “Ah, yes. We’ve talked on the phone. It’s nice to finally meet you.” For some reason, said phone conversation had you picturing her as a stern lady well into her forties. A brown suit, short hair. Kaya can’t be any older than Jungkook and her black suit looks designer. She’s beautiful, too. In that femme fatale way.

“You too,” at this, she gives you another tight-lipped smile.

Jungkook starts walking absentmindedly, eyes scanning the lobby. He seems pleased. He turns to Kaya as he says, “so, give me the run down, Kay.”

Kay?

“We’re meeting with the event organizer in twenty to run through some last-minute details for the reception. After that, you have an appointment of the outmost importance with none other than rest and relaxation,” he shoots her a smile – a dazzling, boyish smile. She nods and continues, “your friends are arriving at nine tomorrow, the plane’s already on its way back to the city to pick them up. Brunch at ten, don’t be late. Your parents will be here at 1 pm, sharp. Lunch will be served at 1:15. Your father wanted a seaside view so you’ll be eating by the cabanas.” He rolls his eyes at this, “you know I don’t fight the man. Anyways, we’ll give them an official tour of the premises at 3. Reception begins at 6, we’ll cut the ribbon at 6:15, dinner at 7 and then the beach party. The plane will be ready for you on Sunday so just let me know when they can expect you and I’ll pass the message along.” She finishes, letting out a breath as to finalize her previous statement.

“You’re a Rockstar,” is all he says before you make your way to the elevator.

A Rockstar?

The elevator ride is quiet. Kaya types away on her phone at superhuman speed. Jungkook stands in the middle of the two of you, eyes penetrating the doors. Even Soori is quiet – falling in and out of sleep in her father’s arms.

The corridors are wide and long and it’s quite a walk to get to the room. Kaya stands in front of the double doors and taps the room key into the card reader. The doors come open and to say you’re impressed is an understatement.

The room is not quite a room. The first thing you see is the ocean. The balcony seems to be never ending, illuminating the space, and you’re so high up it feels like you’re at sea level. There’s a full kitchen to the side, marble island and everything, and a dining table that gives way to the living room. The finish of the room is in that impeccably clean and modern aesthetic you’ve grown used to since working for Jungkook.

“The West Wing,” Kaya states, pride lacing her voice. “Master bedroom is that way, Soori’s nursery is right next to it and opposite that we have the guest bedroom. Where you’ll be sleeping, ___.” She says the latter with an edge to her voice you don’t miss.

“Perfect. Thank you, Kaya. I’ll see you downstairs in ten?”

“You got it, Mr. Jungkook.” That’s the last thing she says before she turns around, heels clinking on the marble floors, pony tail swaying side to sides as she makes her grand exit.

Jungkook walks over to the balcony, sliding the doors open. The warm, salty breeze fills the space. It’s so nice it takes you a moment to register where exactly life has landed you today.

“Why does everyone call you Mr. Jungkook,” you ask, startling him a little as you come to stand next to him. The vastness of the ocean stands before you. It’s breath-taking.

“Mr. Jeon is my dad,” you nod at this, “plus, he’s still the tycoon around here.”

“All of this is yours, huh?”

He clicks his tongue, a pensative look to his face. “Ours, I like to believe.” He says, looking at Soori who’s just began to fully wake up. You smile at his words. “Hey, the meeting shouldn’t take long. Why don’t you two get changed and meet me by the beach? This one won’t sleep through the night if she naps again.”

“You got it, Mr. Jungkook,” you say, taking Soori from him. He shakes his head at you but you don’t miss the light chuckle that escapes his lips.

~

“It is an honour to be at your service again, Mr. Jungkook.” Mr. Ilsung bows repeatedly, smiling with pride as Jungkook taste tests the finger food set to be served at tomorrow’s reception.

“I think the honour’s all mine, Chef. This is- mmm,” He stuffs another canapé into his mouth.

Mr. Ilsung beams at the sight.

Growing up, Jungkook found himself spending more time in hotel rooms and lobbies than he did in his actual home. It was his father’s tactic to have him grow passionate about the business. It didn’t quite work back then. Instead, it would result in Jungkook sneaking out of his father’s sight, giving way to his many hotel escapades. He would find himself in the most remote of places – crossing every Do Not Enter and Staff Only sign that came his way.

He hid in rooftops and utility rooms but his favourite by far was the kitchen. He met Mr. Ilsung during one of those escapades when he was only seventeen. He wasn’t Chef back then, though. He’d only be assisting in the kitchen but they fell into a fondness that made him feel like family. He’d keep him company and in return, Mr. Ilsung would keep him well fed – treating him to all of his favourite foods, his touch taking on every recipe with a twist.

His wife had fallen ill a year ago, leaving him a widower. Everything happened so suddenly the man found himself walking into an early retirement, too consumed by sorrow. This had made Jungkook feel more nostalgic than he’d imagined possible, which lead him to present the man with an offer that he found himself unable to deny. Mr. Ilsung didn’t have kids, and now with his wife gone nothing was holding him to the city. Jungkook’s idea to make him Sue Chef at his new hotel had him packing up his belongings and starting his life over by the seaside. He was immeasurably grateful.

Jungkook sees one of the cooks walk over, holding an assortment of fruits, chocolates and a bottle of his favourite red wine inside a basket adorned with roses. “What is this?”

“A welcome gift, Mr. Jungkook. The chocolates are for Miss Soori, though.” Mr. Ilsung sets the basket atop the kitchen counter.

“This is very kind, Mr. Ilsung. Thank you very much.”

Jungkook takes one look at the basket and it doesn’t take his eyes long to find it – a greeting note, both his and Ira’s name written on it.

Kaya notices this and she visibly tenses next to him, eyes widening as she begins to apologize profusely.

“Don’t. And don’t give anyone hell over this, Kaya,” he says, narrowing his eyes at her. “It’s not their fault.” She just nods.

It’s not anyone’s fault. Not Kaya’s, not the concierge at the lobby who probably printed it, not Mr. Ilsung. He doesn’t even think he blames Ira anymore. Blame bounces around and he’s come to realize that in the end it doesn’t really do anything to ease pain. On the contrary, it fuels it.

“I will make sure it doesn’t happen again, though,” Kaya tells him and he turns to her, a soft but grateful smile on his lips. “Now go. Go build sand castles with that cute, chubby baby of yours.”

~

For once, Jungkook puts blame onto something that doesn’t tear at his heart. Quite the opposite actually, it heals him. He blames the ocean.

As he walks down the boardwalk that leads to the beach, he can feel the tiny grains of flyaway sand under his feet. It’s a sunny day and the water is a deep shade of blue, gentle waves breaking at the shore, darkening the once white of the sand.

He thinks you and Soori match the view. You wear white and she wears blue – in solid one pieces that even resemble each other in shape. She plays with the sand, curious as ever before she brings her hand to her mouth, probably swallowing a good amount before you’re frantically pulling her hand away. You laugh, though, and she takes on an expression that goes from fear to amusement at this.

Jungkook can’t help but laugh, too, and at this, you both turn to him. He tells himself you’re only mimicking Soori’s excitement to humour her, wind her up a little even.

“Say hi, daddy!” you tell her, waving her little hand. Jungkook smiles so, so big before he waves back, coming to sit down next to her.

“How’s my beach babe,” he asks, and you have to put actual mental strain to remember he’s talking about his daughter.

“The sand is incredibly entertaining, even after twenty minutes. Especially when we find seashells,” you open your palm, a handful of them coming to view. “Hey, does she like the water? The tide seems calm…”

“She does. Don’t know how she’ll feel about the temperature, though.”

You shrug. “We can try.”

Your hair dances in the wind a little bit and under the bright sun he can see just how soft it looks. His eyes travel down, stopping right below your neck – a silver necklace with a round pendant falls right in the middle, tiny blue jewels make up a star at its center.

“What do you write about?”

You scoff before saying, “will you laugh if I tell you?”

“Am I that much of an asshole?” He’s smiling but you can sense the worry in his voice.

“Language,” you say. “And I won’t confirm or deny without the presence of a lawyer.”

Jungkook laughs. He doesn’t know if he should be laughing at your bold wittiness but he lets himself throw his head back, throaty laugh falling past his lips. Joint with the sound of the ocean it makes for a heavenly sound, you think.

“Tell me – I won’t laugh without the presence of one either, promise.”

“Fine. Feelings, stories… poetry,” your voice comes to a murmur at the last word, gaze falling down.

“Do you turn every feeling into poetry?”

“Kind of, I guess. It helps – to turn feelings into something more. Say pain, for example. Isn’t it comforting to think it can become something other than just pain?” Your question is rhetoric and he doesn’t answer it – but he nods and something in his eyes tells you he’s storing your words somewhere in there.

Soori shrieks at the feel of the water hitting her little toes, but neither of you can tell if it’s in wonder or terror. You kneel down, taking in her expression and you laugh, looking up at Jungkook who’s thumbs are in Soori’s hold, tighter than he’s ever felt it.

“I think she likes it,” you say, salt water droplets falling from your hand to her head and she kicks excitedly at the feel, giggles leaving her mouth.

What if pain could turn into something other than just pain?

Jungkook thinks that’s brave.

He thinks you are, too.

~

i love them, i do. jungkook’s character development? so sexy of him. they’re so soft and cute and my heart just aaaaaaaaagh for these two. I truly hope u enjoyed. do let me know if u did, i love talking to u guys about it <3 thank u for all the love! chapter 4 is cooking and so are my sexy juices bc ggukie needs some loving methinks. so buckle up buckaroos!!!🤫

Though only one chapter has come, I'm already loving it. I'm eagerly looking forward to the series 😊. Proposal au is always been one of my favorites and I'm sure this series will be wonderful. Keep up with your good work dear author 💜❤

Favorite Jungkook Fic 🐰

This is the list for Series (some are ongoing) and Two shots

Series || Two shots

✩ Worst of You @oureuphoria | Angst, Fluff (Jungkook Police Officer au. Jungkook has commitment issue) <Complete>

✩ @ahundredtimesover

Inevitable | Angst, Fluff, Smut (Jungkook sports au. Dad Jungkook) <Complete>

Empty Space | Angst, Smut, Fluff (Two Shots. Police Officer Jungkook. Ex fwbs) <Complete>

✩ Re: Untitled @to-star-lake | Angst, Smut, Fluff (Husband Jungkook. Marriage au. It has a big twist and that is mind-blowing) <Complete>

✩ His Name @jimlingss | Angst (Jungkook has DID. OC is a psychologist. It is really sad 😭) <Complete>

✩ Take My Hands Now @manggojooz | Angst, Fluff (Jungkook College /Uni au. OC has a special power of feeling others' pain) <Complete>

✩ Angel's Trumpet @hansolmates | Fluff, Angst, Slight Smut (Jungkook idol au. Kind of fantasy au) <Complete>

✩ Stoic and Redemption @blue-jade | Angst, Smut (Two shots. Husband Jungkook. Infidelity au. Parents au in the second story) <Complete>

✩ @flowerwrites06

Utopic Desire | Angst, Smut (Jungkook vampire au) <Complete>

Bow to You | Angst, Smut yet (Royalty au. Infidelity au. King Jungkook Queen OC) <Ongoing>

✩ To Build A Home @soft4gguk | Fluff, Smut, Angst (Single dad Jungkook. Nanny OC) <Ongoing>

✩ Evolution of A Lover's Heart @jeonstudios | Angst, Fluff (Jungkook College /Uni au. Fuckboy Jungkook but he is a good person now after an incident. But he is hurt 😭) <Ongoing>

✩ An Ode to a Broken Heart @smoochkooks | Angst, Slight Smut yet (Drabble series. Unrequited love. Best friend au) <Ongoing>

✩ Burning Love @bangtanficsforyou | Angst yet (Only prologue has come. Jungkook is OC's ex) <Ongoing>

✩ Candy Cane Ache @monvante | Angst, Fluff yet (The Proposal au. Journalist Jungkook) <Ongoing>

Dynasty

➜ Words: 17.4k

➜ Genres: 50% Angst, 35% Smut, 15% Fluff, Historical!AU

➜ Summary: It’s no secret that the Emperor is infertile. But even so, a girl is selected every three months and brought to become his concubine in hopes of conceiving the next heir. This time, it’s you. And in order to prevent execution, Jeon Jungkook might just aid you in conception.

➜ Notes: Inspired by the movie the Treacherous (2015)

➜ Warnings: Brief depictions of reluctant sexual intercourse, dubious consent, emphasis on impregnation, sloppy seconds, creampies, pregnancy. Reader discretion is advised.

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