#jungkook.doc

[yeojaa]

GIRL we need a devil in a new suit drabble where jungkook gets jealous pls bless us😭😭❤️

[ read devil in a new suit ]

pairing.  jjk x f!reader.  rating.  explicit.  tags.  kook being hilarious and naive, reader being a little frustrated but head over heels, smut in the form of:  titty sucking (kook is a big boob guy in this), cunnilingus, kook wanting to love you forever.  wc.  2.1k.  author note.  i am... so in love with this couple so what was meant to be a “kook gets jealous and breaks reader’s back” turned into... this.

Jeon Jungkook doesn’t get jealous.  Not because he doesn’t care, or he’s unaffected, or any other negative connotation under the sun.  He doesn’t because he’s him, too soft and sweet and silly to believe the worst in people.  (This, coming from the man who’d steered clear of dating apps and blind dates because he was worried he’d be hurt.)

Once, you’d been waiting for him to pick you - he’d been running late, dinner with his parents and younger sister - and he’d found you chatting politely to an old fling of yours.  Well, maybe not so old.  A recent fling, a friend of sorts.  Someone who’d swanned into your life during your college years and had remained there ever since, popping his head in from time to time. 

You’d always been on good terms, caught up for lunch every six months or so when he’d return home from his overseas job.  In the past, you’d found familiarity in the shape of his hands, the neon outline of his almond eyes and pouting lips.  He was good in bed, as charming between the sheets as he was on the street.

But your heart belonged to Jungkook now - had, before you’d even realised it - and Taewoo was just another guy.  Another face in a crowd.

Still, you’d thought your beloved boyfriend would have some sort of reaction.  Maybe a quirk of his perfectly groomed brows, a certain tightness belying his displeasure in the softly peaked bow of his mouth.  You’d spied neither after extracting yourself from the hug and waving goodbye.  Jungkook had been sunshine and sweetness, opening your door for you and stamping a kiss to your cheek.  

That night, he’d loved you how he always had, with you crying his name and making a mess of his sheets.

Another time, you’d been at a work function.  One of those ridiculous galas you loved, full of women in their highest heels and men in their swankiest watches.  (You’d worn Aquazzura that night, Jungkook with an Audemars Piguet loose around his wrist.)  

He’d stuck close to your side, far more interested in the way your dress hugged your figure, cut intimidatingly high over your thigh and revealed the swell of your ass at juuuust the right angle.  Yejin had been the only one to tear him away, insisting on shots that you knew she couldn’t handle.  Anything went if free booze was involved.

Thirty minutes later - give or take, since you hadn’t had a watch of your own on - your boyfriend had returned, flushed and adorable.  There’d been a garden of colour creeping over the expanse of his chest, peeking around the collar of his shirt and disappearing into his neatly tousled strands.  He’d giggled his way back to you, somehow completely oblivious to the man that’d found you at your table and settled himself into the spot labelled Jeon Jungkook.

The imposter had been affronted, gaze narrowed at the younger man who was a little too loose, a little too smiley.  Wholly out of place at an event like this, where people spent too much time up their own asses, noses held aloft and business cards exchanged.  

(One of the reasons you loved Jungkook so much.  He was a breath of fresh air in a world you thrived in - found humour in, at the very least - carrying you high above the clouds with the sound of his laughter.)

“Hi, baby.”  Your darling boy smothered you in kisses, traced them up and over the exposed expanse of your shoulder, nosing against your skin, utterly unbothered by the man shooting him daggers, wishing him ill from the spot he’d wrongly claimed.  

Of course, he’d thought Jungkook was making a point - claiming what was his - but that was so far from the truth you’d almost laughed when he’d spoken, voice carrying above the slightly laboured breaths of your lover.  “I guess that’s my cue to leave, huh?”

You’d smiled, nodded with a hand threaded into cornsilk curling over Jungkook’s nape.  “Looks like it.”

(Then your idiot love - your big-hearted moron, your doe-eyed baby - had come up for air, cheek resting in the palm of his hand.  “Where’s your friend?”  He’d asked, eyes so wide you couldn’t doubt the sincerity of his question.)

Such was the kind of person Jungkook was, with an unwavering belief in the goodness of others, a silver thread outlining everyone’s silhouette.  You sometimes wondered what it would take to drive him to any sort of displeasure, any sort of emotion beyond quiet melancholy (seldom seen but heavily felt, when the rare occasions rose) or easygoing amicability (his default setting).  Not that you’d ever push to see that, of course.

You were happy.  Hopelessly in love.  You wouldn’t have traded him for the world - couldn’t even fathom doing anything to hurt him.  

And yet, you discover albeit by accident - it’s really not that hard.  All it takes is a pretty girl.

“This looks incredible,”  she says, standing close, long dark hair falling in a fluid curtain down the line of her back.  It’s the loveliest shade, cool-toned beneath the boutique lights, and reflects colour like a waterfall.  You’d complimented her on it when you’d stepped into the fitting area, a handful of hangers set across the rolling rack.

Fingers smooth over embroidery, revelling in the feeling of it over your skin.  It’s a beautiful thing, black tulle that hangs to your fingertips.  Not Jungkook’s preferred style - he much prefers harnesses and so many straps it might as well be a cat’s cradle - but you think he loves it nonetheless. 

(You’d confirm, but he’s been stoically silent, seated in the plush chair tucked beside the privacy partition, normally soft gaze hard and trained on his phone.  He doesn’t seem very much in the mood to talk, hardly reacting with each outfit change.  A nod here, a smile there.  Not even the most scandalous of the options - a black corset decorated in Leavers lace - had elicited his usual enthusiasm.)  

“You think so?”  You’re not insecure about your body - know what it looks best in, which assets to play up.  Still, it’s nice to hear from someone other than your doting boyfriend, the people caught in your orbit.  

The sales associate nods, beams at you in the multiple mirrors.  A hand of her own drifts over the thin strap of the slip - an innocent gesture that dislodges wayward strands of hair from beneath.  “Of course— and I’m not just saying that because I’m trying to sell it.” 

You nod, satisfied.  Even if Jungkook doesn’t seem ecstatic, your own joy makes up for it, buyer’s delight spilling over.  “I’ll take the satin robe, the blush silk set, and this in the violet.”  

“Great choices,”  she hums, pulling back the curtain to the adjoining change room to allow you privacy.  Silence follows as you slip the delicate number off, returning it to its hanger.  You don’t expect when the brunette continues speaking - presumably to your surprisingly surly boyfriend.  “Don’t you agree?” 

“Yep.”  He’s never been a man of few words, usually so full of excitement that he rambles when he doesn’t mean to.  

It’s a dead giveaway - a confirmation that something’s wrong.

Unfortunately for you, you don’t have time to broach the subject, your purchases already paid for and a firm hand on the small of your back the moment you’ve stepped out of the dressing stall.  “Jungkookie?”  You mean it quietly, just for the two of you, but falter when he slots his fingers between yours and all but tugs you out of the boutique.  You hardly even have a chance to toss the helpful girl an apologetic smile, imposing glass swinging shut behind you.

“Men—men are fine.  I don’t have to worry about them.”  There’s a confidence you’re so proud to see, turning his words as solid as the weight that rests against your hip, sears burning heat into your bared skin.  “No other man is going to love you better than me.  But women?”  A shudder runs the length of his imposing frame, tugs his shoulders up to his ears and tingles the small of his back.  “Women are scary.”  (It’s a sentiment he’s echoed in the past.  In particular, months ago when you’d insisted he dive into the dating scene.)

Hands thread through his too-soft strands, twirl the ends around your fingers as he speaks, nearly muffled into the crook of your shoulder.  He’s being so tender, giving you all the love he has to offer as he writes his insecurities into your skin, offers them with the wet of his tongue.

“A woman might sweep you off your feet and steal you away.”

You laugh then - sound snapping past your teeth before you can tuck it away.  It filters loudly into the baies scented candle you’d lit when you’d gotten into his apartment.  

Jungkook whines in response - a terribly endearing sound that makes you roll your eyes but only with affection (always with that) - and buries his face into your tits, sucking your nipple into his mouth with complete disregard for the tulle that acts as a barrier.  Saliva stains the material, makes it stick to your hardened bud as he laves over it with his tongue - bites surprisingly gently - and tugs it just hard enough to have you keening.

“S-s’not funny,”  he huffs, palming your other breast in his broad tattooed palm.  When he continues, he bites into you like he’s got a personal vendetta against whatever lies beneath your flesh.  “She was flirting with you.”  

It’s less of a sigh of annoyance - more sensual, drowning in need.  “She was not.”

He nips at the delicate flesh again, spreads crimson marks all across the sensitive skin until it’s a mosaic beneath the fabric, his finest work painted by his second favourite brush.  “That’s what you think but she was.”  The hand previously kneading your skin drops, flat of his palm sliding easily over your bare pussy.  

There’s zero hesitation when he slots his fingers on either side of your clit, catches the delicate pearl against the webbing of his hand and applies pressure that has you bucking beneath him.  It’s not nearly as aggressive as he normally is but it’s just as good, paired with the sinful motions of his tongue and teeth. 

“She wants to be the one doing this,”  he continues, saliva pooling across your chest, slipping into the valley of your breasts only to be licked up by the flat of his tongue.  He continues even once you’re clean, skin sticky and a little gross but so erotic it makes you quiver.  Then he descends, pushes the hem of your new slip higher, and licks another stripe from the joint of your thigh up to your belly button.  Repeats it again, moving lower with each pass until he’s sucking your clit into his mouth.  “She wants to be the one tasting this pretty, pretty pussy.”

You reach for his hand - the one somewhere near your ribs, side of his wrist soothing against the ladder of bones - and tangle your fingers together as he drives you mad, tip of his tongue switching between sweet kitten licks and tantalising figure eights.

“Baby,”  you coax, reprimand almost.  Jungkook’s never this lenient, never this sweet on you (not inside the bedroom, at least).  It brings you to a different high, his love folded into lovely origami cranes you tuck into your pockets and the spot you’ve carved out for him within your chest.

“Sing for me, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t mean literally - refers instead to the sound of your voice when it leaps three octaves, bounces between sultry and singed, burnt at the edges by the fire he brings to life. 

“Tell me you’ll never leave me.”  Despite how the words muffle, come broken between the glide of his tongue within your fluttering walls, you can hear the sincerity in them.  The earnestness that begs you to promise him this simple thing.  “Not for her.  Not for anyone.”  

“I won’t leave you,”  you answer, threading the vow between your fingers as if they’re the thread binding your love story together.  “Not for her - not for anyone.”

#anon.eml #bts drabble #bts imagine #bts au #bts fluff #bts smut bts jungkook #jungkook #jeon jeongguk #jeon jungkook #jungkook au #jungkook drabble #jungkook imagine #jungkook fluff #jungkook smut #incoming.eml #work.zip #drabble.zip #devil.doc #jungkook.doc

[yeojaa]

blue and grey.

pairing.  jjk x reader.  rating.  general.  tags.  none, really.  just a short comfort fic inspired by my comfort song.  wc. 0.6k.  beta reader.  all of my mistakes are my own lmao.  author note.  i am baaack!  and ofc, i have to kick off my return with some sadness.  🤠

He finds you like this:  curled up in bed, wrapped so snug it’s more of a cocoon than anything else, with the stuffed rabbit he’d gotten you throttled in the iron shackle your arms.  There’s something playing quietly through the speakers of your laptop, screen dimmed, words unintelligible.  You barely register his presence, stare trained on some indiscernible point against the far wall. 

It’d be perfectly fine - if it weren’t just past noon on a Friday and you weren’t supposed to be at work. 

Instead, it’s the last piece of the puzzle, knocking his entire world off its axis, sending it on a downward spiral and him right there alongside you. 

He slips in beside you, carefully peeling off his socks and pants, leaving them in a discarded pile by the foot of the bed.  The worn fabric of his sweater follows, pulled over his head in the same motion as his shirt.  (He’ll deal with all of his clothes later - toss them into the laundry hamper or hang them up as needed.)  

As expected, your acknowledgment is weak, the barest adjustment of your body to allow him into the space you both call his. 

“You okay?”  It’s not a question that begs an answer.  Still, he poses it gentle as can be, depositing the words into the linen that holds you close. 

There’s no response, just one hand that creeps out from its hiding spot and curls tight over his, warm palm pressed to the back of his hand, fingers weaving between his own.  He pulls closer instinctively;  you don’t even need to say anything.  

Like this, molded to your back, he can’t see your face.  It’s impossible to read your expression, buried so into your pillow, hidden from view by how your shoulders hike up around your ears.  (His do the same when he’s excited, but he knows this isn’t that.)  Somehow, he still feels it all - the melancholy blue that paints the entirety of you, turns blood into the sea and spills saltwater from your eyes.  It crests above you in an intimidating wave, threatening to drown you.  

He knows this because you’ve told him before.  The sadness you can’t seem to escape, that seems to have wound itself between your bones, replaced muscle and bone with its own shapes and structures.

(You’d always made it sound so poetic, as if there was beauty to be found in your pain, something more than skeletons in your closet.  There was no beauty to be found in this sort of heartache, that filled you up and consumed you whole, bringing you crumbling to the ground, lost beneath a thousand leagues to swim among sharks and get lost in the dark.)

(But you hated when he worried - told him he didn’t need to.  It’s just one of those days, you’d tell him with that smile of yours, that pretty thing you’d perfected through years and years of practice.)

Jeon Jungkook’s heart aches for you. 

“How can I help?”  He asks because he always asks, because it doesn’t feel right not to.  He asks because maybe, one day, you’ll find an answer somewhere beneath the sea.  (He doesn’t expect you to but he hopes for it.)

You say nothing for a long time, framing his patient silence in more of the same.  That’s okay, too. 

He’ll stay like this with you for as long as you need - hold you through the blue and grey. 

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi @codeinebelle​

#work.zip #drabble.zip #jungkook.doc #bts #bts au #bts drabble #bts imagine #bts angst #bts fluff #bts jungkook #jeon jungkook #jeon jeongguk #jungkook au #jungkook drabble #jungkook imagine #jungkook angst #jungkook fluff

[yeojaa]

Dude... What about a devil!jk spending his first valentine's day with her and she's all it's just a dumb holiday and he's all offended cus he's a rooooomantic 🤣🤣

[ read devil in a new suit ]

pairing.  rich boy!jjk x girlfriend!reader.  rating.  general.  tags.  the epitome of fluffy angst.  wc.  1.4k.  beta reader(s).  @coepiteamare, @yeoldontknow.  ty mucho. ✨  a/n.   vday is a capitalist lie and also, this will rip your heart in half then piece it back together.  happy 14th of february!    

There sits a portrait in the atrium of his heart.  A lovely thing, a lonely thing, painted in the shades of your smile, the rouge of your lipstick, the studded dark of your stare.  It never gathers dust, prim and pristine, carefully tended to with an adoration that sinks sunbeams into the shadows, sweeps cobwebs away on moth wings.  

It’d once been blocked off, locked with a skeleton key, brass tucked behind the cage of his ribs.  He’d guarded it like a three-headed dog, barked and bayed and keened quiet in the night when no one else was around.  No one enter, he’d said, full of fear, skin of his hands hardened and rough and purpled.  The flesh of a fig, hardy and thick, protecting a centre soft and chewy and terribly sweet as it stuck to teeth.  

He’d never been bitter - never the harsh white pith of a lemon, never tart like the yellow that burst forth and stung - but he’d been something else.  Cautious, worried, scared.  Full of love but with nowhere for it to go, overripe and inedible from years of hanging on the limbs of trees left to rot.

And then you’d appeared.  Shot across his sky like a comet, brilliant and beautiful and fluorescent, lighting up his life like the burst of a supernova.

You’d drenched all the grey in technicolour, turned paper leaves green, spilled colour into his cheeks.  Made them rudied red and full of life, warm warm warm in the curl of your palms, scorching coals under the weight of your kisses.  Filled all his cracks with the silver quality of your laughter, honeycomb smile turned gold filigree to piece back all the fragments. 

So of course he’d showered you in affection, appeared with an armful of flowers and a smile that rivalled the sun.  “Happy Valentine’s day,”  he’d hummed, a heart full of hope, hands full of freesias and white roses and enough baby’s breath to take yours away.  He thought you’d love it - like you loved him, with unashamed adoration and lines at your eyes, brow creasing with delight.  But you’d only blinked once, twice, with a polite turn of your chin, a knife slipped between his ribs and pressed, too gentle for purpose. 

You’d smiled and shook your head, caught a petal between your fingers and dipped your nose to the leaves.  Inhaled deep and pure and then continued on, moved along, already miles away by the time he’d caught up.  

“Don’t you like them?”  He’d asked, doubt creeping up, twining around his lungs like a rose bush, heavy with thorns.  They’d pin-pricked his heart, spilled his insides out;  your bandages were nowhere to be found, no chiming bells or liquid gold in sight.  It’d beat for you, in time with you, one to one for each of your own.  It’d stuttered and tripped, caught on its own too feet, overeager and delirious.  “The girl who helped me said freesias symbolise trust and baby’s breath mean love and—”

“They’re lovely.”  

Maybe you’d meant it, for the briefest of moments, in the quiet before you’d crossed the threshold, before you’d swung open the door and turned his efforts to ash.  Surely you’d appreciated them - him.  Surely you never intended to hurt him the way you had.  

“But they’re kind of a waste.”

A heart is a well of impossible depths, an abyss of contradictions and contrived notions.  Even the brightest of rays do little to penetrate its darkness.  Moonlight filters over the surface in ripples and waves, undefined and blurred.  Thoughts without end and often without start.  

He supposes he can’t help the way he feels, how his shoulders turn stiff beneath your touch, the set of his mouth worn and sagging, a poorly strung noose tying his lips up.  (It feels more like the thing around his neck, tattered and heavy, a reminder of all the reasons the door had been better left shut, sealed.) 

“What’s wrong?”  You’re a birdsong in his ear, lilting and lovely, impossible to ignore.  You hold him in your hands and press kisses to his throat, sear stardust beneath skin, and hum in hopes of an answer.  He’s stoically silent, a statue fit not for hallowed halls but mausoleums, stone cold and sad.  

Jungkook doesn’t mean for this - for the sorrow that rains down in sheets.  You’re a Monday in May, a winding path speckled with flora, springtime.  His misery will surely suffocate you, tear life from limb with its torrential cast.  

“Nothing,”  he says, through the pristine white cage of his teeth, untruths bleeding past enamel and staining them red.  He speaks them well, well enough to fool anyone else, well enough that his lies are dressed lily white, stunning in their Sunday best.  “Just don’t feel well.”

Hasn’t, since you’d come home, since dinner, since exactly four hours and four minutes ago.  

“Don’t lie.”  It’s not an accusation, baseless and blunt.  It’s coaxing, pleading, whittling away amber, crystallised and hard around the too-soft thing in his chest.  A layer of wax giving way, melted by the warmth of your touch, the fire in your eyes.  Icarus’ wings, hummingbird wings, monarch wings.  Stained glass creaking and cracking beneath the weight of your words.  

“I’m sorry.”

The apology lays itself over crushed velvet, spins itself into silk and twines into strands, a braid twisted over your shoulder.  It settles, indistinguishable from the salt-sweet, his whisper finding a home within the shell of your skin.  He threads his fingers with yours, twists and turns knuckles until they knock awkwardly, unkempt and unsure.  

Your sigh is a salve, soothing ointment spread over scorched earth, dulling the sting.  He still aches all over, from the base of his spine to the top of his head, a rattle in his bones when he brings you close.  It trembles through the both of you, an eruption of emotion felt to the core.  (But still, he feels best when he’s with you.)

“For what?”  

He thinks and thinks, works himself into a knot he doesn’t know how to unfasten.  It coils in the centre of his chest, a slipknot he’s tied wrong, whose tail has been folded in on itself.  He grasps at frayed rope, seeks aimlessly for the answer.  A tidal wave of emotion sweeps high above his head, an unnamed terror that threatens to upend his rowboat.  He settles as the sea does, in breaks and luls that belie something far worse, in a voice small as a drop in the ocean.  “For being too much.”

“Jungkook.”  The way your voice breaks hits like a thousand pounds, an assault to the back of his knees, a shot to the vulnerable soft of his gut.  A sound whines out - another apology - and you swallow it whole, take it in and turn it around, offering tenderness in its wake.  “You’re never too much.”

He believes you.  He swears he does, even if the words come tumbling out, glass too full to hold them all.  “You didn’t like the flowers.”

“So what?”  You cradle him careful with magic hands, understanding threaded between each digit.  You hold him tight even as he threatens to run away, can’t keep the skip of his stare from doing so.  “I don’t need flowers.  I don’t need gifts.”  (Not the jewels he’d laid in your lap, stamped with an interlocked ‘C’ and nestled within pristine white tissue.  Not the flowers that’d poured onto every surface of his apartment, a mountain of blooms with typewritten cards nestled amongst stems.  Not the five course meal he’d ordered in, because love and devotion didn’t translate into a masterclass in cooking.)  “All I wanted for Valentine’s Day was you.”

Something he’s never heard before.  Less an excuse and more akin to you’re enough, echoed in the quiet, repeated in a daisy chain that attaches itself to the end of his thoughts and undoes all the sadness.  That unravels him in a single fluid motion and has him melting against you, leaking love from all his undone seams.

“I’m sorry.”  This time, he means it as thank you.

“Me too.”  And you mean it as I love you.

#incoming.eml #lcksndkys #work.zip #drabble.zip #jungkook.doc #devil.doc

[yeojaa]

so maybe another devil in a new suit drabble 👉👈 maybe jk meeting oc parents or like more interactions w oc and jks parents/sister

[ read devil in a new suit ]

pairing.  jjk x f!reader.  rating.  pg-13.  tags.  mentions of coconut!kook dancing (and the whole reason i wrote this tbh), cute banter, idk.  just a lotta fluff, a lil bit of grinding, y’know.  wc. 2.7k.  beta reader.  none other than @hobi-gif.  i love you always!  author note.  oh look...  it’s me...  posting something...  after sixteen hundred years.  womp womp.  this truthfully didn’t go the way i planned it to but i hope you enjoy regardless!

It really shouldn’t surprise you.  Frankly, it doesn’t.  

But it is a little funny.

There are about six girls gathered in a gaggle around your boyfriend, all desperately vying for his attention as he presents a neatly gathered bouquet to his little sister.  Jisoo’s all smiles, completely over the moon with pride and riding that high as she rightfully should.  (She’d done incredibly well, closed out the showcase with a fluidity you could never even dream of.)  She doesn’t even notice her friends staring at her brother with hearts in their eyes, each one red in the face and not from exertion.

(That, or she doesn’t care.  Maybe she’s grown used to it - the whole having-a-heartthrob-for-a-brother thing.) 

It’s actually quite cute, if only because you know Jungkook doesn’t have eyes for anyone but you.  Can feel it in how he keeps bouncing his gaze back towards you, dimple winking from deep within his cheek each time your eyes meet.  He’s like a child going back to his favourite toy, momentarily distracted by tittering laughter and his sister’s sunny smile but always coming back to you.  The knowledge warms you from the inside out, drags a satisfied smile across your lips.

You wonder whether he notices the attention or if it’s just another part of his life.  (You think he must know.  These college students don’t really hide it well, too handsy for their own good, years of growing up in semi-close proximity instilling a certain confidence in their motions.  That, and because Jungkook is quite possibly the least intimidating person you’ve ever met.)

“Thank you for coming!”  It’s Jisoo, flushed and excitable, round eyes as bright as her brother’s as she crosses to you.  This had been her moment - her time to shine - but you appreciate the effort she makes to include you, finding you within the crowd.  “I was a little nervous but…”  A shrug rolls her narrow shoulders, shakes her dark hair from its loose coil.  

You’d seen her practice before this - watched the long videos she’d regularly send to Jungkook - but seeing her in real life motion was an entire league of its own.  Dancing was her calling, every bit of her made for it.  There was just something lyrical about the way she moved, how her hips rolled, limbs seemingly guided by the rhythm of the music.  A grace you’ve never had, even on your best day.

“You shouldn’t have been.”  You’re beaming right back at her, sisterly reassurance on your tongue.  “You were amazing.” 

Whether she believes you or not - you think she does by how her cheeks grow ten sizes and her eyes are all but swallowed whole by the expression - she’s gracious, accepting the compliment with her blinding smile.  (She really was like Jungkook like that.)  

“You guys should come to a class one day.”  By that, she means a class she helps teach every once in a while.  You’ve heard about it on more than one occasion, seen the choreography posted on Instagram and YouTube.  

Still, you don’t expect that, brows shooting high.  Laughter filters past your teeth, springing off your tongue.  “I am not a dancer and I doubt your brother—”

Now it’s Jisoo’s turn to wear surprise like a neon sign, expression splitting with giggles of her own.  “Wait— have you not seen Kook dance?”  The way she says it is incredulous, Bambi eyes sparkling with what looks like mischief.

“No?”

“Your sister told me something.”

You’ve never seen this particular brand of worry on his face, eyes even more comically wide than usual, whatever words he’d originally meant to speak dying on his tongue.  He looks like a literal deer caught in the headlights, one of his nicknames suddenly very apt.

“What did she say?  She likes to embarrass me.”  True.  Jisoo and Jungkook had a textbook sibling relationship, full of teasing and mockery and copious amounts of love.  “Whatever she said, don’t believe—”

“She said you used to dance.”

“Oh.”  Oh?  You hadn’t expected Jungkook to deflate so easily, relief flooding his features.  “Yeah, I did.  In university.”  He’s utterly unbothered by this knowledge, attention back on the soondubu jjigae he’d been shovelling into his mouth.  “I had some friends who were dancers, so it was good exercise.”

“I want to see.”  

His answer is immediate, despite the heaping bite of rice and stew in his mouth.  “No.”

You whack him across the shoulder, startling him into clattering his spoon on the countertop.  It leaves a messy red streak across marble but you’re dragging his attention back to you with a firm glare, fingers cradled under his jaw.  “I want to see.”

Talent apparently runs in the family, you realise halfway through the third video.  Jungkook moves with the same assured movements his sister does, with power and grace and a confidence that frankly baffles you.  He treats the practice room like a stage, running through the motions so fluidly you almost have trouble believing it’s your man on the screen.  (Not that he’s particularly ungraceful.  It’s just surprising, like watching a dog walk on its hind legs.)

“So, what happened?”  You say it so conversationally, innocently, with eyes that mimic his own.  From the corner of your periphery, your boyfriend shifts, hand flexing over your knee.  There’s the furrow between his brows, the subtle tension in his jaw.  Worry.

“What do you mean?”  

Your own hand waves toward the screen, where the image of Jungkook from over half a decade ago sits paused.  “You were so…”  You’re not sure what you mean.  There are just so many options to describe the literal baby boy on the television.  Young?  Confident?  Round?  (You can’t get over his haircut, though you suppose you can��t hold it against him.) 

Jungkook simply stares at you, waiting for you to find whatever words you want to use.  Despite the uncertainty that swims somewhere in the depths of his eyes, he’s endlessly patient.  Always so soft when it comes to you.

“You had a coconut head.”

Laughter explodes off his tongue, entire face screwing up with amusement.  “Are you serious?”

“You did!”  Admittedly, the cut had somehow worked on him but it’s so reminiscent of grade school haircuts you can’t help but focus on it, too distracted by the glossy sheen to offer much else.  “I guess I get it, though.”

“What do you mean?  Everyone had that haircut—”

“In first grade, maybe.”  He sticks his tongue out at you then;  you scowl in response. 

“What do you get?”  As always, he’s perceptive, immediately aware of your carefully knit brow, the thoughtfulness that fits itself around your teeth like gleaming white veneers and holds his attention hostage.  He’s grown used to it over the months you’ve been together - knows you cling tight to things with an iron grip, turn them over and over until you’ve made sense of it in that brain of yours. 

“The crushes.”  You look affronted, almost appalled at the realisation.  He bursts out laughing, broad palm coming down upon your bare leg in a smack.  (He apologises profusely when you complain.)

“What’re you talking about?”

Your nose is wrinkled, velvet strands dislodged by the shake of your head.  “All your sister’s friends.  They’re in love with you.”  Jisoo had even agreed, laughed about it when you’d commented on it at the recital.  Something about them having grown up with Jungkook, obsessed with the image they’d retained of him since university.  “But you were a coconut.  You wore Timberlands and drop-crotch pants.  You weren’t even that cute.”  An exaggerated shudder slips over your shoulders.  

“I was nineteen.”  As if that makes it better.  Your judgment doesn’t lessen, the lines running the bridge of your nose only deepening.  

“Still.  Embarrassing.”

Your boyfriend truly is the best sport, rolling his eyes at you in the same instance he reaches for you, tugs you closer with broad palms, affection searing into your skin.  “Well, luckily, no more Timbs.  No more bowl cut.”  He nuzzles into the warmth of your neck, spreads your knees wide over his hips.  The sound of his laughter melts into your throat, dresses it in heat deposited by your breath.  “Are you jealous again?”

He doesn’t even get a verbal response to that.  Just a heavy glare and two hands squishing his cheeks.  “Absolutely not.” 

It comes up again in bed, your head on his chest, his hands on your hips.  He asks it quietly, conversationally, with a twinkle in his eye that makes you want to smother him with one of his many pillows. 

“You’re sure you’re not jealous?”

“I’m not,”  you grit, paired with a roll of your eyes and a little snort from your nose.  You really aren’t.  Those girls are inconsequential, irrelevant.  They’ll never amount to what you are to him and that’s just a simple fact.  He’s yours - something he reminds you of day in and day out, both verbally and in action. 

(You love him for it, appreciate it more than you can possibly begin to explain.  There’s a certain bliss to be found in the knowledge that you’re loved.  A warmth that rivals even that of the sun on the summer’s hottest day.) 

“Then why’re you pouting?”  What he really means is why aren’t you smiling.  You don’t pout often - at least not in the same ways he does.  

“I’m not,”  you repeat for what feels like the sixth time. 

“Smile for me.”

You do the opposite - throwing your eyes in an exaggerated circle.  It earns you a pinch to the side, a tender sting blooming beneath ink-strewn fingers. 

“Really—“  When he looks this earnest, it’s hard to deny him,  “you’re sure everything’s okay?”

At most, you can sigh perhaps overdramatically.  Fold your awkward limbs upon his and bury your face into the crook of his neck.  You’re not jealous of those girls, no.   

You’re envious of his talent - the simple fact that Jeon Jungkook is, by all definitions, a golden boy.  God’s favourite, with his heart wrenching smile and easygoing charm and grace that seems almost surreal.  There’s not a single thing wrong with him - okay, except for his bad habit of never answering his phone and always messing up the top sheet and the fact that he absolutely never ever puts the cap back on the toothpaste tube - and it’s absurd.  Utterly, absolutely unfair. 

But you can’t say that.

“Baby,”  he hums, threading the sound of his voice among your hair, tucking the soft syllables behind your ears.  “Talk to me.”

You relent - a little.  “You’re too good.”

“Too good?”  The depth of his laughter rumbles your bones, tickling your insides when it vibrates out of his chest.  “At what?”

A hand gesticulates wildly.  You’re not sure what it looks like, how close it is to hitting Jungkook in the face.  You’ve still got your face pressed to the warmth of his skin, greedily siphoning his sunny radiance with your cheek.   “Everything.”

Despite how he laughs - cackles, really, so adorable and high pitched it’s breathy - you know he knows what you’re talking about.  You’ve given him a hard time about it before.  

“I’m not good at everything, ____.”

He’s somehow even good at making you believe you’re wrong.  That’s a feat in and of itself. 

“Are too.”

“Are not.”

“Whatever!”  Whether he acknowledges it or not, he’s stupidly gifted.  Everyone and their - even his - mom knows it.  “Don’t believe me then.  I don’t care.”

“Then why’re you making that face?”  It’s almost comical that he’s calling you out for your expressions when he’s the king of funny faces, throwing his features into exaggerated (and adorable) masks.  (Maybe he’d just rubbed off on you?)

“I’m not,”  you huff, exasperated but not quite.  Still soft over his skin, velvet on silk. 

“You’re so cute.”  Sometimes, you think he really is just a child - too happy with putting you on a pedestal and praying at your altar.  Devoting himself to you when you’re nothing but a bag of flesh and bone, dressed in designer fashion and wrapped up with a satin ribbon made from sarcasm and candor.  (Not that you mind.  Who would argue if they were offered such love?)  “I still think something’s wrong but…”

It’s a smart tactic.  He doesn’t press you for an answer, opting to let it linger between you.  Settle like bothersome lint until you offer it yourself.  

When you relent - because you always do, unable to shut out the sunshine that practically pours out of him - you’re quieter.  Not shy, but bashful.  Uncertain in a way you very rarely are.  “I’ve always wanted to dance.”  So much so, you’d begged your parents to enroll you when you were younger.  Demanded lessons upon lessons - only to fail at all of them.  Rhythm simply didn’t exist anywhere in your body. 

“Really?”

You’re pulled from your safe haven, shifted until your entire point of view is filled with Jungkook, his starry eyes and his fluffy fluffy hair.  There’s that look he sometimes gets - full of wonder and adoration - when he learns something new about you.  As if just the smallest tidbit of knowledge opens up a whole new world.  

“Yes?”  You’re half regretting the admission.  He looks like he’s up to something, all the cogs in his head turning in perfect tandem. 

“I’ll teach you.”  

“Hard pass.”

Like a hot air balloon, he deflates, mouth rounding sweetly.  (If you didn’t know better, you’d assume the man was made of cotton candy, semi-sweet chocolate heart where the real organ should be.)  “Why not?”

“I do not dance.”  It’s nothing but a statement of fact, firm and unyielding. 

The pout evolves, swings down into a frown that drags his eyebrows with it.  “You could dance.”

“No, baby—“  So you’re a little frustrated, all your childhood memories pricking beneath your skin.  “I do not dance.”

“Why?”  He’s upright now, tugging you with him as if you weigh nothing.  His way of turning the conversation serious, pulling you from the warmth and comfort of the bedsheets to this.  (He’s still holding you, hooking his big broad hands over your hips, so you don’t mind.) 

“No rhythm.”  Unable to keep a beat.  Two left feet.  The list could go on and on, according to your ballet instructor. 

“Not true.”

Your brow quirks, mirrored by his as if in challenge.  You almost swat at him - so close your hand twitches on his shoulder.  “Very true.”

(Why does this conversation feel so familiar?  It’s déjà vu.) 

“Is not.”  Your boyfriend seems insistent, as if he knows better than you.  (He doesn’t.)  Stares up at you with those pretty eyes and has the audacity to grin when you roll your own, ready to rebuff him. 

Because you’re in bed, the one place where you defer to him whether you like it or not. 

(You do like it, though.  Love it, in fact.  Just like you love him.)

“You’re graceful,”  he hums, bridging the gap between you with a forward roll of his shoulders.  “You’ve got rhythm.”  The hand on your hip grows firm, guides your knees to spread wide on either side of him.  With each brush of his lips - tender little brushes, endlessly sweet and reassuring - he pushes and pulls, dragging you across his lap.  “You can do anything you want.”

You’ve almost forgotten the topic of conversation, preoccupied by how he guides you in languid circles.  How the cotton of his boxer briefs feels against the sensitive inside of your thighs.  The weight that grows between your legs and nudges indelicately against the soft fabric of your thong.

All part of his plan, of course.

“Your body’s the most beautiful thing in the world, ____.”  

When he looks at you like this, you think he might be right.  You’d believe it if he kept saying it, sparking desire through your limbs until they’re jellied and loose.  

(How he sees right through you - cuts straight to the core of your insecurity - you’re not sure.  It feels almost like a superpower, something unquantifiable, unbelievable.  He’s too good for you, always.  So kind and loving, pressing his belief in the form of his mouth, the tender edge of his teeth when he kisses you slow slow slow.)

“You’re perfect just the way you are.”

#anon.eml #incoming.eml #jungkook.doc #work.zip #drabble.zip #jungkook au #jungkook drabble #jungkook imagine #jungkook fluff #jungkook x reader #jungkook x oc #jungkook x you #devil.doc

[yeojaa]

Can I request more smut for A&A couple?? I love sexy jay and jinny RYFUIOOIDEWETYUKOJK

[ read angels & airwaves ]

pairing.  jjk x f!reader.  rating.  explicit.  tags.  gamer!jjk deserves his own warning.  but also cockwarming and a gross amount of love between these two.  wc. 1.5k.  beta reader.  @hobi-gif because she is the pb to my j.  author note.  this is probably less sexy and more soft, but i hope you enjoy and i’m sorry it’s so late! ✨ 

He’s playing Overwatch - unwinding after a long day, dressed down in sweats and little else - when his chair starts rolling back, pulled by an invisible hand.  (Luckily, he’s only in queue, not yet matched into a game.  It’s easy for him to leave, exit out of the waiting screen as he continues his journey away from the desk, releasing his hold on his mouse, letting his keyboard hand fall into his lap.)  Feigned surprise trips across his expression, a subtle widening of his eyes, the softest hm? slipping like sandman’s dust from his lips.

“Play with me,”  you say in that way of yours, deceivingly sweet, lilting like the chorus of his favourite song.  (He thinks that’s what you’d be if you were anything else, played over and over in his thoughts, quiet in the background of his everyday life.  A kind reminder of your love, of your giggles and that cheekiness you offer in spades.  A heartfelt melody in A minor.)

(Jungkook wants to write something for you - because of you - he realises.  Of course he does.)  

He echoes your words back, pairs it with a quirked brow and a sing-song laugh that makes his eyes crinkle, long grooves dug into the bridge of his nose.  Sunshine pours between his teeth, lights up his entire face.  “You wanna play?”

Your answer is a shake of your head, freeing tousled strands from the haphazard bun you wear - the one that goes up any time you’re half-asleep (or gaming or simply too lazy to do anything else) - too many pieces askew to be sophisticated.  (It’s cute still, one of his favourite looks on you.  Messy, sleep-addled, real.)  

“I want you to play.”  The way you enunciate, throw heavy meaning into your words has him curious, chin canting when you round the chair, step to the side and brush a delicate hand through his crown of curls.  You push velvet away from his face, tuck it neatly behind his ear and smile so prettily he swears his heart might leap out of his chest.  The same hand falls over his with meaning, your own eyes the size of saucers.  Were you trying to communicate as if you were psychic?  He thinks you must be when you stare for longer than you need to, mouth pulling and pursing adorably, a wavering wall against whatever you want to offer but won’t.

When he relents, it’s with his hand curled around your wrist and a gentle tug of you closer.  (Because he always wants you closer.)  “Let’s play then.”

It takes you no time at all to settle into his lap, legs dangling around the back of his gaming chair, arms locked around his neck.  He imagines it isn’t the most comfortable position in the world but, well, Jungkook’s not going to complain that his girlfriend wants to cuddle.  Can’t even fathom the thought when you’re so warm and your weight feels like some sort of top-tier blanket.

“Good?”  

You simply nod into the small of his neck, cheek cold against his shoulder.  Maybe you’re just tired.  You haven’t been sleeping well the last few nights, if you could even call it that.  They were more midday cat naps, laid up in his arms on his free days.   

(Don’t worry, you’d said.  He did, anyway.)

When he wins his next three games, he thinks you might be a lucky charm - his own personal blessing, all his good karma offered in the form of victory.  The headshots are clean, the flashbang-right-click combos flawless.  Gold damage is his the entire time;  he’s racking up gold medals left and right with you there with him.

(It’s almost as good as when you play together, your damage boost enabling him to obliterate the enemy without worry.  Granted, the Mercy on his team isn’t bad either - but she’s no you.  Not the girl that makes his heart pitter patter in his chest, play some silly crescendo that feels like a sugar high.)

But then he begins losing, missing shots that should be easy, sends them into the dark, strangely distracted.  He doesn’t realise by what until it’s too late and the next roll of your hips makes him whine, the sound tripping off his tongue in a whimper.  

“Angel.”  The word is practically choked out, broken despite being only two syllables.  You’re still snuggled into his chest, seemingly innocent, unaware of the tension that grows, turning bone to brimstone.  He’s half-worried he’s getting riled up over nothing - turned on by only your closeness - when he feels the damp of your teeth, the sharp edge tickling over muscle.  For what it is, it shouldn’t flood his stomach with heat, have electricity tracking up his spine as if struck by lightning.  “What’re you doing?”

“Play with me.”  You repeat the words into his hair, thread them between the midnight strands as you stamp a sweet, chaste kiss right below his ear.  He thinks he might be able to resist you - until you’re tugging lightly at one of the silver hoops that line his ear, laving your tongue over the sensitive spot that has him seeing stars.

He parrots the words back to you but it isn’t a question this time.  More a promise, tenderness turning his smile soft, needy, utterly in love.

“Let’s go to bed.”  Not because it’s late - though it is, half past two in the morning now - but because he wants to feel you wholly, watch you fall apart in the comfort of your bed.  No more distractions, just the two of you.  Just how he likes it. 

“No.”  That surprises him, throwing him off his axis.  He’s halfway to a pout when you press a kiss, steal his brattiness away with one sweep of your lemon-lined mouth.  “You keep playing.”

Oh.

The time you take to slide his sweats down - taking his boxers with them, fingers hooked into the black band that hugs his hips - should be criminal.  It’s as if you’re doing it on purpose, tugging the material down carefully, balanced above him by his hands on your waist.  

(He steals the softest touches while you’re there, thumbs grazing the undersides of your breasts, fingers laying themselves into the rungs of your ribs.)

When they’re halfway down his legs, he kicks them off, lets them gather in a pile somewhere by his feet.  Forgotten - because he’s got much more important matters to attend to.  “Your turn,”  he hums - almost begs - when you settle back against him, straddling him as you had before, still dressed in his favourite grey shirt and your plain black thong. 

“Nope.”  You’re smiling down at him, more devil than angel, smile so sinful he feels his cock twitch against his stomach, hard and leaking pre-cum from the tip.

“But—”

The turn of your head further dislodges strands, has shadow throwing your features into muted light.  That’s not what has his attention, though.  

It’s your hand dipping between you, curling light around his length.  Pad of your thumb massaging over his head, slicking arousal until the glide is easy.  With a gun to his head, Jungkook couldn’t help himself from moaning, a keening sound that tickles your cheek and has heat flooding his own.  (You’ll be the death of him, he swears.)  “Baby, please—”

“Play,”  you repeat. 

He does, rolling himself forward, finding his mouse and keyboard with trembling hands.  

It’s cruel, what you’re doing.  (It’s also everything he could ask for, offered by the hand of the girl he loves most.  Even through the haze of desire, there’s affection that paints him pink, lights him up like a Christmas tree.)

(All he wants to do is fill you, fuck you full until you’re coming apart, crying his name out in that breathy way that drives him wild.  Playing his favourite song again again again.)

But he’s a good boy for you - always is - so he says nothing as he queues once more, tries his damnedest not to make a sound when he feels the press of his cock against your cunt, the heat that engulfs him when you take him in one fluid motion.

It’s as if his brain short circuits, as if you’ve rewritten all the code that makes him who he is.  He chokes a sound - a whine, a laugh, a cry - when you sink fully into him, curl those arms back around his neck.  You’re absolutely perfect, wet and warm.  Split wide open by how deep he is, clit flush against his pelvis, velvet walls yielding to the fullness.  

Whether he wins or loses his next games, Jungkook doesn’t care.  He’s already got everything he could ask for. 

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi @codeinebelle

#incoming.eml #anon.eml #work.zip #drabble.zip #jungkook.doc #angels.doc #bts #bts au #bts drabble #bts imagine #bts smut #bts fluff #bts jungkook #jeon jungkook #jeon jeongguk #jungkook #jungkook au #jungkook drabble #jungkook imagine #jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #jungkook x oc #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you

[yeojaa]

Fboi!jk WHO’s lowkey in Love with oc🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

[ request a milestone drabble ] 

pairing.  jjk x f!reader.  rating.  general.  tags.  infuriating college antics and mentions of drinking.  that’s about it.  wc. 0.9k.  beta reader.  n/a.  author note.  ty for the request!  i hope you enjoyed, even though it’s a little sloppy and disjointed.  😐😐 

Jeon Jungkook is many things:  campus heartthrob, surprisingly smart (but exceedingly lazy), the guy who works the front desk of the university’s gym.  He drinks too many coffees a day, keeps a photo of his dog in his wallet, and has a surprisingly big following on social media.  (For his photography and not his thirst traps, which is perhaps the most surprising thing about him.)  

He’s also the guy who shamelessly played you during his first year, wrapping you around his freshman finger as easily as a Red Vine at the movies.  It’s why you don’t like him now, barely tolerating him each time you’re in the same vicinity.

(Unfortunately for you, your friend group overlap is massive - the worst kind of venn diagram.)

“Stop,”  your best friend chides, legs hooked over her boyfriend’s lap, the tip of her finger digging deep into your side, assaulting the sensitive side of your ribs.  You almost knock over your drink with how much it startles you, leg making forceful contact with the bottom of the table. 

Beer sloshes out of its glass, three heads whipping to stare in your direction.  “Sorry!”  You play it off with a wave of your hand, gaze bouncing to Mina’s, brow knit tight over your stare.  “Stop what?”

“Stop glaring at him.”  The way she says it makes it seem stupid - as if the answer is the most obvious thing in the world.  You resent her for it, though not nearly as much as you resent him for existing.  

“I’m not.”

“You are.”  It’s two voices at once, Hoseok chiming in with his girlfriend.  

You resent Jung Hoseok too.  He’s the whole reason you’re stuck here on this Friday night, seated in the kitchen of the frat house.  He’s the one who’d tangled everything together, turning your group of girlfriends into literal girlfriends.  (You’re happy for them, you swear.  Joon is a sweetheart and Yoongi might always seem like he’s bothered but he’s nice too.  Even Hoseok is actually okay.)

“He’s being an attention whore,”  you retort, probably more petulantly than you need to, with needles sticking out of syllables, two year’s worth of history slipping alongside vowels. 

“He’s literally just sitting there.”

Mina’s not wrong - but he’s also flirting.  Shamelessly.  With one of the girls that seem to always be at these things, all chiming laughter and brilliantly white teeth.  You’ve seen her a handful of times, almost always at Jungkook’s side for at least some portion of the evening.  

“Give it a break, ____.”  

You wish you could.  In fact, you’d like nothing more than to not care about Jeon Jungkook and his infuriating antics.  It’d save you a lot of frustrations, make it so much easier to exist on the same campus as him.  

Because as it stands, it’s next to impossible not to be reminded of him, to go a single day without hearing about how great he is with his stupid boopable nose and sparkly eyes.  Every day, from friends or strangers, it’s simp central. 

You hate it.

Jeon Jungkook is good at many things:  passing classes he barely attends (which isn’t that many, because he is actually pretty studious all things considered), making jungle juice that could knock out an elephant, dying his hair pink.  

He’s also apparently really good at pissing people off when he doesn’t mean to.  Call it a skill of his.

One he’d honed with you, nearly three years ago now.  Back when he’d been young and stupid and uncertain, when he hadn’t quite grown into well, much of anything, when he’d had his priorities all messed up.

Maybe he shouldn’t have broken up with you within two months - citing needing to focus on school - and then dated someone shortly thereafter.  Maybe he shouldn’t have seemed to find himself in every class of yours, sitting across the lecture hall listening to the professor drone on and on about statics.  Maybe he shouldn’t have introduced one of his fraternity brothers to someone he knew you knew.

(He says maybe but he knows they were all bad choices made by an underveloped brain, too addled by Thursday night pub crawls and a grass is always greener on the other side mentality.)

Sometimes, he feels bad.  He doesn’t miss the way you pointedly ignore him when he’s around, how your expression seems to be stuck in a permanent scowl any time you catch sight of him.

(He’d have to be dumb to not notice all of that and while Jungkook is many things, dumb isn’t necesarily one of them.  Immature maybe.  Impulsive definitely.)

“Where’d ____ go?”  

Someone else asks the question he wants to but keeps caged behind his teeth, hidden past his molars.  

Mina sighs dramatically, pats her boyfriend’s cheek, and shrugs.  “Who knows.” 

But Jungkook knows.  Thinks he knows, anyway.  You’ve left, because you always leave when he does things you hate.  (And you hate everything he does.)  

One day he’ll get the courage to apologise to you, to explain that he still misses you.  He knows it won’t be well-received (why would it be?) but he’ll offer it anyway, awkward and stilted and not nearly as apologetic as it should be.

Today isn’t that day though.

#work.zip #drabble.zip #jungkook.doc #mdrabble.zip #bts drabble #bts imagine #bts au #jungkook drabble #jungkook imagine #jungkook au #anon.eml #incoming.eml

[yeojaa]

wait !!!! find her jk with that prompt the other anon sent!!! can u plssss that’s literally something find her jk would actually do🥺🥺🥺🥺

[ read finders keep hers ]

pairing.  jjk x (named) f!reader.  rating.  general.  tags.  idiots in love.  like, that’s all there is to say.  angst central, my dude.  wc.  2.4k.  author note.  i meant to make this short and end with some tender lovemaking but...  i cannot be trusted near a keyboard so you get this word vomit instead.  xoxo!

You love Jeon Jungkook.  Have, you think, since before you knew what the word love meant.

(Maybe since you were children and you’d still stood a chance against him, bursting with pride from a job well done, young enough that your parents’ kind words felt better than anything in the world.  Before he’d turned into the president of the Casanova Club and he’d just been your and your brother’s best friend.  Little Jeon with the unbelievably big eyes, always so curious about everything.

Or maybe since your tenth grade White Day, when he’d bought you your favourite candies and pressed them unceremoniously into your hands, too many to hold so they fall to dirt and tumble around you.  He’d stooped to snatch them all up, shoving them into the pockets of your coat.  “Because we’re best friends or whatever,”  he’d said with this toothy, silly smile.

More likely during university.  That time you’d maybe (read: very) foolishly made out, liquor fueling the tangle of your limbs and how utterly good he felt within them, a nectarine dream in his brand new G Wagon.  You’d thought he’d laugh in your face, mumble something about no, we can’t - which he had - but he’d also taken you home, tucked you in and climbed in beside your inebriated self.

Definitely once you’d started seeing each other, spending more time in his bed than anywhere else.  It’d been nearly impossible to separate head from heart, falling deeper and deeper into the Jungkook-shaped black hole that seemed to eclipse everything else.  You’d fallen head over stupid heels, leaving bits of yourself hidden among his things.  Your lip balm in his trouser pocket, perfume on the collar of his favourite turtleneck, shape of your mouth alongside monogrammed initials. 

You hadn’t meant to.

Love him, that is.  It’d simply happened in between all the laughter, the eye rolls, the smiles.  Threaded between each action and cemented by the thud of your heart, beat into the ground like a drum.)

Sometimes, though, you don’t like him.  Oftentimes, in fact. 

You and Jungkook are as different as can be.  

You’re in business development at a tech firm;  he’s the technically unemployed son of a real estate mogul.  You invest most of your money;  he spends his as if it’ll never run out (which it likely won’t).  You grew up with an older brother;  he’s got two younger sisters.  You drink to celebrate, to wind down;  he drinks to prove a point.  You believe in love - have to, looking at your parents and feeling how you do about him;  he knows it exists but up until recently, had zero interest in it.

You wonder still, seated at the table with your group of friends and their partners, whether that still rings true.  (Deep down, you know it doesn’t. You know he loves you, wants you in a way he’s never wanted anyone else before, but your brain is a fickle thing, playing tricks when it shouldn’t.) 

Would he be happier without you?  Better off without you? 

Your thoughts mock you - just as he does, roguish smile turning his entire expression into sunshine.  Inescapable, all-encompassing, so blinding it’s almost hard to look at.  Trained on the girl he’s chatting up at the bar.  

This is what Jungkook does.  What he’s always done.  You should be used to it, really.  The man’s charm is always turned up to eleven, always in full effect even when he doesn’t mean it to be.  It’s simply part of who he is- young and rich and devastatingly, heartbreakingly handsome. 

Still, you can’t help the emotion that swells somewhere deep in your stomach, jostles the meal you’ve just had and turns your insides into a sea of nausea.  You know when he’s just being friendly and you know when he’s flirting.  It’s a terribly thin line but one you recognise, intimately familiar with the two sides of his personality.  

Right now, he’s flirting.  Doing that thing he does, one arm folded on the counter top, unblemished hand resting somewhere along his hip, silver of his rings acting as a beacon beneath the dim restaurant lights.  His other hand slots itself into the pocket of his coated jeans, tattoos thrown into stark contrast against his skin and the black of the denim.  There’s that smile of his, more a smirk but sunny, radiant, beautiful.  It lights up his entire face, steeping his expression in something warm.  The dimple in his cheek winks with each laugh - you can only imagine the one on the other side does the same, cut deeply into his skin.

Don’t be mad, you tell yourself.  He’s your Jungkook, bad habits and all.  

You love him.  You love him.  You love him.

If he notices your stoicism, he doesn’t comment on it.  Doesn’t ask what’s wrong or if you’re okay or what’s up.  Barely even speaks to you, save to toss his arm around your shoulder and tug you close, practically tug you into his lap while his friends share stories of their week.

It’s your usual Friday night dinner.  Something you’ve done with this ragtag group for as long as you’ve known them.  An excuse to go out and drink and eat some damn good (and often free) food. 

You wish you could enjoy it like you normally do.  Instead, you’re preoccupied by the way a perfume that isn’t yours lingers on his collar - seeps beneath the fabric and marks him up like a possession.  It’s too sweet - cloying sugar apples and coconut - nothing like your usual earthy wisteria and dewy rose.  It stings your nose when you inhale too deeply, nestled into the familiar shape of Jungkook’s frame, settled between the vertebrae you know best.

You hardly notice when he does speak to you, rousing you from thought you can’t quite place any longer.

“Ready to head home?”

The rest of your friends are going about their business, slipping their coats on and exchanging ideas for plans the following morning.  (Saturday brunch is a very popular thing, though it tends to lean late lunch versus true breakfast-brunch.)

You nod and slip from beneath your lover’s arm, plucking your purse up as you rise.  You’re ready to get out of here, ready to scrub away the melancholy that lingers like a thin film across your skin.  

He must have realised sometime between your silence in the car and your lacklustre kisses in the elevator.  You think he must, as he nearly slams the front door of his penthouse shut, kicks off his Chelsea boots and lets them tumble together just off the welcome mat.  (Not the reaction you’d expected, but you’ve learnt to never expect anything from him.  As much as he might be your best friend, Jeon Jungkook plays by his own set of rules.)

He doesn’t wait for you to undo your own shoes, carefully undoing the straps of your Jimmy Choos and setting them where they belong before you follow the sound of his footsteps.

When you find him, he’s stripping off his jacket and tossing it haphazardly across the back of his desk chair, keys and wallet and phone dropped none-too-gently upon wood.  He says nothing even as he crosses to his closet, steps inside and slips off each piece of jewellery:  assorted rings and his Rolex - everything but the bracelet you’d gotten him for graduation.  

His belt goes next, set back within the confines of its velvet lined drawer.  Through the hole goes the button of his jeans, down goes the zipper, and then he’s in nothing but his vaguely sheer dress shirt, boxer-briefs, and silly printed socks (yellow bananas on black fabric, for reasons), looking every inch the adonis he is. 

You still haven’t said a word, carefully hanging your dress in the small space you’ve carved out for yourself.  You don’t really know what to say - how to approach his apparent frustration when you don’t know where it comes from.

Is he upset with you?  Had you, somewhere along the line of your own sadness, done something to upset him?

You’re running through all the scenarios, lost in thought, when his voice breaks the quiet.  Snaps forth and hits its mark - a perfect shot.  “Seriously?”  There’s a fickle quality to his tone, a pettiness that you recognise when he hasn’t gotten his way, when he’s not quite sure what to say but knows he wants to have something.  (It doesn’t come out often with you, but you’re intimately familiar with it still.  His I-want-to-fight voice.)

“Pardon?”  You’re not expecting him so close, close enough to reach you but far enough that you can tell he’s purposely put this distance between you.  It feels strange - further apart than it is.

“You’re not going to say anything?”

You blink.  Once, twice, three times.  When you speak, it’s full of confusion, paired with your brows gathering in a little knot of bewilderment.  “Anything about what?”

“What happened at dinner.”  

He sounds so utterly deadpan, you can’t help but laugh, a sound of disbelief rather than amusement.  

“You mean you flirting with that girl?”  Even saying the words feels awful, makes you want to crawl into bed and forget about it all.

Jungkook, on the other hand, looks like you’ve just handed him the answers to all of life’s questions.  His entire face rearranges, all the pieces matching back up to form a proper puzzle.  There’s a certain smugness to it now, caught in the round of his cheek and how it ticks higher with his grin.  “So you did notice!  I fucking knew it.”

“Of course I did.”  You want to be appalled.  Know you should be.  (But it’s Jungkook and you love him.)  “Kind of hard not to.”  

He’s the devil in disguise, snapping you to him with a flex of his arms, hands curled around your waist.  It’s clear he’s pleased, absolutely tickled pink that you’d fallen for his silly little trick.  “Gotta keep you on your toes,”  he croons, eyes twinkling, mouth wobbling with the strain of keeping his laughter hidden. 

He expects you to agree - maybe roll your eyes and pat his cheek, laughs along with him and give him some sort of shit about how he’s an idiot - and visibly starts when you push yourself away, two palms flat against his chest. 

“Sure.”

One word.  Nothing like he’d imagined.

“Baby?”  You’ve made it two steps - two whole steps, which is two too many to Jungkook - when he’s pulling you back, trapping you against his chest with his arms looped around your shoulders.  “Where you going?”  He’s kissing along your shoulder, trailing warmth everywhere he touches. 

He still smells like that girl’s perfume.

“Can you get off me, please?”  You’re more polite than you normally are, working hard to keep calm when he only tightens his grip.  Of course he thinks you’re kidding, thinks you’re pouting and playing just like he had when you’d returned home.

When you repeat yourself - a little harder, a little quieter - he seems to realise how wrong he’s read the situation.

“Angel—”�� You’re swept around, left to stare into the neat white of his shirt as he peers down at you, waits for you to meet his eyes.  You don’t, staunchly focused on the buttons of his Oxford, how they strain over his broad chest.  “Baby.”  Now he’s the one full of reprimand, disapproval colouring the single word that’s normally so sweet.

“What?”  It’s just as bratty as he was earlier but somehow worse, touched blue.

“What’s wrong?”  Jungkook seems genuinely perplexed, concerned and maybe, just a tiny bit frustrated.  He’s not used to you lashing out like this, soft and yet unyielding, hidden behind a door he’s fumbling with the keys to.

“You.”

“—me?”

You’re not one to throw out things you don’t mean, carefully picking and choosing your words.  It’s something you’ve always done - far more responsible than your idiot best friend who’s never had to worry about a thing in his life.  

The line of his mouth dips, pulls into a frown as he studies you and tries to crack open the windows to gain some insight.  It doesn’t work well;  he’s faced with a stone wall.

“Why’re you mad?” 

You want to laugh.  Do, actually, so short and abrupt it’s more of a scoff.  “What’s wrong with me?”  You’d pull away if you could. (Realistically, you could, but you’ve always been too soft for him.)  “You spent almost all of dinner flirting with someone else.”

“Yeah— to make you jealous.”  As if that makes it better.  As if that doesn’t tear a giant hole right in the centre of your chest, launches your poor heart out of the airlock to fend for itself in the emptiness of his expression.  

You don’t know why it feels worse to hear it out loud.  You’d figured as much. 

(Jungkook had done this in the past, though always jokingly.  He’d rarely been invested enough in a girl to go to such lengths but you’d seen it once or twice.  Always the age old adage of wanting what you can’t have.)

You wish you could separate the then from the now.  Remind yourself that he does care, that this is his twisted, stupid way of showing his affection - of keeping you around.  (You know he’s just as vulnerable as you - maybe more, sometimes - but he shows it poorly.  Pushes you away when he tries to pull you in.)

Tears are welling, spilling across your lashes faster than you can yank them back.  Something about being an angry crier.  

“Good job,”  you mean to snap, to make him feel how you do.  (Small - so very, very small.)  Instead, it’s terribly quiet.  A whisper that gets lost to the cotton poplin.  “Now I’m jealous.”  And miserable and insecure.  All things you usually aren’t, that only Jeon Jungkook manages to bring out in you.

“Baby,”  he tries again, crushing you to his chest, jut of his chin resting atop your head.  His hugs had always been your favourite - swallowing you whole, making you feel safe - but it’s too much now, a prison cell rather than your familiar bed.  “I’m sorry.”  He’s kissing again, stamping his affection into the dark of your hair, brushing over and over with the soft of his lips, his rounded adorable nose,  “I thought—”

You know what he thought.  Know where he’d been coming from (a place of immaturity, a gilded golden room with Jeon Jungkook stamped across the door) but it doesn’t make it any better.

Doesn’t make it hurt any less.

#anon.eml #bts #bts au #bts imagine #bts drabble #bts angst #bts jungkook #jeon jungkook #jeon jeongguk #jungkook #jungkook au #jungkook drabble #jungkook angst #jungkook imagine #incoming.eml #work.zip #drabble.zip #finders.doc #jungkook.doc

[yeojaa]

Hi miss erin! Can I have jk x reader with #18🥺

❪  💜  PROMPT !  ❫

things you said when you were scared

[ read they don’t love you like i love you ]

pairing.  jjk x f!reader.  rating.  general.  tags.  fluff.  the barest hint of angst if you squint really, really hard.  wc.  0.9k.

Love is scary.  It’s never been something you could look at and say “see, that’s love.”  It existed in too many forms, presented itself in too many ways. 

It terrifies you - and Jungkook can do nothing about it.  He tries though and with time and patience and all of his shitty corny jokes, things have gotten better.  You’ve softened, fallen in love despite yourself.  

Sometimes, you’re still a little out of reach - just a little too far.  (On more than one occasion, he’s wondered if he’s asking for too much.)  

It’s easier when he thinks how much progress you’ve made.

“Your number in exchange for my troubles?”

“No.”  You’d said it so clearly, not an ounce of hesitation.  Even with him dressed in your coffee, you’d refused him.  “Sorry.”  You hadn’t sounded very sorry.

Imagine his surprise when he’d met you again, a week later, at a mutual friend’s birthday.

“Can I have your number now?”  Jungkook was nothing if not persistent.  

You had refused to budge, sipping politely at your cranberry vodka and studying him over the rim of the glass.  “No.”

It’d only been at the end of the night, when you’d been making your rounds - saying goodbye and swinging hands around shoulders - that you’d finally said yes.  Probably because you were maybe, just a little, slightly under the influence.  

When you’d smiled, though - he could’ve sworn you were just as happy as he was.

It was the first snowfall in the city, nearly three months since you’d started seeing each other.  You’d pouted and whined, staring out the huge industrial windows with your chin in your hand.

“Snow sucks,”  you’d huffed, puffed like a big bad wolf. 

“Let’s go away then.”  He’d been meaning to ask - had looked at tickets just that morning, in his free period before his students had come milling into his classroom babbling about their weekends.  There’d been a deal somewhere tropical, somewhere you’d mentioned once in passing when he’d been looking at the weather forecast.

“Or not.”  

“Why not?”  His insistence was the same as it always was, creeping up your spine and sitting comfortably around your shoulders.  A woolen scarf that’d keep you warm even on the coldest of nights.

“That’s like…”  You’d shrugged, pushed your way out of bed to busy yourself with something in the kitchen.  He could read you like a book even then, practically mouth the words you’d speak next.  “Kind of serious.”

“We’re kind of serious, aren’t we?”

He hadn’t expected the look you’d tossed his way, fleeting but terribly clear in the dim light. Worry.

You’d said yes, again, by the end of the night.  Even when you tried, you couldn’t say no.

“Move in with me.”  It’d been your sixth consecutive hour in bed, a lazy Sunday morning that’d stretched into the afternoon.  You’d even cancelled your standing brunch reservation, opting to stay cozied up in bed together.  He’d held you like you were precious, treasure, the most important thing in the world.

You’d done the same, though you pretended not to.  You hated being vulnerable.  

“Why?”  For once, not a no.  He remembers the surprise, the lack of an outright denial spurring his eyebrows into his hairline.  You’d scowled at him, whacked a hand across his pec as if aiming for the thing that beat for you.  (Only you.)

“You’re always here anyway.”  

“You just want someone to help you with rent.”  Well, that’d been true.  As much as he loved you, you took too long showers and always forgot to turn off the light when you left.  His bills had somehow skyrocketed.  

But that wasn’t why.  The why was you.  It was always you.

It’d taken another two weeks but you were moved in before summer, all your hangers hung up beside his, your unnecessarily extensive skincare routine taking up all the real estate on his bathroom counter.

He’d thought it’d happen how it always did, starting with a no and ending with a yes.

For once, Jungkook was surprised.  You’d packed your bags and left, taking his heart with you and leaving the little velvet box on the counter.  

“I’m not marrying you,”  you’d said with an air of finality he’d never heard before.

He’d thought that’d be the end.  He was wrong then too.  

“Baby.”  

You’re half asleep on his chest, book having fallen out of your grip sometime over the last half hour.  He’s been stuck watching YouTube autoplay, too afraid of waking you up to try to grab the Apple remote stuck under your butt.

“Hu-u-uuh?”  You’re bleary-eyed, beautiful.  When you speak, he feels the little puddle of drool on his skin spread, pushed around by the shape of your mouth.  The sound you make is hilarious - decidedly not very sophisticated, a world away from the you that sees the rest of the world.

“I want a baby.”  Jungkook’s nonchalant about it because he’s learnt what the worst case scenario is and knows you’ll never be back there.  You’re stuck with him forever now.  You’d promised.

Even in your exhaustion, you’re incredulous, staring up at him like you’re not sure whether everything’s a fever dream or reality.  “You want a baby?”  

“Yeah.”  

“You are a baby.”  It’s not a no.  He latches onto that with his teeth, bares them in his adorable bunny smile he knows you can’t resist.

“I’m twenty-eight, actually.”  

“Baby.”  You’re mocking him, dropping your head back against his heated skin.  He can feel you smiling, even as you try to hide it.

“Exactly.”

#anon.eml #bts au #bts drabble #bts fluff #bts imagine #bts jungkook #jeon jungkook #jungkook #jungkook au #jungkook drabble #jungkook fluff #jungkook imagine #ty for sending this in!! #i love writing about these two #owo #incoming.eml #work.zip #drabble.zip #loveyou.doc #jungkook.doc

[yeojaa]

IDK IF UR STILL TAKING REQUESTS🥺🥺🥺 sorry if IM botherinh😭😭 BUT MYBE A FINDERS KEEP HERS drabble where jk n oc get in to an argument after chap 3 n jk apologizes or something like that😭😭🥺😭🥺🥺

[ read part one / main story ]

pairing.  jjk x f!reader.  rating.  general.  tags.  this is soft angst. JK being his usual idiot self, reader being... well, sad, and yeah. just pain (but w a resolution. ish).  wc. 1.5k.  beta reader.  @hobi-gif beta’d a bit of this but i wrote most of it after so any dumb mistakes are my fault and my fault alone. 🤡  author note.  this isn’t 100% what you requested but... the first part kind of is, and then this is the resolution (because people requested it). if you’d like another drabble, please feel free to request!

In true fashion, Jungkook tries to fix the problem in the only way he knows how:  with money.

He puts the two of you up at the Four Seasons for the entire week, orders room service at all hours of the day and has treats from all of your favourite spots in the city delivered.  (Macarons, candied nuts, that one bakery that does those salted honey pies you inhale like a wild animal.)  He runs baths for you, fills the tub with your favourite scents (always Diptyque) and massages his tattooed hands all over your scalp.  He makes sure you wake up to the smell of French toast and fall asleep on a bed of roses, curled up in his arms and little else.  

He spoils you until you can hardly see the floor, designer shopping bags strewn throughout the suite.  (His sisters help him decide what to buy, mouths sealed shut otherwise.  They know better than to get too involved in his relationship with you.)  Dinner is somewhere new every night but always at a Michelin-starred restaurant, space booked out to the extent it’s just the two of you and a bouquet of your favourite flowers.

Of course, he thinks things are better.  Assumes they must be, because there’s never been a time where money hasn’t solved his problems.  No matter how much, throw enough of it at something and the problem will go away.

But you don’t go away.  Neither does your sadness.

“Baby.”  It’s your last night together before you’re back to some semblance of normalcy (not that Jungkook’s life was very normal to begin with).  He thinks he’ll miss it more than you will, if your lacklustre reactions have been any indication.

You’re fresh out of the shower - you’d turned down his offer of a bath, locked the door on your way into the washroom - and wrapped in a fuzzy white robe.  “What?”  You’re focused on running a comb through your hair, unbothered by your boyfriend who sits at the edge of the bed, legs wide and hands extended toward you.

It bothers him a bit (read: a lot).  You’re better than you were, offering tiny smiles when he begs for them, accepting his kisses without complaint. It isn’t you though.  Not the snark and the sass and the decades of friendship that normally thread your relationship.  A book with its spine about to snap, held together by cobweb.

Despite the time you’ve spent together the last few days - almost every hour, sans when you were at work - you’ve been distant still.  Not mean, of course (no, never mean, because you’ve always been soft on him) but different.  Softer and harder all at once.

“Come here,”  he coaxes, fingers curling around your wrist, pulling you between his knees effortlessly.

Normally, you’d curl around his shoulders, rake your nails through his hair.  This time, you only allow yourself to be with him, palms flat upon the ridges of muscle plating his back.  You don’t pass affection into his hair, don’t form a cradle for him to rest his head.  (It doesn’t feel like home - not like it should.)

Jungkook hates it.  Absolutely fucking abhors it.  He wants his girlfriend - his best friend, his love - back.  Not this spectre that’s taken up your space. 

(He almost forgets that he’s the reason you’re the way you are.)

“What’s wrong?”  The shape of his mouth curls, bottom lip pouting into that trademark expression that usually has you relenting, melting into a puddle of goo in his arms. 

This time, you shrug, movement dislodging the soft soft terry cloth from your shoulders.  “Nothing.”  Dumb as he might be - oblivious in the way only someone like he can be - he can tell you’re lying.  Offering the untruth right between your teeth, expecting him to accept it.

That bothers him even more.  It’s one thing to put up an act, entertain him as if you were a court jester.  It’s entirely another to treat him as if he’s a child, feeding him lies without a care.

(Notwithstanding the fact that Jeon Jungkook is, for all intents and purposes, a manchild.)

“You’re a shit liar,”  he retorts, grumpy, coloured green and blue until his insides feel like mud.  It’s strange, the discomfort that sinks beneath his skin and sticks his bones together.  Like wading through quicksand or a bog, stuck to a place he doesn’t want to be.  “Talk to me.”

“About what?”  You’re deflecting, refusing to meet his stare, holding yourself within the confines of your robe as if you can’t bear to open up to him.

That hurts more than he expects.  Slips sadness in alongside the frustration.

“About what’s bothering you.”  The fact he has to do this is driving him mad.  It’s akin to pulling teeth and he hates the dentist.

You scoff then - which he doesn’t expect.  The sound kicks him right in the stomach, a sucker punch he doesn’t see coming.  “You want me to talk about you?”  It’s an uncharacteristically mean answer, brought on by whatever’s been bothering you, turning blood to battery acid.

“Excuse me?”  

“You heard me.”  

For the briefest moment, he considers lashing out in response - giving back exactly what he’s getting.  But then he spies it, just there, past the usual warmth of your stare.  It’s hiding behind crystallised amber, peeking past the edges.  So much sadness it steals his breath right from his lungs, stripping him bare of red hot fury and leaving him lily white and lovesick.   

When Jungkook speaks again, it’s feather soft, terribly light, begging and pleading in a single utterance.  “Please.”

There’s silence for a beat, then another.  It stings for each second it continues, treading misery all over the thing that beats in his chest.  He’s not used to this.  (You’re his first and only love.  A part of him is grateful for that;  another hates even this.)

He almost asks again - readies it on the tip of his tongue.

Then you’re unloading, giving him everything he’d asked for and more.   

“I love you,”  you tell him in a reedy voice, uneven like the foundation you’ve built together.  Haphazardly thrown into place and hoped for the best on.  “But you’re an idiot.”   

(He deserves that, he supposes.)

Your voice is static, stretched thin and gossamer thin.  Cheek pressed to his curls, you find comfort in your hiding place, as if shielded by the dark.  “I’ve loved you for years and that’ll never stop.  But when you do stupid shit, it’s so hard.”  Your words are honeyed, thick and heavy as they lay into each strand, seep quietly into his ears.  Where they’d normally fill him with ecstasy, delight, send him on a sugar high - these ache, sink right to the pit of his stomach.  “I would give you anything.  Anything.”

“I know.”  Really, he does.  He’s known that since you were kids.  It’s why he’d fallen in love with you, even before he’d realised he had.

“Then why do you test me?”  

It’s not rhetorical.  You want an answer - something real you can hold between your hands.  Something to act as the salve for all the hurt, to bandage the wounds left behind by your uncertainty.  (He’s the same as you - needs to know he means as much to you as you do him.  But you show it in different ways and that’s what’s brought the two of you to this point.)

“I’m sorry,”  he answers, sliding his arms more securely around your waist, face buried into the soft fabric of the robe, into the warmth that lies beneath, into the heart that beats a rhythm identical to his.

“I don’t want sorry.”  After all, you’d already gotten one.  Weeks ago, when he’d pulled the stupid sophomoric stunt, he’d apologised.  Had been apologising every day since then, but in all the wrong ways.  “I want better.” 

It’s as if all of his bones have been cracked open, the weight of your words settling like sand, discomfort and grit snapping his head to attention.  “You want better?”  There’s nothing but alarm in Jungkook’s expression, eyes wide, throat knotted in worry.  “I—”

As always, you read him like an open book.  Hands smooth down the sides of his cheeks, palms searing over his reddened cheeks.  “Not like that.”  You’re reassuring him even as it should be the other way around.  (How ironic.)

He exhales a deep breath.  Doesn’t tear his stare from yours.  

“I just need you to be better.”  You’d never ask this of him if it weren’t important, if you didn’t feel his ignorance and immaturity splintering your insides into glass shards.  You’ve always accepted him exactly as he was, all the good and bad and ridiculous.  

This is different though.  You love him.  You’re taking a chance with him just as he is with you.  Laying your heart in his hands and trusting him to keep it safe, handing out the key in the hopes of building a home.  

So you ask - for both your sakes. 

He promises he will be and you believe him.  Have to.

For both of your sakes.

#anon.eml #incoming.eml #work.zip #drabble.zip #finders.doc #bts au #bts imagine #bts drabble #bts angst #bts jungkook #jeon jungkook #jeon jeongguk #jungkook #jungkook au #jungkook drabble #jungkook angst #jungkook imagine #jungkook.doc #bts

[yeojaa]

one of the first things ive ever read of yours was the 'read 6:45' it made me bawl my eyes out during 12 am 😭 could i please request a follow up drabble for it?

[ read "i love you.” read: 6:45 pm ]

pairing.  jjk x f!reader.  rating.  general.  tags.  frustrating among us play, kook being cute, etc.  wc. 0.9k.  beta reader.  n/a.  author note.  i’m so sorry this is so late but i hope you enjoy this!  i wanted to keep it kind of light and silly, since the original was...  sad and then silly?  also, this was heavily inspired by this twitter post.

Dating Jungkook is kind of like free-falling from an airplane.  (Not that you’ve ever done that.)  It’s exhilarating and fun and sometimes, downright terrifying.  You suppose it comes with the territory of being with someone like him - effortlessly cool, collected, capable of turning every no into a yes. 

You’d seen it in action during your time as friends.  Watched him woo women and dunk on dudes, somehow scrap an A in a class you both attended where you’d barely gotten a B.  (You’re still a little salty about that.)  He’d even, somehow, wormed his way into your favourite bartender’s heart, on speed dial any time you and your girlfriends had a little too much fun.  Really - just do things you’d formerly thought impossible and with that dumbass grin on his face, confidence rolling off him in waves. 

You really shouldn’t have expected you’d fare any better, be able to deny him when so many others had failed. 

“Babe.  Babe.”  There’s that goofy smile, bunny toothed and adorable.  “C’mon— it’ll be funny.”

You level him with a look in your mirror - one that screams no, it’s not - but he just keeps beaming at you in the reflection, eyes so sparkly you want to tear your own hair out.  “Maybe to you,”  you retort, slicking brow gel on, mouth rounded in a little ‘o’. 

“No!  To everyone!”  Your boyfriend is insistent, curling across your back like drapery, chin resting upon your shoulder.  He bats his lashes at you, sways you back and forth in his arms.  

“A third imposter is so stupid.”  Also, because you’re bad at impostering as is.  (You always forget which room is where and you can never answer when people ask which fake tasks you’ve been doing.)  You don’t think you could properly third imposter if you tried.  “Just win the old-fashioned way, you dummy.”  Not like Jungkook isn’t already stupidly good at fooling everyone, going so far as to admit he was the imposter and yet somehow still win.  

“But it’s funny!”  Which you suppose is what it comes down to.  Your boyfriend doesn’t particularly care about winning - it’ll likely happen anyway - but he wants to put your friend group through hell.  Make them all doubt each other as he cackles maliciously in the background.  

(Because he does that.  Laughs so long and hard it’s embarrassing, arms thrown around his head as he revels in the chaos he’s unleashed.)

“Whatever.”  It’s a lost cause.  Once he has his mind set on something, it’s nearly impossible to turn him off the idea.  Whether it’s craving corn pizza at 3 AM, forcing everyone to try the bald head Snapchat filter, or doubling his one-rep squat max - he’s as stubborn as an ox.

“Are you kidding me!”  

You watch in horror - anger, exasperation - as your little blue character gets shot through the head, the eggplant imposter tearing off in the opposite direction.  You don’t know the map well enough to know how likely it is your body will be found or how easily someone will figure out who the murderer is.  Are there cams on this map?  (God, you really need to pay better attention when you play.)

All you know is frustration, glare furrowing your brows.

Somewhere, past the closed door of his bedroom, you hear Jungkook laughing.  He’s like Ed the hyena, snickering loudly, clearly pleased.  Then your body is reported.  By your boyfriend.  Your purple-suit wearing boyfriend.

(He’s with Taehyung, dressed in green with a little companion chasing after him.) 

“Who killed my girlfriend?!”  He has the audacity to sound devastated, voice pitching three octaves as he all but shouts into his headset.

There’s a chorus of not me’s from the group, people discussing among themselves who could’ve possibly killed you in cold blood - left you to rot in the tree room.  (That’s what it’s called, right?)  No one even seems to notice how quiet Jungkook is now, likely tapping the tips of his fingers together like an evil genius.

You want to scream, shout, send him straight to the shadow realm.  You cannot believe he’s getting away with this, playing the part of an indignant boyfriend so well.  It’s absurd, really.  

“I can clear JK.  He was with me.”  Of course Taehyung’s in on it.  That, or he’s just as chaotic as his friend.  (Both are believable.)  You’ve seen the blond accuse everyone under the sun, playing third imposter better than the goddamn imposters themselves.  There was something about him, his uncanny ability to cast doubt on anyone. 

(Conversely, he could make anyone believe him.  And by anyone, you meant Jimin.  The two never turned against each other.  Ever.)

“I didn’t see Jimin anywhere,”  comes Yoongi’s slow drawl.  It sounds like he’s just woken up from a nap, syllables rounded and sleepy.  You wouldn’t be surprised if Jimin had been following after his hyung and Yoongi had simply been too tired to notice.  Something something life of a bartender something. 

“I saw Jimin across the map right as it happened.”  There’s Namjoon, ever the reasonable one, humming thoughtfully.  (Reasonable, but still suspicious.  He was notoriously bad for drawing out votings, calling emergency meetings again because he hadn’t had a chance to consider every possibility.)  “And he wasn’t near a vent, so I think he’s okay.”  A pause,  “but you never know.”

There’s a collective groan - Hoseok’s bubbling laughter cuts through it - and the next round begins. 

#anon.eml #incoming.eml #work.zip #drabble.zip #jungkook.doc #bts au #bts fluff #bts imagine #bts drabble #bts jungkook #jungkook au #jungkook drabble #jungkook imagine #jungkook fluff #jungkook x oc #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you

[yeojaa]

Hi Erin!! Because my friend tells me this literally at least twice a week: “If I die, I’m haunting you first.” with Namjoon or Jungkook (you choose😉) Love you!!

One:  Jeon Jungkook is a stuffed animal come to life, all big button eyes and bunny teeth.  He’s velvet soft, the rabbit from those old books;  he couldn’t hurt a fly even if he tried (not a spider, either, if his shrieking fits about them were any indication).  He’s rounded edges and silvery laughter, bells jumbled together in the pit of his stomach.  He is not the kind of person you’re afraid of.

Two:  Jeon Jungkook hates surprises.  He’s always far too eager to be involved, to be in the know.  Whether good or bad, he needs to be looped in, begging and pleading and whining with that adorable pout of his.  It pulls his cheeks wide, cuts dimples deep, and rounds his lips until you can’t resist him any more.

Three:  Jeon Jungkook thinks he’s neat and cool and suave.  He isn’t. 

You know he isn’t because he actually screams when he steps into the apartment, beleaguered in a way a twenty-something year old shouldn’t be.  (He’d blame it on the long hours he’s been working, the overtime he’s been forced to put in.  You’d say it’s all the gaming he does when he gets home late, that keep him up until the early hours despite the fact he should know better.)

“Surprise!”   It’s a chorus of voices, threaded with love and uttered with tenderness, but it might as well be the undying cries of a thousand spectres with how Jungkook reacts.  He’s clutching his chest, very much the picture of someone who’s short circuited, shoulders heaving with the breaths he takes.

Honestly, it’s a funny sight.  Tall as he is, broad as he is, he’s reduced to a wheezing mess as everyone laughs, the sounds melting together into a cacophany of affection.  

You’re crouched at his side, hand threaded through the buttery blue strands that stick to his forehead and curl haphazardly over his ears.  “You okay?”  

“If I die, I’m haunting you first.”  Maybe if he weren’t trying to catch his breath, made deaf by the thunderclap of his pulse in his ears, you’d be more intimidated.  As it stands, you can’t help but snicker, pushing his hair back with that devilish smile of yours cemented in place.

“Happy birthday, baby.”

#incoming.eml #propinqxity #work.zip #drabble.zip #jungkook.doc #i love you! #i would never haunt you #except maybe i would because i'd miss you

[yeojaa]

hi!! could i please request an 80s jk drabble where he takes reader roller skating or on a date? 🥺

pairing.  jjk x reader.  rating.  general.  tags.  good ol’ fashion fluff.  wc.  0.6k.  author note.  i’m actually working on a dynamite!au so this was really fun to write to remind myself why i started it lol.  thank you for the request!  💛

You are not good at roller skating.  In fact, you’d go so far as to say you’re terrible at it, more likely to break your arm than the average person.  It has something to do with your complete lack of balance, your inability to walk more than five blocks without somehow hurting yourself.  (You’d counted once, in high school.  Or rather, your best friend had, chuckling to himself when you’d caught the rubber toe of your sneaker on the raised sidewalk, nearly face planting into concrete.) 

So it’s only right you’re a bundle of nerves, sweaty palms and fear shackled around your neck like a makeshift collar.  You know you’re going to make a fool of yourself. 

“Kook,”  you mumble, staring down at his powder puff of dark hair, a little unruly but altogether put together, curling prettily over his ears and the yellow shirt he wears.  (It’s one of your favourites - making him radiate sunlight more than he usually does.)  “I really, really don’t want to.”

Don’t want to was an understatement.  He doesn’t care.

“____.”  He says your name like your mother does, full of reprimand and love.  You wish you could see his expression but he’s too busy lacing your skates, bent down on one knee to thread the flat laces over and over.  When he finishes one foot, he looks up at you, meets your stare readily, the brown of his irises reflecting the overhead disco lights back at you.  “You trust me, right?”

Did you trust him?  Maybe not to be on time to Sunday dinner and maybe not to not eat all of the donuts you dropped off for his family, but in most situations?  Yes, probably.  He was your best friend - had been at your side since you were seven years old and had fallen off the monkey bars.  Had held your hand the entire time you’d sat in the gravel, tearlessly sobbing while your knee bled all through the new jeans you’d gotten for the first day of school.

This was different, though.  This was somewhere where even his reassurances wouldn’t mean anything, wouldn’t prevent you from falling face first and embarrassing yourself enough for the year.

“Yes.”  You mean it when you answer, even if it’s a little uncertain, paired with a furrow of your brow and matching curl of your mouth.  

“Then just relax.”  

He’s finished lacing the other skate, tapping affectionately on your knee as he rises from his own.  

Standing above you, framed beneath the multicoloured lights, he looks like some sort of disco Jesus - a beacon of hope in the otherwise dreadful situation.  When he reaches for you, offers his hand and a smile, you can’t deny that this is the best case scenario - a silver lining to his crappy plan.

“I won’t let you fall,”  he reassures you, pulling you to your feet.  “Just don’t let go of my hand and you’ll be fine.”

You doubt him still - can’t help it, because you know yourself - but true to his word - true to the Jeon Jungkook he is - he keeps you upright.  Twines your fingers with his own as he guides you to the floor, carefully skating backwards to have you moving along the edge of the floor.  (How he does it, you have no idea.)  He keeps this up, locks your eyes with his as you make it halfway around, knees bowed and hand-held.  

“See?”  Jungkook’s smile is brighter than the sun, full of pride.  You hardly even  notice when he releases one of your hands, slows his own roll to close the distance between you.  You’re standstill and it doesn’t even occur to you, so lost in how he beams at you, speaking all the words you need to hear.  “Eyes on me.  I’ve got you.”

#anon.eml #bts #bts au #bts drabble #bts imagine #bts fluff #bts jungkook #jeon jeongguk #jeon jungkook #jungkook au #jungkook imagine #jungkook drabble #jungkook fluff #jungkook x oc #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #incoming.eml #work.zip #drabble.zip #jungkook.doc

[yeojaa]

popcorn

[ ask game:  drop a word in my inbox ] 

Movie theatre popcorn is one of his favourite things. Utterly too indulgent, dressing the tips of his fingers in buttery goodness, staining through the bottom of the bag into the napkins he keeps cradled along the edge.

It’s too easy to finish an entire bag, to devour it by the handfuls and then feel awful for days after.

You are his movie theatre popcorn.

You’re salty and addictive, burning his tongue with the taste of you, making his throat ache for water when he indulges too heavily. You’re the film that lays all over his thoughts, coats everything in a glossy golden hue that reminds him of the yellow of your necklace, the sunshine in your smile. You’re the fountain pop fizziness that makes his stomach do weird somersaults whenever he looks at you - and catches you looking back.

You’re his movie theatre popcorn but you’re not bad for him. In fact, you probably make his life better, show him a side of it he’d probably never see otherwise. You drag him out even when he doesn’t want to - to frat parties and raves and out with your girlfriends and their significant others. You kiss the ink that threads his arm - the little pieces of artwork that barely anyone knows about, that hardly see the light of day and still receive all the affection in the world. You wear your girlish skirts and dance around the quad, dressed in shorts that might as well be underwear and laughing the whole time.

You’re everything he’d never thought he’d want - too out there, too rambunctious and overconfident and miserably, unbelievably popular - but he’s thankful for you every day. Grateful for freshman year options and getting paired with you for the semester end project.

(He’d thought you’d be deadweight - pretty to look at but ultimately unhelpful. Then you’d done more than your share of the work and kept him going with coffees and bubblegum laughter even at 2 AM. That’s when he’d learnt to never judge a book by its cover.)

“Are you ready?” You’re sprawled across his bed, little red scrap of tartan flipped up. Whether it’s intentional or not, he’s not sure. Can’t think too much of it when the heart-patterns on your thong make his own stutter nervously. (Truth is, Jungkook’s never really sure about anything with you - only knows that he likes you and not knowing isn’t that bad when it comes in the shape of your smile, your velvet hair tickling his cheek after a midday nap.)

“Don’t you think it’s too much?” Because he certainly thinks it is, the shirt you’d picked up and insisted on clinging to his frame like a second skin, something silky that begs to be shed off and replaced by oversized cotton. It reveals too much of his chest, splits almost to his belly button, and he feels awkward so exposed, a cold draft enough to have him connecting with Marilyn Monroe.

You roll your eyes - it’s such a pretty sight, paired with your long dark lashes and exaggerated cheekbones - and reach for him, nails like claws that sink into his thigh. Ow.

“Baby, you look good. My little wolf.”

He frowns, just a bit, tugging instead at the ears that sit atop his head. Fluffy and grey, the edges of the headband dig into his scalp. He wants to rip them off - but one look from you has him dropping his hand back to his side.

“You trust me, don’t you?” You’re doing that thing you do, hair falling into your eyes, head tilted adorably as you shift onto your knees, short pleats of your skirt fluttering over your thighs. It’s so distracting when you turn your charm to eleven; you know just how defenceless he is to it.

“Of course.”

“Then don’t worry, baby.” You seal his uncertainty away with a kiss, a stamp of cherry red lipstick that bleeds into the fake blood smeared across his jaw and neck. He feels your tongue over his, exploring the warmth of his mouth and the haphazardly glued canines that make it hard for him to fully close his it. “I’ll keep you safe.”

Too bad it’s your bedroom eyes he’s afraid of.

#incoming.eml #anon.eml #work.zip #drabble.zip #jungkook.doc #this is popular oc x nerd jk #because why not

[yeojaa]

SUGAR HIGH, chapter i. (w. JJK)

You're not entirely sure when it happened, though you'd come to terms with it. You'd counted the days, waiting for the inevitable. You'd truly thought you'd be okay, but by the broken, half-beating thing in your chest - you knew you'd never really been prepared.

alt summary.  You thought you’d known real love and maybe you had - it just wasn’t with who you thought.

pairing.  jeon jungkook.  mentions/involvement of ot7.

tags.  angst, break up, post-break up, comfort, OT7, slow burn, friendship, moving on, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, emotional bagge, fluff, canon compliant, jeon jungkook is bad at feelings, jeon jungkook is a good friend, jeon jungkook is a sweetheart. 

rating.  general (for now?)

word count.  ~2000

chapter 1.  This Is Not a Love Song

Endings are never easy and rarely are they simple.  But when the person you once loved feels more like a stranger, isn't it better you say goodbye?  You're not quite sure.

Had it been days?  Weeks?  Months?

You truly tried to remember, to recall what the feeling of his hands felt like, the soft ache of his voice in the early morning.  You tried to piece together the memory of his I love you's and attempted to recall whether the emptiness had always felt like this - suffocating.  

Had his stare always been so lackluster?  You'd sworn you could've once been swept up in the depths of his emotion, happy to sink beneath the tumultuous waves.  You would've died happy, curled around the treasure that you'd found there within the cavern of his chest.  You'd found a home in him -- or so you thought.

You wondered idly whether it was normal for this to happen, for love to settle into half-baked embers.  Perhaps this was just how things were.  Perhaps the intensity of your love - like a kerosene rag soaked in gasoline - had skewed your perspective.  Maybe this was okay.  (Not great, but okay.)  

"Soomi-ah, are you okay?"

The concern tore you from your reverie, snapping you back to reality.

Something like a smile arranges itself on your face - but he can tell it's strained.  There's too much weight in the jut of your bottom lip, tension hugging the curve of your small jaw.  He sees it - or the lack thereof - in your eyes, the warmth of your amusement hardly reaching the honeyed depths.  

Though he's miles away, connected only by the quickest connection the hotel can muster, he wonders what your hands look like.  Would they be coiled together, knuckles blown white?

"I'm fine, Jungkook-ah."  Your expression falters, dips just barely, before returning in full force.  Laughter sounds in what's meant to be reassurance and you breath in sharply through your nose, willing the sudden wetness from your eyes.  You silently thank yourself for having gotten talked into a haircut earlier this week, the softened strands at your crown casting a safety net across your features.

"You don't seem fine."

It's not accusatory - only concerned.  

What did you do to deserve someone like him?

There's another inhale, this time masked beneath a quiet clearing of your throat.  Could you lie to him?  Did you even have reason to?  He was your best friend (and you were one of his seven).  You knew you could tell him anything.

And so you did.

"I think... things are over.  Or they're going to be over.  I don't really know.  It's like I'm all alone."  You're rambling, tripping over your own words in your haste to get them all out before they're steeled once again behind the cage of your teeth.  "I mean, I know I'm not. I have you. I have Minji and Yejin and... everyone else, but he feels so far away."

You want to explain how you'd thought you'd be together for- no, not ever, but a long time.  You thought you'd have years ahead of you, two puzzle pieces haphazardly thrown together that somehow worked despite the awkward edges.  

You thought you'd loved enough for the both of you.

"We haven't spoken in days."  This draws a noise of surprise from the figure on the screen, whose arms fold neatly over his drawn-up legs, bottom lip bruised under the ministrations of his teeth.  He says nothing more though - simply nods and continues to listen.

"It's like I'm living with a roommate.  A really, really quiet roommate."

"I wish mine were quiet."  You know he's trying to cheer you up and it works - a flutter of laughter dropping off your tongue.  

Then silence returns, filling the spaces you don't know how to, and he sees more than hears the way you squeeze your fingers in your lap.  You've always done this - some sort of defense mechanism in place to prevent you from feeling too much.  You'd adopted it from him, honestly, so he couldn't fault you.  When you spent so much time with someone, you were bound to steal the best and worst of them.

"I'm here for you,"  he finally breaks the quiet, leaning forward in his chair, head cocking to the side in that way you love so much.  "I'll be home next Wednesday and we can figure things out together."

His words carry weight to them, as if he could anchor you there with him, keeping you from drifting under the current of your sadness.  And maybe he can.

"Okay."  

You'd promised you would let him know if anything changed, wiggled your pinky finger at him through the FaceTime screen as he'd done the same.  He'd laughed when you'd rolled your eyes, aware that deep down these little things were what helped get you through the harder days.

You'd lied - but you were sure this was for the best.  After all, he was busy.  It came with the territory of being an idol.

He didn't have time for all of your little problems.

(He did - you knew he did.  He'd drop the world if it meant anything to you.)  

So you packed your things with the help of Minji, carefully tucking clothes into boxes and stripping all indications of you from the slate grey walls.  You smoothed the faded pink fur of your Cooky plush against your cheek, breathing in the familiar scent - a mixture of his cologne and something distinctly him.

Across the room, Minji hums as she slips yet another pair of shoes into a box.  "Do you really need this many?"  

You tear your attention from the handful of stuffed animals on the edge of the bed, Cooky still snuggled happily in the crook of your elbow.  A hand flies to your throat, feigned affront evident in the width of your stare and garbled gasp.  "Of course I do.  What else will I wear when..."

There are a pair of Converse staring you down, what was once pure as snow now a muddy off-white.  They're identical to the other pair in Minji's hands, though significantly more dirty.

"I wore those to DisneySEA!  Namjoon-oppa nearly broke my ankle in them.  I can't throw them away!"

You were a dreamer, a romanticist, someone who held onto everything from ticket stubs to sticky notes.  You kept every stuffed animal you won (or was won for you).  You never threw away anything so long as they held some sort of sentimental value.  Even if it hurt, you held onto it.

Minji had noticed this when you packed up the photos of you and Seunghoon, meticulously arranging the frames within the brown box.  She would've thrown them against the wall and left it for him to clean up, if it had been up to her.

She knew not to push you, though.  She knew this was hard enough already.

"Okay, okay," she relents with a pronounced roll of her eyes, hands none-too-gently shoving the second pair of sneakers away.  "But you seriously have too much stuff.  I've put away at least fifteen white shirts and they all looked the exact same!"

You say nothing in response, a small little smile quirking the edge of your mouth as you tape the box closed, inspecting your handiwork.

"Yah - I'm serious!  We're roping the boys in and Marie Kondo-ing your apartment."

"Good luck with that.  Kookie will vote to keep all the shirts."  After all, it was his fault.  Another habit borrowed from your best friend - collecting a million plain tee shirts.  "And none of the other boys will care enough to make me toss them."

Behind your back, Minji scowls albeit playfully and tosses a pair of fluffy white slippers at your head. "You're the worst."

"And you love it," you singsong back, setting the slippers in question back into the box she's working on.

"I do."

"I'm sorry."  

You're not quite sure why you're apologizing, why the words trickle off your tongue like tears.  You'd meant to stray strong, to bury the sadness among the cobwebs and forget about them.  You believed you'd be able to ignore the gaping, Seunghoon-shaped hole in your chest.

He's sitting by the front door, ankle resting casually against his knee.  Fingers curl together and you fight the desire to interrogate him - ask him why he seems so unaffected.

(You know the answer.)

Still, you can't help but feel what you imagine is the second breaking of your heart.

What you'd thought would be a golden happily ever after is anything but, sunshine giving way to a dull Sunday afternoon and rain that comes heavy enough to drown you.  

"It happens."  The words are like a jagged edge, slipping between your rattling rib cage and slotting itself exactly where your heart shudders.  The way he meets your gaze, stares right through you, is like a twist of his hand, and you momentarily forget how to breathe.  How could this be so easy for him?

In, out.  Just in and out.

You stand feeling small in the massive doorway, hands balled into fists at your side.  You can feel Minji's eyes on your back as she waits by the car.  You know if she made any indication, she'd be there in a moment, gathering you up in her arms and whisking you away.

But you need to do this by yourself - for yourself.

When you turn away from him, from his half-empty expression, you can feel the remnants of his love buried beneath your skin.  They're little splinters of better memories, of rose-coloured glass.  You know they'll leave scars.

"Goodbye," you muster up the courage to murmur the words before you're gone, taking the steps as quickly as you can.

You try not to wish, to hope - but you do anyway.  Just one sign this is tearing him apart like it is you.

He says nothing.

You've made the right choice.

In your old bed, with your old sheets, you drift.  You're not sure what time it is or when you last ate, but you remember.

You remembered coffee after you'd left what was no longer your home, wrapped up in the comforting embrace of your friend.  You'd felt the way she'd come apart alongside you, holding you as you'd cried yourself hoarse in the parking lot.

You remembered the way she and Yejin had appeared on your doorstep the next night, an assortment of goodies carried between three bags.  Among other things, they'd brought pickled radish and mandu and a giant bottle of your favourite lemon tea.  They'd hugged you when you'd started sobbing quietly, shoulders curved inwards as you attempted to stifle the noise.  (They'd regretted choosing a romcom to watch.)

You remembered last night when Jungkook had called, clearly concerned by the lack of response to his adorable selca and short video of Jimin wrestling a half-asleep Taehyung.  He'd sounded tired and you could tell by the way he exhaled and the rustle of blankets that he was settling in for the night.

You'd felt bad, guilt gnawing at the column of your throat, when you told him you were fine.  "I'm just tired," you'd murmured, cheek pressed to the cool silk of your pillowcase.  You'd tried to still your breathing, regulate the ache that weighed in your chest.  He always knew when you were lying.

"Me too," Jungkook had returned with a yawn.  You'd imagined his big doe-eyes in the dark, the little mole beneath his lip in full view as he pouted.  Such a little bunny.

"Then hang up."

You hadn't meant it as dismissively as you're sure it had come across but you'd certainly felt it when he exhaled, the sound amplified within the quiet of his room and the cocoon of his blankets.

"I just wanted to check up on you."  He'd spoken softly, as if he was the one hurting you, and your vision had blurred.  The heaviness on your shoulders had twisted and turned, coloured this time by shame, sinking into your spine and drawing you deeper into your bed.  

You were such an asshole.

"I'm sorry, Kookie."  

He'd hummed in response and then you'd drifted into silence - the quiet bringing comfort in the still night.  You'd continued to lie there, un-moving, phone screen a dimmed light as you thanked your lucky stars for someone like him.  

When his breathing had evened out, you'd remained on the line until sleep came calling.  Only now could you happily drift beneath sandman's dust, finding solace in your best friend on the other line.  "Thank you."

notes.   thank you for reading! 

this is my first fic in... forever, and i haven't written anything in about 3-4 years. please bear with me on this journey.  i was inspired by the incredible people on this site (and AO3, where I'm @makotako) and couldn't help jumping in. 

i wasn't really sure what this story would be like, so i apologize if it's a bit all over the place. this is largely based off of (recent) personal experience, so i'm hoping i've conveyed all my emotion the best i can. lauv's "who" really inspired me to put everything into words and honestly, listening to the song on repeat (and screeching about JK and jimin) was the easiest task in the world. 

i would really appreciate any and all feedback. <3

#bts fluff #bts #bts fanfic #bts fic #jeon jungkook #jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fic #jungkook fluff #jungkook x you #jungkook x reader #jungkook x oc #work.zip #bestfriends.zip #sugarhigh.doc #jungkook.doc

[yeojaa]

SWEET LULLABIES, chapter iii. (w. JJK)

You've never loved in half measures.  It's always been all or nothing.  You didn't even mind when your heart was bigger than theirs.  Lopsided or not, you made up for whatever they wouldn't give.  But when you've finally met your match, what will happen?

alt summary.  You're crazy in love and for once, so is he.

pairing.  jeon jungkook.  

genre + rating.  a whole lot of angst with a bit of fluff if you squint.  general.

warnings / tags.   friendship, best friends, best friends to lovers, friends to lovers, canon compliant, jeon jungkook is whipped, smitten jeon jungkook, jeon jungkook is bad at feelings.

reading.  sweet lullabies is a series of one-shots that tie into and conclude my other story, sugar high.  both are part of the best friends means forever series.  this is a bonus chapter from kook’s point of view. 

word count.  ~6250

chapter 3.  Save Me

The one where he’d almost lost you.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over it;  luckily, he doesn’t think he’ll ever want to.

After all, you’re a dream come true.  You’re everything he’d ever hoped for, years of toffee-sweet daydreams and quiet desires wrapped up with a ribbon and presented in the form of his beloved best friend.  His Polaris - his north star in every sense of the word, guiding him home whenever he needed it.  A person to hold him close, to tend to the oft-neglected garden blooming behind a brassy ribcage.  You’re everything he’d ever wanted and even the things he hadn’t known he had.  

“What’re you thinking about?”  A question slotted into silence by a gentle hand and half-lidded stare, warmth dusting over the exposed expanse of Jungkook’s collar.  It feels like a beckoning to dreams and he can’t help but smile, expression endlessly soft as he inspects the girl in his arms.  His girl.  

He hums once, a noncommittal sound.  “Nothing.  Go back to sleep, baby.”  It’s true for the most part.  It’s nothing now.  But once upon a time, it’d been the single most frightening possibility.  Losing you.

And oh, how close he’d been to that.

NOVEMBER 27, 2017

“Seriously?”  It sounds bad - he knows it does - tight and terse between his teeth.  It’s coloured an alarming shade of red and acts like a beacon to those around him because there aren’t many things that have him acting out in this particular way.  

After all, he’d grown up in a very short period of time - something he was endlessly proud of and incredibly grateful to his hyungs for.  Their patience and mentorship had helped shape him into the well-adjusted young man he was now.  

Or usually was.  Not right now, though.    

“What’s wrong, Jungkookie?”  It’s Jimin -  seated closest to him and always somehow strangely aware of everything - who speaks first and in dulcet tones meant to coddle and soothe, lithe arm finding its way around his maknae’s shoulders.  Seated how they are, it’s easy, but Jungkook notices with amusement that it won’t always be.  Soon, he’ll be far too broad for this.  Their little muscle pig wasn’t so little anymore.

His response is immediate, though filled with petulance and beneath that, the tiniest tinge of shame.  “Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me,”  comes the same songbird, his head dropping to rest easily against the youngest member’s.  Jimin knows he’s pushing but he also knows he needs to.  It’s easy to read the golden boy.

Silence stretches for a beat, then another, and he almost sighs - but doesn’t.  Jungkook can feel it rising in the other’s chest before it’s stolen away by his grudging response.  They’re less childish now, though still a bit sullen, rounded by a pout that he can’t seem to help.  “It’s just Soo.”

It doesn’t come as a surprise to the smaller dancer, his expression thoughtful.  “What’s going on?”

Wasn’t that the million dollar question?

Truthfully, Jungkook didn’t know what was going on.  In fact, he wasn’t even sure if anything was going on - or if it was all just in his head.  That was the worst part:  the uncertainty.  Each intrusive thought, each second guess.  It felt like a downright disease, taking up precious space in his skull and refusing to let go.  

“Jungkookie?”  There’s no expectation in Jimin’s inflection.  It’s only concern in sugar-spun tendrils, holding the nickname aloft.

“I don’t know,”  Jungkook finally manages in a whine.  The slope of his brow is knit together, distress threaded into every line as his arms fold, crossing in a huff over his chest.  He hates feeling silly like this, so he does his best to turn the emotion on its head and force it into something else.  It’s not necessary but it feels a bit better, like a fortress he can hide his heart within.

A sigh expels, exits through his nostrils in a sharp push of air.  He knows Jimin is just trying to help but he’s having trouble formulating words into coherent sentences.  The thoughts are too jumbled in his head, bouncing around like an overzealous energizer bunny.

“She’s been really distant lately.”  A partial answer, because he’s sure there are a million other reasons he could give.  Like he was simply stressed (true) or you’ve been posting about your great new life in the States and hardly answering him (the same answer as his original but a little too much to admit).

Or even that you’d mentioned a new friend - a male friend who, surprisingly, hit closer to home than he’d expected - and now he was seething.  Except he’d never repeat that last one.  It wasn’t his place to.  He was your best friend.  Nothing more, nothing less.

“Aren’t her exams coming up soon?”  

Leave it to Park Jimin to find the middle ground - that grey area in between all the good and the bad and frame it in a way that had Jungkook frowning, softly rounded mouth dragging in distaste.

He hadn’t even thought about that.  Or maybe he had, but it’d gotten lost among all the white noise and loneliness.  Frankly, he’s not sure.  His thoughts were always full of you and it was hard to distinguish sometimes.  “Maybe.”

“So maybe she’s just busy?”  As if Jungkook hadn’t already considered that.  He wasn’t trying to be crazy.  In fact, he hated it with every ounce of his being.  But he’d seen the photos you’d sent (admittedly, directly to him) and he knew you weren’t too wrapped up in your finals.  You’d found time in between the late night study sessions to attend house parties, knocking back venti-sized Americanos the next morning to stave off hangovers.

It was surprising, actually.  You’d never been great at handling your liquor - something you insisted you got from your father - but you were out all the time now and always with them.

Yejin, he didn’t mind.  She’d appeared in FaceTimes with you often enough that he’d developed his own sort of rapport with her.  She didn’t give a shit about the Korean music industry and treated him like anyone else, albeit with a lot more scoffing English than he’d ever faced before.

It was her cousin that left a bad taste in his mouth, a mixture of vinegar and battery acid.  Not that Kim Woosung was a bad person - at least, from what he’d heard from the people here, and definitely not from you.  Rather, it was jealousy, that cruel green monster rearing its ugly head.  It’d made a home in his chest, unleashing balefire at anyone remotely close to the aching thing in his chest.

Because that’s what you were - his heart in human form.  

But he’d never expected you to disappear halfway across the world.  He’d always thought you’d be here, holding his hand.  Now he had this gaping you-shaped hole in his chest and he didn’t know how to fill it.  Truthfully, didn’t know if he wanted to.  

“Maybe,”  he relents, quiet as a mouse.  He knows he isn’t fooling anyone by the whispered admission but it’s a shutting door, sealing the conversation for another time.

NOVEMBER 30, 2017

He can feel the stare burning into the back of his head before the words reach his ears.  

“What time did you sleep last night?”  There’s no judgment, no anger - just soft shades of concern and coaxing swept across each syllable. That’s why Namjoon was such a good leader - he knew how to approach his members.  Understood them, possibly, better than they did themselves.

“I don’t remember.”  Jungkook’s answer is full of apology, a guilty smile framing the pink turn of his mouth and forcing a dimple into his cheek.  He thinks it must’ve been around two or three in the morning, as he’d stayed up to talk to you after your first class.  Stayed up after being out all day and practising for hours.  

The shadows under his eyes might as well have been a glaring neon sign or an advertisement for the sleep-deprived.

Namjoon says nothing, his expression still endlessly kind, just barely touched with reproach by the line of his lips and the subtle tension in his jaw.  He’s careful - he needs to be when it comes to matters of the heart with his maknae.  Because despite his dismissive laughter and playful nature, Jungkook was also one of the most sensitive members.  He just hid it well - sweeping it behind his bunny smile and witch’s cackle.  

Consideration stretches silence on for a beat longer before the taller of the two is smiling, crescent moons forming his eyes.  A hand cards through silk the colour of smoke and he regards the younger boy with tenderness.  “Don’t forget to take care of yourself, okay?”

“I won’t.”  What Jungkook means to say is he’ll try to remember.  He has to, for them.  Because his actions weren’t just his own - hadn’t been since he’d committed to this crazy wild path years ago - and he has to be considerate.  Has to be better.  “Thanks, hyung.”  

“Just watching out,”  comes the elder’s response with a noncommittal wave of his hand, focus already reassigned to the book laid across the table in front of him.  He’s so immediately absorbed into it that Jungkook’s a little envious, legs of his chair dragging over linoleum as he edges himself into Namjoon’s personal space.  

It’s a testament to their close bond that he doesn’t even flinch, simply shifting ever so slightly to the right to allow Jungkook a better view over his shoulder.

Maybe this is what he needed - a distraction.

“Hyung.”  The inflection immediately perks Namjoon’s attention, head turning just so to acknowledge the other’s address.  “How do you...”  A prolonged pause as Jungkook mules his next words over, finger resting delicately on his cupid’s bow.  Was he really doing this?  “How do you... distract yourself?”  Okay, so not quite the question he’d meant to pose, but good enough for the time being.

Straight brows pitch higher, shooting up in surprise.  Whatever Namjoon had been expecting, it isn’t this.  “What do you mean distract myself?”

Suddenly, Jungkook’s on the spot, the full weight of the rapper’s stare turned on him.  The focus makes him waver, teeth wearing through the supple interior of his cheek and the soft petal of his bottom lip.  Fingers fidget, push and pull on the sweater paw he’s formed.  

“Uh.”  Good one, JK.  

He clears his throat once, twice.  He looks a little chagrined, like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar.  

“When you’re going through things—”  The attempt at ambiguity is as transparent as the windows around them.  “—that are hard, how do you distract yourself?  How do you forget about it?”

“Well, you don’t just forget about your problems.”  Something about Namjoon’s expression has him looking away, flustered.  “I say it’s always better to try to fix your problems than to run from them but,”  and Jungkook latches onto this inch of give,  “if you need a distraction for a while, find something that takes up the extra time you’d otherwise spend stressing about the problem.  A hobby, maybe.”

Well, he had tons of those.  He gamed in his downtime - his Widow headshots were unparalleled, if he was being honest.  He filmed whenever they were out;  he’d even cut and uploaded his and Jimin’s recent trip to Tokyo.  He worked out, forcing his body into a state of fatigue that left his thoughts far too tired to run cruel circles through his mind.  But it was never enough.

“I have hobbies.  It doesn’t work.”  There’s a desperate edge to his words that he hadn’t meant to let slip.  “It’s fine.  Whatever.”  Again, another door closed.  Slammed shut by his own foot in his mouth.

“Then maybe it’s an issue you can’t just distract yourself from.”

Of course Namjoon’s right.  Jungkook knows that but it doesn’t help the bitterness that bleeds onto his tongue and rots enamel.  “That’s not an option.”  Rather, he wouldn’t let it be.  There were do’s and don’ts in best friendships and confessing your unrequited love was on the hard list of don’ts.

“Jungkook-ah...”

“What?”  It explodes off of his tongue, though he doesn’t mean for it to.  The nerves are fizzling in his stomach, ricocheting from his mouth like fireworks into the quiet between them.  They’re too bright - demanding attention.  He thinks, if they were real, they’d paint pretty silhouettes of the girl he can’t get out of his mind.

“Just tell her.”  

“No.”  

They’re an immovable object and an unstoppable force.

Harder now, edged with exasperation and so much concern it makes Jungkook’s heart stutter in his chest.  “You have to.”  

“I can’t.”  Emphatic, spoken with both lips and eyes.  They beg for understanding, like a man lost at sea desperate for a ship on the horizon.  Because that’s exactly what he is – a lovelorn sailor swept to his doom by the siren call, one he’s utterly defenceless against.  He wouldn’t be like this if he had any other choice.  

“Okay.”  A pause, a sigh, a relent.  “I’m here if you need anything.”

DECEMBER 14, 2017

It’s two weeks later when he needs that anything, driven to it by the radio silence he feels in his bones, tearing apart each and every part of him like a black hole devouring the stars.  Because rather than it being a tangible pain he can distract from - replace with another, sharper sting - it’s become a dull ache that exists in every action and inaction, engulfing his thoughts even as they try to focus on anything else.

He thinks he can’t be held responsible for the choices he makes when there’s too much going on in this head of his, his thoughts far too jumbled to be held accountable.

So he smiles at the very pretty girl that’s been deemed the anything he needs and tries to focus on the way her mouth curls, painted an intoxicating shade of ruby red.  He trains his attention on the flutter of her lashes, the coquettish way she ducks her head when he meets her stare.  He memorizes the way her voice pitches and drops, sugary sweet and decidedly feminine.

Does it because it’s the only way to fill the lovesick hole in his heart, even if it doesn’t really work.  Even if the puzzle piece doesn’t quite fit, corners snipped and reassembled to take up the space the essential piece has left behind.

“I can’t believe you asked for my number,”  she's saying, all rose-tinted cheeks and a smile he finds endearing.  Fingers - short, slim, dainty - smooth over the ceramic of her cup and she peers at him from over the edge.  It’s meant to be sly, to draw his attention to the way her mouth curls around the lip, and for a moment, it does.  It piques something in the back of his mind, apathetic green monster rearing its ugly head at the prospect of something new.

Something not named Park Soomi.

He latches onto the interest with both hands, proverbial grip torn apart by rug burn and his attempt to hold onto it.  He needs this.  He needs this so fucking bad.  “Why not?”

“I mean, you’re you.”  The way she says it makes the hair on the back of Jungkook’s neck rise and the fingers in his lap curl into fists.

It brews bitterness on his tongue - the aroma of his coffee lost to the taste.  He can’t help the reaction, even while he knows he can’t blame her for it (nor should he).

After all, she had the Namjoon stamp of approval.  And if there was anything he trusted, it was his leader‘s judgment.

“I’m just a normal guy,”  he insists, mouth full of laughter he forces out.  He says it with as much meaning as he can, though he knows the words don’t hold much weight.  Not when they’re so at odds with the truth.  Luckily, the two aren’t mutually exclusive.

She doesn’t have a rebuttal now, only choosing to offer that same soft smile. 

It doesn’t trap him like a star in the galaxy, but it holds his attention.  It reassigns it from the hole in his chest to the brightness of her teeth and the sweetly rounded cupid’s bow and that’s enough.

“I’ll prove it to you.”  Whether he means the words, he’s not sure, but they come of their own volition, sounding off like a promise.  He thinks he can feel warmth spiking across his neck, creeping up past the collar of his flannel once the words settle, a blanket draped over the cozy space they've carved out in the hole-in-the-wall cafe.  When her eyes follow the heat, coaxing it higher with her stare, he knows it’s there.  It makes him swallow thickly - was he in over his head?

When her hand drifts - those big doe eyes of his tracking every movement - and fingers ghost over the tops of the back of his, he knows he is.

“You’re dangerous, huh?”  He asks, though he knows the answer.  Can see it reflected in the impossibly dark depths of grey circle lenses, contrast stark against the perfectly layered and blended makeup smudged around her eyes.  It’s something he’s used to - that idolizing, somehow endlessly adoring stare he’s seen a million times, in the sea of faces he performs for - but here, it feels different.  A little closer to home.  

"Only if you want me to be."  And he thinks he does.

DECEMBER 21, 2017

"Good morning, sleepyhead."

Your voice cuts through his early morning exhaustion, striking a proverbial match as neurons fire off beneath his skin, nerves fizzling in his stomach.  It rings clear across the airwaves and for the first time in what feels like ever, it feels like nails on a chalkboard.  For the first time, it doesn't have honey melting into every crevice, warming him from the inside out.

The smallest flash of irritation flares - a lightning strike in his jumbled thoughts.  It's so drastically different from anything he's ever associated with you.  Maybe this was good.  Maybe this was progress.  

"You called."  Deadpan, because Jungkook's still half-asleep but more than that, he's rough around the edges, your hot and cold treatment of him the past few weeks simmering bitterness in his veins.  "Finally found some time for me?"

The intake of breath has him immediately regretting the words, a breath sucked in sharply through his teeth.  He imagines you're doing the same, by the silence that stretches on.  That, or you're tearing a hole through your cheek.  He wants to tell you to stop - to apologize for being an asshole at 7 o'clock in the morning, but he doesn't.

"I've been busy with exams,"  you finally speak and it sounds so small, his heart twists itself over and over.  It doesn't break, though, and that's a feat he never thought he'd accomplish.

"I know."  It’s all he can say, an octave softer but still miles away from the sunny warmth he's used to spilling forth like an overflowing bucket of yellow paint.  It feels strange to hold himself so closely, refusing to allow his abundance of affection colour every syllable and sweep him headlong into the love he feels for you.  "Did you need something?"

Another inhale and - maybe his ears are playing tricks on him but it sounds strange, wet - you're speaking as quietly as he's ever heard, as if you're afraid your words will elicit an reaction somehow worse than what you've already faced.  "Did you want to watch a movie tonight?"  

He has to applaud you for your insistence, though the tiny, bitter part of himself glimpses that flair of annoyance at the edges of his vision once again.  

"I'm busy."  It's the truth but it's not something that's ever stopped him before.  Jungkook was notorious for making time for you, rearranging his schedule enough to make Namjoon want to rip his hair out.  So it's odd, even to him, that the next words - the lie - rolls of his tongue so easily.  "We're working on a new routine tonight."

"Oh."  

The single word has enough weight to crush his heart beneath your heel.  How fitting that it's actually the opposite now, and your own is crumbling beneath his foot.  At least, that's what he thinks - assumes by the dead silence that follows it.

"Sorry then."  You're trying so hard to keep your voice chipper that it leaps higher than is natural and rings in his ears, making him grimace.  Even if he didn't know you so well, he'd be able to read you like a book.  You're far too transparent.  "Good luck.  I know you'll do great - you always do."  

A thanks is all he offers in response, ready to end the call and only stopped by a heart-wrenching last goodbye.  "I love you, Kook."  

He wishes he'd hung up faster.  

Instead, he utters a soft "you, too" and ends the call.  He has a date to get ready for.

DECEMBER 22, 2017

When he stumbles through the front door of their shared apartment, he can still taste the sticky, not unpleasant sweetness of her lips.  It tingles his tastebuds like fresh berries and makes him laugh a little to himself, back of his hand rising to wipe away the residual gloss.  

Peeling off his shoes - he’s careful not to cause too much of a ruckus because it’s almost one in the morning and the last thing he wants is to wake anyone up - he finds himself humming quietly.  It’s low in his throat and muddled by the taste of beer but it’s there, sweeping the quiet from the entryway as laces untie and boots are neatly tucked away out of sight.

He’d had fun, much to his surprise.  Honestly more than than he’d expected, because he'd never been the biggest fan of upscale restaurants, or bustling bars, or glossy pink lip gloss.  But that'd changed in the span of one night, all those strange things somehow sparking a bunny smile and his trademark, boisterous laughter.

Because Jungkook likes that she comes with all of that and she’s everything he needs - at least for now.

She’s a breath of fresh air in a life dominated by strict practice schedules and mandated appearances.  In a way, she’s everything he'd ever hoped for in a distraction - pretty, fun, a little demanding.  She keeps him on his toes in a way he isn’t used to, never giving his thoughts enough time to re-centre on the silhouette that exists like a cookie-cutter carving in his chest.

A temporary fix, possibly - surely - but he didn't mind.  Couldn't find it in himself to when he'd found some semblance of peace for the first time in weeks.

"Did you tell Soo we had practice tonight?"

The voice breaks him from his thoughts, shoots an arrow that lands bullseye on his heart, and he gasps.  He hadn't noticed the figure lingering in the kitchen, hunched over their kitchen table with one headphone in and a sketchbook in his hands.  

Of course Taehyung would be awake.  Why was he surprised?

Oh, because of the question.  The one he hasn't answered, instead gaping at the other like a fish out of water.  Mouth opens around sound that doesn’t come out then closes and repeats itself twice more.  Taehyung doesn't repeat himself, simply staring at Jungkook with an expression that cuts him to his core.

Because he's not angry, or judgmental.  No, he's disappointed.  It's written into the arches of his brows, the way his headband-covered forehead wrinkles just so.  

"What?"  It's soft, hesitant, careful.  There's already embarrassment crowning, locking into the column of Jungkook's spine and rooting him all the way through to his feet.  It keeps him from advancing further into the apartment, caught halfway between the adjoined living space and the hallway that beckons him to the safety of his bedroom.  

Instead, his gaze swizzles, bounces and leaps between the door at the end of the hall and the other member sitting at the table, focus trained wholly on him.  It's hard to meet Taehyung's eyes - and that feels uncomfortable in a way he doesn't want to think about.

"Did you tell Soo we had practice tonight?"  Finally repeated, verbatim, in that some low drawl of his.  

It's posed as an innocent question, all sleepy eyes and carefully trained mouth.  It makes Jungkook's own purse, tongue rounding the hollow of his cheek.  Though he knows he shouldn’t, the desire to bite back stirs in his stomach and he has to clench his fists at his sides, nails digging crescents into the flesh of his palms.

“Why?”  He’s aware he’s answered a question with another question - something he finds infuriating himself, but he can’t help it.  He’s not ready for the lecture he’s sure will come.

Taehyung shifts, arms folded across his chest, and says nothing.  It’s somehow more unnerving than if he were to tear into Jungkook.

“We were talking earlier.  She asked how practice had gone.”  There’s a sour edge to Taehyung’s explanation, colouring words highlighter yellow and toxic green.  “Imagine her surprise when I had no idea what she was talking about.”  

Jungkook knows there’s no point - no reason to voice the shame he already knows stitches his features together.  Taehyung presses on, nonplussed by his maknae’s discomfort.

“You didn’t tell her you had a date?”  

“Why would I?”  It’s defensive, juvenile, a world away from what he wants it to be.  It garners him a look that teeters dangerously on flabbergasted, Taehyung’s groomed brows gathering tightly over his stare.

For what it’s worth, his words are measured - far more reasonable than Jungkook deserves.  “Because she’s your best friend?”

“I don’t need to tell her everything,”  and while that’s true - it somehow doesn’t feel great with life breathed into it.  Fully realized, it’s harsh and covered in thorns that catch on the way out of his mouth, tearing up the insides of his cheeks with razor-sharp edges.

“She was hurt.”

That should be enough.  At any other time, it would be.   It’d have Jungkook crawling on his hands and knees - anything to wipe that sadness from your face.  But here and now, caught between a rock and a hard place, it means nothing to him.  At least, that’s what he tells himself, forcing down the bile that rises in his throat.  “Then she should mind her own business.”

Taehyung knows this isn’t the Jeon Jungkook he knows.  Knows that this version of their beloved maknae is but a caricature carved from hurt and frustration and bruises that bloom like weeds.   It doesn’t mean it’s okay.

“You don’t mean that,” he says kindly, softer than he has the whole interaction.

“I do,”   comes Jungkook’s immediate retort, though it lacks any real strength.  It’s small, like it wasn’t meant to be said.

“You need to tell her.”

It’s not the first, second, or third time he’s heard these words;  he wishes it were the last.

“No.”  And he’s walking away again, disappearing into the safety of his own room where he spends the next five hours wide awake and miserable.

DECEMBER 25, 2017

It’s the first time he’s spent Christmas without you. It feels wrong, like any other Monday morning rather than the merry day it is. There’s no golden tinsel strung throughout his thoughts, no cheerily sang carols on repeat in his mind. The magic is gone - stripped away by the loss of you.

You haven’t spoken to him in days.  Since his little white lie - because that’s all it’d been, he tells himself - had come to light, you’d made yourself scarce.  There were no more stories posted to social media, no mentions of your name from the other members.  It was like you’d disappeared, taking all the sunlight with you.

Where he’s once laid his head and called home, there was nothing left.

“Come have breakfast, Jungkookie.”  It’s Jimin peeking into his bedroom, small hands curled around the door frame.  His hair’s a little wonky - sticking up at odd angles - but he appears happy, like he should.

Jungkook wonders how he looks.  If the shadows under his eyes give away all the demons that make homes in the hollows.

“I’m not hungry.”  Or rather, he didn’t have an appetite.  Didn’t have much of anything, truthfully.

“You need to eat.”  It’s the same wide-eyed concern he’s seen edged in everyone’s expression.  It makes his throat constrict, the thing in his chest thumping an erratic rhythm as it threatens to launch itself out of its brassy, broken confines. 

Shoulders shift, rise and fall like a breaching wave, and he shakes his head again.  “I’m really not hungry.”  Even to his own ears, he sounds strange.  His words are held together by flimsy strings, knots frayed and ready to split.  There are stirrings of guilt, tendrils of it curling like smoke through his lungs.  It’s only a matter of time until the fire engulfs every inch of him, scorching all in its path. 

He thinks he wouldn’t mind, if it’d replace the ash that lingers in a fine layer over each thought.

What had happened to his distraction?  Where was it - she - now when he needed it most?

Namjoon’s words reverberate in his skull, rattle around like coins in a pocket.  Maybe it wasn’t something he could distract himself from.  Why hadn’t he listened? It would still suck, surely, but he thinks it might not have mutated, shaped into this new divide by his own hand.

Because now there were miles between you and he only had himself to blame - his own face reflected back at him when he sought to find an answer for the radio silence.

It felt worse than he could’ve imagined.

“At least come join us.”  Jimin is insistent, refusing to let Jungkook wallow in his own self-imposed misery.  Hands coax, tugging at the hem of the younger’s sleeve.  It doesn't move him from his spot, two feet planted firmly as the wheels of his desk chair roll in a semi-circle and return to their original position.  They both know Jimin's weight means nothing against Jungkook's but the dancer is insistent, refusing to budge from where he stands, chest to shoulder with the stubborn boy.  "Jungkookie."

When Jungkook remains steadfastly focused on his computer - on the glowing lights of his keyboard, the front page of Naver - Jimin sighs loudly.  He feels a little bad about it.  Jimin's not the reason he's in this position.  

"Jin-hyung went all out.  You don't want to miss this."  

It's a good tactic.  Any other day and Jungkook would've jumped at the thought of a feast.  After all, he was a growing boy which meant he was always, always hungry. 

As if in response - in a great show of rebellion - his stomach rumbles, breaking the silence he'd meant to drag on.  Betrayed by his own body.

He blanches in the same instant Jimin grins, full mouth spread around a smile that screams victory!

"Come on."  This time, Jungkook relents, lets the other's hands coax him from his seat.  He's still a little begrudging though, shoulders inched forward and chin tucked against his chest in an exaggerated display of resistance.  He even drags his bare feet a little, but Jimin is wholly unbothered.  

Because whether the maknae believes it or not, his members know best.  They know the size of his heart and the fact that a very vital piece seems to be missing.  But that doesn't mean they can't fill it in the ways they know how, with boisterous laughter and his favourite ice cream, hand written letters and silly elf hats.  

They might not have been his Christmas miracle but that didn't mean they wouldn't try.

JANUARY 1, 2018

He thinks it should be easier.  The worst had come and gone, after all.  

He'd spent the rest of the holidays occupied with public appearances and precious moments with his hyungs, exchanging small presents and doing everything he could to keep his mind off of you.  It'd worked, for the most part.  He hadn't had enough time to wallow in that pit of despair he'd come to call home, instead pulled from it by obligations and the hands of his loved ones.

And yet he can't help the way he checks his phone, turns it over and over in his hands like another flip might throw the universe into motion, righting its off-kilter axis.  

"You look stressed."  A voice purrs - but it's not you so he doesn't really listen.  Doesn't even flinch when a warm body settles itself against his side in a veil of vanilla powder and glossy curls.  "What's wrong, babe?"  There's a hand on his knee and lips at his ear, roses painting the shell as she presses herself closer.  

Jungkook’s certain it's meant to be reassuring but he can only lean away, eager to put as much space between them as possible.  For the first time, it feels wrong.  Like the distraction wasn't made for him, but by him.  This isn’t what he wants.  It throws every action, every minute adjustment of her features, into stark relief.

So it's impossible to miss the look on her face, how it screams hurt and surprise and what the hell are you doing?  

"What?"  The word comes in a pair - from him and her.  It's almost comical how she sounds in comparison to him, all edges and affront to his soft utterance.  There's venom in her single syllable, laid there by a sharp tongue and sharper teeth.  It's the first time he's been on the receiving end of it and he has to admit - he hates it.  It gnaws at his insides.  He realizes he's letting her down.

Like Frankenstein, he's created a monster he can't control.

"What's your problem?"  She's far less angry than she deserves to be.  If he were in her shoes, he'd be black and blue, howling at the moon.  Instead, she's still soft, affection dulling the bile that rightfully rises in her throat.  Even now, he can see the way she looks at him - larger than life, with stars in her eyes.

Jungkook doesn't find it in himself to answer immediately, instead staring adamantly at an indiscernible point behind her.  "Nothing."  It's the farthest thing from believable, a lie that fixes itself between them, bright red and beguiling.  

"It doesn't seem like nothing."  For what it's worth, she's trying.  He can tell she is by how her tone changes, adapts to the relutance he shows.  She's trying to coax something more from him, shifting slightly closer when he doesn't immediately recoil.  "The fireworks are on.  Let's go join everyone else."

It's a great idea in theory but it's the last thing he wants to do.  So he says as much, shaking his head in the same moment.

"I'm heading home."  It doesn't matter that he's nowhere near their dorms or that she suddenly looks like a kicked puppy.  All Jungkook knows is that he has to be anywhere but here.  "Have fun tonight."

He's rising before she even has a chance to respond, flipping the hood of his sweatshirt up over his carefully styled strands.  When she reaches for him, he retreats a step, putting as much distance between them as he can in the small room.  It isn't easy - she's everywhere, light reflecting off the sequins of her pretty white dress, the scent of her perfume presenting itself with every inhale.

"I'm sorry,"  he says and he means it, despite the disbelief that paints her features.  

Without looking back, he disappears out the door, sliding past the milling bodies, the various performers and staff that wander the halls.  Excitement still buzzes among the dispersed crowd and he finds himself getting swept up in the occasional hello, deterred from his mission over and over again.  

It isn't until his phone rings, tone interrupting the one-sided conversation, that he's able to pull himself away.  He thanks his lucky stars - until he sees the caller ID.

Because it's you.  You - the person he's been waiting for all this time.  

It has his heart hammering in his chest, his grip on the device suddenly so tight he worries he might crack the screen.  You're finally calling him.  After weeks, you were there, familiar contact photo beaming up at him.

"Hello?"  He can hear the hope in his own voice.  

There's a long pause and he feels his throat constrict.  Had you not meant to call?  Was it a pocket dial?  A million questions run rampant through his thoughts, kicking up dust and gravel that he nearly trips over in his haste to get a response.

"Soo?"

"Happy New Year, Jungkook-ssi."  The way you say his name makes him want to cry with relief because there's tenderness still, hidden beneath the soft, half-whispered greeting.  You sound exactly like you always have, if not a little quieter, with more reserve, and he wants to live in the sound, how it settles into his head like it belongs there.  

"Happy New Year,"  he echoes back in a voice thick with emotion.  

You were finally home.

notes.  this chapter is the painful brainchild of mine and @keywepie​ and as such, is dedicated to her.  thank you for letting me talk your ear off and i’m sorry it took so long!

and yes, this kook is very different from the present-day kook in the series but that’s the point.  he was!!  hurting n sad!!  and way younger!!!!!

#goldenclosetnet #heartsforbts #ficswithluv #bts #bts fanfic #bts fic #bts fluff #jeon jungkook #jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fic #jungkook fluff #jungkook x you #jungkook x reader #jungkook x oc #work.zip #bestfriends.zip #sweet.doc #jungkook.doc

[yeojaa]

SUGAR HIGH, chapter ii. (w. JJK)

You're not entirely sure when it happened, though you'd come to terms with it. You'd counted the days, waiting for the inevitable. You'd truly thought you'd be okay, but by the broken, half-beating thing in your chest - you knew you'd never really been prepared.

alt summary.  You thought you’d known real love and maybe you had - it just wasn’t with who you thought.

pairing.  jeon jungkook.  mentions/involvement of ot7.

tags.  angst, break up, post-break up, comfort, OT7, slow burn, friendship, moving on, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, emotional bagge, fluff, canon compliant, jeon jungkook is bad at feelings, jeon jungkook is a good friend, jeon jungkook is a sweetheart.

rating.  general (for now?)

word count.  ~2250

chapter 2.  When the Morning Comes

You're reminded of who you were before him - full of wonder and life.  You remember who was at your side, skipping in the street and screaming up at the stars with you.  You think maybe it isn't so bad.

You've never been a heavy sleeper - though some would say differently. You take hours to fall asleep, drifting just at the periphery of dreams for what seems like forever. You startle easily, drawn from sandman's enticing embrace by any shift in your surroundings. You also snore, as everyone likes to remind you, but that doesn't mean anything.

The sound of knocking catches your attention slowly. It feels like a half-remembered dream, the incessant tap tap tap barely breaking the haze of sleep.  

Then the familiar ring of your phone pulls you further past the barrier of la la land.  This surprises you, yanking your spine upward and nearly causing you to knock the device off your pillow.  You'd set it to Do Not Disturb and yet here it was, drowning out the sound of your complaints like it was its job.

You fumble, fingers still tingling from being cradled beneath your head all night, and swipe at the screen.  Your best friend's face stares back to you right before the screen goes black and the knocking resumes.

"I'm coming!" 

The shout is a garbled mess, throat hoarse from sleep and perhaps, the endless crying you've done the past few days.  You're up before you can think anything of it, eager to cease unrelenting noise that feels like a drill straight to the temple.  You don't even have time to consider how he knows you're here before you've stumbled out of your bedroom and all but run to the front door.  If you had, you might've been ready.

Jungkook is rocking from foot to foot, the strap of his backpack digging into his shoulder.  He leans his forehead against the door frame, frustration evident in the slope of his shoulders and squared turn of his jaw.  A yawn presses past pursed lips, barely stifled by the wide hand that rises to catch it. 

He's tired.  God, he's so tired.

He'd come here directly after he'd landed.  Really, he hadn't had a choice.

Not when Minji had texted him asking if he'd seen you since being back, asked whether you were doing any better.  It hadn't been her fault that he'd nearly choked on his coffee when the question had appeared on his screen, little Katalk bubble a practical punch to the gut. 

No, it 'd been your fault - but he could never fault you for this.  Not when he knew how hard it was.

Losing the person you loved was never easy.  It had happened to him the day you'd met Seunghoon, after all.

You've swung open the door, standing in the doorway in your over-sized sweatpants and crumpled tee shirt, strands of of spun-gold more akin to a hay bale than a crown.  Sleep lingers in your gaze, pulls lids lower over your melancholy stare, and it takes you a moment to truly realize who stands before you.  In fact, your body responds before your mind can catch up, feet carrying you over the threshold of your apartment and into the widespread arms of your best friend.

"Kookie."  The word falls like a prayer, reverence lacing the seldom-used nickname.  It disappears into the width of his chest, the softly worn black tee shirt muffling the hiccup that jumps off your tongue, drawn forth by emotion you can't quite keep down.

His bag sits on the ground forgotten as he embraces you like he hasn't seen you in years - and it feels just as long.  He hasn't been home in too long.

"I'm here."  

You hiccup once more and immediately regret it, a storm of sadness sweeping you up as they sound fills the cavern of his hug.  Before you realize it, you're unloading, fully sinking into Jungkook's comforting hold.  

It doesn't matter that he's younger than you - just barely, but still something you remind him of at every opportunity, much to the amusement of his hyungs - or that you're whispering apologies against the now-damp cotton of his shirt.  He cradles you like he could hold you here, trapped in this tiny reprieve while the sky storms down upon you.  He holds you like you're porcelain, like you could break at any moment, like you aren't already coming apart at the seams.

You stand like that for what seems like forever, his large palms rubbing soothing circles across your back.  His chin rests gently atop your head, ignoring the way your baby hairs tickle his nose.  He notes the way your roots are starting to grow in more, the inky black a stark contrast to the honey blonde you've been modelling for the past few months.

He feels more than sees the way you slump against him, tired.  You're breathing quietly now - he can feel each rise and fall of your shoulders as you regulate the intake of air - and he shifts. 

"As nice as this is, let's go inside, okay?"  This elicits a partial laugh, halfhearted and wet.  He doesn't mind though, because then you're shifting, allowing him to usher you back into the warmth of your apartment.  His large palm never leaves your side, thumb settling with practiced familiarity against the dip of your hip, while he scoops up his backpack with his free hand.

Once inside, Jungkook reminds himself he hasn't been here in years.  Still, it feels familiar.  That's nice.

With the door carefully shut behind him, lock twisted, he focuses once more on you.  There's a grief in his eyes, steeped deep in the brown of his irises.  It presents itself when he tilts his head, inspecting you from beneath a frame of chocolate and teal.  

You look so small, folded in upon yourself as you pick at the edges of your nails.  You're frayed at the edges from tearing yourself apart and being torn apart.  

It breaks his heart.

So he does what he knows how, what he's known for.  He steps forward, drifting a long finger through your tousled mess of bedhead, and flashes the most endearing grin he can.  "You really need to do your roots," he teases, tugging gently on what used to be a uniform ringlet before tucking it neatly behind your ear.  The smile doesn't fully reach his eyes.  Or perhaps, it's your own misery reflected back at you from the person who knows you best.

"Shut up, Jungkook."  You're mumbling as you move, feet shuffling from cold floor to the fuzzy area rug.  Your knees hit the couch before you meet his eyes, offering a grateful smile.

He feigns offense, hand sprawling across his chest as if your words were bullets.  So much for being a bulletproof boy scout, you think, as he settles down beside you, immediately drawing you into the crook of his elbow.  Still, he says nothing as you two settle back into the same comfortable silence you've always known, the only sound your occasional sniffling and his wide, unobstructed yawns.

Then it dawns on you.

"How did you know I was here?"  

It's shame more than anything that has you pulling away, neck craning to get a good look at him.  You feel awful as you inspect him, taking in the heaviness under his eyes, the sleepy turn of his Bambi eyes.  He looks like he hasn't slept well in ages, though you're sure he'd say it was simply a consequence of his lifestyle.  

As expected, he makes some sort of dismissive motion, as if that answers your question.  He's surveying the room, taking in everything that has changed - and all that hasn't. 

You remain silent, waiting for a proper response, and level him with a stare he squirms under.

"Minji messaged me," he finally answers in a rush.

You're about to proclaim, words forming around indignation.  Not at her or at him, but yourself.  You know they're both only trying their best to be here for you.  To sooth the ache as best they can, by filling your cracks with their love and unending goodness.  It brings a fresh round of tears to your eyes, little pinpricks of emotion softening your gaze until his expression is but a blown-out silhouette of disappointment.

"I'm just confused why you didn't tell me."

The hurt that colours his words black and blue make you want to leap out of your skin.  You'd never wanted to do this to him.

"I'm so sorry," you begin strong, the apology a plead and a promise - to never lock him out again.  Not from the house you'd built together all those years ago, pieced together into an imperfect masterpiece.  "You're just... so far away.  And that's not your fault.  You've got so much going on and I'm so happy for you.  I love that for you.  I know how important this is to you and how hard it is.  I didn't want to take away from any of that."

You're fiddling with your hands again, not meeting his eyes as you speak.  

You only look up when he's pulling you to him, all but dragging you into his lap.  Your head finds a home in the space between his head and shoulder and you settle there, forehead hot against the curve of his neck.  

He hasn't held you like this in a long time.  It wouldn't have been appropriate. 

But here and now, it feels exactly like home.  You want to capture his warmth in clear glass jars and display them for everyone to see.  You want to wear his hugs like the lining of a coat.  His arms beckon you back, like a bed you've been away from for too long.

"Soomi-ah, you'll never bother me.  Not even if I'm across the world."

There's a finality to his words - something that makes you feel foolish for thinking you ever would.  It makes your arms wrap around his neck as you nod, not saying a word in response.  You know he understands.

"I'm still sorry."  You finally manage, peering up at him and drawing a quiet chuckle from his chest.  You're so close to him that his face has become unfocused.  The flutter of an eyelash, a quirk of his lip, the flash of teeth as he drags his bottom lip between them.  You don't see the way he rolls his eyes but feel the shift of his limbs, long and lean as he rests his feet against your coffee table.  You feel it when he flicks your forehead gently, patting the side of your head with the other. 

He doesn't need to say anything.  He knows you understand. 

"Are you tired?"  It's almost a whisper but you know he hears you as he hums, head just barely lolling back against the soft back of the couch.  "I'm guessing you didn't sleep on the plane?  You can take my bed, you know--"

"Here's fine."  The return cuts you off, effectively ending your apologetic rambling. 

Nodding to yourself, you move to extract yourself from his limbs but are effectively held in place by a hand on your hip and an arm around your knees.  Jungkook seems perfectly intent on sitting here, framed in the late morning light filtering through the windows.  "You're so stubborn," you muse.  Still, you feel lighter now, as if he's taken on some of the weight.  Your own personal Atlas. 

You wonder if you'll ever be able to repay his kindness.

You hope, as you drag the soft grey throw over the back of the couch over your bodies, that you can. 

When you stir, clawing past the edges of sleep, the sun has just disappeared over the horizon and your home is bathed in diffused light.  Beneath you, Jungkook is curled around your petite form, his delicate snores breaking the cozy silence.  He's still sound asleep, un-moving save for the occasional twitch of his fingers or readjustment of his cheek against your head. 

You do your best not to disturb him, allowing yourself to remain cocooned in his embrace as you study the ink on his hands, stark black a contrast to the gold of his skin.  You admire the way his knuckles shift when he adjusts, the neatly-trimmed crescents of his nails.  His watch is loose on his wrist, the weight of it resting heavy against your knees. 

You try to memorize this feeling, commit it to the back's of your eyelids when they flutter shut in satisfaction.

"I'm hungry."

His rough, dream-laced voice draws your attention as he presses his face into your hair.  He inhales once, twice, what he imagines sunshine and first love smells like.  His grip moves, hand under your thigh as he draws your legs straight out to sprawl across the loveseat, massaging comforting figure eights into the joint of your knee when one cracks from the change in posture.

"Then I'll make you food."  As if it's the most obvious answer in the world, you inspect Jungkook's adorable, drowsy face, the softest expression upon your own.  Your hand closes the distance, powder soft skin patting the expanse of his cheek before settling easily against the curve of his jaw.  "Take a shower first, though.  I've got some of your clothes in your old drawer."

You're up and out of his lap before he has time to react, standing uneasily on legs that cramp the moment feet meet the floor.  You cast him a shy smile when he steadies you without asking, gently caressing his mop of dark hair.

"Kimchijeon sound okay?" 

"Always."

You hum, pleased by his easygoing nature, and disappear around the corner. "Now go get decent."

notes.   because i don't really know where this story ends, i apologize if the pacing is off. i’m just trying to keep these two kids wrapped up in this cotton candy castle for as long as i can. as always, feedback deeply appreciated. <3

#bts fluff #bts #bts fanfic #bts fic #jeon jungkook #jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fic #jungkook fluff #jungkook x you #jungkook x reader #jungkook x oc #work.zip #bestfriends.zip #sugarhigh.doc #jungkook.doc