#You know how sometimes as a mentally ill person. You grow up thinking that it's partly your fault that someone seems to not care about how- | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

madelynraemunson · 2 months

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𝐭𝐡𝐞 (𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲) 𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐞 ✨ — a steve harrington one shot fic

modern!sperm donor!steve x modern!pregnant!fem!reader

Summary: It’s hard to find ‘forever’ in a world that glorifies hook-up culture. After multiple failed relationships, you start to believe that your dream of having a family someday will only be just that — a DREAM. That is until you stumble across The Baby Gate Foundation, a family planning organization that helps qualifying Strangers start families with one another.

disclaimers — fluff overload, strangers to friends to lovers, some angst, reader goes by “Honey”,

NSFW — very brief smut, p in v sex (unprotected), breeding kink, cream pie, soft!dom steve

word count — 6.0k words

“So… what’s your favorite color?”

It’s the most aggravating question to ask when wading in the Dating Pool — and unfortunately the most frequent. But you figure at least asking about Steve Harrington’s favorite color is a good ‘precursor question’ when trying to get to know him. After all, you are the one carrying his child.

“Cerulean,” the handsome stranger from across the table replies.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a type of blue.”

“You could’ve just said blue.”

“What’s the fun in that?”

You issue him a touché type nod as you gently place your folded hands over your growing bump…a bump that was a byproduct of an ordeal that he wasn’t even present to participate in.

Before you knew him as Steve Harrington, he was just Stranger #021 whose sperm donation gave you the gift of life. The gift of having a little one of your own.

And it was about time you started a family. It has been a dream of yours — once you bagged your dream job and got to travel the world — to get married and have kids. But apparently the person you spent 6 years with did not share that dream, despite having told you he did in the beginning stages of your partnership.

Are you crazy? How dare you think your ex wanted a family after he explicitly told you he wanted you to marry him and have his kids? Silly lady. You actually thought he meant what he said.

And Steve Harrington’s baby daddy application seemed impossible to resist. The Baby Gate Foundation disclosed to you that Stranger #021 has no physical ailments, was a star athlete in high school, isn’t a carrier for any chronic illnesses, and passed a mental health and drug clearance.

Your baby is very likely to come out healthy and, now that you’ve gotten a good general idea of the guy, will hopefully inherit Steve’s luscious chestnut brown hair, his radiant smile, sparkling eyes, and kind nature. A healthy baby. A healthy family. It’s all you’ve ever wanted.

“Your stomach feeling okay?” Steve inquires.

“Yeah,” you smile. “I just like touching it sometimes. It still doesn’t feel real.”

When selected, Steve jumped for joy. And you bet he started doing cartwheels when your pregnancy test came out positive. My dick still works! he remembers saying.

Having been a foster parent to many teenagers in the past, Steve also felt ready to have a kid of his own. But then his first long term girlfriend of three years cheated on him, and then his next long term girlfriend left him when she realized a family with him was not what she wanted. Steve was practically on the same boat as you. And the stars aligned…

“So I was thinking…when you’re in what’s considered a ‘safe’ point in your pregnancy, say second trimester… we can do cute pregnancy announcements,” Steve suggests.

Your eyes glimmer at the thought.

“As coparents of course!” Steve makes sure to add. “A-and then we can have a gender reveal. We can choose the theme and ideas for it later but I’m just thinking of an intimate cake cutting thing….pink frosting, obviously for girl…”

“And cerulean for boy,” you smirk at him, finishing his thought.

He chuckles at your comment. “Yes, cerulean for boy.”

You two then begin to brainstorm the minor details. Signing up for parenting classes. Check-up appointments. Your baby registry. Ironing out the details so that you both can relish in the pregnancy as much as possible.

When you’re done, Steve then pays for your lunch and you two go separate ways. But not before a long, grateful hug.

“Thank you,” you whisper into his ear. “You’ve made my dream come true.”

“I am just as indebted,” Steve insists, giving your back a loving rub. “I’ve always wanted to be a father.”

You decide to not let go until Steve breaks the hug. But little did you know that was Steve’s plan too. So you both stand there, in the middle of the mall food court swaying back and forth, waiting patiently for the other to let go because to be honest, you never know what a simple ‘I see you’ hug can do for somebody.

Finally, Steve pulls away.

“Listen, uh, Honey,” he says. “I hope this doesn’t sound weird because technically we don’t really know each other…but I already care about you so deeply. You’re the mother of my child. I want to be as involved as possible.”

“I care about you too Steve,” you beam at him. “And I feel like our healing journeys are coming to an end. I’m so excited to come together with another person who has the same goals in life.”

And that is all that’s said during that exchange. You hope that throughout your pregnancy, you and Steve can have more coparent dates to really get to know each other. You love that he feels safe and trustworthy, willing to put his all into the child that he, and many many medical experts helped you create. And you hope that as your baby grows up, you will find a lifelong partner like Steve someday.

“So how’d it go?”

You’re over at your best friend, Eddie’s apartment talking to him about your day. Eddie has been your best friend since middle school, bearing witness to every wonderful milestone — and tragedy — that has plagued your life ever since. Your decision to become a mother on your own, and coparenting with a stranger is no exception.

“I like him!” you exclaim. “He’s very sweet.”

“Do you trust him as your Baby Daddy?”

“If I didn’t, it’d be a little too late for that I’m afraid.”

Eddie would’ve been more than happy to be your donor, and without a doubt, you’d trust him in being fully present in the child’s life. However Eddie comes from a home with a turbulent family dynamic, and unfortunately is a carrier of the addiction gene along with many other illnesses. Eddie didn’t want to risk doing that to you or your family. So it works out that he and his boyfriend Henry are the ‘Fun Uncles’ or as he calls them “Funcles” instead, and Steve is the dad.

“But yeah I like Steve,” you circle back. “He’s funny, sweet, looks like he takes care of himself. Even paid for my food. Oh, and as a bonus, he uses big words.”

Eddie snorts as he strides over to the fridge. “He uses big words.”

“Yeah, like cerulean.”

Your bestie cocks an eyebrow and smirks at you. “What’s that?”

“It’s a type of blue,” you smirk back at him.

He releases a theatrical gasp. “Ground-breaking.”

Your banter is cut short when Eddie’s partner Henry walks through the door.

“Hello, hello.”

“Hey, Henry!”

You watch as the quiet, tall blonde dressed in dark-denim-tailored-to-fit struts in with a grocery bag, closing the door behind him with his foot.

“Hi, darlings.”

“Funcle Number Two,” Eddie greets his partner.

“I thought I was Number One.”

“You are,” Eddie shrugs. “In my heart. If you have an issue with your title and rank, I’d talk it up with Honey.”

“You can be Number One,” you grant him permission, eliciting a betrayed gasp from Eddie.

“Thank you, Honey,” Henry smirks, shooting a sassy look at Eddie.

Eddie issues a sour variation of that smirk to Henry, only to be met with a rough nudge to the ribcage. The two black cats then assemble to unload the groceries, all while focusing their attention back to you, their appointed ‘golden retriever’ of the bunch.

“Speaking of titles,” Henry adds. “How was your meeting with Daddy Steve?”

“It was wonderful,” you respond. “Was just telling Eddie how much I like him.”

Henry grimaces, understandably so. Your taste and judgment in men throughout the years have been nothing short of concerning. But because you didn’t willingly seek Steve out on a shady online dating app, at a dive bar at 2 AM, or on the dance floor of a sweaty small town nightclub, you figured you were in the clear.

“We’re gonna make it work no matter what,” you insist to your seemingly doubtful friends. “Even if there are discrepancies, we agreed it’s our kid before anything. And I’m ready. I told you guys myself that if I don't meet the love of my life by the time I'm 29, I'm having a baby by myself."

Aside from the two "Funcles", you have been the only consistent person in your life. And in this day and age, two people don't need to 'be together' to bring life into this world. And even if they are together, it’s not a happy home sometimes.

All that matters in this arrangement is that both of Baby Harrington’s parents are involved. That was Steve's promise to you.

Let's just hope he keeps it.

“That’s the head… and those…are your baby’s feet.”

You and Steve watch the monitor in awe as the sonographer scans your belly. You are now 20 weeks along, and doing a routine ultrasound check up.

First trimester was a nightmare. Constant nausea and vomiting so you’re not even sure that you’re stomaching those pre-natals, intense mood swings, and breast tenderness so bad you essentially begged Steve to just chop your tits off.

Regardless, you are healthy, and the baby is healthy. And now your camera roll is filled with pictures and videos of every frame of every ultrasound you get done, as well as audio recordings of Baby Harrington’s heartbeat. You and Steve even share your content amongst each other, just in case the other missed something that the other captured. It’s a wholesome exchange, really.

“Baby’s kicking a lot. Almost looks like they’re swimming in place,” the tech comments.

“I did swim and water polo in high school, could be why,” Steve explains.

You bat your eyes in adoration at your friend. He gives you a warm look back.

“Just like Daddy,” you say. And then Steve rests his palm atop your hand.

For the first time in a long time, everything feels complete.

“So, would you like to know the gender?” the sonographer inquires.

Immediately you and Steve bombard her with anxious-filled “No no no no”s. You decided to go with the cake gender reveal idea, and Henry and Eddie were in charge of having it made.

“We’d like for it to be a surprise,” Steve smiles. “But we sure would like an envelope with the gender in it. Honey’s gonna give it to her friends to give the baker.”

“Sounds like a plan to me!” the tech grins widely. “I will have it printed out for you shortly.”

She wipes your belly down so that there is no more ultrasound jelly on your stomach before leaving. Meanwhile, you and Steve are absolutely giddy. You are now halfway through your pregnancy and couldn’t wait to hold Baby Harrington in your arms.

But as exciting as everything is, it is also anxiety-inducing. No parenting book could ever prepare you for bringing a kid into the world. There was so much more that needed to be done. So much to do. And it seems like there was so very little time to do it.

Steve has another question for you. “When does the baby usually wake you up?”

“Baby’s a night owl, strangely,” you reply. “I’ll feel some moving and stuff at night.”

Steve sighs and shakes his head in thought.

“Man, I hope kid doesn’t wake you up at night too much when they’re born. That’d be god awful.”

“I know, I’ve been thinking of that too,” you groan. “And all the diaper changes I’ll probably have to do before putting them back to sleep. Ugh, I don’t even wanna think about diapers.”

You didn’t want to think about post-partum shit. So far, you’ve only been focused on pregnancy shit, and that shit is already overwhelming. While you seem well-equipped for pregnancy itself, the thought of actually being a fully-functioning parenting unit alongside Steve brings on a new set of fear.

Suddenly you and Steve look up at each other.

“Oh shit!” you shriek. “A crib! We need a crib! A stroller.”

“And a whole nursery,” he gulps. “And a baby monitor… A swaddle! A carrier!”

———

You and Steve are moved in together by the end of the month. Platonically, of course. With a capital P.

You both figured that raising the baby under one roof would be the healthiest way to approach your parenting situation. Both of you already get along really well and have similar communication styles. You two also have the same expectations from each other. And not every child is blessed with two parents living together in a happy home. It’s a luxury you both refused to take for granted.

So eventually the non-traditional-housewarming-slash-baby-shower-party rolls around, in efforts to help prepare for Baby Harrington’s arrival. It ends up being a huge success. Additionally, the party gave everyone a chance to mingle with one another, your friends meeting Steve’s friends and jokingly calling each other "in-laws". Robin and Eddie immediately grow very fond of each other, having deemed each other best friends after their third time meeting.

“How long do you give it?” Robin asks Eddie as they watch you and Steve work together to build the crib. “You know till they…”

They observe as you and Steve bicker back and forth about whether or not a section of the crib was installed the wrong way. You argue that it was, and Steve, still firm in his masculinity that he felt like was slowly chipping away (he can’t help it sometimes) insisted that it wasn’t.

“I know how to read, Honey. And besides, if it’s the wrong part, how did I screw it on perfectly?”

“I don’t know, Bob the Builder,” you fire back at him. “You didn’t have to 'screw it on perfectly' to get me pregnant.”

“Til that baby is born,” Eddie estimates.

Eddie chuckles at this. He’s been with Henry for many years, but you two have beat him at the argue-like-a-married couple thing. Slyly, he sips his beer.

“…The very latest.”

“Steve, I’m hungry. Wanna go to Rally’s?”

The cravings have officially kicked in (finally). But of course, it’s at the least convenient of times.

“Woman, it is 1 in the morning...”

“Yes, and I want Rally’s.”

You give Steve a light thunk on his fluffy head.

Now that you two live together, sleeping in the same bed was bound to happen eventually. But it is the least of your concerns. In a world where people go ‘ghost’ after getting what they want, laying your head down in the same bed as Steve is the farthest thing from intimacy. You’re also afraid of the dark, and being in his light calms your nerves.

Except for tonight. Where the only thing that’ll calm those nerves is a Wild West burger and some fries.

Steve huffs, clearly too tired to argue with your hungry ass. But also, you’re the mother of his child. You have the hardest job, and having a late night snack when you felt like it is the bare minimum of what you deserve.

“Let’s go.”

You smirk to yourself as you dance your way out of bed. Anything Baby Mama wants, Baby Mama gets.

Rally’s sure did the trick. When you and Steve return, you find yourself skipping back to the bedroom while Harrington fights to urge to plop onto the floor right by the entry way, his body’s natural response to a food coma, and the state of lethargy he was in from being stirred awake.

But as much as he valued his beauty sleep, he knows deep down he’d still do it again for you. Your little food dance was also pretty damn cute, anyways.

———

THE NEXT WEEK

You and Steve have been ordering way too much takeout. So tonight you decide to surprise him with a home-cooked meal. So while he’s at work, you’re searching Pinterest for healthy, savory dishes to cook. Chinese food it is. One can never go wrong with some chicken fried rice.

Steve comes home right when you finish.

“Oh my god,” Steve gawks as he enters the kitchen. “What smells so damn good?”

“I made dinner,” you smile gleefully, and with pride. “I have so much energy second trimester it’s insane. Hope you like Chinese.”

Steve slows down. Glancing around the chaotic kitchen, he takes in the array of sauces, the cutting board, and the multiple plates and bowls that most likely harbored the. Then he looks at you — a sweaty mess with stains on her apron from all the rice tossing. And he can tell, by your slightly labored breathing, that you’re gathering up all the energy you possibly can to powerwash all the dishes.

“You…made this for me?”

“Yeah! For us, actually. And the baby. I hope you’re okay with onions and scallions.”

“Y-yeah, I’m fine with those,” he insists. “It’s just that…I have a date tonight.”

Suddenly the pots and pans feel so much heavier. The air, hotter. The onions, stronger judging by how tears start pooling at the base of your eyes. At least you want to blame it on those.

“Oh,” you sniff.

“I’m so sorry, Honey. I should’ve told you so you didn’t have to go out of your way.”

“It’s fine.”

Why do you feel this way? It’s not like you two are together anyway. This pregnancy is a partnership… platonic with a capital P. So why are you upset? And more importantly, why are you jealous?

“I-I’m sorry…” Steve panics. “I-it’s just that we’ve been getting takeout all week and I thought it’d be the same toni-”

“It’s okay, Steve.”

“That came out so bad, I…”

“I know what you mean,” you shake your head shutting him down immediately. “Have fun tonight, okay?”

“You’re crying…”

“I was chopping onions,” you point out.

You nod to the bag of onions that were yet to be put away. There was a lot left to be put away actually, and you were kind of hoping Steve would help. But clearly he’s a busy man.

“And it’s probably just the stupid pregnancy hormones too,” you add.

“They’re NOT stupid,” Steve insists. “And you just said you have so much energy. You were bursting with light just a moment ago…before I killed it.”

“Have fun tonight, Steve,” you repeat.

You head over to the wok and scoop out a serving for two: one serving for you, and one for the baby. Dad will get the leftovers, you suppose.

Steve watches you intently. You can feel his stare even with your back turned. Suddenly, you hear the faint dial tone of his cell phone ringing a couple of times before someone answers.

“Hey…Lacey, I can’t come tonight,” Steve sighs. “I’m really sorry for being so last minute. A family emergency came up.”

You look back over at him. He makes sure to look you in the eyes as he says ‘family’.

The two of them talk some more before Steve hangs up the phone. Awkwardly now, you chew softly at the rice you made.

“Well she definitely hates me,” Steve chuckles. “But I don’t care.”

“Steve…” you speak. “You didn’t have to.”

“You’re carrying my kid,” Steve looks at you with glimmering eyes. “I can’t be running through the town in the arms of another woman. This pregnancy is a team effort.”

He glides over you and stops right where your hips meet. You timidly manage to look up at him, tear-jerked, all sweaty, and very very pregnant. And after Steve tucks a loose strand of hair behind the blushing cartilage of your ear, he presses his tender lips against your forehead.

“For the baby,” he whispers to you.

“For the baby,” you repeat after him.

The day is here.

The gender reveal, that is. You didn’t expect finding out something as simple as having a boy or girl was going to be this nerve wracking. And to think some people do this in front of a huge audience.

“Okay…” you exhale unevenly. “You ready?”

“Only if you are,” Steve nods, but his trembling hands betray him.

“Hand me a glass.”

Steve hands you one of the two wine glasses you brought for the intimate picnic you had planned for today. On the count of three, you two were to dig those very glasses into the cake and scoop out the long awaited answer.

SWEET CHILD O MINE, the cake reads. Boy or girl?

Henry and Eddie settled for a Rock-N-Roll inspired cake, with self-indulgent black and red buttercream on the outside, and the pre-determined blue or pink on the inside. You were afraid that it was going to be a little too edgy for Steve, but he assures you the aesthetic of a cake is the least of his priorities.

Drawing out an uneven breath now, you decide to start counting down.

“One…” you gulp.

“Two…” Steve joins in.

But you can't bring yourself to say ‘three’. Shutting your eyes closed in a bout of nervousness, you mutter softly,

"Two and a half..."

It earns you a chuckle from Steve. Knowing just how to calm you down, like he had been doing all pregnancy, he offers you his available hand to squeeze if you needed.

“Three!” you two finally say together.

Plunging your wine glasses into the cake, you and Steve gather one big scoop each while your eyes drift elsewhere.

“I can’t look,” you choke, sniffing back a tear or two.

“I can’t either,” Steve exhales, evidently nervous. “You can look first though.”

“No, I’ll look when you do.”

You’re met with messy dough and frosting in the glass at first. But after trailing after the inside part of the cake, you catch sight of the fluffy frosting that was buried beneath. A bright, eye-catching, pastel....

...cerulean blue. A baby boy.

“Oh…my…god,” your hand trembles in complete shock. “It’s a boy…”

“Oh my god, baby!” Steve sniffs going in to hug you. “We’re having a boy…”

And then it happens. Unable to contain himself from his joy any longer, Steve cups your face with his frosting-laced fingers, connecting his lips passionately to yours, and you with him.

It’s the best day of Steve’s life. You are the reason that he gets to live out his dream of becoming a dad. And now that you two are having a son, all he can imagine is teaching the kid how to throw a football in the backyard, signing him up for T-Ball and Boy Scouts (just like his dad once did with him), and taking him and his buddies out on silly, fun-filled rag-tag group adventures.

And knowing how strange and daunting the world can be, Steve already maps out how to raise your child morally, encouraging him to always treat others with kindness, to be a friend to all, to always lend a helping hand whenever the situation calls on it. And to respect women…because after all, everybody came from one. And Steve knows that he struck gold, considering the fact that he views you as an absolute queen.

You kiss King Steve back, humming in awe because of how natural his energy feels against yours.

It all feels very natural. Makes you feel like you’ve known him your entire life.

Your eyes widen in shock as you two look at each other, both stunned that a kiss was both of your initial, seemingly ‘platonic’, response to the news.

"Is it just me or is it just now hitting?" Steve questions. "We're having a kid together."

"It's just now hitting me too," you agree, the double meaning tugging aggressively at your heartstrings. "We're really doing this, Stevie."

“Our son.”

———

“What happens when one of us finds somebody?”

It’s a talk you and Steve were due for eventually. But Steve is just as unsure, looking over at your pregnant silhouette standing at the foot of the doorway.

But with how beautiful you looked standing at the doorway, your silk, maternity night gown hugging all the beautiful curves of your body while you rubbed your belly that housed your very active kicker, Steve wasn’t even sure if he’d ever want to find somebody else.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” he ends up saying.

He makes his way over to you, wrapping his gentle arms around your waistline, emitting his ever-growing love for you and the baby you two share.

“But if one thing's for sure, it's our son. Baby Harrington first. Before anything.”

“Baby before anything," you repeat the promise.

Steve’s lips graze your skin once again, an invitation and incentive to join him in bed — nuzzled up in the sheets and his warmth — so the two of you can soak in all the rest you possibly can before Baby Boy makes his entrance into the world.

Some bridges aren’t meant for crossing. Sometimes settling is the best option. And you don’t mind settling down. Because here, in Steve’s arms, it feels like home.

WEEK 38

An involuntary rush in your lower extremity stirs you awake. When you feel around to push the sheets aside and hobble to the bathroom, you’re stunned to discover your nightgown had become a raft, and that you’re laying atop your own unscented secretions. And you know it’s not piss. So if you didn’t pee…

Oh no, it’s happening.

You begin to panic.

“Steve!” you hiss, sitting up and pushing your partner awake. “HEY! Harrington!”

“Huh?” Steve mumbles, still half asleep.

“Get the hospital bag.”

“What?”

“Get the hospital bag, dingus. My water just broke.”

He shoots up. Still relatively disoriented, but now also horrified.

“W-what? Are you sure?! Does this… A-are you about to…”

“Yes! Grab the bag and start the car. He’s coming RIGHT NOW.”

While you slowly sit up to get your shoes and a robe on, Steve scurries to the car with your overnight L&D bag and purse in his arms. You reach over to grab your phone and charger, dialing up Eddie in the process.

It rings for a long time before he picks up.

“Honey, it’s 4 AM, what do you want?” Eddie grumbles.

“It’s time, Eds,” you sniff happily. “The baby is coming.”

The line is silent for a couple seconds, and for a while it’s like you can hear Eddie connecting the dots in his head. Alas, he speaks.

“HO-LY SHIT!”

*Click*. The line disconnects.

Steve holds your hand through it all. From checking into Labor and Delivery, to moving to your room, to breathing exercises with your bedside doula, check-ins with your midwife, and throughout the entire birthing process.

Not only is he nervous out of his mind, but he thinks you’re so beautiful.

"You know," Steve says in attempts to soothe you. "When I came out the womb, the nurse yelled "Oh my gosh! That's a lot of hair on a baby!"

You're too fixated on your breathing exercises to fully appreciate Steve's story. But you understand his sweet gesture, so you stroke his thumb with your thumb to let him know you're listening.

“I guess I had double the amount of hair than a usual newborn,” he continues. “And all the nurses were crowding around to get a good— OW OW OW! Watch the hand, watch the hand.”

The sudden level 9 contraction that shot through your entire stomach, causing you to scream in agony and beg for the epidural.

"JESUS, FUCK GET THIS BABY OUT OF ME!" you plead desperately.

Steve kisses you softly on the forehead before going in to stroke your, very sweaty, hair. He was not going to leave your side. Not now, not ever. This baby — and you — are the best things to ever happen to him.

Thanks to yours and Steve's mindful prep, the birthing process was a smooth one compared to others.

But still pretty painful, nonetheless. For you, for Steve, for everybody involved.

"Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit," Eddie sputters as he and Henry rush onto the unit with the baby's carseat and other miscellaneous belongings in their hands. "It's happening, it's happening. He's almost here!"

"I wonder," Henry pants, doing his best to keep up with his boyfriend. "If she experienced the Ring of Fire yet."

"What's the Ring of Fire?" Eddie questions him.

"AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" your tumultuous screams sound down the hall directly from your room. Anyone would've thought someone was getting murdered in there, had it not been a hospital unit strictly for childbirth.

"That," Henry answers him.

---

"You're almost there, baby," Steve encourages you. "Keep pushing."

The epidural had finally kicked in and now all you had to focus on was pushing.

“I see the head, Mama,” your midwife announces, rubbing your knee as you’re struggling to push. “Keep going, keep going! Couple more for me.”

“FUCK!” you cry out doing your best to contract those muscles.

“There we go…” Steve soothes you as he strokes your hair. “Doing AMAZING, baby. That’s it…”

He strokes your thumb with his, a helpless look in his eyes as he watches you struggle. It’s clear that Steve doesn’t know what else he could possibly do for you, but he attempts to mask that belief. He couldn’t wait to spoil you afterwards. It’s what you deserve.

“Few more pushes, Honey,” your nurse says again. “He’s almost out. We got his shoulders now.”

“Oh god I’m gonna faint,” Steve says, evidently growing dizzy.

“Can someone get a wet towel for Dad?!” another nurse calls out. “And maybe some juice?”

“PUSH, PUSH!”

“PUSH, Honey!”

“ALMOST THERE, MAMA!”

“I can’t,” you cry out. “I can’t anymore.”

“You can do it, baby,” Steve encourages you, pelting the back of your hand with endearing kisses. “You’re doing such a good job, I’m so proud of you…”

Before you know it, the air of the hospital room fills with tiny belted cries, followed by relieved and adorn coos as the nurse catches your baby.

“0507, time of birth!"

“Oh my god,” Steve wails in excitement. “Oh my god, he’s here he’s out. We have a baby! You did it, Honey!”

Too exhausted to say anything you simply fall back, taking a few deep breaths in relief. It’s over, the baby is here. And he is healthy.

You feel a sloppy kiss land on your cheek. Steve ruffles your hair when you look his way.

“You did it, Honey.”

Everything happens so fast after that.

From what you hear, Steve was the one who cut the umbilical cord — and he was very adamant about having the pictures to prove it. The baby was then weighed and bathed, all the hospital data was gathered with permission granted by Steve.

And soon, after an eternity, your son is swaddled and soon returned back to you and ‘Dad’.

"Oh wow!" a nurse remarks. "This baby has a whole lotta hair!"

You and Steve immediately look to each other and burst out laughing. Just like his Daddy...

———

“How does that feel, Steve?” you ask him, eyes fixated on the absolute DILF in front of you.

“Amazing,” he coos. “I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

When all needs were attended to, it was finally time for ‘skin to skin’. You didn’t think it’d be possible to be both sexy and wholesome at the same time — until you saw Steve cradling your newborn, pressing him tenderly against his exposed chest so that their hearts can beat as one.

“Hi little man,” he sniffs. “I’m your daddy.”

A single tear falls from his face and splashes onto the blanket that your son was cocooned in. Steve pulls him in closer and kisses him softly on the forehead.

“I’m your daddy,” he repeats.

It’s everything he’s ever wanted. Steve’s legacy is about to begin and it’s all thanks to you. And from your hospital bed as you recover, you are able to snap some pictures of the two loves of your life, the first photos of many, of the family photo albums.

“Ugh, when did Steve get so hairy?” Lucas wonders as he sneaks a gaze into the hospital room.

“Right?” Dustin agrees, joining him beside the doorway. “I told him he needs to tame that jungle but he claims the ladies dig it.”

“I mean, look at Honey,” Lucas points out. She seems to like it and Steve knocked her up.”

“True but it wasn’t organic, you idiot,” Max mutters.

Love pours in from every wing of the unit. Soon all your family and friends start to arrive, as well as Steve’s family and friends. You’re spoiled with ‘congratulations’ signs, and postpartum care packages, and an array of foods that you couldn’t eat while pregnant (i.e. sushi, deli sandwiches).

And with your approval, Steve comes out of the hospital room, ready — and proud — to showcase your baby to the entire world.

“Everyone, there’s someone we’d like for you to meet,” Steve says, keeping his voice at a low murmur. “This is Benjamin Dean Harrington. Benny for short.”

You and Steve end up taking parental leave at the same time.

Your entire day-to-day consists of loving on and spending quality time with Benny. The diaper changes, the cuddles, the nursery rhymes, and everything in between. It’s impossible to think you’ll ever get tired of it. You and Steve have officially transitioned to Mom & Dad Mode.

Until Benny goes to sleep.

As the golden sun peaks in through the cream colored blinds, you feel Steve’s hand trail down your back and down to your ass to grab it. Releasing a soft moan, you lean into his touch, shifting your weight to one side of the mattress.

“Baby…” he moans into you.

“Should we?” your eyes twinkle. “The baby’s asleep…”

He chuckles into your neck, raspy voice sure to be the end of you if he kept teasing you any longer.

“‘m scared I’ll hurt you.”

“I’ll let you know,” you barter. “I feel ready.”

———

“Fuck, right there, Steve…”

You grip the sheets tightly as Steve rolls his hips into you, his strokes a delicious mix of pleasure and a challenging stretch. And as you bite into your pillow, your eyes rolling up towards the sky, he maintains the pace you love so much, drilling you in, simultaneously massaging your clit while his quenched lips tenderly suction themselves to the crook of you neck.

It’s your first time together, but it feels like you two have done this before. Your bodies are naturally in sync, knowing where your boundaries lie without needing any cues, and knowing exactly how far you both can take it. Daddy Steve, being the gentleman he is, has your entire body mapped out.

“God I love it,” your overstimulated self whimpers, chest to your chin, ankles dangling off of Steve’s broad shoulders as he rails you.

“Oh, I bet you do, Honey.”

His large hand encloses around your neck, thumb hovering over your lips as he fawns over your mewling, vulnerable body.

“You want my cum, baby?” Steve asks. “Want me to fill you to the brim huh? You wanna have my babies?”

“Yes, I want your babies, Steve,” you moan. “Want all of them.”

And as an orgasm spills out of you, Steve’s spills in, coating you with his warm release as you both unravel in the sheets.

“Holy shit, that felt so good,” you whisper, nuzzling your head against his chest. Steve grins from ear to ear when you kiss him on the chin. “Thank you for making me feel so safe and loved.”

“Well when you’re you Honey, you make it so easy,” he blushes.

Steve rests his hands on your ass again, giving it a faint smack. You bite your lip as he pulls you even closer to him. And as the sun sets, you know round two is on the horizon.

“Anyways, when ARE we having another one?”

———

author’s note: i’m noticing some themes with the way i write eddie smut vs steve smut. i totally write eddie as a rough dom and steve is def a soft dom. not complaining tho, those are my headcannons for them 🤭

divider creds: @silkholland , @elfbar-baby

857 notes · View notes

babystrcandy · 1 year

Text

the lucky one (pt. 4) | jjk

summary: Growing up you only had one goal: beat Jeon Jungkook. Sometimes you'd win, other times you'd lose. Sometimes he'd lose, other times he'd win. But you'd both walk away from the match thinking the other was the lucky one.

pairing: jungkook x fem!reader rating/genre: 18+ Minors DNI | sports au, e2l/r2l, angst, fluff, smut word count: 30.2K chapter summary: Atlas wasn’t a god; he was just a man . . . and Jeon Jungkook could only bear so much. warnings/notes: typos probably, explicit language, forehead touches, the first games, daisy jones and the six vibes at some point, i guess kind of public sex, well elevator nsfw, fingering, squirting, nipple play, titty fucking, explicit sex, unprotected sex, cum play, wooshik (derogatory), shit goes down, reader may have a bad leg but let my girl into the MMAs (in other words, she’d do anything for jk (not that she’d admit to it)), jungkook’s past is revealed and it’s a doozy, abuse of alcohol mentioned, mentions of past suicidal ideation, mention of past suicide attempt but nothing is explained in detail, just mentioned (please be cautious of this part; and take care of yourselves), a silent voice + the female of the species + the picture of dorian gray references/inspo, descriptions of anxiety, depression, mental illness, i think that’s it but if i missed anything please let me know, i hope you enjoy, my loves <3

chapter four: build me up, buttercup ( ← previous | interlude | next → )

BECOMING SOMEONE WAS ALWAYS something you had known you were meant to do, but you hadn’t expected it to be this hard. You supposed a part of you just always thought it’d be handed to you. OK, maybe not exactly handed to you on a silver platter, but you hadn’t expected that you’d have to chase it, constantly picking up your pace just to catch up.

It should’ve been easy, right? Being a person was supposed to be easy. Emphasis on the . . . supposed to.

Even as it was happening . . . even as the parts of you that made you a person . . . even as you graduated college . . . this new life didn’t feel like it was yours. You didn’t feel like a person yet. (And a part of you didn’t want to be.)

A part of you wanted to take a step back, restart, and move back in with your parents. A part of you wanted to be a little kid again . . . her mother still brushing her hair and tucking her into bed. Now . . . now you brushed your own hair and barely made it to the bed before you passed out for the night.

You realized for many people becoming a person meant becoming an adult and that was it. You became a person when you became an adult. But it never felt that way for you.

Realizing becoming a person meant your decisions were your own and blaming everyone around you for your misfortunes was immature, had hit you in ways you never imagined.

It happened gradually.

If you broke a glass . . . that was your fault . . . your mess . . . you cleaned that up. But . . . you remembered as if it were recently when your father would let you cling on to his back while he cleaned up the mess you made just so you didn’t get hurt.

Now . . . your father wasn’t there to put Hello Kitty bandaids on your cuts. Now . . . now you cleaned up the mess and if you got cut, you got cut. You sucked it up and ran it under tap water. That was it. No sugar coating. No one was there to protect you. Not anymore.

Because you were an adult now.

But . . . you were still afraid of the dark. You still couldn’t ride a rollercoaster or a bike or even really swim.

So what exactly made you an adult?

Your age?

You still needed a hand in yours as you navigated through your own life. So how was that fair? You supposed it wasn’t. You supposed you had to accept that there was no hand for you to hold and there was no going back.

But that didn’t stop you from remembering, and it seemed all you could do these days was refamiliarize yourself with the past.

Becoming someone when you were a kid meant so much more. It used to be something you looked forward to. It used to be something that came with being an adult, and well . . . you just couldn’t wait to grow up . . . until . . . you finally did.

You wished someone had told you to slow down; don’t be so eager about tomorrow when today hadn’t even begun.

That was just who you were.

It wasn’t something you could help; you were just always curious about what the future held. Once a competition had concluded, you got right back up there to train and practice. There were no off-seasons for you. You didn’t like to stop; it made you feel uneasy.

So . . . you liked to keep busy . . .

Well . . . that all came crashing down the moment of your accident. Your future consisted of hospital beds, check-ups, and physical therapy, which all equaled a whole lot of downtime.

You supposed that was why you took so kindly to literature (not at first . . . of course, because you were still a stubborn person through and through).

And you thought . . . way too much if you thought about it. Whatever.

Thinking wasn’t always kind to you. It made you remember that you had been trained to become someone, not just an adult, but someone . . . great. Sure, you had to work for it every day of your life, but it was a routine you knew well and you liked it enough. You had chosen that life for yourself. You had chosen to become someone great the moment you picked up a racket.

Until you tore it from your own hands, and now . . . now you weren’t exactly sure who you were. And sometimes, if you really thought about it, you wished more than anything you could be a kid again. You’d become someone better if you could just start over. Maybe you wouldn’t become someone great . . . but . . . you’d become someone . . . better.

Worst of all . . . and keep in mind that you were incredibly aware how independent and hellbent on being your own person you were . . . but sometimes . . . sometimes you wished someone would just tell you what to do. You wished more than anything someone would just tell you who to be; who to become.

Things would be easier then. You were sure of it.

But you were long past those ages. You had to tell yourself what to do; who to become; how to act, and sometimes that blew up in your face but you supposed that was what it meant to be an adult. (News Flash: you fucking hated it.)

Whatever.

What you wanted to do was tell the past and the present to go fuck themselves. What you wanted to do was crawl under your bed and hide away from the rest of the world. What you wanted to do was not be a person at all.

But the past had a sick way of reminding you that you were perhaps too much of a person.

You had always been just a little too much. Too loud. Too quiet. Too ambitious. Too selfish. Too cruel. Too stupid. Too you. You’d been told it all your life and you’d never really cared until all that was left of yourself was your seemingly horrible personality. That was what you were most ashamed of—not only being a person but being a . . . bad person.

The past had a way of sneaking up on you, reminding you of who exactly you had become and who you had been meant to be.

And that night was no different.

It was the night before the first round of games. Your entire team, Yunis, had traveled by train to Busan for the event, and to say you (and most likely everyone else) were nervous. You’d, of course, sat next to Jungkook the entire time, listening to him snore literally the whole duration of the trip. Eventually, you ended up having to fall asleep with your fingers plugged in your ears, and when you awoke, you were embarrassingly drooling all over Jungkook’s shoulder. (Now . . . nobody say anything, you were already embarrassed enough as it was.)

Anyway . . .

Train. B-line to the hotel. Get your room key. Take a nap in the queen bed. Wake up. Get more practice in before curfew.

Check . . . check . . . check . . .check . . . check . . . and . . . check.

Only you had underestimated just how much your heart would be pounding the second you approached the arena’s double doors. You knew technically you shouldn’t have been there the night before the games, but it wasn’t illegal so whatever. That didn’t stop the fact that you couldn’t help but notice how much your hands were shaking when you reached out to grasp the door handle.

You just . . .

It had been a handful of months since you’d joined Yunis. You and Jungkook were good now. Friends. He had been training you, and you couldn’t honestly say that while you weren’t some kind of Olympian. . . you weren’t horrible. And tomorrow, you’d get out there, play with him by your side and know that you had put your all into it. The past should have been behind you.

But it kept seeping back in.

Your fall. The injury. Those three years.

What if you got hurt again?

What if you failed?

You were OK, maybe even good, but you weren’t . . . great.

And you sure as hell weren’t sure you could live with yourself if you cost your team a win. That nearly made you peel over and spill your stomach’s contents. And if you had to see Jungkook turn to you with disappointment on his face . . . ? That would surely kill you.

Disappointing him was something you didn’t want to do. Not after everything.

It was decided then what you would do: walk through those doors and practice until you could safely walk back to your hotel room without a sinking feeling weighing you down. That very thought stayed on your mind as you shoved open the doors, racket clenched tightly in your hand. Your eyes immediately found all the equipment set up for tomorrow’s tournament, and your heart thudded in your chest at the sight.

The thing was: you hadn’t seen a court like this in three years. Sure, you’d practiced and practiced and practiced, but you hadn’t seen it like . . . this . . . like how you left it three years ago.

So without even thinking, your body took control. Call it muscle memory or nostalgia, you didn’t know, but you did know one second you were standing by the doors, then the next you had taken all of three steps before your hand touched the net. You walked along the court, hand never leaving the net as you remembered what it felt like to have this be your entire world.

That was the thing about remembering: you never truly forgot. It had always been badminton to you. It had always just fit into your life. You missed it like you missed a childhood pet.

And then you felt it: the excitement.

For a split second, you weren’t thinking of winning or losing or anything in between. No, instead, for a second, you remember how it felt just to hit a birdie, no questions asked. You remembered the late nights and the feel of a new racket in your hand. You remembered the joy you felt when you’d see your parents in the stands. You remembered how it felt to hear the crowd scream your name. You remembered it all. And then . . . you realized you were remembering how it felt to . . . love badminton.

Why had it ever been about anything else?

Badminton had fit into you so long ago because you loved it. You weren’t sure when you had lost sight of that.

But you didn’t try to scramble for explanations. You didn’t want to. Instead, you let yourself remember, and as you did, you gave into a small thought which crossed your mind. You leaned down, nose hanging just above the net and breathed in the scent, and then you began to smile. That was what you wished you remembered about your past—the scent of a badminton net. (You supposed it was the same feeling of walking into a bookstore and that scent hitting you all at once (had you told yourself that you’d come to love the smell of a bookstore, you would’ve laughed in your own face, but . . . now . . . badminton and books didn’t have that much of a difference to you.)

Raising your head once again, your eyes fell to the racket in your hand. Here you were three years later, a racket still in your hand, and for a second you swore you felt excited about it. For a second, you wondered if you’d enjoy tomorrow.

Because maybe badminton fit into you like a hook in an eye, but maybe you had grown to hate it; to fear it. And maybe . . . maybe you could learn to love it again. Perhaps even if you did lose tomorrow . . . perhaps you could still love it. And maybe—

“Why are you sniffing the net?” you heard from behind you, and instantly you knew that voice.

Your head whipped around, eyes immediately finding Jungkook sitting at the top of the bleachers.

Oh. (Your heart pounded a little faster now.)

Had he been there the whole time?

“Stalking me now?” you called back as you slowly made your way toward him, beginning to climb the bleachers with your racket still in your hand. (You didn’t want to admit just how relieved you were to see him there, because maybe that meant he was nervous too. Maybe you weren’t alone. And maybe (just maybe) you wished he’d come find you all night.)

“I’m not much of a stalker,” he huffed, his eyes never leaving you as he leaned back against the bleachers. “Too much work.”

You reached him with a shake of your head. “You’re too stupid anyway,” you teasingly hummed as you sat down beside him, resting your racket to the side so you could lean back and cross your arms over your chest.

“That’s rude, you know?” he remarked, nudging you with his elbow.

“Eh,” was all you hummed while you turned your head to the side, immediately locking eyes with him. “Say something rude about me then.”

Jungkook only smiled. “No.”

“Come on—” you leaned toward him, staring up at him— “tell me what’s wrong with me. Hmm? Free shot.”

Jungkook mirrored your actions, leaning toward you. “Nothing to tell.”

You rolled your eyes. “Liar.”

“Fine, you’re a brat.”

“A brat?”

“A brat.”

“You’re the brat,” you huffed as you shoved his shoulder.

“Oh, yeah?” he mused, taking the chance to rest his arm around the back of the bleachers where you were leaning. His arm wasn’t quite wrapped around your shoulders, but you could still feel the heat of his body radiating off of his onto yours. “What makes me more of a brat than you?”

“For starters—” you blinked up at him— “this. Oh, and when you make coffee in the morning, you do this thing where—”

But you never finished your sentence, no, instead, you were cut off with his lips pressing against yours. It wasn’t rushed or sloppy or anything like that either. It was soft, but before you could even kiss him back, he pulled away, a dopey smile on his face as he resumed his position, leaning back against the bleachers.

“Uh . . . “ you trailed off.

“Hmm?” he lazily hummed.

“You kissed me.”

“Yeah, I wanted to.”

Narrowing your eyes, you gave him a once-over. “For what?”

“Dunno—” he shrugged— “Been a long day. I like kissing you. You like kissing me. Do the math.”

A scoff left your lips and before you could stop it, you muttered, “Brat.” (Let’s completely ignore the fact that you had a smile on your face when you said it, too.)

The silence hit you two then. But it was comfortable, filled with small smiles and this warm bubbly feeling.

And then . . .

“Are you nervous?” he asked you. “About tomorrow?”

And you knew the two of you understood each other more than you originally had thought. Because, yes, you were, and so was he. This . . . this was another chance.

Like the two of you . . . this was a chance to start over.

So instead of bottling up your fears like you would around anyone else, you let your mind speak. “Yes,” you found yourself mumbling with a soft sigh. “A little excited too, but . . . mostly nervous, yeah.”

“Yeah,” he sighed heavily, “me too.”

“How come?”

His eyes snapped to you. “Haven’t played since . . . since last year,” he mumbled before he wet his lips and shrugged.

“Why?” you found yourself asking before you knew it.

“Something with a friend happened.”

. . .

“Tae?” you hesitantly asked, wondering if he'd let you into his past.

Jungkook blinked. Hesitant at first, but then . . . “Yes.”

Oh.

Suddenly, you remembered the phone call you had overheard weeks ago. Taehyung. He was injured. No. No. You couldn’t jump to conclusions.

“What happened?” you asked instead of letting your mind decide for you, because this was Jungkook and he mattered to you, not some conversation you weren’t supposed to hear.

A beat of silence.

You swore he’d leave you like that. You swore he’d change the subject. Until . . .

“We had a falling out. Jimin, too,” he ended up muttering out as he turned away from you. He . . . he couldn’t look at you. “I knew I’d fucked up. I tried to fix it, but . . . I was too much of a coward.” A heavy sigh left him. “Still am.”

“Well . . . “ you trailed off, trying to think of words quickly because here he was telling you the truth and you couldn’t bring yourself to be enough of a person to comfort him. So you ended up blurting out: “What if you—”

But Jungkook stopped you where you were. (Perhaps you had taken too much time to respond.) “It’s past that. No ‘what if’s’ will make things OK between us,” he said, his voice strained. “I ruined his life. It was my fault. I ruined everything for him. Everything.”

“Maybe it’s a misunderstanding,” you rushed out, desperately trying to reach him before he curled back into himself. “Like with us.”

He turned to you then, brows raised. “Us?”

Then you realized something . . . your own past with him. You never . . . you never apologized, because you remembered what you did. You remembered how you’d forced the blame onto him because that was easier than admitting you had ruined yourself just like you ruined everything else. But perhaps in doing so, you had ruined him, too.

And you never apologized for any of it.

So when the words “I guess I never apologized, huh?” came out of your mouth . . . you knew what you had cut out for you.

Jungkook only sat there, staring at you in confusion as if he couldn’t believe someone was apologizing to him.

And you went on. “I blamed you for what happened to me, but it wasn’t your fault. I didn’t know when to quit. I should’ve sat the game out, but I didn’t. I did this to myself, not you,” you mumbled sheepishly. One, two, three seconds of silence passed before you awkwardly touched a hand to his. “I guess what I’m trying to say is . . . I’m sorry . . . for blaming you . . . hating you . . . not letting you visit me in the hospital. I’m sorry.”

He blinked in response.

You withdrew your hand.

Was he trying to make you feel awkward on purpose? You quickly cleared your throat just to fill the silence. “You would’ve been the only one to visit me anyway,” you blabbered on, trying not to seem so affected by . . . this. “Shouldn’t have turned you away for that reason alone. I’m pretty sure even the nurses would switch with each other so they didn’t have to deal with me.”

And finally, like some saving grace, Jungkook let out a clap of laughter. “You really are a brat,” he remarked with a shake of his head.

“I was lonely, OK? And miserable!” you whined, squeezing his shoulder. (Your little anxieties floated away the harder he laughed . . . and you knew things were OK.) “Plus! The food tasted like goop.”

He quirked a brow. “Goop?”

“Yep, so you—” you drilled a finger into his chest— “try not going crazy.”

“Brat.”

You shoved his chest in response, but couldn’t hide the grin on your face. “Listen . . . about the other thing . . . Tae’s understanding,” you began again. “You’ve always said that, right?”

He offered you a small, strained smile. “Not about this.”

And you nodded in understanding. “I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“Everything,” you mumbled with a shrug. “Tae. Jimin, too.”

Jungkook blew a raspberry. “Shit happens.”

“Well . . . my mom will be happy to know we’re finally on good terms,” you offered up, trying to lighten the mood. It also wasn’t like it was a lie either. You had yet to tell your parents that you and Jungkook were on the same team, and if your mother knew, she’d leave work just to be there to see you guys play. (What could you say? Jungkook was practically family.)

“We’re on good terms?” Jungkook questioned in response.

Oh no.

You knew where he was going with this. (You could tell by the small grin twitching at his lips.)

“We’re teammates, of course, we are,” you simply replied, trying not to give away the fact that you knew what was ahead of you.

“Are you admitting that we’re friends?” he asked immediately.

There it was.

He was going to rub this in your face.

Of course the two of you were some kind of fucked up friends, but you had yet to truly admit that, and Jungkook was going to have fun with that. (Obviously.)

“No,” you coughed out. (Like that was believable.)

He shoved a finger in your face. “You are.”

“No!” you desperately rushed out. “I’m not.”

“Oh, this is rich!” Jungkook laughed loudly, clapping his hands.

“No, Jungkook, no. Not friends. We can’t be! Our past!”

“Our past?”

You nodded vigorously, practically begging him not to put you through this embarrassment. He wanted you to admit it; to admit you were wrong and you had already done enough of that tonight.

But it seemed Jungkook had other plans entirely.

Instead of shoving it in your face that you’d admitted the two of you were friends, he simply sent you a half-grin and nodded. “Fine,” he hummed, his voice soft and smooth. “Then let’s start over . . . this time as strangers who become . . . friends.”

Oh.

You blinked.

“Fine,” you huffed, but it came out more like a dazed sigh.

With that, Jungkook kept that charming grin on his face as he held out his hand toward you. “Jeon Jungkook,” he mused, introducing himself like the two of you didn’t have a history that could fill an entire filing cabinet. “Nice to meet you.”

And you couldn’t help it: you smiled back at him, grasping his hand in yours and introducing yourself. “Nice to meet you,” you mumbled again after a second, the smile still on your face as you shook his hand.

Jungkook nodded in approval, but his hand stayed in yours and just as you gave him a look of skepticism, he tugged you into him. You let him of course. With an amused look on your face, you let him pull you into his chest, going the extra mile to swing your leg over his lap so you were straddling him.

What could you say? You enjoyed his touch all too much.

Then you felt his lips. Similar to the kiss from before, this one was also soft. At first, it was just closed lips and nimble sighs. He pulled back after a few small pecks, seemingly content with just having you close to him.

“Sorry, it’s a ritual,” he murmured against your lips.

“That how you greet all people?” you mused, laughing through your nose.

“Of course,” he hummed as he pressed another quick kiss to your lips.

But you had always been a little insatiable . . . so, the next words to leave your mouth were: “Can you show me more of that ritual?”

All Jungkook could do was grin against the very lips that had asked him that question. He, of course, gave in to your request, pressing his lips against yours once again, softly kissing you with every atom in his body. Until . . . slowly, so slow that it was almost painful, his hands found their way to your hips and squeezed, fingers digging into you and making you crave more, more, more. You just couldn’t help yourself. He was like chocolate-covered strawberries. You couldn’t resist him, not after the long day you’d both had.

And so . . . your hands found their way into his dark locks, weaving through them as you shifted on his lap and deepened the kiss. You nibbled on his bottom lip, tugging slightly and just enough to get him to comply. His lips parted slowly and you nearly sighed in contentment, but no, instead you melded further into him, now tugging his head backward by his hair in order to lick into his mouth. You just couldn’t help it. He tasted sweet.

It was sloppy and carnal . . . just the way you craved it to be. He only spurred you on from there. While you hummed into his mouth, biting and licking, attempting to taste more and more and more of him, he nearly whimpered under your touch. You couldn’t believe it either. Jungkook whimpering under your touch? It was almost too good to be true, and you loved it.

Craving more of this feeling, you tugged at his hair a little harder, causing him to wince . . . but this was no ordinary wince. No, the man full-on moaned. It was quiet and short, but it was still there. By now, yes, you knew one of Jungkook’s major turn-ons was getting his hair pulled, but you never got over it, and every time, you’d tug his hair just to see what kinds of sounds you could pull from him.

Sometimes (most times) he let you get away with it without a word. But sometimes . . . sometimes he bit back (and you sometimes liked to admit just how much you enjoyed that, too).

And tonight? Well, tonight, Jungkook was in the mood for biting back.

Instead of letting you have your way with him, Jungkook weaved his fingers into your hair and pulled hard. With a muffled whimper, he pulled you just far enough away from him to press his lips to your ear. And then . . . then . . . he said words you never thought you’d ever hear fall from his silver tongue.

“Something in me wants to ruin you. Keep tempting me like that and I don’t know if I can hold back,” he muttered with a masked growl under his breath. “But . . . I don’t know if I’d ever forgive myself.”

“I would,” you rushed out, not missing a beat. Did you know what you were saying? No, but god, you just wanted him in any way. “Forgive you . . . if it meant . . . “

He pulled back so his eyes met yours. “If it meant?”

You blinked at him, eyes lidded and clouded. “That I could feel you,” you hummed as you pressed a hand against his firm chest.

His brows twitched with intrigue. “Feel me where?”

You swallowed hard. “Everywhere.”

In real time, you watched his eyes darken completely and you almost couldn’t believe it. It was the kind of thing you read about, not something to experience, and yet . . .

Jungkook was touching you a second later, and you let him. Hell, you’d let him do anything at this point. Ruining you was on the table. Perhaps that was the part of him that he liked to hide away, but you didn’t mind it. You knew you were safe in his touch. That was the only thing you knew anymore about anything.

So when the hand on your hip tightened, you let him. He pulled you in closer with his other hand, keeping it secure against the back of your head while his mouth attacked your neck. He licked a long strip from the base to just under your ear where your sweet soft lay, lapping and swirling his tongue against the sensitive skin.

Then, he found your pulse, halting above it before grazing his teeth over it, working you up more. He continued his devious attack before he began sucking, quietly moaning into your neck as he took note of the slight gasps escaping your lips, and you were so caught up in the moment that you hadn’t even realized that perhaps the two of you were going a little too far.

In fact, it didn’t hit you until you accidentally nudged your racket off the bleachers with your leg. And the sound of it clanking against the bleachers brought you out of your own mind.

Your eyes darted to the racket . . . then . . . it set in. “Don’t mark me,” you muttered as you turned back to Jungkook.

He continued kissing your neck, but did as you said, not sucking on the skin. “You marked me first,” he breathed into your neck as his wandering hand finally found your plump ass and he couldn’t help himself. He began palming the flesh, softly humming into your neck, and making you lose your train of thought. His touch just felt so good.

Until you realized what he had said. You marked me first. And yes, he was right. Because you had. You’d accidentally left many hickeys on his neck (and all over his body) since this little thing between the two of you had begun. (What could you say? He looked pretty like that . . . and maybe there was something possessive about you . . . )

Still . . .

“Yeah, but if we both show up with hickeys—” you began, trying to find your brain with his lips still on your skin— “I think people will start to put two and two together.”

“Who cares?”

“I care,” you huffed, but still continued running your hands through his dark hair, refusing to leave his touch. “People are gonna think I fucked my way to the top.”

“Well, that’s simply not true,” Jungkook mumbled as he (unfortunately) leaned back, his lips leaving your neck so he could meet your eyes. “I have yet to see you fuck on top.”

You deadpanned. Of course that was where he was going with that. “You’re infuriating,” you said in monotone.

“Calm down,” he snorted, shaking his head at your expression. “I’m not marking you.”

And he was just about to continue his sloppy descent when you . . . well you . . . decided to mumble under your breath, “Well . . . “

“Oh, god, yes, honey?” he huffed out, using the one nickname that he knew you hated.

(You truly did hate it.)

You rolled your eyes at him, but nevertheless went on. “Just . . . don’t do it where people can see,” you muttered.

Jungkook only grinned, wide and toothy. “Wanna sleep in my room?” he offered up, and you knew what he meant.

A beat of silence.

(Did you even have to think about it?)

“Yeah, why not?” you hummed a second later, nodding with a small smile on your face.

(Not like you had planned on sleeping in your own room anyway.

(Duh.))

The arena looked different in the morning. Everything was a little different. For one, there was an audience, and for two, you were nervous too, but also excited? Whatever that meant. But you weren't caught trapped in your own mind for too long. As you stared out at the court, assessing the other team as well as the audience members, you felt your phone buzz in your hand. Instantly, it tore you away from the present as you opened your phone only to see a text message from none other than Jeon Jungkook. (A smile lifted onto your face as you opened the message but you refused to acknowledge that . . . part.)

Kook Ur ass looks good in that skirt

And you couldn’t help but roll your eyes, not even bothering to text back a response. Instead, you glanced over your shoulder, eyes searching for him and then . . . then you saw him. He was in uniform, except under the tee, he wore a black long-sleeve compression shirt, which you supposed was to hide the tattoos. In addition, his dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail at the back of his head that held most of his long locks. And you noticed that he’d taken out all of his piercings, almost making him appear like the boy you used to know three years ago. (It was an odd sense of deja vu, but . . . well . . . he still looked like . . . himself.)

You were moving toward him in an instant. Whether it was the nerves or whatever, you didn’t care about anyone else, you just needed to feel him. Maybe that would ground you. And so, you crossed the court to him, and when you did, your hands found his broad shoulders, squeezing them. And then . . . then you did something so uncharacteristically unlike you . . . and rested your forehead against his, finally allowing yourself to breathe a sigh of relief.

Jungkook reacted quickly to your touch, squeezing your arms as he laughed through his nose. “You alright?” he murmured, a hint of a teasing tone in his voice.

“Yeah, obviously, just . . . just feel like I’m going to puke,” you joked, because it was true. Now if it was because of nerves or excitement . . . you didn’t know. “Just normal stuff. Why do you ask?”

“You’re touching me in public,” he simply said, a hint of a grin on his face.

You blinked. Oh. Well . . . you supposed he was right . . . so you know . . . you kind of cleared your throat and backed up just an inch away from him. “Just—” you shrugged— “putting our heads together.”

Jungkook remained grinning. “Don’t be nervous,” he hummed as he squeezed your arm once more. “We’ve got this, Iris.”

You nodded. “Right.”

And you tried your best to believe him. (All the while trying to ignore the fact that touching him in public hadn’t even crossed your mind as unusual. It had felt . . . safe . . . right.

Fuck.)

The score was eighteen to eighteen. Your side just needed to win by four more clear points. Four more points.

This . . . this was familiar. It wasn’t like practicing with Jungkook or practicing by yourself. It reminded you of the past; a past where this could have been easy for you; where it was normal; where you wouldn’t have your heart pounding out of your chest.

You’d been here before.

Twenty to twenty. Yurim, your college doubles partner, had been by your side back then. She had been the one who stood by you as you took that fall and lost the game. She lost it, too.

That game was both of yours to lose.

You’d let her down then. (As far as you knew she had left the badminton scene ages ago.) But you had the chance to redeem yourself.

Right now . . . now you could win this game and set things right.

Setting things right meant keeping your eye on the birdie. Obviously, the more skilled player takes the front while the other takes the back, so you stayed in your spot most of the game at the back and made a few scores, but not as many as Jungkook. He just made it look so easy . . .

He deserved this. This win should be his. And you knew you had to keep your eyes on the birdie.

The two of you had gone separate ways on a court very similar to this one. If you made those points, you could mend what had been ruined.

A well-oiled machine you may have been but—

A whistle was blown, your thoughts cut off as you watched the other team set up the serve. And then the birdie was airborne.

Quickly, you readied yourself, fighting your present and past memories as you tried to stay focused. Eyes on the birdie. That was what you needed to do.

The birdie swirled through the air, heading straight for Jungkook, and you had no doubt he’d hit it, but as his net made contact, the birdie fumbled. The hit made the birdie fly higher into the air, and not over the net but rather backward . . . toward you.

And you acted fast.

Racing behind Jungkook, you didn’t think. One moment you were standing by like a sitting duck, then the next you had jumped off your bad leg, putting as much power into your jump as you could. Your eyes still on the birdie, you launched your arm forward toward the birdie. But it seemed Jungkook had thought the same thing, attempting to swing backward enough to hit the birdie over the net . . . however . . . the two of you acted on your own, non-cohesive thoughts and dived for the birdie, smacking your rackets together in the process and fumbling it all.

The point was not yours to claim. But that was the least of your worries. You had been looking at the birdie, already accepting the failure. And you realized too late what was happening as your feet touched the court once again.

Because . . . well . . . your eyes had been on the birdie. They'd watched it the entire time, and you'd forgotten about paying attention to landing on your feet. And you hadn’t taken into account how close Jungkook would be, and how that might play out.

It had only been a second where you’d let yourself forget and get wrapped up in the game once again, and suddenly, it was as if you had been transported back three years. And then . . . then . . . the past repeated itself.

It'd only been a second where you forgot; the one second you'd forgotten while your attention had been on the birdie, you landed on the court, only your leg hadn't been positioned right, causing your ankle to roll, and while you had caught yourself, that didn’t matter. Jungkook was moving, too, and before either of you could react, his body knocked into yours, causing you to lose your footing as you fell backward onto the court.

In response, you tensed, waiting for the pain to seep in, waiting for your life to be ruined once again. But no pain came. Your leg was OK. Nothing had happened. And you could breathe a sigh of relief.

The whistle blew, signifying the other team had scored a point, but your mind was still on your leg. That was what mattered to you right now. That was why you hadn’t moved from your spot on the court. That was why you had decided to ignore the world for a split second and carefully touch a hand to your hip, making sure nothing had truly happened.

Only . . . you hadn’t taken into account the fact that the rest of the world didn’t decide to ignore you.

Jungkook especially hadn’t decided to partake in any ignoring.

That much was evident as he fell beside you on the court. “Fuck, fuck, no—” you heard him instantly rush out— “Baby, fuck, your leg. I didn’t—”

Glancing up, you watched as the shocked expression on his face turned into one of concern, and before you could interject, he called out for the ref, signaling for a timeout. The whistle was blown once again in response, clarifying that Yunis would be taking a two-minute timeout before the game was to resume. And all you could do was stare at him, trying not to burst out laughing . . . because . . . goddamn it . . . you just wanted to hug the guy.

“Koo,” you settled with instead, a small smile on your face.

But it seemed Jungkook hadn’t heard you as he whipped back to face you, his eyes wide and almost innocent. “Can you stand?” he started with as he gently touched a hand to your hip. No one had ever been so gentle with you . . . like that. “Is it—Is it OK? Pain? Any pain?”

You only blinked at him.

His brows pinched together in concern. “You gotta talk to me? Is it shock? Fuck, are you in shock?”

And then you truly did snort.

He blinked. “ . . . What?”

With a smile slowly forming on your face, you rested a hand on his shoulder. “I’m fine, Koo. It was just a small tumble. Nothing’s broken and nothing hurts,” you hummed. “Well . . . except my pride. I really thought I had that in the bag.”

Slowly, his face softened into relief. “Just a little hiccup. We still got this,” he said, a small smile on his face once again. “If you’ll forgive me for tripping you in the last round.”

You laughed, “I think I tripped myself on you.”

“Eh, agree to disagree,” he mused as he stood to his feet and reached out his hand toward you. “Ready to win this?”

“Yes,” you sighed in contentment as you took his hand and let him help you to your feet . . . because you really did believe you might have a chance. You just . . . you needed to trust him. He would’ve hit the birdie if you had just let him. So now . . . you needed to trust him.

Trust him, you thought as the whistle blew once again, signifying that the game was resuming. Trust him, you hummed to yourself as you got into position while you watched Jungkook secure his stance. Trust him, you believed as he glanced over his shoulder to send you a wink just as the whistle was blown once again, and the game began. And trust him you did.

Everything moved slowly then. The world was barely turning on its axis. The other team served the ball, hitting it over the net. Jungkook hit it back. Then . . . the other team attempted to hit a smash, but Jungkook was fast. One moment the birdie was flying toward the court, then the next Jungkook was diving for it. He put all his force into his legs, diving for the ground, and just in the nick of time, he smacked the birdie clear over the net, countering the other team’s shot. And as if that weren’t impressive enough, he’d made a clear . . . one that no one had been expecting.

The other team was too caught up in the potential win to be near the backcourt. Jungkook had hit the birdie, and cleared. The birdie was too fast, hitting the backcourt without a single counter.

He’d won you guys a point.

The score was nineteen to nineteen. Two more points and you’d win. You couldn’t believe it. The two of you may have actually had a chance. You just had to trust him. Yes, that seemed to be the trick. Just . . . trust him, and truly, you did.

You knew you did as you jumped for him, helping him to his feet with a grin on your face. “You did it,” you softly said with a hand on his shoulder.

“Remind me to ice my ass when we get back,” he groaned, but somehow, someway, he still looked handsome. (And you desperately wanted to kiss him, but . . . you know . . . control yourself.)

“You good?” you asked, searching his face.

“Yeah, yeah,” he brushed off your question with a sigh. “We got this, Rosie.” He offered up a high five, and you took him up on it, high fiving him (he enclosed his fingers around your hand a little longer than he probably should have, but whatever . . . you guys could win this).

It was your turn to serve. And with equal parts nerves and excitement in your veins, you gripped your racket tightly in your hand, gave Jungkook a small nod, and made your way to your place on the court, birdie grasped tightly in your other hand.

Everything happened too quickly from then on. You briefly heard the referee blow the whistle, signifying the resumption of the game. Then you rubbed the birdie on the side of your handle once for good luck, twice for blind hope, a third time for a chance to start over . . . before you sent it flying through the air, over the net in an almost perfect serve.

You almost blinked in shock, realizing perhaps you really had gotten a lot better. This game could be yours. It really could be. Fuck, it could be. (You tried not to grin at your thoughts.)

With careful eyes, you forced yourself back into the game and watched as the other team hit the birdie. It was heading toward Jungkook and instead of worrying; instead of racing toward it, you let him hit it, watching as he delivered another perfect clear except, this time, the other team had hit it back. Only, Jungkook was quick. He countered this too.

A few more hits were bounced back and forth, and for a second you thought Jungkook would definitely deliver a lethal smash toward the other team, resulting in a win, but no . . . this time, as the other team hit the birdie . . . it came racing toward . . . you.

You swallowed hard. That was your cue. You readied yourself, eyes on that damned birdie. It was right there, but it was high, and you realized you had been here before. This . . . this was your true test, and you wouldn’t fail it again.

So with it coming straight toward you and an odd sense of deja vu hitting you all at once, you beckoned it closer and jumped off your bad leg, putting as much power into your jump as you could. Your eyes still on the birdie, you launched your arm forward, your racket slamming into the birdie and sending it at an impeccable speed toward the other team.

Fuck, you’d hit it. Fucking hell, you really had!

Time moved slowly then. You could’ve been frozen in the air and you wouldn’t know. You just didn’t even want to take your eyes off the birdie. But memories of three years ago consumed you. This was where you’d met your end.

The match couldn’t be yours; it didn’t make sense. And defeat was right there; it still tasted just as bitter as it did three years ago. It was there on the tip of your tongue. But this wasn’t three years ago, and you were not the same person you used to be. This . . . you had rubbed the birdie against your racket three times for good luck, blind hope, and a fresh start. This was not the past, it was your fresh start.

You didn’t have to fail. And you didn’t have to win. You just had to remember.

And so as time seemed to slow down even further, you realized your eyes had been on the birdie. They'd watched it the entire time, but this time, even with the pounding in your head and the ache in your leg, you hadn’t forgotten about paying attention to landing on your feet.

The birdie would land or it wouldn’t. You’d given your all to it. You remembered that at the last second.

It'd only been a second when you finally remembered. And unlike three years ago, you landed on the court, sneakers touching the ground as you bent your knees to cushion your impact. But you didn’t dare move.

You stayed crouched on the ground, head lowered as you waited to hear what your fate had in store for you. Would it be horrified screams? Cheers? And when they cheered, would they be cheering for you?

And then you heard it: loud cheers erupting from behind you as the crowd stomped their feet on the bleachers, nearly shaking the entire arena in the process. Was it? Could it be? Had you—

No, stop. It couldn’t be. Sure, you thought maybe the two of you could win, but . . . you fully expected just to walk away from the game with a loss but a newfound love for the sport you once called your other half.

So with confusion consuming you, you finally glanced up, eyes immediately landing on Jungkook, who was already staring at you, a wide, toothy grin stretched across his face as he clapped for . . . you.

You’d been here before. That was the same look he’d given you when you’d beat him just a few months ago. That was when you first felt yourself truly care for him . . . and now . . . now it seemed you’d made him proud. Had you?

Your brows shot up in shock, your body relaxing only slightly.

Then . . . you saw it. There, on the other side of the court, laid the birdie.

That meant . . . (holy fuck!) That meant you had landed the smash. You’d made the point. You’d . . . You’d . . .

You’d . . . won.

The score was nineteen to twenty-one.

You had fucking won.

Yunis landed fourth in the tournaments. You’d won. You were moving on to the next games. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Fucking fuck! Yunis would appear at another tournament. There was a possibility that your team could win it all.

Your thoughts ran wild.

You’d won. After all these years, all the pain, the hurt, the tears, the anger . . . and you’d finally . . . won.

You couldn’t help it. The second this dawned on you, you rose to your feet and fell into Jungkook. Your arms wrapped around his neck, and you held him tight, nearly letting yourself cry into his shoulder. You just . . . you couldn’t believe it. And it was all because of him.

Thank you, your hug seemed to say as you squeezed him tighter (so tight you were sure he could feel it in his soul).

Then . . . Jungkook ever so slowly wrapped his arms around you, holding you tight against him, and you realized the only reason this win felt like one was because of him. You hadn’t only won for yourself, but for him.

Perhaps this would get him to love badminton again. Because, truly, badminton fit into you like a hook in an eye, and you were sure Jungkook felt the same. You could only hope he did.

Let the record show that making acquaintances with the bartender in the hotel bar your team was staying at for the first round of tournaments was not how you imagined celebrating your first win after three years. It just wasn’t, and honestly, you hadn’t even expected to leave your hotel room. You expected to maybe . . . just maybe see what the minibar in your room had in stock and perhaps you’d drink a few small bottles of . . . whatever.

That had been the plan—to get mildly tipsy then head for the bathroom for a hot shower . . . but . . . somehow, someway you’d ended up taking the shower first, taking one look at the minibar, then deciding the actual bar on the main floor just might have better options. And then, well, you ended up sitting alone at the end of the bar, dressed in sweats while everyone else appeared to be dressed business casual.

You stuck out like a sore thumb.

It was embarrassing, really, but after the second drink, you stopped looking around the room and focused in on the bottom of your glass. Why was this how you decided to celebrate? You had no idea, because, truthfully, it felt a lot more like nursing an old wound than celebrating a win.

It didn’t help that your entire team was elsewhere and your own doubles partner was MIA since the court. So, really, that just left you alone in sweats at a bar with a drink in your hand that you didn’t even like.

Fifteen minutes later you decided you’d had enough. But just as you were about to stand on your feet, pay the bartender, and turn to your hotel room, something caught your eye.

Now . . . Jealousy was not something you had an issue with. You didn’t get jealous. There was no need to. You’d never had anyone to be truly jealous over. Right? Yes, obviously, duh. Obviously . . .

But catching a glimpse of Jungkook just on the other side of the room, talking with another girl did annoy you. No, not because you were jealous, but because here you were all alone celebrating your win and he was nowhere in sight. And now . . . now you discovered he had been in the same place as you this entire time and didn’t say anything.

Were you being dramatic? Probably.

Whatever. Whatever. Whatever.

Still . . . you continued staring, eyes narrowed and you were certain it looked as though you were trying desperately to blow his head up with just a glare. But . . . ugh! Come on, he was so—

Jungkook turned his head, his eyes locking with yours.

Your eyes widened into saucers as you quickly (too quickly) whipped back around, facing the bar once again with your drink now clutched tightly in your hand.

But you knew he’d seen you. And he knew he’d seen you.

Surely, he wouldn’t come over here, right? He was busy. Yes. He wouldn’t come over. He was—

“You have a staring problem,” a deep voice whispered from behind you.

Of course. Of course . . . Jungkook would come over.

Clearing your throat, you slowly turned to face him. “Just wondering how you bagged her,” you hummed with a small shrug as you took a sip of your drink. Yep, still the same taste. (You tried not to react to the bitter-tasting liquid.)

Jungkook ignored your jab and instead sat down on the barstool beside you, resting his elbow on the bar. “So . . . “ he trailed off, searching your eyes as he toyed with the lip ring adoring his bottom lip, “wanna come back to my room?”

You shot him an unamused look. “Is this how you treat all one-night stands?”

“Mmm, come on,” he began as he slipped the drink from your hand, taking a sip in the process, “you know I’d never ask them to stay.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. “Oh, I feel so special,” you sarcastically mused. Your eyes drifted to the girl he was talking to, finding her still standing in the same spot now talking to another woman and a man. But still . . . your jealousy remained. Wait, no, not jealousy. No. “Go back to your girl. She’s waiting on you.”

Those were the words that fell from your lips the moment the fact that you could actually be . . . jealous . . . popped into your head.

Jungkook blinked, his expression faltering ever so slightly.

Then: “Alright . . .” he nodded— “have a good night, Buttercup.”

“Yep,” you breathed out, turning back to face the bar as you watched him get up and walk away out of the corner of your eye.

It was silent again. You were alone again. Until: “Can I get another one of these,” you heard yourself ask before you knew what you were doing. Why you were ordering this god-awful drink again, you had no idea, but . . . oh well . . .

Only, before the bartender could pour another one out, a hand cut in front of you, pushing the empty glass away. “That won’t be necessary,” the person said, and you instantly knew who interjected.

Turning around, your eyes fell on Jungkook for another time that night. “Kook? What?” you questioned as you watched him wave off the bartender, and sit back down in the barstool beside you.

Finally, his eyes flicked to yours, and he . . . smiled. “Told her I already had plans.”

You breathed out a laugh through your nose. “You’d choose me over somethin’ like that?” you hummed, trying to make light of the awkward situation. (At least . . . well . . . awkward to . . . you.)

“I’d choose you over everyone,” Jungkook responded without missing a beat.

And your face slowly fell into one of shock.

“So, let me ask you again . . . “ Jungkook began again while you were still in a state of shock, “wanna go back to my room?”

I’d choose you over everyone, rang through your ears again as he stared, awaiting your answer. But he couldn’t mean that, right? . . . Right?

And . . . and why did it make you feel like . . . that? Like . . . like . . . well you didn’t exactly know what it made you feel, but you did know it had done something to you. You just . . . you couldn’t put it into words, but . . . you didn’t hate it.

You didn’t hate how his words had made you feel; how he had made you feel. So, really was it a surprise that you reached forward to grasp his warm hand in your cold one? Was it really a surprise that the next few words to fall from your lips were: ‘Lead the way’?

Subtly, you, and Jungkook did not go together well. The entire walk back to the lobby, down the hall, and straight for the elevator were filled with quick steps, wandering eyes, and hands brushing (very obviously if you had to admit). Anticipation and eagerness were in the air as the two of you finally made it to the elevator.

Side by side, Jungkook pressed the upward arrow, and you watched as it lit up, the sound of the elevator gearing into action. His pinky finger brushed against yours then. It was a simple touch; one you wouldn’t have noticed if you weren’t so caught up in the memories of the last time you’d had his body on yours (just before you’d taken the train to Busan . . . so like . . . two days ago).

It was a consistent thing. You had nothing to say for yourself. It was fun. And that simple touch had your mind reeling and your body itching to touch his.

Then, as if like clockwork, the elevator dinged, the doors slowly opening to reveal an empty area. You didn’t even have a chance to put a name to the feeling that bloomed within your chest before Jungkook took your hand in his, pulled you into the elevator, and slapped the button to his floor before he vigorously pressed the door close button.

Leaning against the elevator wall with your hands clasped behind your back, you felt yourself laugh under your breath. “You know you only have to press it once,” you hummed, brows raised as you took in his appearance with a careful look.

“What’s the point in that?” he sheepishly questioned, pressing it one more time before he approached you, leaning his hands on the rail on either side of you. His nose bumped yours, his lips just barely brushing against yours. “Hmm?”

“Unnecessary time wasted,” you murmured back, leaning just a bit closer . . . enough to press your lips against his once.

“But then how would I get my point across?” he whispered back, pressing another kiss to your lips.

Subconsciously, your hand raised to caress his jaw. “What point?”

Jungkook grinned against your lips.

“What?” you questioned. “What point? Hmm?”

“That if this elevator does not close fast enough—” he moved to kiss your neck— “I might be tempted to fuck you here.”

Oh. You swallowed thickly. “And that’s a problem?”

Jungkook raised his head, his eyes meeting yours as that damned half-grin spread on his face again. He went to open his mouth, but finally, the elevator doors began to close, forcing the two of you to turn your attention to them, watching carefully as they closed shut and the elevator shaft began to move.

Blinking quickly, you turned back to Jungkook. He turned back to you, eyes flicking between yours and your lips.

Then . . . he smiled. “Not a problem now,” he murmured, and you knew there was no going back. His hands, lips, teeth, tongue were on you instantly, trying to get as close as possible that you hadn’t even noticed he’d hiked up your leg onto his hip in an attempt to get his body flush with yours. And you welcomed it all, because fuck . . . the only thing you were thinking was him, him, him.

In the heat of things, his hand snuck under your sweatshirt, the warmth of his skin providing comfort to your chilled skin. You sucked in a breath, the hand that had been on his jaw, now snaking into his dark hair, twisting and twirling the longer strands. Without thinking, you tugged a little too hard on his hair, instantly drawing a deep moan from the back of his throat.

You stilled under his touch. Fuck. Now . . . men who were vocal were your biggest weakness. You had known this before, but he’d never sounded like . . . that. And you barely had time to process it.

One second you were frozen under his touch, then the next all you could feel was him. He took you by surprise, the hand holding your thigh up reached for your ass, tugging you into him so your lower half was completely flush with his. The fact that he was already somewhat hard, too, was impossible to ignore, and only fed into the dizzying effect he had on you. And as if him slightly grinding the bulge in his pants against your core wasn’t blissful torture enough, his other hand had snaked all the way up to cup your breast, his thumb quickly finding your perked nipple and rolling it. You jerked against him, the pleasure going straight to your core.

“No fucking bra. You’re killing me,” he murmured against your lips, his thumb still rolling slowly then quickly then slow again . . . just how you liked it. “I’ll never get over how sensitive you are.”

And you . . . well . . . you couldn’t help yourself. It was your weakness after all. One more roll, and you were reeling, core throbbing, and blood rushing to your head. You gave in, letting your body buck against his as you practically mewled into his mouth.

“Fuck, I can’t wait any longer,” he all but whined as he retracted his hand from under your shirt, and before you could question his motives, that same hand was already crawling under the hem of your sweatpants. Quickly, his fingers found your heat as he gave a groan of approval before he began to swirl the wetness around your puffy lips.

“Kook,” you gasped into his mouth as his middle and ring fingers plunged into your core. “Can’t you just fuck me here?”

He curled his fingers in response, and you slightly arched against him. “Shh,” was all he could fathom while he plunged his fingers in and out . . . in and out . . . in and out.

One particular plunge had your pussy squelching. You didn’t know why it was so loud this time, but every time he’d fuck his fingers into you, squelching sounds followed. But before you could become embarrassed, Jungkook lowered his head to your shoulder, groaning into your neck as he paused his hand movements.

Was he going to say something? Was he—

“Listen,” he whispered into your neck, shocking you completely moments before the grip on your thigh became lethal as he began to quickly fuck you with his fingers, loud, wet squelching sounds accompanying each pump.

And suddenly you weren’t thinking any longer. His skilled fingers were working you so well, you barely even heard how wet you were for him, you just felt this overwhelming sense of pleasure and let yourself become consumed by it. Mesmerized by your pleasure, Jungkook continued fucking you on his fingers, dragging the pads of his fingertips against the rough part of your walls as the palm of his hand applied pressure to your clit.

One particular motion had your lower stomach muscles contracting, and that was when you felt it. Gasping slightly, you managed to raise your head, shooting your hand out to latch onto the rail behind you. “Kook,” you gasped again as your brows pinched together and you tried to focus your vision. “I think—” a small whine sounding from the back of your throat cut you off— “Fuck, I think I’m going to—”

Another whine of your own cut you off once again, and instantly, you recognized this feeling. The familiar coil building and building in your lower stomach. Only this time, it felt different—the pressure was deeper, more intense . . . like you couldn’t control it.

Your lower abdomen muscles contracted again and you knew it was coming. “Kookie,” you all but cried out as your hand grasped the forearm of the hand clutching your thigh. “I’m going to—” you tried to swallow, but your mouth felt so dry and you were so out of breath— “I’m going to fucking . . . ffffuh . . . fucking . . . squirt.”

At the sound of your words, Jungkook raised his head, lidded eyes, mouth slightly agape, and brows pinched upward, staring back at you. Quickly, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against yours. “Be good for me, yeah? Let me have it, baby,” he murmured against your lips, still not stopping his motions. “Look at me when you do. Wanna see it.” Another kiss to your lips. “Wanna see you cum.”

All you could do was nod as you tried to keep your eyes open while Jungkook backed up from you just enough to be able to see your face clearly enough. And then you felt it: the coil. It tightened and tightened, rings of pleasure hissing in your ears until it finally snapped, your release sprinkling out of you and soaking your sweatpants as this deep pleasure consumed your being in waves. You tried to fight against it, trying to keep your eyes peeled open and trained on Jungkook, but your vision was blurry and your pussy was throbbing so hard you were sure it had gotten to your head.

In the end, all you could manage was to slump against Jungkook’s buff chest while he pumped the last of your release out of your pulsating core. And once you had nothing left to give, his fingers slid out of you before he wrapped both of his arms around your spent body, chuckling slightly as you fell limp in his grasp.

“You are so loud,” he murmured after a moment’s silence as he buried his face into your hair and finally laughed, his whole chest vibrating.

“Am—” you smacked your lips together, still delirious— “not.”

Jungkook snorted. “Whatever you say, Petunia.”

“Ugh, Koo . . . “ but your words died on your tongue.

Had you been loud? Oh god . . . did you . . . you didn’t scream, did you?

Slowly, you gained back a little mobility (enough to raise your head to look him in the eyes), and asked, “Did I scream?”

Jungkook stared down at you, a wide, toothy grin spread across his face. “Only a little,” he mused, chuckling slightly at his words. “Whined a little, too. Kinda like a . . . like a little bitch.”

Your eyes blew up. “No,” you gasped in horror. “Was it really—”

The elevator dinged, drawing both of your attention to the closed doors. Wait—Fuck, you’d forgotten you were even on an elevator. The elevator must have arrived on your floor, and you two had been too caught up in each other to have even noticed . . . until now. And now . . . now you had a giant wet spot on the crotch of your sweatpants. Just your luck.

But as soon as the doors opened, Jungkook acted quickly. He bent down and wrapped his arms around your thighs, hoisting you over his shoulder. You, in utter shock (and still mildly coming down from your high), laid limp in his grasp, and let him have his way. It wasn’t until after the people boarding the elevator got on and Jungkook got off, did you realize what exactly was his plan.

“Lightweight, you know?” he chuckled lightly to the other people, and your jaw dropped.

He was painting you as a passed-out drunk. Oh, he was going to get it. (Although . . . it was a pretty good cover. (Not that you’d admit it.))

Once the two of you were finally out of earshot, you pounded on his broad back. “That was embarrassing,” you groaned, kicking your feet in the air.

“Drunk people piss their pants all the time,” he simply hummed as he continued down the hall in search of his room. “Nothing to be ashamed of, sweetheart.”

You pounded on his back again. “I did not piss my pants,” was all you spat out.

“Oh, trust me, I know,” he mused as he brought his other hand up to deliver a hard smack to your ass. And you could only huff against him in response.

Only when he’d found his room did he put you down, slowly and safely on your feet, and you were ready, already glaring at him the second you were on solid ground again. You crossed your arms over your chest and huffed to seal the deal further.

But that only seemed to amuse Jungkook more. “What?” he hummed, raising his brows as he leaned in closer to you.

“You suck,” was all you muttered.

His eyes flicked from yours to your lips as a small grin slid onto his face. “Believe that’s your job,” he murmured as he leaned even closer to plant a kiss on your cheek. “And you’re very, very, very good at your job.”

Narrowing your eyes, you demanded, “Open the door.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he cheerily replied as he slid the room key into the slot, removing it quickly, and waiting for the green light before he swung open the door. His eyes flicked to yours then, and he nodded in the direction of the hotel room. “After you.”

But just as the two of you entered the room, flicking on the light as the door slammed shut behind you, Jungkook pulled you back into him. You stumbled slightly, but nevertheless, turned around in his arms to face him with a confused look.

He only sent a small smile in return. “I like when you’re jealous, by the way,” he remarked as he curled a piece of your hair behind your ear.

Your brows knitted together. “Jealous? I’m never jealous,” you scoffed . . . but . . . you had a sneaky suspicion you knew what he was talking about.

The corners of his lips twitched a little further. “You know . . . she was from the other team,” he went on, ignoring your words.

“Hmm?” you questioned, playing dumb when you one-hundred percent knew what he was going on about now.

Earlier. The bar. That girl he was talking to.

“That girl,” Jungkook continued. “She was just congratulating our win. So you—” he tapped your nose— “sweetheart, were jealous over nothing.”

Well . . . you supposed that explained it, but . . . but you couldn’t have him knowing that you were jealous. He already knew way too much about what went on inside your head. He could not know you were jealous of all the disgusting things to be. So, you decided to . . . you know . . . lie.

“I was not jealous,” was the brilliant response you came up with.

Jungkook tongued his inner cheek, trying not to break out into a wide grin yet again. “Mhm.”

You shrugged in response as if to say, Told you so.

But those words never left your lips. In fact, you rather regretted even thinking them the moment Jungkook opened up his mouth again.

“There’s no one else on my mind,” were the words he decided to reply with.

And your face slowly fell into one of shock. “What?”

That didn’t seem to faze Jungkook. His smile still remained. “It’s just you, stupid,” he whispered, his voice like a tear on a cheek—soft and . . . sweet.

Oh. You blinked. It’s just you.

And you felt yourself smile at the words. You couldn’t even help it either. It just . . . he was sweet. He really was.

It’s just you, rang through your ears once more, and you couldn’t help it. You leaned forward and kissed him. It wasn’t like the others either. It was soft and sweet . . . just like his words.

Then, you pulled back, kicked off your shoes, and walked further into the room. “Nice place you got here,” you mused as you looked around the hotel room before you bent down to sift through his suitcase, pulling out a pair of his boxers. You slipped off your soaked sweatpants and underwear before you slid on the boxers and headed for his bed, plopping down on the mattress with your legs crossed and ankles under your knees.

(That was the thing: this was normal. The two of you shared clothes. (Well, you mostly stole his clothes, and then he’d end up finding you in them . . . and well . . . he wouldn’t be able to think straight for the rest of the day.)

“Thanks,” he laughed, his hands reaching for the hem of his shirt before he pulled it over his head and discarded it on the ground, “no cockroaches found yet.”

“Oh, wow, fancy,” you remarked with a look. “You rich?”

Jungkook cocked his head to the side, a dazed grin on his face. “You didn’t know? I’m a world-famous badminton star,” he said as he approached you, leaning his hands on either side of your body on the bed.

“World famous?” you tsked, clicking your tongue. “Oh, god, oh no. I’m so sorry. I had no idea I was in the presence of royalty.” You dramatically clasped your hands together and bowed to the best of your ability, surely whacking him in the face with your hair.

“OK, you little shit. C’mere,” he all but whined as he wrapped an arm around your back and pulled you down to the bed so you were laying flat on your back, looking up at him.

Except, the look on his face was all too much for you to hold back—you laughed. You couldn’t help it. He just looked so ruffled. It made the laughter caught in your chest bubble up in your throat, and eventually you were laughing so hard you had to squeeze your eyes shut and clutch your stomach.

As the seconds ticked by, your laughter died down and your eyes slowly opened to find Jungkook still staring at you, a dopey smile on his face.

Still holding back your quiet laughs, you quirked a brow in questioning.

Jungkook only shook his head, sucking in a breath through his teeth. “I love when you laugh,” he hummed, his voice like fucking honey or something unfairly ethereal. “Strokes my ego.”

“Like you need any more stroking,” you remarked, shooting him a look.

His brows shot up. “You offering?”

And you couldn’t help it, you laughed again, but this time tried to cover it up with a roll of your eyes. “Nice try,” you scolded as you raked your hands through his hair. “Hey—” your thoughts unexpectedly switched as your hands found his hair— “can I braid your hair for the next games.”

But Jungkook was somewhere else. His eyes were on your sweatshirt as he sighed through his nose, securing his hand on your hip to move you further up the bed so he could crawl over you. And you let him, trying to ignore how the almost possessive action made your heart thump (amongst other . . . things). He now laid with one arm holding him up, his legs on either side of your body as his free hand toyed with the hem of your sweatshirt.

“I wish you were in one of my shirts,” he mumbled almost as if he were talking more to himself than to you, but you paid it no mind. (He often lost his train of thought, staring off into space . . . and you always snapped him out of it with a bubbly smile on your face. He was . . . cute.)

“Kookie,” you hummed.

His eyes snapped to yours, wide and brown. “Hmm?”

“Can I braid your hair for the next games?”

He smiled then. “Course,” he replied before he leaned down to press his lips against yours.

“You sure do like kissing me,” you mumbled against his lips.

He nibbled on your bottom lip. “I’m not ashamed of it.”

The only response you could muster up was to press your lips against his once again, a bit firmer now. You leaned closer, pleasantly sighing into the kiss as you nipped at his bottom lip. A grin tipped onto his face before he dipped in for more. You sucked his bottom lip into your mouth, sucking on it gently before you let it go and instead licked a strip along the crease of his lips. He reacted quickly to your touch, hands tangling in your hair as he pulled you closer and melded your tongue with his. His grip tightened on you instantly, his hand sliding up your thigh, squeezing your hip before it snuck under the hem of your sweatshirt.

A small gasp escaped you when you felt the warmth of his hand graze the swell of your breast, palming it. He grinned into the kiss, circling his thumb around your nipple, sending jolts of arousal to your core.

You instantly knew what he was thinking too. Ready so soon for another round . . . but like . . . come on. Who could blame you?

Certainly not him, not now, not with you like this. “Mmm,” he hummed against your lips, his hand inching toward the hem of your sweatshirt again. “Can I take this off?”

“Mhm.”

Ever so slowly as if to savor it, Jungkook pulled your sweatshirt off you as if the two of you were watching paint dry. And finally with it off and over your head, he threw it to the ground, instantly, coming back from more, molding his bare chest against yours. “Sometimes I think you want me to cream my pants,” he remarked, shaking his head at your tits while he brought a hand up to gently roll your perked nipple with his thumb.

You laughed through your arousal, tilting your head back slightly. “You’re so stupid,” you heard yourself say in a hushed voice. It was so obvious just how much he affected you. You could hear it in your voice, and you were sure he could too.

But that only seemed to spur him on further as he sunk down lower until his face was level with your tits. He began to mouth at them, leaving sloppy, wet, open-mouthed kisses across your flesh. “Mmm, put something on the TV?” he mumbled into your skin moments before his tongue wrapped around your nipple and he began to suck.

“While you’re motorboating me? No thanks,” you huffed, trying to keep your cool, but Jungkook was sucking and nibbling all over your tits, making your head feel fuzzy and core a little too needy to be comfortable.

“I’ve never motorboated,” Jungkook countered as he traveled to your other breast, squeezing the flesh before he flicked his tongue repeatedly across your nipple. “Not classy.” His tongue swirled and you nearly mewled.

You swallowed hard in response instead. “Since when do you care about class?”

Then there was a hand on your face. And no, not like caressing your cheek or anything like that. Jungkook had full on just placed his abnormally large hand over your entire face . . .

“Shh, let me have a moment with my girls,” he mumbled his explanation before he went back to mouthing at your tits.

“Oh, my god,” you groaned in disgust as you flicked his hand off your face, but that didn’t cancel out the fact that his skilled tongue was sending jolt after jolt of arousal to your core with every lick.

“I’ve missed you, Samantha,” he sighed as he lightly bit one of your breasts. “Mmm, you, too, Rachel.” He moved to your other tit, swirling his tongue around your areola and sucking.

You deadpanned. “You named them.”

“You’re interrupting my threesome.”

“And you’re giving me nightmares,” you huffed as you pulled away from him, turning over on your side. You were being dramatic. Obviously. And you were doing it on purpose, because, well, you wanted his attention. (And you liked being a brat . . . sometimes. (OK, fine, you thought it was funny. Get over it.))

Jungkook knew this, too, as he let out a clap of laughter, immediately reaching for you as he wrapped an arm around your middle and tugged you into him. “No, no, baby, I’m sorry, I just wanted to piss you off,” he mumbled into your neck as he pressed kiss after kiss to your skin.

“Mhm.”

“Do you forgive me?”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t hold back your joking grin. “If I have to,” you dramatically sighed.

“I’m a weak man, what can I say?” he remarked into your neck as his hand slowly cupped one of your breasts. And then . . . well . . . he squeezed . . . twice. “Honk. Honk.”

And you snorted. “Seriously, Jungkook?” you choked out through a laugh. He was just so . . . god you didn’t have a word . . . he was just so . . . Jungkook. “I never expected you to be this much of a boob guy.”

“Well—” he blew a raspberry— “when they look at me like that.”

“Jesus.”

“They’re like dumplings.”

That was when you looked over at him, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. Really, your unamused look seemed to say.

“What?” He blinked, eyes wide and brown. “I love dumplings.”

“You know what I love?” you asked, turning around in his arms so your body was facing him.

He leaned forward to flick his nose against yours. “Mmm?”

You scrunched your nose. “Seeing you suffer.”

“This is what you call suffering?” Jungkook remarked, glancing between your tits and your face. And then . . . then . . . he reached out and smacked your breasts.

And you . . . well . . . all you could do was stare at him in shock. Had he really? Oh, that little—

Jungkook burst out into a fit of laughter, rolling onto his back and clutching his stomach. All the while, you stayed put, mouth still agape in shock as you blinked one, two, three times. Until he pulled you into him again, and that warmth you were so used to revisited you.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, couldn’t help myself,” he laughed into your hair, his words muffled.

And then you said something that you hadn’t even realized was on your mind until you blurted out: “Do you want to fuck them?”

Jungkook choked on his laughter.

A beat of silence.

“What?” he trailed off, and you could practically hear him blink.

But you had meant what you said, and so . . . “Do you want to fuck my tits?” you repeated again, this time craning your head to look him dead in the eyes when the words left your lips.

Jungkook rolled over, caging you in as his hand reached your face, gently brushing your hair behind your ear. “You pulling my leg?”

You shook your head, biting your lip to hold back the devilish smile that was crawling onto your face. “I know you want to . . . and I . . . wanna see you do it,” you mused, searching his face.

“Yeah?”

“Mmm.”

Narrowing his eyes at you, he asked, “Why don’t I believe you?”

“Why not?” you pouted, knowing damn well he was right. You took that as your chance to lean in closer to him, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Want me to say I need your cum? Hmm? Is that what you want, baby? You want to know that I’m thirsty for it?”

He swallowed hard. “Fuck. You’re teasing me.”

“Maybe a little,” you hummed with a shrug. “But I do kinda miss your cock.”

Jungkook flashed his teeth, shaking his head. “Brat,” he muttered under his breath as he reached for you again, pressing his lips against yours.

It was hard not to let yourself be consumed by him. You enjoyed it—how his lips felt like a tear on a cheek; how his kiss always felt like remembering something you were missing. You didn’t know what it meant. You rarely knew what anything meant, but you did know you enjoyed it; you relished in it; you craved it. Truly. You craved him. All of you.

In an instant, you were on your back again, and his lips were on your neck. He was whispering sweet nothings into your skin as he made his descent to your tits, paying extra attention to the old hickey on the underside of your breast which he left there just a night ago. It was sloppy, perhaps a little carnal, but you didn’t mind.

Jungkook leaned back up to kiss your jaw. “Want me to cum on your tits, hmm?” he asked, his voice darker now, making you nearly squeeze your thighs together. You knew what that voice meant, and god did you miss it. “Want to fucking smell like me? Show everyone who’s fucking you, huh? Want them to know it’s me? That you’re my girl?”

And you couldn’t help it; you gave in. “Please, Kookie, need it so bad,” you all but whined, knowing damn well he got off on this little bratty act of yours. “Need you to cum on my tits. Need it. So bad.”

He groaned into your neck. “You’re killing me.”

“Oh, but, Kookie, you can’t die yet,” you whined, pouting slightly. “Not until you fuck me. Pretty please?” Batting your eyelashes, you knew he was getting a kick out of this, and that . . . that was exactly why you did it.

“Yeah?” he asked as he pressed into you. His cock was digging into your hip now, making your head spin, until you could no longer ignore it.

“Mhm,” you hummed, still pouting, now with your bottom lip pushed out. “I won’t be able to breathe without it, you know?”

Jungkook grinned, shaking his head. “You’re such a little shit,” he remarked with amusement in his voice.

“Well . . . is it working?” you asked as you leaned forward and kissed the scar on his cheek.

“You don’t need to do anything for it to work.”

You quirked a brow. “Oh?”

“Don’t act surprised, sweetheart,” he mused as he nipped at your bottom lip. “Makes you look stupid.”

That little—You cut yourself off with your own actions, because really . . . sure, you’d act like a brat, but if he thought he had the upper hand, he was dead wrong.

With that thought on your mind, you trailed your hand down his chest, soaking up his warmth as you dipped into his boxers. While maintaining eye contact, a sly grin slid onto your face as you wrapped your hand around his painfully hard cock. You felt him still under your touch, but he was cockier tonight. He recovered quickly, grinning down at you as he shoved his pants down his legs and threw them somewhere in the room, his boxers shortly following. Then . . . as if he couldn’t get any more up his own ass, he looked down at you almost expectantly, glancing between your face and his cock.

It seemed the win may have worked its magic on him as well, and even if he didn’t realize it, you could tell, and that . . . that was attractive to you.

You sucked on your teeth, trying not to give yourself away, but you were sure the moment he felt your core, he’d get that much cockier. Still, you wanted to win this . . . whatever this was, and so when your thumb brushed over the head of his cock, you watched as he tried to stifle his reaction, but you caught onto him swallowing quickly the second you squeezed. Your cunt throbbed with the desire to be filled in response.

You wanted him in the most visceral way. But god did you love watching him wither, and the thought of continuing this little game overpowered everything else.

That very thought was your main drive. You shoved him back, perhaps a little rougher than usual, but the never faltering grin on his face showed you all that he was thinking. Playing off that, you hooked your thumbs into the band of his boxers you wore and tugged them down your legs, throwing them to the floor. And then . . . then you gave him one last look, pretending to adjust your position on the bed in an attempt to showcase your glistening core to him before you teasingly tore that away from him, closing your legs. (But you made sure to note how his eyes had lingered on your legs as if he were trying to pry them open with a look.)

“I want you to cum on my tits,” you stated boldly as you leaned back down while pressing your tits together with your hands so they were on display for his gaze. “Pretty please, Kookie?” You pouted once again, playing into that bratty act he loved so much.

“Jesus Christ,” he blurted out as he blinked one, two, three times. It was almost as if he couldn’t believe this was really happening, and that made you all the more confident in your desires.

Shimming down so your tits were level with his cock, you peered up at him moments before you took his cock in your hand and guided him. Gently, you brushed the tip of his cock over your nipples, the glide being slick and easy due to the beads of precum already leaking from the small slit. He was hard, and you could tell it was taking everything in him not to just forget all about everything else and just fuck you senseless right there. And you almost let him, but . . . this was too much fun.

“Mmm, I don’t think we have any lube, do we?” you exaggeratedly huffed.

His thumb tapped your bottom lip, but no words left his lips; his eyes were solely trained on your tits which were already stained with his precum. But no, you were not going to spit on your tits. You had a better plan.

“Too messy, Koo,” you all but scolded, and then . . . you made sure his eyes were on your hand as you slowly made your descent to your wet heat. Your fingers made contact with your wetness, and you sighed in contentment as you dipped into your heat, pumping your fingers in and out, and relishing in the loud, lewd sounds which came from the act.

Once you were sure your hand was completely covered in your arousal, you rubbed the wetness all over your tits, making sure to cover his cock as well. In response, his cock twitched in your grip, and you knew you had him wrapped around your finger.

“What the fuck?” he remarked in utter awe.

You smiled sweetly. “Fuck them, Kookie,” you mewled as you stared up at him. And who was he to disobey?

Slowly, Jungkook took his cock from your grasp, sliding the tip around the wetness on your chest, until he slid into place between your tits. You pressed them together tightly, creating a cushioned slit for him to fuck . . . and almost as if the warmth from your breasts enclosing around his length had shocked him out of his daze, he sighed, leaning both his hands on the bed as he began to move his hips.

“You like this, huh?” he asked, his voice raspy as his thrusts began to gain in momentum. “Like being used like this?”

“Yes, only by you,” you gasped out as he began to fuck into the slit your breasts had made solely for his cock. You let some of your spit dribble down, allowing for more lubrication.

Jungkook groaned at the sight, picking up the pace until he was nearly panting. “You’re so fucking hot,” he all but growled. “You get so fucking dumb for my cock. So fucking sexy.”

You pushed your tits together tighter, beginning to whine. “Please, I need you to cum on my tits,” you cried out. “Wanna feel you. Wanna taste it.” You didn’t know where these words were coming from, but you didn’t care. It didn’t matter when you could just tell he was seconds from busting. So you did your best, squeezing your tits together as tight as you could and silently begging him to give into all of your desire.

“Fuck,” Jungkook cursed as he threw his head back and allowed himself to release a deep moan. “Just like that, baby. Squeeze your pretty tits for me.”

Normally he lasted longer, but sometimes, when he was so desperate just to feel you he blew all too easily. It was times like those that you looked forward to the most. You liked seeing him all desperate and needy like that. (What did that say about you, you didn’t know. (You also didn’t care.))

When he came in under a minute, that was when you felt the most proud, because you’d done that. You’d taken this seemingly almighty man and made him submit to you. That was what you craved, and that was what had you nearly rubbing your clit raw when he wasn’t there to fuck you into the mattress. And so, you couldn’t help it. You began to rub your thighs together, searching for relief as Jungkook’s thrusts became sloppy and his moans increased. He was practically whining now, begging you to let him cum.

You dribbled spit onto his cock and rubbed your tits together, creating enough friction to have him gasping above you. That was when you thought he was most beautiful (well . . . there were other times, but . . . ). When he was weak enough for you to moan and whine and practically cry out for your pussy . . . that was when you thought he looked like the kinds of fallen angels you’d read about in cheesy romance novels.

“Give it to me, Kookie,” you begged, knowing that tone of voice and the use of that nickname would have him right where you wanted. And then you heard it: the tell in his voice that told you he wasn’t just close; he was less than seconds away.

In utter awe, you watched as he desperately tried to pull himself together, nearly out of breath as he pulled away, his hand instantly wrapping around his length and jerking himself off. You squeezed your tits together, continuing to watch with lidded eyes as he clenched his jaw and breathed through his pleasure. And then your mouth fell open, sticking your tongue out as if beckoning him to ruin you, and he lost it.

“Fuck, yes, just like that,” he all but moaned as his eyes stayed on your chest while he vigorously tugged at his length, focusing on the sensitive tip.

“Please, Kookie. Need it, baby,” you rasped out, and you knew that was it.

Jungkook released a strained groan, his muscles tensing as ropes of his cum shot out, painting your chest. He continued to milk his cock, whining softly as the last bits of his release hit your tongue, your chin, even dripping down your nipples. And once his orgasm had passed, he leaned over you, holding himself up on the bed before he collapsed beside you, still breathing heavily.

“I think that was a dream come true,” he rushed out, completely out of breath.

You laughed, shaking your head as your fingers crawled toward your cum-stained chest. And then you did something which shocked even you. You dipped your fingers into his cum, spreading it around before you brought your finger to your lips and licked the contents completely off. Only then, with your lips wrapped around your fingers did you turn to meet Jungkook’s gaze.

Jungkook only blinked at you in shock, watching as you swallowed his cum. He swallowed hard at the act, continuing to watch as you slowly withdrew your fingers from your mouth . . . and well . . . you supposed that was his last straw.

Without warning, Jungkook reached for you. One hand found your plump ass while the other tangled in your hair as he pulled you in for a kiss. But this was no ordinary kiss. No, Jungkook didn’t bother giving you an innocent peck. Instead, he immediately licked the seam of your lips, and you parted your mouth for him. Only instead of slotting your tongues together like you expected, he wrapped his lips around your tongue, sucking the muscle like he was trying to taste himself on your tongue. And if that wasn’t enough, once he’d gotten a taste of you and him, a soft, deep noise sounded from the back of his throat.

He didn’t care about the fact that your chest was painted in his cum. In fact, you were sure that only spurred him on more as he squeezed you tighter against him while he licked and sucked into your mouth.

It was carnal, messy, sloppy. It was almost sin. And when he finally pulled back, both of you now equally covered in his release, all he did was send you one of those half-grins.

“Wanna shower?” he offered. “Kitty cat’s hungry I think.” His eyes flicked down to your neglected core, and you nearly laughed in his face.

Instead, you nodded, completely dazed. Even from the look on your face, it was clear you didn’t know much. That was obvious. But . . . there was one thing you knew for sure: Jungkook would always surprise you.

Hours later, you were awoken by the sunlight peeking into the room through the blinds. Rubbing your eyes, you shuffled backward, finding that Jungkook was still there. You smiled to yourself, nuzzling further into him as you found his arm wrapped around your middle, and quickly clasped your hand around his, bringing it to your chest to cradle.

Jungkook stirred then, laughing under his breath. “Hi, baby,” he murmured, his morning voice nearly making you squeeze your eyes shut. (It really was unfair how attractive this man was. Jesus.)

But . . . then your dreams snuck back in. That was part of the reason you’d woken up. Your dreams had haunted you. Because you knew he was hiding something and your mind had made the worst of it.

Yesterday, you supposed, after the tournament, he disappeared, and he hadn’t told you where he’d gone. That . . . that had your mind wandering even in your sleep.

So you really couldn’t stop yourself when you mumbled out, “Can I ask you something?”

“Mmm.”

“Where’d you go last night?” you let yourself ask, swallowing hard. “After the court, where’d you go?”

A beat of silence.

He hadn’t been expecting that, but . . . He’d let you in, right? After all this time . . . he trusted you, too, right?

But another beat of silence passed and you began to wonder. Then you began to worry. And then . . . then you began to feel stupid.

But just as you were about to pull away and apologize for going too far, Jungkook pulled you closer. “My room,” he began as he nuzzled his face further into the crook of your neck. “I couldn’t breathe. Everything was . . . blurry . . . dizzy.”

You blinked. “Panic attack.”

And he nodded against your skin. “I had to be alone.”

The thing was: you weren’t unfamiliar with panic attacks. You hadn’t had many in your life, but during those three years . . . everything had gotten worse. You knew how it felt when . . . that happened, and you knew what it did to people.

“That’s OK,” you found yourself saying before you even knew it.

Jungkook raised his head. “You think that’s OK?”

You nodded, because it was. It truly was.

“If that’s what makes you feel safe . . . then yes, I think that’s OK,” you mumbled, restating your thoughts. “But . . . if you don’t want to be alone . . . if you don’t want to do it alone . . . I have nothing to do. Come find me.” You glanced behind you, eyes finding his in the dark.

And then . . . then he smiled. “I’d like that,” he hummed, his voice like honey. “But—”

“I know,” you cut him off with a gentle hand to his cheek. “You don’t have to tell me why. Just . . . if you need someone . . . I can be someone.” You dropped your hand, letting it fall to his arm. “By the way . . . I’m sorry for being a bitch yesterday—”

“Eh, used to it,” Jungkook muttered with a shrug.

Pursing your lips, you shot him a look you knew he wouldn’t see. “I was just jealous,” you finally admitted, because, really, who were you kidding?

And Jungkook didn’t rub it in your face this time. Instead, he simply smiled and hummed, “I know. I like it when you get like that for me.”

Your brows twitched. Fuck, did he ever have an effect on you.

Almost as if he knew this, too, that was when he kissed you. You hadn’t been expecting it, so the startled hum which left your lips was totally called for. However, the laugh he allowed himself to make was not. (Not like you minded with his lips on yours.)

And then neither of you were thinking and nothing else mattered. You didn’t exactly know how you got there either, but you supposed it had something to do with the fact that he was just so warm and his kiss was just so addicting and well . . . his dick was hard and digging into your thigh.

How could you ignore that? And how could he?

It was almost comedic how quickly the two of you responded to each other. He pushed and you pulled. Like a fish hook in an eye, you knew your body would be craving his in an instant (perhaps it never stopped).

“This OK?” he asked against your lips, slightly out of breath.

All you could do was nod. “Need you,” you murmured against his lips, an almost silent plea. It was vulnerable. Perhaps more vulnerable than you meant for it to sound, but it was true. You needed him, and right now, you needed to feel him in the most visceral way you could.

The world blurred. Time morphed together, moving slowly as he sighed into your mouth and you reached for his hand, pulling him between your legs. He graciously accepted your offer, slipping his hand under the pair of boxers you’d stolen from him after your shower, and pumping his fingers into your core while he swallowed your soft moans. Lewd, wet sounds filled the room as the world continued to blur and blur into pleasure, and bliss, and him.

And only after he’d made you cum on his fingers did he move your thigh to rest on his, allowing enough room for him to easily slip into your still pulsing core. It was true; he fit into you like a hook in an eye. The two of you had always melded together, and you did now. But it wasn’t what you were used to. Sure, the two of you would fuck slow, fast, rough, or soft, but this . . . this was a different kind of softness. It was the kind you had only experienced with him once—the first time you’d had sex all those months ago.

It was vulnerable. And you weren’t used to it. But you reveled in it all the same, losing yourself in every deep thrust. Like an odd sense of deja vu, you knew you’d felt this before. He fucked you slow, never soft, but always deep. He was everywhere, consuming you moan by moan, and you never wanted it to end.

As you struggled not to moan loud enough to wake the people in the room next over, you glanced down, and that was when you saw it. You could have sworn that as his cock hit the deepest parts of you, a small bulge showed. Gently, you sighed out a moan as you pressed a hand on your lower abdomen, pressing down and that was when you felt it: his cock hitting deep inside you again and again and again.

Until you couldn’t take it any longer, you grabbed Jungkook’s hand and placed it against your lower stomach. “Feel,” you rasped out, keeping your hand over his while he thrust again and again.

When he felt it; when he felt his cock creating that bulge inside of you, he lost it. He buried his face into your neck, whispering how much he wanted to have you in every way, telling you how beautiful you were, and how much he wished he could fuck you forever.

And then:

Need you, you heard your own voice whisper as he gently bit into your neck, groaning softly while he shot his thick ropes of cum into your begging pussy. Need you, you acknowledged as his skilled thumb brought you to another orgasm that night all the while he stayed sheathed inside of your warm heat. Need you, you felt as he pulled out, immediately reaching for you once again as he brought you into his body, strong arms wrapped tightly around you.

Your own voice haunted you while Jungkook fell into sleep once again. But you just couldn't get it off your mind. Why had your words entered your mind then?

Why, why why? But you already knew why. You knew because you had been battling it for a while now.

This entire time, you had wondered why you couldn’t give up on him. At first, you thought it was because you cared about him and needed to help him. You thought he needed you, but . . . while that was true; while he did fit into you like a hook in an eye . . . you knew you needed him more than he ever needed you.

That . . . that was why you couldn’t leave him alone. And fuck . . . did that ever scare the shit out of you.

When the two of you awoke for the second time that day, you knew what was ahead of you. A long day of traveling back to the training center, which meant leaving Busan.

That went well, but then the night came and as you made it into the living area of the girls’ dorm, all of your team members awaited you. They wanted to go out and celebrate Yunis’s win at the bar, which . . . you went along with, against your wishes.

Luckily . . . Jungkook was going, but . . . He had been sitting at the bar alone for half the night, and you felt less like a person and more like another cog in the wheel as you were forced to sit with your teammates instead of your partner.

But the thing that was bothering you that night was . . . Being who you were, what you had accomplished by the end of your senior year of college, and everything in between, you’d like to say you still remembered how it felt to win. But the truth was: you’d forgotten it entirely.

As the years had passed and you’d watched old teammates of yours make it farther than you ever probably would be able to again, the electric surge victory sent through your veins had slowly diminished into an afterthought. And you never thought you’d get the chance to taste that euphoric feeling again, at least not for a few more years if you were being generous. You’d never expected to end up here—winning by Jeon Jungkook’s side, and you certainly didn’t expect to owe it all to him. But there you were: standing in the middle of the very same bar you’d visited with the rest of the team at the beginning of your contract. A beer was clasped in your hand with a small smile on your face as the rest of the team conversed amongst each other, going on and on about the winning shot you had made which landed your team amongst the winning teams progressing into the next stage of the tournaments.

Yet . . . something felt off.

You didn’t feel like you’d won anything. You had. When you’d watched the birdie slam on the floor, the whistle blaring in your ears as you looked around to be met with a wide, toothy grin from your doubles partner . . . you had felt that victory. When you had thought of nothing else other than to hug Jungkook to commemorate your win . . . that was when you felt like you had actually won something.

But this . . . this didn’t feel good. It felt like nothing. And you knew exactly why.

Now . . . you didn’t want to celebrate with them. You wanted to clink your beers together in cheers with . . . him.

As your teammates loudly spoke over each other, your eyes flicked to the open bar just across the room. There sat Jeon Jungkook alone at the bar, hunched over his drink as he inspected the small tattoos on his hands. And long were the days that you would just let this happen.

“Kook!” you called out, not missing a beat.

Jungkook lifted his head in confusion, his eyes meeting yours. Why were you calling him? That was raging through his head, and you knew it, too. And perhaps it was the liquid courage, but for once, you didn’t care what your teammates thought of the two of you. Jungkook was not going to spend the night moping at a bar, instead of celebrating both your wins by your side. So . . . you waved him over (Naturally).

And Jungkook, albeit a little hesitantly, followed your command in an instant. Slowly, he approached the rest of the team, which had quieted down now since your sudden request. Whatever. You didn’t care. You wanted him beside you. That was all.

“While I do love taking all the credit, I really can’t this time,” you began as you reached for Jungkook, tugging him in by the bicep. “I’m not the one we should be celebrating.”

Once again, his eyes met yours, brows twitching at your words. And you didn’t break eye contact. You weren’t sure if you could.

“Jungkook’s the reason we won yesterday,” you continued, that small smile still on your face. “He’s the reason I didn’t entirely suck. We should be celebrating him.”

Not once did you look away from him and not once did he look away from you. It was like the others didn’t matter. This was your win, not theirs.

The silence which met your ears confirmed this notion. You were OK with that. You were sure Jungkook was too.

Why, one might ask?

Because Jungkook had that stupid, (almost charming) small smile on his face. And you couldn’t help but offer up one of your own. This was both your win.

Funny how times had changed . . . Funny . . . indeed.

“Well . . . “ someone began a second later, tearing you from your own mind, “I’ll drink to that.”

Only when you finally met the others’ eyes did you realize it was Hoseok who had offered up this proclamation of peace, practically waving around a white flag while he raised his beer toward Jungkook. And for a moment you thought maybe things would actually change. Maybe Jungkook would start to sit with the rest of the team instead of opting to stay in his dorm or sitting alone at the bar drowning his sorrows. Maybe things would be better now. Maybe this was his justice as much as it was yours.

Then . . . you noticed something. . . . When you glanced back at Jungkook, his eyes didn’t meet yours. No, they weren’t on you at all. Instead, he was looking Hoseok’s way with his brows raised in shock and a small, genuine smile twitching at the corners of his lips. It was almost as if he couldn’t believe it . . . like he’d have to pinch himself soon to make sure he wasn’t dreaming this all up. But that wasn’t what you had noticed.

Jungkook was looking at Hoseok. Not his chin or his forehead or the table . . . no, he was looking him in the eyes . . . like . . . like he could see him. But . . . ?

Everyone just has this big X over their face. I can’t see them . . . even if I wanted to, Jungkook’s voice filtered in through your ears as you recalled the memory. He’d told you he couldn’t see people. It made him anxious. Instead, big X’s covered everyone’s faces.

And yet . . . he was looking at Hoseok. He could see Hoseok.

Only then did you realize what had happened. Hoseok’s words, metaphorically raising a white flag in surrender, had snuck through the barrier Jungkook had built up so high. Even if this didn’t last, even if . . . even if it didn’t, it did now.

Jungkook could see Hoseok just like he could see you.

Perhaps, eventually, he’d allow himself to see everyone again, even those he wasn’t too fond of. Perhaps he’d let himself look people in the eyes . . . to see the world again instead of staring at his shoes while he walked with his head down. Perhaps this was how he’d define his own justice. Perhaps, you thought as your gaze lightened and your smile grew.

Until . . . a loud clap of laughter erupted from beside you, and you felt your heart falter. Your head turned only to see the image of Wooshik leaning back in his chair with a shot of soju on hand. His gaze was lazy, barely able to keep his eyes open as he grinned up at the two of you, and yet . . . it felt oddly threatening.

Maybe he was just drunk . . . but: “This is bullshit,” he all but hissed as he swigged back the shot before he dragged a hand down his face and groaned. “Fucking bullshit.”

“Wooshik,” Hoseok warned, “not today.”

Wooshik lazily swung his head in his direction. “Not today?” he questioned. “Why do we have to sit here and applaud him? When do we get to voice the fact that this shit—” he slammed a fist onto the table— “isn’t fair? Hmm?”

“We won, didn’t we?” Hoseok bargained. “Jungkook put us on the map again.”

“So that means we what? Roll out the red carpet?” Wooshik slurred. “You know what he did. We’re the ones working our asses off every day all day and we still get slammed by Coach, and Jungkook here gets to drink himself to the brink of death, not show up for weeks, then somehow he’s still paid the most out of all of us. That sound fair? That sound like something we should be celebrating?”

Hoseok crossed his arms over his chest and began to open his mouth to retort, but you beat him to it. “He gets paid more because he’s good,” you muttered, voice low and dry. “Win a match, then bitch about it.”

“Did he tell you what happened?” Wooshik instantly spat. “Hmm? Did he tell you why he’s here? Why the all star isn’t halfway to the Olympics right now?”

You blinked at him, because that was all you could do. Because, yes, Jungkook had told you something. He’d told you something bad had happened, something that ultimately had to do with Taehyung, but he hadn’t told you what. It was a falling out. That was what you knew, but the way Wooshik was looking at you, his brows pinched together and an odd, almost pained look in his eyes told you it was something so much worse than a falling out.

“Whatever it is—” you began, wetting your lips— “I’m sure it can wait. You give him shit the rest of the season. It won’t kill you to can sit down and fuck off for an hour.”

Should you have said that? No . . . but . . . whatever. Screw protecting your image. It didn’t matter right now.

“This is—” Wooshik cut himself off with a scoff.

And you went on. “It’s what?” you all but mocked, tilting your head to the side as you narrowed your eyes in scrutiny.

But before either of you could go on, a hand wrapped around your forearm, pulling you back from the man. You turned, briefly, only enough to see Jungkook right behind you with a warning look on his face. “Let it be,” he muttered, his eyes solely on you. “It’s not worth it.”

Let it be. You swallowed, hesitantly. It’s not worth it.

No . . . no . . . you couldn’t believe that. Whether you liked it or not, Jungkook had quickly become something of a comfort to you, and fuck . . . fuck (!) you cared about him. Seeing this happen . . . seeing everyone treat him like shit infuriated you. You couldn’t let this happen, not when . . . not when you could do something.

It’s not worth it, he’d said, but yes . . . yes it was. It was worth it to you. He was. Jungkook was worth it to you, and you’d be damned if Wooshik walked away from this the winner.

“Kook’s a better person than I am, Wooshik,” you mumbled, still locking eyes with Jungkook before you turned to meet Wooshik’s harsh gaze. “He gets us on the map, and you’re complaining? I just think you’re a little pathetic.” You sent him a fake pout, fully aware of just how immature you were acting, but you didn’t care.

Enough of kissing their asses. Enough of trying to be someone you weren’t. He didn’t get to win this. Not now. Not like this.

Wooshik only scoffed. “You’re just gonna let her make a fool of herself for you?” he asked, but his eyes weren’t on you . . . they were on Jungkook.

But Jungkook remained silent.

And then: “It should’ve been you on that bridge,” Wooshik practically whispered, almost as if he couldn’t believe those words had fallen from his lips.

Jungkook’s face fell, his world falling as yours crumbled into confusion. You wanted to question him, but Wooshik interrupted your thoughts.

“Do you not get it? You don’t deserve this, he does, but you took that from him,” he declared, his voice gaining in octaves as he went on. “You should’ve gone through with it months ago . . . Everyone . . . would’ve been better off without you.”

“Kook, what’s he talking about?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper, because you knew the answer. You were sure you had for a while now.

“He paralyzed his friend,” Wooshik confirmed your thoughts for you.

Then . . . the world truly did fall then, at least for you. You felt it all at once.

While the world fell, all the pieces came together. Wooshik had been the one to threaten Jungkook that day on the track. Wooshik knew Jimin . . . he knew Taehyung. He had been the one you’d heard on the phone with Jimin . . . the one who had stressed over Taehyung’s condition. Only then, you had no idea what Taehyung’s condition entailed or how he’d gotten it. And now . . . now you knew the boy who’d practically been like Jungkook’s brother (meaning another menace in your life that you had begrudgingly dealt with) . . . that boy had endured an injury which led to the suffering of his career.

And it was all because of Jungkook? But . . . but . . . no. That couldn’t be. Jungkook would never do that to anyone, let alone Taehyung.

Softness ran through Jungkook’s veins. He’d always been too kind, which you’d realized a little too late. Even when you were kids, he’d never dared to squash the clover mites which infested your porch’s exterior. He found it cruel, while you had never given a second thought to it. To you, they were just tiny meaningless bugs that left a pigmented red smear when squashed. But to him . . . to him they were . . . small friends.

Bug boy, you’d used to call him, and he’d always try to hide how his ears would flush red at the name. That little boy who cared for even the smallest of creatures couldn’t have done . . . this?

Because, well, there were not a lot of things you knew about life. You used to think you knew the world like the back of your palm. But that was just false confidence. You knew nothing. You barely knew yourself, but . . . but you knew . . . him.

If there was one thing you knew, it was Jungkook, and he would never even think to do this to a friend, especially Taehyung. There had to be something missing. This was not the truth. It couldn’t be.

“He’s learning how to walk again, meanwhile JK here’s winning tournaments. That seem fair?” you heard Wooshik hiss again, his words more slurred now as he went on, but all you could think was how invigorating it would feel to sock him right in the jaw. But that wasn’t the only thing you’d faced that night. No, what truly had the world crashing down around you was the words Wooshik had spoken before.

You should’ve gone through with it months ago. And that look on his face. It was like he knew just how bitter those words felt in his mouth the second he’d spoken them. Everyone . . . would’ve been better off without you.

You knew what that meant, but you didn’t want to believe it. You knew what that meant. Twist the knife, you wanted to say. That would hurt less, because you realized that if Jungkook had decided to go through with . . . it . . . there would have been no way to prevent it. He had no one. He had been alone.

So . . . you twisted the metaphorical knife wedged in your chest cavity a little more. You probably wouldn’t have even known. Twist the knife. Twist the knife. Twist the knife. You probably would’ve found out through your mother. Twist the knife . . . And there would’ve been nothing you could do about it. Jungkook would have just been . . . gone.

The little boy who refused to squash the clover mites; the little boy who cared for even the smallest of creatures; the little boy who had loved . . . everything . . . would have just been gone. And here was Wooshik taunting him for it in front of everyone.

That . . . that made the wildfire spread within you, and you didn’t give a shit about anything anymore. Something snapped in you. Something bad. Dark. “By which you mean he should kill himself?”

Everything was loud and silent at the same time. It was almost deafening the way everyone’s faces fell. It was almost as if they hadn’t expected those words to come from your lips . . . like saying the truth was something . . . unheard of.

You supposed the truth was a little darker . . . a little harsher than most would expect. But it was something you were familiar with. You don’t become embolized and lose your dream in one day and not think about things like . . . that. No, sometimes you even wonder what it would be like. If things would be better, but you never go through with it. And if someone were to taunt you for it? In front of people? Well . . . you weren’t just going to sit there.

Because, yeah, maybe Jungkook had never liked to squash the harmless, little clover mites, but you were forgetting one very small, very important detail. You had never shied away from squashing the little things. In fact, you often went out of your way to squash as many as you could find.

That was the difference between the two of you; the difference between you ruining your own career and Jungkook moving on; the difference between a child who chooses peace and one who seeks out rage. And a child born of wrath you had always been. It was time you stopped running from that. You used to squash every little clover mite you came into contact with, and Wooshik was no exception.

“Well?” you finally continued once, in rage, you found your voice again.

Wooshik shifted awkwardly in his spot. “I didn’t say that,” he muttered before he cleared his throat.

But you had never been a fan of cowards. “Really?” You tilted your head to the side, narrowing your eyes at his figure. “You sure?”

“Listen—”

“Ah,” you clicked your tongue, pointer finger raised to your lips as if to quiet him down. And when you spoke again, your voice was as quiet as a whistle in the wind. “My turn.”

It was immature, you were sure, but you didn’t care. You were burning. Your skin felt ablaze with heat and you were sure your nails were breaking through the surface of your palm from clenching your hands into too tight of fists. But you didn’t care.

Your mother had always told you, Be kind. You’ll catch more flies with honey, than vinegar. But what if you didn’t want to catch them? What if you’d rather see them swatted? . . . You’d take your chances with the vinegar.

That sentiment was solidified as you asked, your voice calm, almost eerily too calm, “What’s your name? Last name, I mean.”

Wooshik narrowed his eyes in skepticism. “Hwang.”

“Noted.”

“What?” Wooshik scoffed, raising a brow. “Thinking of reporting me?”

And you nearly rolled your eyes. But a hand securing around your arm brought you back to the present. And you realized who it was . . .

“Come on,” Jungkook mumbled close to your ear. His voice was soft just like his touch, but he should’ve known better. You weren’t meant for soft things. A well-oiled machine. That was what you were. You were made of metal and bolts; you were cold . . . rough . . . worn.

Tearing your arm out of his grasp, the cold welcomed you back with open arms. “No, Kook,” you heard yourself say before you realized you were saying it, and then you realized it was too late. Your mouth wasn’t your own anymore. Your words belonged to the machine you had let yourself become, and you welcomed this just as the cold had welcomed you. “Hwang Wooshik, you’re a piece of shit. No, no . . . all of you are. You sit here and ridicule him—” you gestured toward Jungkook— “and for what? Have any of you actually asked him what happened? Do you even know the full story or have you made his life shit just to feel better about yourselves? I get it. We’re a shitty team. No one wants to be here, so why not? Right? Did you ever think why this team is shit? Hmm?”

Nothing. And then . . . Wooshik only scoffed. Typical.

But you were beyond dealing with this. “And you—” your eyes focused back on Wooshik— “you have no value, not even a soul,” you bit out through gritted teeth, fists still clenched as tightly as you could, and you had no intention of letting up. If he wanted the truth . . . then fine . . . you’d serve it to him on a silver platter. “All I see . . . is a bag of skin . . . a pile of bones. It’s pathetic how meaningless your life is. You bitch and moan, bitch and moan, bitch and moan, and yet, you have nothing to show for it except for a rotten mouth and a limp dick. You wanna show off? Wanna feel like a man? Go on . . . do it . . . but remember this moment. Remember just how meaningless you actually are . . . on this team . . . in the world . . . to yourself. Remember all the cells in your body splitting for nothing . . . just to make a worthless piece of fucking shit.” Your brows raised, beckoning him. “Hmm? Don’t you get it now? You’re nothing.”

The world stilled. It was quiet, too quiet.

You didn’t dare look at anyone else, not even Jungkook. You couldn’t. And then you heard it: a heartbeat pounding in your ears. But it wasn’t yours. You could have sworn it was Wooshik’s or maybe it had been one of your other teammates. It didn’t matter. Your words had shocked them . . . maybe scared them.

Wooshik sucked in a breath first. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he questioned, and it was like you were seven years old again, being excluded from after-school plans with your friends. But you didn’t have much time to dwell on the past before Wooshik glanced between you and Jungkook, a look of realization crossing his face as he let out a breathy laugh. “Oh . . . I see . . . “

And you knew he’d discovered the truth between you and Jungkook. But honestly? You didn’t care.

Good, you couldn’t help but think. That didn’t matter right now. Nothing did except this . . .

Not that Wooshik had caught onto that. No, instead, the man had found his motive and gone with it. “Word of advice . . . he’s not the good guy,” he murmured to you, only making the wildfire within you burn brighter.

A muscle in your jaw twitched. “And you are?”

“I don’t run from the shit I do, and then cry wolf on top of a bridge,” Wooshik went on, but you were past listening. You could barely hear him. “I would’ve gone through with it. Maybe then that would set things right—”

But he never finished his sentence. No . . . you didn’t let him.

For a second time that night, something snapped within you, and you couldn’t contain it. Like a glass too full of water, your rage spilled over, and before you realized what you were doing, you pulled back your hand to gain momentum and then launched it forward, connecting your knuckles with Wooshik’s nose.

Wooshik stumbled backward, catching himself on his chair so as to not collide with the floor, while he clutched his nose in his hand. And you stood above him, hands still clenched into fists as you watched the man grovel and groan. His eyes stayed on you the entire time, an odd sense of fear mixed with bewilderment in his gaze. You realized for a second time that night, you’d shocked him. Perhaps you’d even scared him.

Be kind. You’ll catch more flies with honey than vinegar, your mother used to tell you. But you had never been fond of flies, and you had never quite liked Hwang Wooshik, either, so fuck that.

Still, Wooshik felt the need to ask, “What the fuck are you doing?”

And you only shrugged. “Whatever I want. Just like you,” you spat moments before you made an attempt to grab at his collar, but something pulled you back.

Once again, a hand wrapped around your arm, but instead of giving you the option to pull away, the person pulled you into their chest, securing an arm around your waist to ground you. . . . You instantly knew it was Jungkook (from the odd sense of peace you felt at his touch . . . but don’t tell him that).

“Take a walk,” he muttered in your ear for only you to hear, the command instilling dread within you.

“Kook,” you whispered, but couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. All you could look at was Wooshik and his now bleeding nose.

“Go,” was all Jungkook said. And only then did you gain enough courage to look at the rest of your teammates. They stared back at you with equal parts shock and fear . . . and you knew you’d fucked up. Again.

That was all it took before you pulled away from Jungkook’s embrace, listened to his words for once, and walked out of the bar into the cold before you swatted one too many flies before the sun rose. And while you didn’t regret it . . . you knew you’d done it now. You knew you’d gone too far.

All you could do now was squeeze your eyes shut, hoping this was some sick nightmare as you waited in the cold to probably (ultimately) be scolded by your doubles partner. That was what was ahead of you, and while you did feel guilty (you supposed), you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

A well-oiled machine. That was what you were. That was what you had been trained to become. You weren’t supposed to care about other people, and you wouldn’t let yourself. But you couldn’t let him talk to Jungkook like that. No, not to him. Not in front of you.

Jungkook used to refuse to squash the clover mites on your porch, while you sought them out. That was the difference between the two of you, and you’d be damned if some no-name on this shitty, D-list team told you otherwise.

He was soft, not you. Give all the unlucky shit to you. You could handle it.

If Wooshik wanted to hate someone, to blame someone . . . then he could blame you.

You supposed that was what you had done tonight: ruined yourself to save Jungkook like you should’ve done all those years ago instead of ruining the both of you. (Although . . . not like you’d tell him that. You couldn’t. This was too much. Too raw.) And worst of all . . . you knew you’d do it again.

You realized that as you waited in the cold for who knew how long. It could’ve been two minutes or twenty. You hadn’t noticed. You hadn’t cared . . . after all, well-oiled machines didn’t get cold.

Only once you finally opened your eyes to see the cold around you, did you hear the bell above the bar door jingle, signaling that Jungkook was now behind you, no doubt angry with you for your little outburst. And all you could think was fuck, fuck, fuck. You’d crossed the line again, as you always did, but you couldn’t bring yourself to apologize. Not for this.

And so, you found yourself muttering, “If you expect me to apologize, I won't. He doesn’t get to do that. Not to you. Not in front of me.”

But as soon as you had begun to turn around to finally face him, Jungkook didn’t greet you with furrowed brows and a scowl on his face. No, instead, you could only blink once before he was falling into you, his hands caressing the sides of your face moments before his lips met yours. There was no heat behind it either, no rushing, no nothing, just . . . just bliss. His lips met yours, his touch putting out the fire raging within you, and it was like you could finally breathe again. He kissed you as if that was all he could do; as if it were all he wanted to do.

Only then, when you realized he wasn’t going to rip himself from your body as if you’d scorched him, did you finally embrace him. Your hands found their way to his shirt, bunching the fabric as you pulled him closer and felt yourself succumb little by little to him. You didn’t even care if anyone saw you. It didn’t matter. Nothing did when he was near.

It could have been seconds, minutes, hours, days before the two of you pulled away, and you leaned your forehead against his, trying to catch your breath. The point was: you didn’t even care just how out of breath you had become. You would’ve sooner passed out than let him go, and perhaps that meant more than what you were willing to admit, but you did know it meant something, you just weren’t exactly sure what. But you barely had time to dwell on those thoughts before Jungkook pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and tugging you into his chest. And you let him.

“You’re an idiot,” he mumbled into your hair, laughing slightly under his breath.

You’re an idiot, you repeated in your head, and a smile slowly twitched on your face, because you knew what he really meant. Thank you, his hug seemed to say, and you knew it to be true. And all you could do was melt against him, wrapping your arms around his waist as your eyes fluttered closed and a content sigh left your lips. You squeezed him tighter, realizing perhaps maybe you’d needed this hug more than him. In a way, you supposed you had always needed this—to be hugged so deeply it comforted your soul.

You’re welcome, your hug seemed to say, but you knew what it actually meant . . . thank you.

Once again, you smiled, perhaps a little wider now. That is what you had wanted to tell him. Thank you. Thank you for being there. Just . . . thank you.

You would like to make one thing clear: you did not have a fondness for many things. For instance, you hated when random people on the internet adapted an instrumental version of a song that, to be honest, did not need adapting. You hated the rain. Now . . . you knew most people didn’t particularly like the rain . . . but you hated it. It always had a way of making your skin itch, leaving you uncomfortable and irritated. It was unnecessary . . . really (OK, fine, maybe not unnecessary, but, ugh, whatever!).

Now . . . obviously you absolutely despised losing. That much was evident . . . sure.

But most of all, you hated the vulnerability which came with falling short of victory. You hated how your shoulders fell, the self-hatred seeping in and consuming you as soon as you realized you had either gone too far or not far enough.

You supposed that was how it had always been. You supposed you had always been a competitive child. You supposed the fact that it hurt more to lose a match than breaking up with your first boyfriend . . . was normal for a child who had been born into competition after competition.

Of course you never actually expected to fail. That wasn’t in your blood. Failing wasn’t on the table, so when you did, it hit you ten times harder. And you always ended up doing the same thing over and over again: locking yourself in your room until the sting became easier to manage.

That was what had happened in your childhood, and that was what had happened three years ago. You’d locked yourself in that hospital room, ignoring the world, pushing people away. You’d learned to live with yourself, and you learned to hate yourself. (Perhaps it was easy to find that hatred within yourself because it had always been there.)

You supposed that was why you had taken to reading so kindly. (Sure, you had put up a fight, claiming you did not and would not like books, but, well, your heart kind of beat for it now. A part of you craved it. And that part of you followed you everywhere.)

The writings you’d memorized all those years ago stayed in your head and every once in a while, you’d remember something you’d read. And every time, it’d bring you a sense of something. Comfort, maybe? Acceptance? Understanding? You weren’t entirely sure, but it did bring you something you couldn’t push away. And that night, the night Wooshik had pushed a little too far, revealing who he was, you were also reminded who you were: an angry child who had forced herself to grow up too soon.

You knew that was what you were. You knew you were angry and crude and all things not pleasant or kind. You couldn’t give anything up. You couldn’t let anything just be. . . .You knew your heart was cold and you were more machine parts than bone.

A burnt child loves the fire, Lord Henry claimed in The Picture of Dorian Gray. (Your love for the Classics had begun there within that book (peculiar considering your previous distaste for literature . . . but well . . . you had no excuse).) You supposed the reason why you’d taken so fiercely to this small, almost minuscule quote had to do with the fact that you couldn’t understand it. And you hated being in the dark about anything.

The original saying was supposed to be: A burnt child dreads the fire. And yet . . .

That was what you couldn’t understand. You couldn’t understand why there was a need for the reverse. The saying was wrong. A burnt child should dread the fire, they shouldn’t run to it.

So . . . why? Why did the child Lord Henry speak of . . . crave the fire?

Only then did you come to the conclusion.

As soon as your fist had collided with Wooshik’s face and you saw the look everyone had given you, the answer washed over you: there was a difference between these two children. While one who has been hurt; who has been burnt by the fire will avoid it at all costs for the rest of their lives, the other will seek it out . . . perhaps even crave it.

That was why you had punched Wooshik. A burnt child loves the fire.

The day of the incident . . . that was the day the fire had scorned you and instead of taking refuge with those who cared . . . you pushed them away. Because it was easier to be angry. It was easier to feel sorry for yourself rather than to accept help.

Because accepting help meant you had failed. It meant you were weak. It meant you were not the person you had prided yourself on for years and years and years . . . It meant laying to rest the person you used to be and truth be told you missed her more than you missed feeling . . . warm . . . real. But how much did you miss her now? That was a question you had yet to answer.

Yeah, you missed the cheers as you won match after match. You missed the glorious high which came after a win. You missed team bonding and everything badminton used to be. But you didn’t miss the stress, the pressure . . . the anger. And that was the thing . . . you’d won once again after so many years and yet . . . you didn’t feel stressed to practice until your feet bled. There was still stress . . . of course, but it wasn’t consuming.

You realized you’d never actually celebrated a win before. You were always looking looking looking into the future, too caught up in it all to just . . . breathe. But now . . . now . . . now all you wanted to do was sure . . . celebrate, but rather . . . celebrate with your doubles partner.

So really . . . did you miss the girl you used to be? Perhaps a little in the sense that when you grow older, nostalgia only gets worse. But you didn’t want to be her.

You wished someone could tell you what that all meant . . . Were you still considered a burnt child? Did you still love the fire? Did you dread it? Or . . . were you somewhere in between?

You only wished someone could help you make sense of it all. You wished someone would put a guiding hand on your shoulder and tell you who you were, because . . . really you had no clue.

Perhaps you’d been clueless all your life. Perhaps you would always be.

A warm hand wrapping around your wrist brought you out of your own mind. And you realized where you were.

It was the present, not the past as much as you’d spent thinking about it. Most likely a half hour after you’d punched Wooshik in the nose, changing the entire trajectory of your team. The atmosphere of Jungkook’s room surrounded you as you sat on the edge of the bed, right leg crossed over the left while he tended to your cut knuckles from said punch to Wooshik’s face.

His hand was warm as it always was, and you were sure he must have winced at how cold yours had been to the touch, but you weren’t even certain if he was paying attention to that at all. No, it seemed as you took your first glance at Jungkook’s face since he’d kissed you earlier that night . . . that he was entirely focused on the task at hand. And truly, it was almost impossible to not notice just how meticulous Jungkook was to even the smallest of cuts on your knuckles, dabbing each and every one with a washcloth. He remained focused, his brows sat low as his eyes remained focused on your hand while his lips were pursed into an almost cute (?) pout.

But you couldn’t help but catch sight of the muscle which ticked in his jaw. Something was on his mind. No, no, he was angry. Yes, that was it. His jaw always twitched when he’d get frustrated about something. And well . . . you had never been one to keep your mouth shut.

“I thought you weren’t mad at me,” you stated almost too abruptly, nearly startling the silence itself.

Jungkook paused, but didn’t look up to meet your gaze. “I’m not,” was all he muttered before he resumed his task.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re quiet,” you said as you poked him in the chest with your non-injured hand. “You’re never quiet. I actually have a hard time shutting you up.”

“Well.”

“Well, what?” you went on, knowing damn well if you pressed enough he’d cave. “If you’re mad just say it.”

He only replied with a hiss of your name. A warning (one you wouldn’t listen to).

“Kook—” you nudged his chest once again— “speak.”

For a brief second, he shot you a look. “You’re just—!” But his words quickly died on his tongue the moment he made eye contact with you. He seemed to search for something within your gaze before his brows twitched, his eyes falling to your injured hand as he swallowed hard. “I didn’t realize you got . . . hurt.”

Your gaze softened then. “It’s just a scrape,” you tried to reassure but you had never been good at comfort.

Jungkook only shook his head. “But it shouldn’t be anything,” he muttered as he began to dry off your knuckles. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“That’s not what you said earlier.”

“I know. Fuck, OK . . . I know,” he continued muttering without making eye contact as he quickly but carefully bandaged your hand. But even once he was done, he did not let go of your hand. If anything . . . he pulled it closer. “I just . . . I didn’t realize that—I just . . . I don’t want you to get hurt for me. You’re not invincible, OK?”

“And you are?”

His eyes closed. “Come on . . . ”

“Why can you take it but I can’t?”

Jungkook breathed out through his nose, and then he was looking at you. But now there was a different tinge in his eyes. Now it was like he was hiding something . . . like he didn’t want you to really see what was going on inside his mind, and you had a sick feeling it had something to do with what Wooshik had said at the bar. And then he spoke, “Because I don’t want you to. It’s my bullshit. I don’t want you to get caught up in it.”

You realized exactly what he was doing. You had been right. He was trying to keep a distance from you, trying to keep you out, trying to protect you from . . . something. But as you had been so cruelly reminded, you were a burnt child . . . and you craved the fire.

That was it. As a child, you had sought out the clover mites just to see them paint the rocks red as you squished them. That had been fun for you. You’d always craved the fire, you supposed . . . just in different doses. And a child who learned this way of living never backed down . . . never cowered, you faced it . . . welcomed it. And you sure as hell weren’t backing down from this. You refused to leave him alone . . . because Jungkook had never even dared to squash the clover mites . . . he’d wanted to save them . . . protect them, and someone like that did not deserve to carry whatever this was on his shoulders.

Burned children could recognize each other . . . but he still had time to decide if he’d run from the fire or chase it, and you would try everything in yourself to not let him join you. Not now; not when you knew his heart. Not when you knew Jeon Jungkook, if given the chance, would still never, not even once, squash a clover mite for the fun of it.

That was exactly why you found yourself claiming: “I already am.”

He squeezed your hand tighter as his face fell further. “I don’t need you to fight for me,” he all but whispered.

But you had never been a good listener. You’d always acted first, thought later. Some would call it a flaw. You sure would, but you didn’t care.

So you listened to the first thought that popped into your head, standing to your feet as you curled your joined hands into your chest. “I know . . . but it’s what I do,” you found yourself saying. “I can’t help it. I’ve tried to change, Kook. I’ve tried to be gentle. I’ve tried to speak quietly. I’ve tried not to be . . . all the things that I am, but it never works. It just feels like I’m pretending.” And as you confessed, you couldn’t help but scoff a laugh at your words. “I’m not a gentle person. I’m loud and blunt and maybe even a little cruel . . . and now you’ve made me care about you.”

You’ve made me care about you, your words rang throughout your ears, and you realized that was the truth. You did care about him. Perhaps more than you cared about most things. And it was clear your words had affected Jungkook, too. His features softened, his brows lifting slightly as his eyes rounded and his mouth parted only just barely.

You’ve made me care about you, you were sure was ringing through his ears. And you knew this, too, because he didn’t bother to tease you or shoot you that half-grin of his. No, he just stared, trying to digest your words.

It seemed no one had ever shown him this. No one had ever tried to get through to him, and you knew that well. You knew how it felt to push everyone away, secretly hoping someone would want to break through the barriers you’d put up.

Burned children could recognize each other, and you knew exactly how Jungkook felt. Years and years of dealing with everything on your own is debilitating. You couldn’t imagine being forced into this isolation. You knew what it felt like to lose everything . . . and you could see on his face that he knew that feeling well, too.

It made you feel worthless. Stupid. Useless. It was almost gut-wrenching how much it made you feel like nothing. And, god, you were tired of being nothing. You were sure Jungkook was tired, too.

So as you went on, a slight smile on your face, your eyes had begun to water. You’d never been much of a crier, but you couldn’t help it. “Don’t you get it?” you mumbled, your voice quieter now. “I care about you more than I should. You made me. You made me fucking care about you, so you don’t get to sit here, give me whiplash, and expect me not to defend you.” You couldn’t help but let a small tear slip, because, truly, you really did care about him. “I don’t care about a lot of people, and maybe that’s sociopathic, narcissistic, whatever! I don’t care . . . but I refuse to let you put up with this, deal with this, endure this . . . alone.”

Jungkook blinked quickly, but remained silent as he chewed on his inner cheek.

“I’m in this,” you went on, squeezing his hand tighter. “Whether you like it or not . . . I . . . am . . . not . . . leaving. Got it?”

But something was preventing Jungkook from nodding at your words. He only just stood, refusing to make eye contact with you. And then, he tilted his head, his eyes on the ceiling as he mumbled, his words strained, “I don’t want to hurt you, too.” He tugged his hand from yours then and you fought the urge to grasp his hand right back.

“You won’t,” you muttered instead, eyes still trained on your now empty hand.

“You don’t get it,” Jungkook whispered in response as he stared at his own hands, almost in disbelief or astonishment. “Everything I touch . . . it’s like . . . it’s like things come to die at my hands.”

You were at a loss for words in response, because you knew that feeling. You were sure you had thought those exact same words. You were sure a part of you still believed that about yourself.

And while you mentally rotated through the things you were supposed to say, Jungkook went on, “I can’t let you all the way in. I would never forgive myself if—“

But he never had the chance to finish the sentence. No, it seemed his body wouldn’t let him. His words tangled around his tongue, and finally, you glanced his way, finding his eyes were now glossy and he was forcing himself to keep his gaze trained on the wall behind you, careful not to blink and let the tears spill.

Jungkook believed things came to die at his hands. He believed he deserved . . . this. And yet . . . how could he be so wrong? You knew him. It didn’t matter what Wooshik or your other teammates said. You knew him. You’d grown up with him. You’d watched him throw tantrum after tantrum after every clover mite you’d squashed just to tease him.

He would never do the things that had been said. And he certainly didn’t deserve to feel like . . . this. That was your driving force. Without thinking, you grabbed his hand, and brought it to your face. Slowly, you cupped your cheek with the palm of his hand, your hand covering his before you whispered, “Did the world end?”

His eyes were on you now, warming you just with one look. “No,” he softly mumbled as his thumb grazed your cheek.

He’s sweet, you couldn’t help but think as your brows twitched at his gentle action. Then, slowly, you took that same hand and brought it to your chest, laying it just above where your heart would beat deep inside.

“Oh, look, my heart’s still beating,” you said lightly, a little more pep in your voice in an attempt to get that smile on his face again. “The world will not end and nothing will happen to me at your hands . . . OK?”

His fingers flexed on your chest. “I can’t.”

“Jungkook,” was all you could whisper, an almost silent plea as you squeezed his fingers.

He brought his other hand up to your cheek and took a step forward. “Baby . . . ” he all but begged as he leaned down to rest his forehead against yours.

Tilting your head up enough to brush your nose against his, you welcomed his embrace. “Please,” you found yourself mumbling. “I’m not going to run. You won’t lose me.”

And truly, you did mean every word.

You didn’t care for the fire or the fight or anything like that. You just . . . fuck . . . you wanted him to be alright. That was what you wanted. You didn’t know why or how it happened, but it did.

That was what you wanted, and you had never been one to back down from anything. So you meant it. You weren’t going anywhere. And as the silence consumed you two, you stayed by his side, proving your words to be true. Jungkook seemed to catch onto this, too, as his words changed . . .

“But I will disappoint you,” he mumbled instead of his previous sentiments.

But who would think that would scare you off? You were all kinds of disappointing. It didn’t matter. “So? People are disappointing. It’s what makes us human,” you found yourself speaking your thoughts. “Can we just . . . carry your bullshit . . . together?”

Jungkook remained unmoving for a mere moment before he withdrew from you. For a second you thought he’d leave you hanging once again. For a second, you thought he’d locked himself away like he had months ago. But instead, he moved away from you, the cold replacing where his warmth had been as he sat down on the edge of his bed . . . and you knew what that meant.

He was letting you in. Fully. Completely. Finally.

You met him at the bed, folding your leg under yourself as you sat down facing him. A part of you wanted to reach for his hand, but you couldn’t. Something was stopping you from reaching out to grasp him, so you sat in silence, carefully taking in his features from the small scar on his cheek to the tiny mole under his bottom lip.

It must have been minutes of you just taking in his features while the silence danced around the two of you. Perhaps it went on for even longer. But you didn’t mind it. You wouldn’t run from this . . . from him.

And finally, that was when you didn’t necessarily reach for his hand, but you did rest your hand on his knee, providing as much reassurance as you knew how. You could only hope he knew what your touch meant. You could only hope he could feel . . . you.

His eyes found yours the next second, and you knew he could. He could feel you just as you could feel him. He could see you. He could see you. He could see you. That had to mean something. It seemed it did as Jungkook carefully placed his hand over yours and squeezed. Then . . . then he offered a small, strained smile before he sucked in a sharp breath, slowly exhaling . . . and then . . . then he spoke.

“It was last year . . . around January,” he began, his voice careful, calculated, quiet.

And you scooted closer, listening intently.

“We’d made it onto the national team,” he continued, keeping his eyes on your locked hands. “Taehyung, Jimin, and I . . . but it was tough. The days were long. And I wanted to . . . I don’t fucking know live a little. And there was a bar just outside the center and I . . . wanted to go. I dragged Taehyung with me. He didn’t want to leave. We weren’t supposed to leave. But I was cocky and an idiot and I wanted to get drunk before the games the next morning like we used to. So he caved . . . He snuck out for me . . . because of me. We went, we drank, until we decided it was time to go back before Coach found out. But . . . we were still drunk . . . “

As his words died on his tongue, Jungkook averted his gaze from your hands, instead focusing on the wall in front of him. But his eyes kept moving, shaking back and forth as his brain raced with thoughts of the past.

A burnt child dreads the fire, you thought. Was this his fire?

Your thoughts remained unanswered as Jungkook continued. “There’s a bridge that leads to the nationals’ center,” he mumbled, almost hesitant about his words. “It’s small, but passes over a lake.” He cupped his other hand around his chin as he rested his elbow on his thigh. His eyes fluttered closed a second later. “It was January . . . the coldest night of the year . . . and we had to pass over it to get back to the dorms. We had to—fuck.”

The hand on his chin immediately covered his face, his thumb and pointer finger rubbing his eyes. You didn’t want to guess what had happened. You didn’t want to think of the worst, but . . . You remembered the night you caught Jungkook on the bridge, staring out at the water. You remembered the look on his face; the look you knew all too well. And you remembered wondering what had happened to him.

Now . . . now it seemed something had happened on a bridge similar to the one you’d found him on. It seemed on his drunk walk home, the bridge he’d have to pass over to get back to the dorms reminded him of the past. And you both knew how sickly haunting the past could be.

You couldn’t help it. Instantly, your other hand reached to cover your joined hands.

“It was so fucking cold that night. I know it was, but I can’t remember it. I was too fucking drunk to be cold. I was too drunk to notice the water under the bridge was frozen solid . . . but not . . . not all the way through,” he went on, his voice weaker now. “It wasn’t—It wasn’t frozen all the way through.”

It wasn’t frozen all the way through. Your brows furrowed. Wait—

“When Taehyung drinks . . . he does stupid shit. Everyone knows that. I knew that,” Jungkook was muttering now, practically cursing himself. “I knew that.” He beat on his chest once as he shook his head in disbelief.

When Taehyung drinks, he does stupid shit. Did that mean . . . ?

“He wanted to—” he cut his words off with a curse. “He wanted to walk across the wooden railing to see . . . I don’t know . . . I don’t fucking know what he was trying to do but he was drunk and I was too. I was too drunk to realize what was going on. Fuck, I even encouraged him to do it. I put money on it. I fucking bet him if he could walk across the railing, I’d give him ten dollars. Can you fucking believe that?”

Jungkook turned to meet your gaze briefly then, and only then did you realize something. His eyes were glossy . . . and he was sniffling. He was crying. And suddenly, you knew where this was going.

Your brows pinched together in concern as you silently begged him to see that you weren’t leaving. No, no . . . you were scooting closer. You weren’t leaving, you were staying.

Jungkook nodded in response as if he knew what you had been trying to tell him, and then . . . then he continued. “And of course he did it,” he all but laughed, but it came out as more of a pathetic scoff. “He even made it to the end, but we were joking around, laughing about it, and he . . . he lost his balance. He must have stepped on something . . . or . . . or . . . I don’t know, but he . . . he slipped.”

He slipped. No. Your eyes shut tightly as you pulled your bottom lip under your teeth. No.

“He slipped and all I heard was his body smack the ice. And then I heard water . . . “ Jungkook trailed off, his words angry, hurt, and strained. “He fell . . . . and the ice broke. . . . It wasn’t supposed to break. But it broke and I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t see him. It was just ice and water and black. Everything was so fucking dark and I couldn’t see him . . . so I jumped in after him . . . and I still couldn’t fucking find him. And—And when I did . . . when I finally pulled him out, I thought he was dead. But I brought him back. I brought him back and he was supposed to be fine. He was supposed to be fucking fine.”

Only then did you open your eyes . . . and when you did, you saw the Jungkook that had been trapped under barrier after barrier for a year now. He sat before you, shaking his head at his memories as a few tears slipped down his flushed cheeks. And you let them fall, not because you wanted to, but because you needed him to know that it was OK for you to see him . . . let go. So you remained silent, listening to his shaky breaths until he was ready to speak again. And when he did, you stared only at him with your hands interlocked with one of his.

Jungkook shrugged his shoulders, still shaking his head in denial (?), anger (?) . . . maybe grief as a whole (?). “His back was fucked up, but we both just thought it was sore from the fall. He couldn’t really walk, so I had to help him back to the center . . . I knew it wasn’t good . . . but . . . “ he trailed off, his brows twitching. “He didn’t want to go to the hospital. I kept telling him we had to just in case. Just in case there was something wrong. But he was scared. Scared he’d get kicked off the team if they knew we snuck out to drink. So we went back, I helped him get dry, changed his clothes . . . then we went to sleep.”

He blinked. A few more tears fell.

Sucking in a breath, he mumbled as he shakily exhaled, “A few hours later he’s waking me up telling me he can’t feel his legs. Something didn’t feel right. I tried pricking his legs, pinching, anything . . . but he couldn’t feel it.”

You squeezed his hand tighter. You couldn’t imagine . . .

Jungkook wiped his cheeks, his eyes, even his nose, finally taking a deep breath to calm himself down. “Everything happened so fast after that. I told Coach. Tae was rushed to the hospital,” he said, his voice more stable now. “Surgery after surgery after surgery later. He slipped into a coma . . . and when he woke up, they . . . said physical therapy and rest would be all he’d need before he could get back to playing . . . but only one leg gained back some motility. The other . . . just never improved. Something to do with a nerve . . . his spinal cord. Whatever . . . his leg was shot. They said he missed the window, and getting back to even sixty percent would be impossible.”

Fuck. You couldn’t imagine how Tae or Jungkook felt. Having your entire life just taken away from you like that was worse than dying you were sure of it . . . and having to watch someone you cared about go through that . . . You couldn’t imagine.

“Just like that his career was over as well as any chance of having a normal life again,” Jungkook scoffed at his own words. “All because I forced him to go get drunk with me. It was my fault. I should’ve known. Maybe if I had called the hospital . . . told Coach . . . maybe then . . maybe he could’ve been OK. Fuck.”

His words circled around in your head for a moment longer. It was my fault. I forced him. It was my fault. It was my fault. It was my fault.

But . . . Wait—

Your brows scrunched together in confusion. This . . . this is what Jungkook thought would make him a disappointment. This is what had him blaming himself, hating himself . . . ?

Jungkook believed he had done this to Taehyung. But . . . but it wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was an awful thing that happened to both of them . . . and Jungkook blamed himself for it.

No . . . no . . . it couldn’t be. This was what he thought you’d hate him for.

A burnt child loved the fire, indeed. They let themselves become consumed by it, condemned to it, tortured by it, and for what?

Why did Jungkook have to suffer for something that was not his fault?

Fuck. You didn’t know what to do. You weren’t good at this. You barely even knew how to be a person, how could you help him when he thought his friend’s demise was all his fault?

Shit . . . and you had blamed him for what had happened to you. You had added to this. You had . . . No, no, no, no. You didn’t know what to do.

You couldn’t believe what all this guilt, this blame, this hatred had done to him. You couldn’t imagine . . . and you couldn’t contain your emotions. Your eyes were watering now. No, you couldn’t let them. Not now. Not when you were supposed to be comforting him.

Jungkook didn’t seem to notice the turmoil raging on inside your head as he was only looking at the floor. “He couldn’t forgive me after that,” he went on, his voice quieter now once again. “Everyone turned away from me then. I had to leave the team. I knew I did. There was no going back after everyone found out that I was the reason he was out there that night. I lost everything, and it was all my fault.”

It was all my fault, ringed through your ears. Your heart ached for him, but you couldn’t cry now. Not now.

You had no trouble holding back your emotions your entire fucking life so why was it so hard now? Why were you having trouble holding back these tears? You didn’t know, but you didn’t care. You had to keep a calm composure. You had to try. And try you did.

“I would’ve left the badminton scene entirely, but . . . my parents,” Jungkook managed to finish up with a heavy sigh. “Their restaurant wasn’t doing well. It still isn’t. They need this money. I only joined Yunis to help them. All my money goes to them. I only keep what I need, the rest is theirs.”

And suddenly it all made sense with those final words from him. Jungkook blamed himself for what had happened to Taehyung.

He didn’t feel worthy enough to continue his career knowing Taehyung’s was over, but he had to . . . because he was a good son. He had always been a good son. That you had known. But you hadn’t known their business was in trouble. You hadn’t known, and you had been such an asshole to him.

He had to be here. That was why he was here. He had to be. For his parents. Not for fame or even himself, but for them. He was a good son. He was a good person. And everyone . . . even you . . . had failed him.

Then . . . you remembered something else that Wooshik had said, and you almost let a small sob escape your sealed lips. You never imagined you could feel this way. You’d always been cold. You’d always just been a burnt child, relishing in the fire; a well-oiled machine with human parts. You weren’t meant to feel like . . . this. So why did your chest hurt so fucking much? Why couldn’t you breathe when you remembered what Wooshik had said to him?

You should’ve gone through with it months ago. Everyone would’ve been better off without you.

Then . . . you began to wonder. Had Jungkook really? Had he tried to end everything . . . And you could have sworn you felt the metal encasing your heart had begun to shrink, squeezing the muscle in a painful ache. How could Wooshik have said that knowing . . .

“Wooshik,” you heard yourself say before you knew what you were doing, “he said . . . “

“I know,” was all Jungkook could sigh. “He was friends with Tae and Jimin. This was his team. That’s why he’s so pissed I’m here, because I knew we’d be on the same team. But Coach . . . he knew who I was too and to him it didn’t matter who did what when to who. The only thing that mattered was that I was good. I was going to come out of the nationals team with gold medals and he knew that. So he offered me a lot of money . . . and I joined for my parents, otherwise, I’d be back in Busan.”

But you didn’t give a shit what Wooshik’s deal was. No, you wanted to know why he would say such a thing. Why he—

You stopped yourself from thinking, immediately speaking the words before you even thought then, “Why did Wooshik say you should’ve gone through with . . . with um . . . “

“Killing myself?”

Your heart dropped to the pit of your stomach as your eyes shut. Wetting your lips, you gained the courage to say, “Yes.”

But the silence met your reply.

It wasn’t something anybody talked about. People just kind of danced around the subject, trying not to say the actual words, and you supposed even you were guilty of this. But no one prepares you for this kind of shit. No one sits you down and tells you how to deal with this. You didn’t know how to deal with anything.

When you were in recovery, you had the same thoughts. You wondered if it would make things better, but you knew it wouldn’t. You knew it wouldn’t make anything better. You’d just be gone, leaving pain behind, and that was not what you wanted.

You hoped Jungkook had realized this, too. But the silence still remained. Until . . .

“I . . . “ he began, stumbling over his words. Then: “A few weeks before you came . . . I couldn’t take it. I did something horrible and came out of it completely fine. I wanted to make things right. I wanted to pay for what I did to him. And . . . and I wanted everything to just . . . stop. It hurt so fucking much. Every day I couldn’t breathe, I didn’t want to eat. Most days the only thing in my system was alcohol. I stopped looking at everyone, stopped being able to see them shortly after that and everything just became so . . . loud . . . and . . . and lonely, too. I guess—I guess I wanted it to be quiet . . . silent? I wanted time to stop just for a minute so I could breathe and then it would be fine. I could make myself be fine if I could just stop everything . . . just for a second.”

A beat of silence once again. And then he spoke, “I found the tallest bridge I could find here and I tried to jump . . . but . . . my mom called to say goodnight . . . and I realized I couldn’t go through with it, not when they still needed the money. I figured give it one more day . . . if I get fired then I’ll know.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “And Wooshik?”

“We’re dormmates. I slipped up when I was drunk, told him I was going to off myself,” he said through a sigh, his shoulders sinking. “Fucking stupid.”

There was the silence again. He was finished. That was what had happened to him and that was why he was here. The boy who cared even for the smallest of creatures had endured and endured and endured. How was that fair?

Jungkook used to cry for the clover mites when you’d squash them, and yet, here he was, carrying the world on his shoulders. Was he even allowed to breathe? Could he? Or was that peace stolen from him, too?

He thought he was a bad person. He thought he deserved this. He thought---How could he think that?

He was still the same Bug Boy you knew as a kid. He didn’t deserve this. He was a good son; a good friend. He was a good fucking person.

And the world had made him believe otherwise.

Everyone . . . everyone had failed him.

And you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him this without feeling the lump in your throat rise and rise and rise. You would cry if you spoke, and this wasn’t fucking about you.

This was about him. You couldn’t be selfish.

You just needed a moment to calm yourself.

But a moment you weren’t given as Jungkook whispered, “You’re silent. You get it now, don’t you?”

He thought . . .

No. No. No. No.

And suddenly, you couldn’t stop yourself. You glanced his way with glossy eyes and a quivering bottom lip. “No, no, I don’t,” you muttered, your voice hoarse. “If anything I don’t get it at all.”

Jungkook only blinked.

You swallowed hard. “Koo, it was not your fault.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t . . . I don’t understand.”

Fuck. That look. He looked so . . . lost.

And you couldn’t contain yourself any longer. The floodgates open, tears trickling down your cheeks. “How could you have known what would happen?” you questioned, trying to choke back a sob. “What happened to Taehyung is awful and heartbreaking, but . . . it was no one’s fault, let alone yours. You didn’t know he’d slip. You didn’t know he’d hit the ice. You didn’t know he’d fall. You didn’t know he’d get hurt . . . and you certainly wouldn’t ever hurt him. It was not your fault. I’m so fucking sorry you’ve been carrying this for so long . . . that—that you were made to believe you did . . . this.”

“But . . . I’m the reason he lost his—”

“No, no, you’re not,” you quickly cut him off. “Nobody could have predicted this would’ve happened. Had it been the other way around, would you blame him?”

Jungkook remained silent but slowly shook his head.

Brows raising in relief, you nodded. “No, because no one is at fault,” you told him quietly. “It was a horrible thing that happened to someone you cared about. Hurt people hurt people . . . and when people are hurt . . . they want to blame others. Doesn’t make it right. Doesn’t make it fair . . . but it does happen.” Looking down, you remembered what you had done to him, too. “I know . . . I know because I did it to you. It was never your fault what happened to me . . . and it wasn’t your fault what happened to Tae.”

His eyes softened at your words. Nobody had ever told him that before, you were sure of it, and that made another tear slip down your cheek. He’d been so alone.

That was why he looked so lost; why he ran; why he locked himself away because he thought he was supposed to be alone.

You wished you could take back all the feuds you had; all the times you’d pushed him away. You wished you could go back to the day in the hospital when he texted you. You wished instead of blocking him and refusing to see him, you had just accepted the food and allowed him to sit down at the edge of your bed. Maybe then things could have been different.

But you couldn’t go back to the past, no matter how much you wanted to.

He was here now, and he was looking at you with those eyes you had grown to care about. Big and brown and searching. He was always searching for anything. And you wanted to give him all the answers. But you knew nothing.

You were a sorry excuse for an adult. You were barely a person. How could you know anything? The truth was: you couldn’t, but you did know one thing . . . you knew him.

His bottom lip quivered as he continued to search your eyes. “I want to believe you, but it hurts so much,” he whispered as if it were a sin.

“I know,” you weakly mumbled.

And suddenly you weren’t thinking anymore. No, instead, you took one last glance at his glossy eyes, and fell into him. You swung a leg over him, adjusting yourself on his lap as your arms wrapped around his shoulders and brought him into an embrace. One of your hands slowly snaked into his long, dark locks, massaging his scalp as you buried your face into the crook of his neck. Jungkook remained shocked, his hands hovering in the air, but you didn’t care. He needed this. You knew him and you knew he needed this just like you had needed it years ago. Instead of pulling back, you continued stroking his hair and rubbing his back all the while you tried to hide the tears slipping down your cheeks and soaking his shirt.

Then . . . something happened.

In the midst of your embrace, Jungkook slowly wrapped his arms around your body, one hand spreading out along your neck while the other caressed your back. He brought you closer to him with one motion, until he was holding you back so tightly you were sure your soul had touched his even for the briefest of seconds.

He quickly buried his face into your neck, while his grip on you never faltered. “It hurts so fucking much . . . and it feels like this all the time,” he choked out through a strained sob. “It hurts. It just fucking hurts, and the alcohol isn’t helping anymore. I don’t know what to do.” His sobs came quicker now as he shook in your embrace, and you couldn’t help but cry for him as well. “I don’t know what to do. Fuck, I’m not OK. I’m not OK.”

“I know,” you whispered against his skin, trying to keep your voice steady. “I know, baby.” You pressed a kiss against his skin. It was innocent. It was sweetness. It was what he needed. “You don’t have to do this on your own anymore. I promise, Koo.”

And all Jungkook could do was nod.

“I’m as stubborn as a mule,” you reiterated, sniffling slightly. “I’m not leaving. OK? I know this—look—” you gently pulled back enough to place your hands on either side of his face. It was just enough to get him to look at you; just enough to let him know you meant every word— “I know how this feels. Hopelessness, worthlessness, anger, hatred. I know it all . . . and I know more than anyone that this is something no one should have to go through alone. I pushed everyone away. OK? When I was at my worst, I made people leave me until I had no one, and I can tell you right now that decision . . . it broke me.” You shook your head, another tear falling. “I don’t want to be broken, and I know you don’t want to be either.”

But his eyes were elsewhere. They were trained on the tear as it trickled down your cheek. “You’re crying,” he all but sobbed as he brought a finger to your cheek, catching the fallen tear. “I don’t—”

“Will you let me?” you found yourself asking, because maybe your tears weren’t selfish. Maybe . . . maybe they weren’t tears of anything other than . . . just tears. “Let me cry . . . for you. Let me carry this with you. I’m not scared of a lot of things, and I’m certainly not scared of this or you.”

His eyes stayed round and wide, still searching. And then . . . then he began to nod, and you couldn’t help but offer him a small smile.

“Good,” you hummed as you attempted to dry your eyes, but Jungkook beat you to it, wiping your cheeks clean of tears with the end of his sweatshirt sleeve. “Now . . . how about I lock the door so that fucker can sleep on the couch, and you and me sleep this shit off, hmm?”

“Can we watch a movie?” he questioned quietly.

You fought a grin. “Can I pick it?”

“Mmm, no.”

“Then, no.”

“Buttercup, don’t break my heart,” he whined, his voice slightly nasally from his now stuffy nose. His eyes were still red-rimmed and you were sure yours were too, but neither of you cared.

Hell, you couldn’t help but give a small laugh. “What are you on about?”

“You’ve never heard that song?”

You quirked a brow.

“Why do you build me up?” he began to sing, purposely doing it off-key (because yes, he had an annoyingly good voice). “Build me up.” His voice changed octaves, and you laughed in response, shaking your head at his antics. That only spurred him on. “Buttercup, baby, just to let me down?” He pointed at you. “Your turn.”

“Kook, I don’t know the words,” you giggled.

“Context clues,” he hummed. “Come on. Why do you build me up, Buttercup, baby, just to—”

“Let me down?” you whispered in a sing-song voice.

“There it is,” he cheered, nodding his head with a wide grin on his face, but the red-rimmed eyes still remained, reminding the both of you of . . . everything.

But that was OK.

You both would be alright.

“I’m supposed to be cheering you up, not the other way around,” you mumbled as you toyed with the longer strands of his dark hair at the nape of his neck.

“I hate seeing you cry,” was all Jungkook said, a small smile still on his face.

A beat of silence.

Then:

“You know . . . “ Jungkook began again.

Your eyes locked on his; this time you were the one searching.

“I really like being your friend,” he mumbled before he tucked his bottom lip under his teeth.

A smile found its way onto your face. It was warm. It was pure. It was what you both needed. “I really like being your friend, too,” you agreed softly.

And perhaps, truly, in some weird, obscure way, the two of you had met again as strangers who became friends. Perhaps this time you would stay friends.

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