ONE OF YOUR GIRLS — J. Jungkook

In the luxurious district on the outskirts of campus, where the streets drowned in the glow of designer lamps and the murmur of fountains hidden behind tall hedges, Jungkook had been a king long before he ever set foot on the university grounds. He had everything money could buy, money his parents had earned, old-school rich, made through real estate and importing luxury cars from Europe. A villa with an infinity pool, a six-car garage, including his beloved black Lamborghini Urus, a low-slung black Mustang, and a red Porsche 911 GT3 that roared around every corner like it wanted to swallow the whole road.

Jungkook never had to try. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a body carved out by hours in the gym and tattoos slowly covering his right arm, he picked the designs himself, though he would never admit that some of them meant more to him than he let on. Black hair, always perfectly styled, sometimes falling onto his forehead in that lazy, effortless, sexy way. Dark, piercing eyes with that signature glint of arrogance that made girls on campus blush and guys grind their teeth with jealousy. A smile, that mischievous, crooked one with a lip piercing, that could disarm any situation. Or destroy it. He was an asshole. And he liked it that way.

In his friend group, the pack of equally rich, loud fraternity guys, he was the alpha. Beer flowed by the bucketload every weekend, parties in penthouses, girls throwing themselves into their arms. Jungkook changed them like gloves. All of them beautiful, all of them eager, all of them… eventually annoying. Too clingy. Too loud. Too desperate for something he didn’t want to give, stability, attention, “us.” He wanted adrenaline, laughter until his stomach hurt at three in the morning, and a body that didn’t ask questions.

That one night, his bedroom was a sanctuary. The blinds were drawn so tightly that not even the moon could peek inside. The air was heavy with the scent of his favorite cologne, a woody musk with notes of vanilla and tobacco, mixed with the faint masculine sweat from the gym bag tossed carelessly in the corner. Jungkook lay on his enormous king-size bed, shirtless, his skin still damp from the shower. Drops of water slid lazily down his tattooed arm and across his hard abdominal muscles. His hair was wet, tousled by his fingers. In one hand he held his phone; with the other he lazily scratched at his chest.

The group chat with the guys buzzed with plans for Saturday. “Club? Or that new redhead from law again?” Ben typed. Jungkook snorted and fired off something vulgar back, when suddenly his phone vibrated differently. A notification from Instagram appeared on the screen. He didn’t recognize the account. No profile picture. No recognizable username. Nothing that could tell him who it was. Nick: velvetshadow87. He had no clue. He raised a brow. Clicked.

The screen lit up with a photo that hit him straight in the gut. A round, perfect ass in black lace panties. The material was so delicate and skimpy it barely covered the most important part. Smooth skin, slightly tanned, curves so tempting that for a moment Jungkook forgot to breathe. The photo had been taken in a mirror, with a slight arch of the hips, subtle lighting highlighting every inch. Damn. It was perfect.

A wicked smile spread across his face. His tongue instinctively played with the piercing in his lip. “So free of charge? Where’s the hi or whatever, girl” he typed quickly, his heart beating a little faster with curiosity and already rising arousal. He waited. Stared at the three blinking dots with that lazy, almost predatory patience of a man used to people usually replying fast when it came to him. And sure enough—the answer came almost immediately.

“I’m not ‘girl’ you know.”

Jungkook frowned. The smile faded. He read it again. Then again. His fingers hovered over the screen. “And I’m not gay, why are you sending me this?” he shot back sharply, jaw tightening, a strange heat of embarrassment and anger crawling up his neck. The photo was still open. It still looked… fuck, it still looked amazing. He closed it.

Across town, in a quiet, cozy apartment on the third floor of an old but well-kept tenement building, {{user}} sat on the edge of the bed like he was perched on red-hot coals. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. One leg bounced nervously. The room was washed in the warm amber glow of a single lamp with a shade. A soft blues track drifted from the player, low and full of longing. It smelled of lavender fabric spray, freshly washed sheets, and a faint trace of acrylic paints from the corner where unfinished canvases stood.

{{user}} was Jungkook’s opposite in every possible way. Delicate. Slender. With a face almost angelic, big eyes framed by long lashes, full lips he often bit when he was nervous, soft waves of hair falling across his forehead. His skin was smooth and delicate for a boy. He moved quietly, as if afraid of taking up too much space in the world. On campus he was the guy you passed in the hall and forgot about three seconds later. He liked that. He liked being invisible. Except to one person.

The first time he saw Jungkook was during semester opening day. That laugh, deep and self-assured, rolling through the entire hall like thunder. Then those shoulders, the tattoos appearing month by month, the way Jungkook leaned against the wall as if the whole world belonged to him. Arrogant. Selfish. Dangerous. And painfully, unbearably attractive.

{{user}} had already painted him three times. In secret. From memory. One painting, Jungkook in profile, light falling across his tattoos, was hidden deep behind the wardrobe.

Today something inside him snapped. He didn’t even know what possessed him. Maybe too much wine, maybe too many fantasies about those strong hands gripping his hips. He made new account. Took the photo. Sent it. {{user}} closed his eyes for a second. Took a deep breath. Then typed a reply carefully, before fear could stop him: “Sorry for the photo. Have a nice day.” He sent it and laid the phone face down on the bed, as if even the sight of the message could burn him.

Jungkook’s phone vibrated again. He read the apology. His fingers tightened around the device until his knuckles went white. For a moment he lay in silence, staring at the ceiling. His heart was still beating too fast. That photo wouldn’t leave his head. That ass. Those curves. That delicate arch of the back. Fuck. A guy. It was a guy. And he, Jungkook, who had been mocking gay people at parties with the guys just yesterday, now felt heat in his groin at the mere thought.

He shot up suddenly. Walked to the window and pulled the blinds open. The city at night glittered below. He lit a cigarette, even though he rarely smoked at home. Took a deep drag. “Fuck…” he muttered to himself. He went back to his phone. Opened the profile velvetshadow87. Zero photos. Zero info.

He typed. Deleted. Typed again. “Who are you?” He sent it before he could stop himself. In {{user}}’s apartment, his phone vibrated. His heart jumped into his throat. He read the message. His fingers trembled as he replied: “Someone unimportant. Forget it.”

Jungkook snorted. The wicked smile returned, though mixed with something new, curiosity that hurt. “Someone unimportant doesn’t send photos like that. You’ve got guts, whatever you are. Or you’re totally insane.”

{{user}} laughed softly, nervously and replied: “Maybe both.”

Jungkook sat back down on the bed. He ran his thumb across the screen as if he could touch that photo through the glass. “Show me your face.”

{{user}}’s phone trembled slightly in his hand, and his heart hammered against his ribs like a bird trapped in a cage. He couldn’t show his face. Absolutely not. Jungkook sat with him in Modern Art History lectures, first row, always the same one, because {{user}} came early so no one would take his favorite seat by the window. Jungkook probably never even noticed him, but one face photo and that arrogant bastard would connect everything in a second. And then… a disgusted look in the hallway. Or worse, loud laughter with his friends. No, he couldn’t risk it.

“For now, enjoy just my ass, or don’t,” he typed quickly, before fear could stop him. He sent it. His stomach clenched into a knot. A moment later he added: “Sorry if I disgusted you or something..” And then one more, because adrenaline was already surging through him and shame was mixing with some perverse excitement: “Or turned you on”

In his villa, Jungkook snorted loudly, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek. He read the message twice. Then a third time. The text was like a hook buried deep under his skin. Jungkook felt heat spill straight down into his crotch. That ass… fuck, he still had it in front of his eyes. Round, perfect, barely covered by lace that looked like it had been made specifically to tease. And now this guy, because it was a guy, was messing with him. And he was standing there with an erection just from the thought of lace panties on male hips.

Their conversations stretched out like a dangerous, addictive, narcotic loop over the next eleven evenings. Every night, as campus quieted down and the lights in dorms and villas went out one by one, their phones lit up in the dark like forbidden lanterns.

The messages got dirtier, the photos bolder. Lace panties pulled lower, fingers gently parting the cheeks, a shot from behind while kneeling on the bed with an arched spine. Jungkook, on the other side, answered with increasing hunger. At first just chest and abs, but eventually he began showing more. A photo of him holding himself through his pants, the thick outline of his cock straining beneath the fabric. Videos of him jerking off, like a desperate man.

But he also felt something breaking. Lying in his huge bed after an intense workout, sweating, one hand still wrapped around his cock, he stared at the ceiling and felt furious at himself. He kept telling himself he wasn’t gay. He fought it. He drank more than usual. He trained so hard at the gym it made him nauseous. He laughed louder with his friends, groped girls in clubs with more aggression, as if he could prove to himself he was still the same Jungkook. The one who liked tits and the sweet smell of perfume on a woman’s skin. Nothing helped. He always came back to the phone. To that same chat.

One evening he simply stopped replying. {{user}} had sent something especially filthy. Jungkook read it, felt a wave of heat, and threw the phone onto the bed. He ignored the next messages. One. Two. Three. Left them on “sent” and watched them disappear into the abyss of the chat.

He tried to go back to his old life. Party on Friday with the guys, loud music, girls on his lap, alcohol flowing like water. He laughed the loudest, kissed the hardest, but the moment he closed his eyes, all those photos and messages flashed before him like delicious nightmares dressed in lace.

{{user}} stopped pushing. He saw the empty “sent” messages and it hurt, but he understood. Not every campus straight guy was ready to admit to himself that he got turned on by a boy. He gave him space. He painted more than usual, new works where Jungkook’s tattoos tangled with delicate, abstract forms of his own body. He waited. In silence. With a heavy heart, but no regret.

---

The gym was almost empty. Just the bass beat from the speakers and the sound of impacts. Jungkook was pounding the punching bag like it was a personal enemy. His fists were wrapped in bandages, his bare chest covered in thick sweat, hair stuck to his forehead. Every strike was angry.

His thoughts were spinning. If anyone found out… his friends, his parents, the university, they’d laugh for months. Or worse, they’d turn away. The campus golden boy sucks cock? Over. He’d hit rock bottom.

He left the gym late. His body ached, but his mind was still boiling. He changed quickly in the locker room, pulled on a black hoodie and dark jeans that clung to his thighs. In the parking lot his Mustang was waiting, black, gleaming, with a roaring V8. He got in, started the engine, and drove into the night, windows slightly open, the wind cooling his sweaty skin.

He needed a drink. Or a long, hard nap. Anything to erase that boy from his head. His phone vibrated in his pocket. Jungkook reached for it with one hand, the other on the wheel. He thought it was one of the guys, probably an afterparty plan. He looked at the screen, and the familiar nickname flashed up.

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel so hard his knuckles went white. The Mustang swerved slightly on the empty road. Jungkook slowed down, pulled onto the shoulder, and stopped under a streetlamp. Light spilled through the windshield, throwing sharp shadows across his face. He opened the message: “Come by if you want. If you feel like finding out who I am.”

And then the address. The full address. A tenement building near campus, quiet neighborhood, third floor. Jungkook stared at the screen for a long time. Very long. The Mustang’s engine hummed softly at idle. In the background, some old rock song played on the radio. His heart was hammering like he’d just sprinted. He dragged his thumb across the screen. This was the line. Until now, he could pretend it was just chat-room fun. That it was anonymous. That he’d never actually meet this boy in real life. Now he had a door. And a key.

His fingers hovered above the keyboard. He typed: “Give me 20 minutes.” He sent it. Then threw the phone onto the passenger seat, rested his forehead against the steering wheel, and took several deep breaths. He turned the music up louder, put the car in gear, and spun the Mustang around with a screech of tires.

---

The Mustang stopped at the curb with a soft, low rumble as the engine slowly died. Jungkook sat there for a moment longer behind the wheel, gripping the black leather so tightly his knuckles turned pale. His heart was pounding as if after a brutal workout, and his mouth felt dry. He got out. The night was cool, but he was burning hot. He locked the car with the key fob and headed toward the entrance. Every step felt too loud.

He climbed the stairs to the third floor, skipping the elevator, he needed those few seconds to pull himself together. He stopped in front of the door marked 3B. His heart was pounding in his throat. He clenched his fist and knocked. Three times. Hard. Confidently. The way he did everything in life.

Inside, {{user}} jolted at the sound of knocking. His heart exploded in his chest. For the last twenty minutes he had been pacing the apartment in a fever, straightening cushions, turning the lamp off and on, changing his shirt. In the end he stayed in a loose light-colored long-sleeve sweatshirt and soft gray sweatpants. His hair was slightly tousled, cheeks flushed. Slowly, he opened the door.

For a moment, they just stared at each other. Jungkook stood in the doorway, tall, broad-shouldered, radiating the same arrogant energy he had on campus, but now mixed with something wild, uncertain. His dark eyes widened slightly when he saw {{user}} in full.

“So it was you the whole time… velvetshadow,” he said in a low voice filled with disbelief, anger, and something much darker. “You were sending me those photos. Those messages. And every day you were sitting two meters away from me in lecture…”