Jungkook - One-Shots

Hiding all his alcohol. Mafia ver. J.Jk

Original by: @bunnyjay.fics
❌Do not copy or repost ❌

One-Shot
Jungkook came home reeking of gasoline, gunpowder, and ghosts. The elevator chimed, and he stepped into the penthouse like a thundercloud — silent, furious, electric. He didn’t toss his keys. Didn’t unlace his boots. He just walked. Straight to the kitchen. That’s when he saw it. The cabinet.

Open. Empty.
He froze. His hand tightened around the silver handle, and his knuckles turned bone-white. The room was too quiet. The air too clean.

Someone had cleaned up.Someone had touched his fucking stash.His eyes narrowed, breath turning sharp and shallow. He hadn’t even had a drink yet — and suddenly, he felt like he needed ten.

“Y/N!” His voice shattered through the apartment like a bullet through glass. You stepped out from the hallway. Barefoot.

Wearing his black shirt — the one you wore when he passed out drunk, shaking, somewhere between guilt and blackout. But this time, you weren’t soft. Your arms were crossed. Your stare was solid.

“You looking for your poison stash?” His head tilted, slow. A dangerous smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Tell me you didn’t.” “I did.” “You’ve got three fucking seconds to tell me where it is before I tear this whole place apart.” You didn’t flinch. “Tear it apart. You won’t find a drop.”

“You’re out of your goddamn mind.” His boots hit the floor like thunder as he stalked toward you, silver chains swaying.
His shirt clung to his frame, open at the chest, tattoos crawling up his throat. “You think this is a fucking game? You touch my shit again—” “And what?” You stepped forward. “You’ll do what, Jungkook? Yell? Break something? Hit the wall again?” Your voice cracked slightly. “I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid of what you’re becoming.” He laughed.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawled, mock-sweetness laced with venom, “You think you can save me with some after-school therapy bullshit?” “No,” you said coldly. “I think you're killing yourself and calling it survival.”
His expression shifted. Subtle. But real.

“You don’t fucking get it,” he spat. “You don’t know what it’s like — waking up covered in blood, hearing the voices of people you couldn’t save. I don’t drink for fun, Y/N. I drink to shut it all up.”
“And what about me?” Your voice trembled now. “You shut me out with every fucking sip.”
His lips parted like he wanted to argue.
But you didn’t let him. “You come home stinking like death. You look at me like I’m the only light you’ve got left — and then you snuff me out with Jack Daniels and lies.”

Your voice cracked. “Do you even remember what it’s like to touch me sober?”That one hit him. You saw it. His eyes darkened, but the rage was gone. What replaced it was worse.
Shame. “You think I’m proud of this?”
His voice dropped, hoarse. “You think I like what I’ve become?”

He shook his head. “You don’t know what it’s like. You’ve never had to look a kid’s family in the eye and lie. Never had to kill someone and pretend it was just business.”

“No,” you whispered.
“But I’ve had to watch the man I love fall apart in front of me and pretend that was okay.”
He moved in, crowding you. His hand slammed into the wall beside your head.
But his voice wasn’t angry anymore. It was wrecked.

“You don’t get to fix me, Y/N.” “I’m not trying to fix you.” Your hand reached up, resting against his chest — inked, scarred, trembling. “I’m trying to hold onto what’s left of you.”

Silence.

His eyes searched yours like he was looking for a reason to stop hurting. A reason to not fall back into the bottle. “You don’t deserve me,” he whispered suddenly. That broke something in you. “Don’t you fucking dare tell me what I deserve.”
You shoved him — not hard, but enough to make him flinch.
“I’ve been here through everything. Through blood and gunshots and bodies and broken nights. I stayed.” “I never asked you to.” “But you wanted me to.”He swallowed hard. Looked away. You stepped closer again, gentler now. Your fingers brushed the chain around his neck.

The same one he wore the day you met — splattered in blood, teeth clenched from a bullet wound, laughing like the devil himself.
You leaned in. “You told me once I was your only safe place,” you whispered. “So act like it.” His breathing hitched. For a long moment, he just stood there. His fingers curled at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. Then suddenly, he grabbed you. Pulled you in.

And his lips crashed against yours like a punishment. His kiss was angry — wet and desperate, tasting like fire and sorrow.
He bit your lip like he needed to feel pain to believe he was alive. His rings were cold against your skin.

But he didn’t pull away. And neither did you.
When he broke the kiss, his forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged. “Don’t leave.” You reached up, cradled his jaw — rough from stubble, twitching from restraint. “Not unless you pick the bottle over me again.” His eyes filled, not with tears — but with something deeper. Something older. Fear.

Because for the first time, he knew what he stood to lose. And maybe for the first time, he was scared enough to stop. He didn’t say anything. But that night, he didn’t drink.
He crawled into bed beside you.
Cold. Sober. Shaking. And when he wrapped his arms around you — for once — he held on like he meant it.