odessa

🏺ᝰ.ᐟ ᴀ ᴡᴏʟꜰ ᴡɪʟʟ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴘᴇᴛ

[acheronsociety]

ODESSA ✴︎ she/her. gemini. german.

“ 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒖𝒏𝒇𝒂𝒊𝒓 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒙𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒂 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎. ”

━━ TABLE OF CONTENTS ;

𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒐𝒏, the masterlist.

𝒔𝒕𝒚𝒙, the writing list.

𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆, the guidelines.

© ACHERONSOCIETY, all rights reserved.

[acheronsociety]

Had to send this because I just can't stop reading and thinking about Blue Hour. You have a serious talent to not only write but write Jungkook WELL.........its like its HIM. The version I imagine in my head of course 🤐

All this to say: PLEASE KEEP WRITING, YOU'RE AMAZING, THANK YOU.

-—ᯓ✶ awww this is so sweet! thank you so so much 🖤 it's also a f#cking high compliment— kinda malfunctioning!!!

I confess the pressure was on after BCBTY but I'm glad this one is being well-received as well. truly happy that you liked it!

I'll do my best to keep posting, promise.

sending you much love,

[acheronsociety]

OH. MY. GODDD!!! NOT A NIGHTWING JK FIC?!? I HAVE NEVER IN GOTTEN TO READ ONE BEFORE!! YOU HAVE NO IDEAD HOW HAPPY I AM THAT YOU MADE ONE OMG ITS SO GOOD!! THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOUUUU!!😚😚😚

-—ᯓ✶ HI! you got me excited! haha tysm for your ask <3

I haven't searched for this niche side of tumblr of JK as nightwing ( yet ) but so... are you saying it's never been done before? is that it? 👀

and thank you for reading it! xx

[acheronsociety]

✶ BLUE HOUR

in which... being with Jungkook means competing with the city that owns him. you tell yourself it isn't serious, but suddenly you’re not so sure anymore.

pairing: jungkook x f!reader ✶ ( nightwing / superhero au ) word count: 2.9k content warning: smut ( mdni ) ✶ angst ✶ mentions of bruises, fights, sex, drinking, and cursing. note: so- it's been a while now since I've been meaning to write jungkook as a superhero... I had a spider draft, but wasn't feeling it somehow. I wanted something darker, and well, what's darker than gotham? he's also been strangely into the black and blue combo, so- I present you nightwing jungkook :) enjoy!

𝑰𝒕’𝒔 𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆. Gotham’s got that swampy heat in the air again—the kind that crawls down your collar and soaks into your skin. You smell like someone else’s cologne and alleyway grime. That’s what tailing a cheating husband through half the Narrows and back does to you. Your boots are sticking to the floor by the time you make it to your apartment door.

You’re done. Over it. Your spine hurts. Your knees ache. You want stillness. Maybe pour black vodka over that lemon ice cream someone left on the back of your fridge and call it dinner. Maybe take a long, hot shower and then stare at the smog-laced skyline until it blurs. 

But your hand freezes on the doorknob.

There’s light inside.

A flicker. Warm and low.

You didn’t leave anything on.

The air shifts. The hair on your neck rises.

Was it that mobster’s nephew you tailed in Blüdhaven? Or one of the undercovers you blew last week? Gotham is known to hold grudges like it holds haze, thick and choking.

Keys slip quietly into your palm. You curl your fingers around the one with the sharpened tip. You’re tired, but you’re definitely not careless.

Door creaks open. The scent hits you first—savory, spicy, familiar. Garlic, gochujang, and creamy butter.

Your pulse stutters.

You exhale sharply. “You broke in, again.”

He doesn’t even look up at first. He’s at your stove—hair damp, hoodie rolled up to the elbows, tattooed hand stirring something thick and bubbling. Like he lives here. Like this is normal.

“I used the key you gave me this time,” Jungkook says calmly. Then he glances over his shoulder, eyes soft but shining, that smug grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Technically, it’s not breaking in if it’s romantic.”

You toss your keys onto the counter harder than necessary.

“It’s not romantic. It’s borderline stalker behavior.”

He shrugs. “I made carbonara tteokbokki, your favorite. Plus, you say that every time, but you never kick me out.”

You walk back toward the entrance to take off your boots and your coat, “That’s your new favorite, JK, not mine.” You're not even sure your apartment carried the sound of your voice back to him as the city is still so loud outside. Gotham has teeth, at all hours of the day—especially at night. 

“And you’re late by the way,” he says when you show by the kitchen again, then nods toward a plastic bag with a smiley face on the counter. “Makgeolli and… Snickers. A vending machine broke on my way here. I did not break it. I just—happened to be nearby when it cracked.”

God he’s insufferable—

This is the bastard's peace offering. 

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, cardigan still clinging to your damp skin. Your voice is quiet but sharp. “You know what I saw on the news tonight?”

Jungkook turns off the stove and finally turns to face you fully, spatula forgotten. He knows. You can see it in the way his shoulders roll back, slow and wary.

“Explosion in Blüdhaven. Chemical warehouse. Unmarked trucks. Five people hospitalized. Nightwing sighting right before the blast.”

Silence stretches between you.

“I was fine,” he says, voice low.

“That’s not the point.”

You move into the kitchen now, slow and calculated, like approaching a bomb you’re not sure has stopped ticking. You stop right in front of him, chin tilted up.

“You can’t keep showing up here with a full body count of bruises and a bag of snacks like that makes it okay.”

His eyes flick across your face—scanning. Measuring. He’s good at that. Too good.

“You worried?” he says, too casually. Too amused, if the way the corner of his mouth starts to tilt up is of any indicator. That sets a fire ablaze inside your ribcage. 

“I’m pissed,” you lie.

He smiles, just a little. “Because I didn’t call, or because someone almost caught me?”

“Because someone will, eventually,” you snap. “You’re a detective in Blüdhaven by day and a vigilante by night. You don’t even bother separating them anymore. You’re too visible, Jungkook. People aren’t stupid.”

“I’m careful.”

“No, you’re not. You’re fucking obvious.”

That gets him. His smile fades.

“Taehyung? No one would ever look at Kim Taehyung and think ‘Batman.’ Because he plays the part of a rich playboy. He’s got a mask on and off. He’s the opposite of what he really is. But you—" You shake your head. “You walk around with your fists clenched and a busted lip and a badge that screams ‘I’m hunting the same people at night that I interrogate by day.’ It’s reckless.”

He steps closer, eyes darkening. “You think I don’t know how to play the part?”

“You don’t want to. That’s the problem.”

Your back hits the counter. You hadn’t noticed him moving until you felt him against you—warm and charged, rain still clinging to his hoodie like static.

“I told you who I was,” he says quietly. “You’re one of the only people I ever told.”

“And I didn’t ask you to.”

“You didn’t walk away either.”

Your breath stumbles. The weight of him—so close, so Jungkook—crowds the space around you. He smells like soap and rain and your undoing.

“I told you this wasn’t serious,” you say, but your voice lacks conviction.

His hands plant on either side of you, trapping you. You should step away. You don’t.

He leans in, breath brushing your jaw. “And yet I’m here. Making dinner. In your kitchen. After nearly dying.”

“Oh so now it was ‘nearly dying’—” a snort escapes your lips. “Flirting with death turns you on now?” you murmur.

“No,” he whispers, “you do.”

You don’t have time to bite back before he kisses you.

It’s never gentle with Jungkook. At least not at first. It’s desperate, a little angry, soaked in that slow-burn tension that’s been building since the first time he smirked at you across a crime scene.

You fist his hoodie, dragging him closer. His tongue slides against yours, and you swallow the sound he makes. Your hips roll into his without thinking, and he groans into your mouth, hands finding your thighs, lifting you onto the counter like you weigh nothing.

“You should be fucking resting,” you breathe between kisses.

“I’ll rest when I’m dead,” he mutters against your skin, lips trailing down your neck, tongue hot and wicked. “Right now, I need you more than I need sleep.”

You laugh—low, breathless, already lost.

Something faint stirs in the room. A ripple of static, you think, a thin thread of sound that tries to pull him away. But it dies against the crush of his mouth on that soft spot behind your ear. 

You feel it again as a moan escape your lips. A buzz in some distant part of your brain, like a match sparking underwater. 

But then there’s a soft thud as your head falls back against the cupboard and his teeth catch your skin—sharp, reverent. Jungkook’s hands squeeze at your hips, greedy, before he rolls you onto him again, fully, body nestled between your thighs like it’s where he always belonged. Your cardigan slips off one shoulder and his mouth is on yours again, hungrier this time. Not just kissing but consuming. The kind of kiss that tastes like apology and anger and every word you two never say.

And you can’t think. Don’t want to.

But then you slide your palms up beneath his hoodie, over the hard lines of his waist, and he hisses against your mouth—his hands tremble, just barely, like he’s holding it together with string and spite. 

You tug at his bottom lip, meaning for him to stop but gaining another throaty moan from him instead. Your hands still. 

“Jungkook,” Your voice is but a dazed whisper. You can’t muster the will to push him, not when his lips go immediately to work their magic on your jaw, on your neck. 

He doesn’t answer at first. Just breathes against your skin. You feel it though, the war in him. He doesn’t want to stop. To aknowledge what you’re about to point out. 

“Jungkook,” you insist, this time firmer, fingers tugging at the hairs at his nape. He finally looks at you. “You can’t keep doing this. Let’s just— Let’s just rest, how ‘bout that?”

He lingers on your mouth, too long, too openly. The kind of stare that feels like a thumb pressed to a bruise.

Then he leans in, nudging your nose with his, breath slipping against yours in a soft, stolen overlap. He sighs when you tug him closer, his left hand sliding beneath your cardigan—warm, unapologetic, claiming skin he already knows too well. You let him. You even huff a laugh against his ear, the smallest peace offering you’re capable of tonight. A truce wrapped in breath and proximity, despite the anger that still thorns under your ribs.

Then— that sound again.

A faint, electric crackle.

Stronger this time.

You go still. Push gently against his chest, searching the room for a threat you can’t name. But it’s him—of course it’s him—touching his left ear, eyes sliding away from yours like he’s already guilty.

A comm, you notice.

Seriously?

“Nightwing. We’ve got movement in the Narrows. The Bat isn’t available. We need you.”

Your heart drops like someone cut the cord holding it up.

Jungkook closes his eyes, jaw tightening.

“No,” you say. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“I have to—”

“Jungkook, I can’t even touch you right now without you flinching. Are you seriously going to pretend you can swing one or drop off a building right now?!”

“They need me.”

I need you rises up your throat like a flammable rocket, but you swallow it, grinding your teeth instead. You meet his gaze, sharp, unyielding. If you weren’t so tired, so frightened in ways you refuse to name, you’d toss him off the balcony yourself.

He sees it, the fight in you. So he hesitates.

A tiny, devastating pause.

And you see the want in him, the pull toward you, the ache to stay. That’s somehow worse than him leaving outright.

“You told me you were ok with this— When we met—” He’s scrambling, reaching for the version of you who let him in, trying to scale emotional walls you didn’t even realize you were rebuilding brick by brick.

But your arms cross before you can stop them, defensive instinct locking into place to shield the soft, trembling part of you that threatens to spill out every time he looks at you like he’s breaking in half. “Yeah, I told you a lot of stuff, including that I suck at this.”

His comm crackles again, impatient, but he doesn’t even flinch this time. He’s restless now, caged, pulled taut between two impossible choices. For a heartbeat, he’s still here. Still yours. Still something like safe.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He steps back like your words slapped him. “What are you saying?”

“That maybe this isn’t working anymore.”

He takes another step, forward this time, stumbling toward you with something close to panic. “Wait— Are you serious?”

You can’t look at him. Not when he sounds like that. 

So you slide off the counter, the cold floor biting your feet as you retreat toward the sink, grabbing the nearest object just to give your hands a purpose.

“Just give me a second!” you hear him barking into the comm—raw, fraying.

“Just go, JK. They obviously need you and you’re obviously not done for today so–” Your voice doesn’t land where you meant it to. It slumps.

Exhausted.

Defeated in a way you hate.

You feel him behind you, hovering. A shadow with a heartbeat, uncertain and heavy.

And then the weight of it licking your spine disappears.

He leaves without another word. 

The front door clicks shut, merciless, like a gunshot. 

Silence swallows the apartment, leaving only the ghost of rain on his clothes and the lingering sweetness of tteokbokki hanging in the air. You stand in the middle of it all, suspended in the space he emptied, and wonder whether you should want him to return, or worse, whether he ever will.

You had refused to eat alone.

Ten minutes after Jungkook left, you recomposed yourself, cleaned the kitchen, and downed two Snickers and the bottle of Makgeolli. 

It only made you worry for him in a way that hurt.

You showered after. Let the hot water steam the worry from your skin. Let it bead down your spine, sluicing over your collarbones, your thighs, the place between. And yet even then, you could still feel him—not physically, but in the ache behind your sternum. The ghost of his fingers on your waist, the phantom of his mouth at your neck.

The kind of missing that bloomed in your bones.

And then sleep came not all at once, but slowly, like a wave dragging you under. You collapsed into bed in only your panties and a dress shirt, partially unbuttoned and clinging half-heartedly to your damp skin. The windows were still open. A breeze drifted across your bare legs. Somewhere far off, a siren wailed and faded into the hush of the city.

You didn’t know how much time passed.

Just that the bed shifted.

The air changed.

And then a hand—warm and calloused—slid over your hip.

You knew it was him before your mind could even form a thought. Your body already knew the shape of his. His chest, bare and solid, pressing to your back. His thigh sliding between yours, parting them slightly, possessively. He smells like the night—leather and metal—and the clean soap he uses when he doesn't want to smell like blood.

His breath hits your neck. Deep and slow. Exhausted.

Then he nuzzles you. Presses a kiss to that curve just beneath your ear.

You let him hold you.

You always do.

"You can't keep breaking in, JK. Especially not when I'm mad at you." Your voice is soft, hoarse with sleep, but the edge of irritation still clings to it.

Jungkook chuckles, low and sinful in your ear. “You won’t kick me out. You’re too sleepy.”

"Watch me." You make to shift forward, to put even an inch of space between you, but his arm locks around you, firm as a shackle.

He has always been stronger than you; than anyone really. Not because of powers—he doesn’t have those. Just grit and muscle and years of training, the kind of body built to survive. To shield.

You resent how safe you feel in it.

His mouth finds your neck again. This time, much slower. A kiss, then another. A breath. Then teeth—just enough pressure to make you gasp quietly, to make heat unfurl low in your belly.

"I didn’t go, baby. They covered for me." Jungkook’s voice comes out ragged on your neck. “It just took me a while because I was showering and patching myself properly… Bam also needed to eat.”

You still at that. Your fingers brush the tattooed arm he has wrapped around you. A sigh leaves your lips, part relief, part frustration.

"Still, you—" you begin, but then his teeth graze your ear, his hand sliding up to palm your breast through the white dress shirt.

You moan softly, involuntarily, hips rolling back into him on instinct.

He chuckles again, a sound that drips down your spine like honey. “Still…?”

You bite your lip, keeping your eyes closed. “You just—you can’t—”

But this time, his hand drifts low. Fingers skating down the soft plane of your belly, slow, unhurried, until they slip under the elastic of your panties.

He groans against your neck the second he feels you—warm and slick.

His fingers move gently, teasing your folds, brushing the bundle of nerves with maddening precision. Your breath catches in your throat, and your hips tilt into his touch with a desperation you haven’t given yourself permission to feel.

“You’re already so fucking wet,” he murmurs, kissing the shell of your ear. “God, I missed you.”

You don’t answer.

Don’t need to.

You are still half-asleep, half-aching, floating somewhere in the thick of sensation and feeling. Jungkook’s fingers stroke you with the kind of familiarity that makes you burn. He knows exactly how to make you tremble. How to pull the sounds from your throat that you try to swallow down.

Then you feel him shift.

He pulls your panties down, just enough to free you, and you hear the soft rustle of fabric behind you as he pushes his boxers low.

His cock presses against your ass, thick and ready.

And then—

He pushes in.

Slow, deep, deliberate. You gasp at the stretch, fingers fisting into the sheet as he fills you.

He doesn’t stop until he is seated fully inside, his body flush against yours, breath hot on the back of your neck.

Then he starts to move.

Not rough. Not rushed. But deep. Steady. Measured like a vow.

You whimper, hand searching blindly for him. He finds it, threading your fingers together, squeezing once before letting his free hand slide back under your dress shirt, up your ribs, to roll your nipple between his fingers.

Your whole body trembles.

"You make me feel like a madman," he whispers, thrusting again, slow and devastating. “I fucking needed you— I still need you bad.”

You press your face into the pillow, barely able to speak. “You’re such an asshole,” you murmur, flushed and breathless.

He kisses your shoulder and laughs. “But you let me in anyway.”

© ACHERONSOCIETY / 2025, all rights reserved. do not steal, repost, translate and/or claim this work as your own.

[acheronsociety]

Hey! I'm new to tumblr (literally joined yesterday). Your blog was one of the top ones that came up when I put in the bts tags. I started reading BCBTY and I was MESMERISED. Finished both parts in one sitting and screamed at the end. Your writing is incredible. I hope you continue making fics like it. 🤍 Thank you!!

-—ᯓ✶ let me start answering by saying this is the sweetest thing ever!

I'm really happy to read this, and more so to know BCBTY is still going strong, hehe. I've been running on a tight schedule lately, with scarce time—barely any, actually—to write... but I do have some things lined up. hopefully they'll also be to your liking, fingers crossed!

thank you so much for your ask, and hey— welcome to tumblr :)) 🧡

sending love xx

[acheronsociety]

✶ THE GREEN JAR

in which... you’ve known Kim Taehyung forever. but this summer, something's different. suddenly his gaze ignites something you just can’t put out.

pairing: taehyung x f!reader word count: 1.1k content warning: angst ✶ fluff ✶ lots of watchful eyes, summer day feels, bickering, flirting, and light cursing. note: dedicated to my best friend, who is a summer baby, and a tae lover <3 my inner nostalgic archaeology dress-coded kim tae is always here, reserved just for you!

𝒀𝒐𝒖’𝒅 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘𝒏 each other since you were twelve.

Or maybe even younger—you can’t quite remember. Your mothers were childhood neighbors, your fathers played squash on Sundays, and every summer you ended up at that dusty country house with the ivy that curled down the old bricks like it was trying to pull the whole thing back into the earth.

Taehyung used to be all knobby knees and crooked teeth. A boy with too many opinions about birds, or anything really. You fought like cousins, like kids who shared summers and swimming holes and birthday cakes.

But last summer, something happened.

He came back taller. Sharper. A little ruined by the world in that way that made girls lean forward. His voice dropped into something low and unhurried. And when he laughed—really laughed—it did something to your stomach you couldn’t name.

Worse still, everyone noticed.

Your friends. The twins down the road. Even your mother raised an eyebrow over breakfast one day and said, “He’s grown into his looks, hasn’t he?”

Like she wasn’t talking about the same boy who once painted your eyelids blue with Crayola markers while you slept.

And now he’s here, again, this summer.

He’s standing a few feet from the fountain, in a linen shirt rolled at the elbows, looking every inch the person people write poems about. You can smell rosemary and dust from the garden, hear the hum of bees somewhere behind you.

You’re arguing about something small—teasing, mostly.

“You think you know everything,” You say, kicking your heels off on the grass, the heat prickling your neck.

He shrugs. “I don’t. But I know you.”

You look at him sharply. “Do you?”

“I know when you’re lying. I know when you’re bored. And I know when you’re trying to distract me.”

You roll your eyes, but your throat is dry. The water in the stone fountain behind you whispers like it knows too much.

“Distract you from what, exactly?”

He leans a little closer, like he might actually tell you. “You tell me.”

And then you drop the jar.

A ridiculous green-glass thing you borrowed from your mother, which you never liked anyway. A pathetic excuse to fill it with water, for flowers it didn’t even accompany, as soon as you saw Taehyung sprawled by the garden through the window. 

It slips down your fingers and shatters on the stone ledge. One half stays, the other half spins into the fountain, disappears beneath the surface like a vanishing act.

You flinch. “Shit.”

Taehyung doesn’t move.

You glance at him, expecting amusement. Instead, there’s something steadier in his face. His gaze drops to the water, then back to you.

“You gonna get it?”

“Of course I am, you idiot— My mom is going to kill me.”

He just blinks. “I’ll get it for you.” Then he undoes one button of his shirt. 

When he undoes the next you’re certain you should walk away. You should say you don’t care. You should make a joke, something offhand, the way you always do around him.

But the air is syrupy and slow. The sun burns too bright above you. And you hate the way he’s looking at you like you’re something he might understand if he just watches long enough.

So instead, you step up on the edge of the fountain and dive.

The cold punches through you like a dare.

Water everywhere—your ears, your eyes, your open mouth. You kick down, fingers searching. The summer dress wraps around your legs like seaweed. You find the shard by luck, a green blur at the bottom. You grab it and push up.

You break the surface gasping, your hair slick to your skull, dress clinging to every line of your body.

Taehyung’s still there.

Watching.

Silent.

“The water is freezing— Oh my God,” You say, breathless.

“I told you I’d jump in and find it for you.”

“I don’t need you to do stuff for me.”

His eyes flicker. “Didn’t say you did.”

You climb out slowly. Water cascades down your skin. The heat of the sun wraps around you, trying to make sense of the chill still trapped beneath your clothes.

When you stand in front of him, you see it—the little shift.

His jaw clenches. His eyes don’t move from your mouth for a full second longer than they should.

“Why are you pissed?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer right away. Then, “Because.”

“Why?”

He runs those long fingers through his silky hair. “Because you still act like you don’t know what you’re doing.”

You freeze.

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” he says, stepping closer, “you pretend it’s nothing. That this is nothing.”

He gestures between you. Just a flick of his fingers, but it lands like thunder on a summer’s night.

“I’ve known you forever,” his dark eyes flicker between your own and your mouth, taking another step. “But lately you look at me like I’m someone else. And you don’t think I notice. But I do.”

You swallow hard.

“And every time I think maybe— Maybe I’m imagining it,” he continues, voice lower now, “you do something like this.”

“Like what?” you whisper.

He nods to the fountain. “Like diving into a goddamn fountain in front of me soaking wet. And then standing there like you didn’t mean to make me lose my mind.”

You’re close now. Too close.

The sunlight paints him gold. There’s a bead of water on his neck, and you want to taste it. Want to unspool every year you’ve known each other and find the moment it turned into this.

It’s merely a second, but you let the hurricane forming inside you take hold of your mouth, “Maybe I wanted you to see me.”

Taehyung looks at you like he wants to say something unforgivable.

Then he reaches out and takes the broken glass from your hand without breaking eye contact—with your eyes, with your mouth. 

His fingers brush yours, slow.

He leans in close, mouth inches from yours, and says, “You’re not fooling anyone, you know.”

Now you’re the one looking at his heart-shaped lips, “Neither are you.”

Still he doesn’t kiss you.

He walks away.

And you stand there, wet and burning, knowing that whatever this is, it isn’t over.

Not even close.

© ACHERONSOCIETY / 2025, all rights reserved. do not steal, repost, translate and/or claim this work as your own.

[acheronsociety]

so many comments and suggestions to read BCBTY 👀 and im so so so ready and excited to read sheesh 😮‍💨

-—ᯓ✶ heyyy :)

HAHA I loved knowing this! makes writing so much fun, so thank you.

and I'll be waiting for your feedback 🧡 I truly hope you like it!

[acheronsociety]

HIII i was introduced to your beautiful blog through BCBTY and can i just say how obsessed i am with you .. i read both parts in one sitting and you had my adhd ass SAT !! your writing is so beyond amazing <3 while i wanted to let you know how infatuated with you i am .. i couldnt help but stalk your page *chuckles nervously* and i saw your marauders fics omfg .. while i do know very little abt them (i refuse to put myself thru the pain of reading atyd) i do love the hp universe and jungkook so very much, and i just thought it was so cool to find someone else with the same interests, especially with them being so different 🥹💗 ahh, okay ill stfu now .. AGAIN so obsessed with BCBTY and cant wait for more of them <3

-—ᯓ✶ listen- I suddenly got all fuzzy and excited inside, and I'll warn you- I'm just the worst at receiving compliments, especially because I don't even know how to thank you enough!!

I'm so happy you liked BCBTY! from one fellow adhd brain to another, it means so much to me to read that it's enjoyable AND that it's manageable to read in one sitting 🧡🥹 I'll write more for it soon, promise.

and oh my god?! I just can't believe how similar we are by what you're telling me?! ( I also refused to read atyd, even though I love everything inside the hp universe sos ).

*PS. although this is a sideblog ( I had a case of a love-hate—stuck on the hate atm—relationship with my main ), you can bet I'll stop by your asks from now on hehe I hope to see you here again too <3

I'm really glad you reached out! and thank you thank you thank you. you're genuinely super sweet!

sending you much love,

[acheronsociety]

Ma’am, I just finished the two parts of BLOODY CRAWLING BACK TO YOU, what a fucking experience I had 🫩 it was SO delicious, the yearning that jk had for that woman, listen- I think you ruined a little bit the e2l for me because this was so well written 😩❤️‍🩹

Also I’m a new follower, I don’t know if you have answered this before but is that like a on-going/ sporadic series or just 2 part?

-—ᯓ✶ let me just start by apologising deeply for my lack of response!!! I just saw my inbox and noticed your ask has been sitting here for a long while—and such a lovely ask too.

THANK YOU so much for taking the time and being so sweet with your review! you just gave me the biggest compliment ever ( since I'm a sucker for enemies to lovers myself ), and as for the yearning, I mean... it's not enemies to lovers if it isn't there, am I right? haha 🧡

as for bloody crawling back to you, it will be a sporadic thing! I'm not ready to say goodbye to it yet... and I have a more-or-less outlined drabble of how they first met to post still. and who knows, I can always explore them as a couple from now on too, if you guys have any interest, that is!

[acheronsociety]

✶ SECRETS IN THE SUNLIGHT

in which... you offer to help remus lupin with sunscreen, only to discover the scars he’s been hiding—and the reason he can’t let himself kiss you, even when he wants to.

pairing: remus lupin x gryffindor f!reader word count: 1.6k content warning: angst ✶ fluff ✶ some cursing, marauders being marauders, the feeling of being a bit uncomfy in your skin, scars, and moony's sad poet's hours as sirius would like to call them. notes: soft summer core vibe made especially for a dear friend of mine who's been crushing on lupin too hard... the only setback is—she crushes on angst harder !

𝑰𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 late June and the Black Lake had never looked more like ink and velvet soft.

The war hadn’t touched the school yet. Not really. There were whispers in corners and headlines folded under textbooks, but that day, the only thing that mattered was the sun, the stretch of freedom, and the way the air smelled like pine and mischief.

It was James’s idea, of course. Summer was here, N.E.W.T.s were done, and he was finally back with Lily after a week-long, soul-shattering breakup over that prank on Snape. She’d thrown a book at his head in the common room. Now, she was perched beside him on a blanket with her legs draped over his, her fingers tucked into the sleeve of his tee as though she still didn’t quite believe he was real.

Sirius arrived fashionably late on his ridiculous flying bike, with Cassandra Lockhart clinging to him like something out of a forbidden novel. Cassandra—Cass to everyone else, Trouble to Sirius—looked like the kind of girl mothers warned sons about. Slytherin to the bone, but smarter than any of them, and always dressed like she’d walked out of an editorial spread: black bathing suit, emerald-green silk shirt tied at the waist, and dark sunglasses perched atop her rich dark-brown hair. She barely acknowledged the others, but when Sirius helped her off the bike and whispered something at her temple, her smirk alone said everything.

And then there was Lupin.

Remus Lupin had that sort of quiet prettiness that wasn’t made to be noticed at first glance, but stuck with you. Soft eyes. Thoughtful hands. Always in linen or soft knits, like he was made of rainy Sundays and underlined poetry. He stood with his arms crossed, watching Sirius and Cass from the tree line with a half-smile, as if he didn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

You weren’t far off, lacing up your trainers again after kicking them off for a swim. Your hair was still damp, clinging to the curve of your neck. Shorts. Sports bra. Tan lines forming from all the running you’d done lately just to think clearly.

You weren’t close to Cass, but you didn’t dislike her. She was dangerous in the way girls were allowed to be when they didn’t care if people liked them. You were too busy trying to make your professors proud, juggling House Quidditch with your growing pile of books on ancient magic and magical creatures.

You should’ve been in Ravenclaw, they always told you.

But it didn’t feel like Ravenclaws would have gone along with James Potter’s mad idea to steal breakfast from the kitchens and sneak out to a hidden part of the Black Lake “for peace and quiet.”

Peace and quiet had not happened. Sirius was shirtless within minutes, jumping from a tree branch into the water and dragging Cass in after him. James was poking at a picnic basket with his wand, while Lily told him, gently but firmly, to stop turning the sandwiches into birds. Marlene was sunbathing in her combat boots and a bra, sunglasses on, flipping through Witch Weekly and rolling her eyes at literally everything.

Mary would join later.

And Peter was watching you again. That soft, puppy-eyed look he always gave you when he thought no one would notice. You didn’t mind Peter. He was sweet. Beautiful in a troubled way, his own way. But you wished—selfishly—that Remus would look at you the way Peter did.

Remus, who never stared. Who was always kind, but reserved. Like he wanted to reach out and never quite did.

You moved closer to the blanket where he sat, a half-read book on magical theory close by, and dropped down beside him without warning.

“Is that Wyrdways of Magical Creation?” you asked, bumping your knee into his.

He blinked, startled, then smiled. “Yeah. Bit dense for beach reading, I suppose.”

“You’d be surprised what I call light reading,” you teased, brushing wet strands of hair from your face.

He looked at you then—opened a door he usually locked. Your knees still touching. His eyes flicked to your legs, then back to your face. But his smile dimmed, just a little.

“You’re always running,” he said suddenly.

You tilted your head. “It’s quiet when I run.”

He nodded. “Guess I wouldn’t know.”

You hesitated. There it was again. That gap. That door closing. You could feel it, like a cold spot in the middle of the sun.

“Do you ever... sneak out with the others?” you asked, voice low. “At night?”

His posture changed. Slight. But you noticed. “What makes you ask?”

You shrugged, as casually as you could. “You four are up to something. I just know it.”

Remus gave you that tired smile again. “Would you believe me if I said it’s nothing bad?”

“I don’t think it’s bad,” you didn’t meant to pry, but curiosity had always gnawed at you. “I just think it’s secret.”

That made him pause. He reached for his water bottle instead of answering.

“I don’t like secrets,” you added, softer this time.

His hand froze. Then slowly, he set the bottle down. “Then you’d hate mine.”

Something twisted in your chest.

But before you could ask more, Sirius let out a war whoop from the water. “Oi, Moony! Get in here before Cass kills me for pushing her again!”

Remus rolled his eyes. “She won’t kill you. She’ll just destroy your self-esteem.”

Cass was already climbing back onto the rock, flipping her wet hair and giving Sirius a middle finger with a perfectly manicured hand.

You leaned in just a bit closer. “You don’t have to tell me, Remus. But I think I’d like it if you stopped pretending like I’m just another girl sitting next to you.”

He looked at you, caught off guard. His lips parted.

And then, like it hurt, he said, “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Then tell me.”

“I can’t,” he whispered.

You didn’t push.

You just nodded, stepped back, and let the space between you bloom wide again. Because some truths or bonds weren’t meant to be forced, no matter how much they sat in your chest like unsaid prayers.

So you turned away, back toward the sun-dappled clearing, where the lake glistened like a secret and laughter rose in waves.

James and Lily were in their own world—her head thrown back, laughing as James attempted to charm a rock into a reclining lounge chair. It half-worked, then exploded with a puff of green smoke, sending them both tumbling into the grass.

Peter hovered near the picnic, fretting over his already pinking skin. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, squinting at the sun like it had personally offended him. “This is how I die, isn’t it? Slow-roasted.”

You chuckled and stood beside him, hand already reaching for the sunscreen bottle. “Turn around, Pettigrew.”

He blinked, startled. “What?”

“You’ll be a tomato by dinner,” you said, unscrewing the cap and squeezing a generous amount into your hand.

He hesitated, then slowly turned, cheeks blooming red from something other than the sun.

As your palms smoothed over his back, Peter fidgeted and rambled nervously about a girl in Hufflepuff he might write to over break. You nodded, encouraging him, Marlene snorting from where she was sprawled, but your eyes drifted elsewhere.

Across the rocky bank, Remus sat alone now, tugging awkwardly at the sleeves of his shirt while everyone else basked bare-skinned in the sun. He looked out of place, too warm, too covered. His hair clung to the sides of his neck, and he kept scratching lightly at his elbow like his skin was crawling under the linen.

Eventually, he stood.

He wandered away from the group, toward the far side of the lake where a jagged rock jutted out into the water like a ledge. Sirius floated nearby, still swimming lazy laps, his silver rings glinting even in the water.

You saw Remus look back—once—before pulling the shirt off with a kind of hesitant resignation.

It hit you, then.

He wasn’t straying further to read. Or for the view. Or even for some quiet.

He was straying further so you wouldn’t see.

The distance masked the truth. From where you all were, you could just make out the faint lines of his frame, the curve of his shoulders, the angles of his back—but not the scars. Not the ones that lived where secrets liked to hide.

There were a few on his face, sure. A small one near his brow, a thin line along his cheekbone. Another crossing the bridge of his nose. Things boys collected in childhood. No one asked.

But you’d seen him fidget with his sleeves. Tense when people brushed against him. Stay clothed when others shed layers for the sun.

And suddenly, all of it made sense.

Still, you didn’t mean to walk over.

You didn’t plan to follow him.

But you found yourself walking toward the rock anyway, sunscreen in hand, the summer heat pressing soft and heavy across your shoulders. You told yourself it was to check in. To offer something helpful. But truthfully, you wanted to be near him. Even if he didn’t let you all the way in.

He was sitting on the ledge, long legs dangling over the water, shoulders rolled forward. Sirius was nearby, floating lazily on his back, arms spread like a crucifix made of mischief and silver cuffs.

“Mate,” Sirius was saying, “if I’d known you were going for broody lake aesthetic, I’d have brought a sketchbook. Or a cigarette. You look like a heartbroken poet.”

Remus laughed—real, soft. You saw it in his profile. He was distracted, safe. He didn’t hear you approach.

You took in his back—and the moment stilled.

Scars. Not deep. Not fresh. But many. Layered over each other like the rings of a tree. Like stories that couldn’t be told out loud. And for a second, you just stood there, rooted to the spot, like seeing them had knocked the wind out of you.

Not in horror. Not in pity.

But in the knowledge that he had carried this alone. 

Your steps were soft on the stone, but he still startled when you sat beside him.

He shifted quickly, muscles on his broad shoulders tensing, spine snapping straight. His hand twitched toward the shirt he'd dropped at his side. But you just held up the sunscreen, slow and easy.

“Thought you might want help,” you offered. “I did Peter’s back. Seemed unfair to leave you out.”

He didn’t answer.

His eyes flicked down, then toward Sirius direction, then up again—hovering somewhere between gratitude and discomfort.

Finally, he nodded. Just once.

Sirius, ever the opportunist, spotted you and grinned. “Oh, finally! This was getting agonizing.”

Remus shot him a warning look.

Sirius held up his hands in mock surrender and turned, calling back to the others. “If anyone needs me, I’m retrieving my dignity!”

He dove underwater, laughing.

And you were alone.

You uncapped the bottle, warming the lotion between your hands first. Then you touched him.

He flinched.

Not like he was in pain—like he wasn’t used to being touched without flinching.

Your hands moved slowly, deliberately. Over the shoulders first. Across the blade of his back. The lotion made his skin shine, made the pale scars glow like silver ink under the sun.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did you.

Not until he exhaled, low and rough.

“I was attacked when I was five,” his jaw tensed, like the image was still vivid in his mind.

You stilled.

“Werewolf.”

There was no dramatic pause. No big reveal. Just the words, spoken like something he had rehearsed a thousand times in his head, and still hated saying out loud.

“I turn every full moon. I lose control. I... I hurt things. Myself. Sometimes... it used to be others.”

Your hand was on his shoulder, resting there now.

“I wanted to tell you sooner,” he added. “But I didn’t want you to look at me differently. I didn’t want you to flinch.”

“I didn’t,” you whispered.

He turned then, slowly, his gaze sweeping over your face like he was searching for disbelief. For fear.

He found neither.

Only you.

And for a moment—just one—he leaned in.

Closer than before. So close your noses nearly brushed, the heat from his body pulling you in like a tide.

You felt his breath. You saw the way his eyelashes trembled. The way his fingers flexed at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

And then he stopped.

Pulled back, just slightly. Enough to undo the moment.

“Peter likes you,” he said, voice so quiet it might’ve been a thought. “And I can’t... I won’t break his heart.”

You blinked.

Tried to swallow the ache that rose up so fast it made your head swim.

You could’ve told him that you didn’t choose Peter. That you’d never given Peter a reason to hope. That what you felt—this—wasn’t a crush.

But the look in Remus’s eyes was so soft. So damn gentle. Like he was trying to hold the whole world together with a single breath.

So you just nodded.

You sat back beside him, shoulder brushing his, and stared out at the lake where Sirius was now trying to coax Lily into the water with ridiculous splashes.

And you thought—this is what it means to almost have something.

And still want it.

© ACHERONSOCIETY / 2025, all rights reserved. do not steal, repost, translate and/or claim this work as your own.

[acheronsociety]

BCBTY 1 &2....impeccable. I'm not one who reads thriller-trope AUs *at all* but girl you had me sat the entire time. So, THANK YOU! Keep it up queen

-—ᯓ✶ oh my word this is so sweet, thank you SO MUCH ! I'm so happy to read this 🧡 you just made my day.

I'm writing for other characters right now, but as soon as I can, I promise to drop another BCBTY something something haha

much love,

[acheronsociety]

I'm obssessed with your Jk from bloody crawling back to you ! are you considering doing more parts to it ? I read on your notes that it was supposed to be one-shot but ... pretty please 🥺

-—ᯓ✶ hi ! and AAAAA thank you so much ! I confess he was purely based and crafted to my personal tastes in men 🤠 I'm glad you liked him just as much as I do, though hehe

for now, two parts are out: the main one-shot and the two weeks after that encounter. but I plan to write about the first time they met also ( for work that is ). hopefully that gives more context on why she had this prejudice toward him, and of course, just to write a lil more of this universe 🧡 ( I liked writing about it too much ).

[acheronsociety]

Omggggg bloody crawling back to you was INSANEEEEE. I had an emotional roller coaster reading it. Absolutely incredible. Will definitely be re-reading again and again !!!!

-—ᯓ✶ this. just this—was the reason I wanted to write so bad. to make someone feel like I felt whenever I read a story I loved and couldn't stop thinking about.

thank you so freaking much ! for reading, for sending me this message, for liking what I wrote 🧡

I surprised myself incredibly with "bloody crawling back to you" haha, I never imagined it would receive this much love. I'm truly over the moon with your comments and feedback !

hopefully you like part two as well ( which is now out ) !

and again, THANK YOU.

[acheronsociety]

✶ BLOODY CRAWLING BACK TO YOU, AGAIN

in which... you thought you absolutely hated your co-worker, the insufferable Jeon Jungkook. but then you slept together, you avoided him—and now he's at your door. -—ᯓ✶ read part one ( here ) or not, this can also be a standalone !

pairing: jungkook x f!reader ✶ ( secret agents au ) word count: 9.5k content warning: smut ( mdni ) ✶ angst ✶ mentions of blood, cuts, bruises, fights, sex, and lots of cursing. notes: if the first part was inspired by "do I wanna know", this one's all lana's version of "you can be the boss". I'd also like to sincerely thank everybody who read it, and especially the ones who took the time to leave such amazing feedback—this would still be a single oneshot if not for you. hope you like this one as much !

⋆ 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒒𝒖𝒐𝒓 𝒐𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒑𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒔. 𝑰 𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒘 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒘𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈, 𝑰’𝒎 𝒃𝒆𝒚𝒐𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒕, 𝑰 𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒊𝒕...

𝒀𝒐𝒖’𝒅 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕 Jungkook to be pissed about it. And if he was, you’d have to admit he had a shred of right.

After all, you’d started it. Kissed him like you meant it, touched him like you owned him. Let him touch you like you were fragile and ruin you like you’d begged for it.

And then you left.

Crept out of his bed with first light spilling like confession over your bare skin. Not like a street cat, no—more like a coward. A traitor to your own hunger.

Because the truth? You were scared.

That night, you thought you were scratching an itch—one born from years of tension, of mission-night adrenaline, of too-close brushes and unspoken dares. You told yourself it wasn’t lust. That it wasn’t him.

But the lie collapsed the moment he slid into you, and your world sharpened to the shape of him. This wasn’t just hate, wasn’t just need—it was a burn, a bind. A dangerous craving with teeth. A tether you didn’t want, not with him.

Because if you stayed, if you let that moment become more than heat and fury, it might become something else entirely.

And that? That was terrifying.

Because how the hell could it work between you and Jungkook? You were field agents, ghosts in the night. Partners whose existence hinged on silence and steel. There was no room for this—not when death stalked you like a shadow, not when one blink could mean gone.

Or worse, it had meant nothing to him. Just a night. Just a slip. A mistake he'd wipe clean without a second thought.

You knew his reputation. The smirks in the breakroom. The trail of wreckage with red-lipped grins.

Before you could spiral further into that hellscape of doubt, a knock shattered your thoughts.

You blinked. Shit. Yoongi.

Your neighbor-slash-informant. Supposed to stop by with intel. Beer and greasy wings—your agreed-upon cover for the handoff. One you were supposed to go through with Jungkook. Supposed being the operable word.

You’d dodged every attempt he made to meet. Ghosted him. Not out of spite. Not out of professionalism.

But because being near him now? It felt like dancing barefoot on broken glass—beautiful and brutal and destined to bleed.

No way in hell you’d sit beside him in some surveillance van with his knee brushing yours. Or worse—straddle his bike again, chest to his back, arms tight around his waist like you had some right.

Besides, it had been reckless going to him that night. The remaining ghosts from the hard drive job were your cross to bear, not his. You couldn’t risk dragging your partner into your unfinished business. So you used the time to hunt, to try and rewind your thoughts to a time when your hatred was clean and easy.

You weren’t counting on Revenant assigning a new job three days later—blowing your cover and your plans. Recon was easy to duck, but you’d eventually have to face him. You knew that. You just needed time. Time to build armor again.

You yanked the door open. “Yoongi, I—”

And stopped breathing.

Jungkook.

Leaning against the frame like the devil come to collect, his black hair a mess, frustration stitched into every strand, mouth carved into a blade. 

A sleeveless black t-shirt clung to him, flashing the edge of ribs and the brutal lines of his ink-laced arm. Heat shimmered at his throat. Those baggy jeans—anchored by a punk belt, the kind that made you think of things you shouldn’t.

His eyes—glazed and wild, sharp enough to slit open every lie you’d wrapped around your heart.

And you—idiot that you were—stepped right into it.

“Not Yoongi—whoever that is,” he rasped, voice rough and scorched, like he’d been yelling or drinking. Or both.

He shifted, revealing the beer pack in his hand. Bottles clinked like accusations. He didn’t wait for permission. Just brushed past you—his arm grazing yours like a dare. Like a scar reopening.

And gods, you hated the part of you that ached at the sight. That stupid, traitorous ache that whispered he fit here.

You shut the door slowly, as if trying to cage a hurricane. “Are you… are you okay?”

There were a dozen better things to say. Like How the hell do you know where I live?

But of course Jungkook knew. You were Revenant’s best tracker—but he came close second. Only best when it came to haunting you.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he shot back, eyes glinting like broken mirrors.

You gestured at the bottles, pathetic.

He scoffed. “I can hold my liquor just fine, thanks.” But his gaze didn’t linger on you—it prowled your space like he was hunting ghosts. Like he was searching for signs you'd moved on.

You were suddenly, viciously aware of the worn band t-shirt clinging to your frame and the male boxer shorts riding up your thighs, rolled at your hips. No makeup. You looked like you would if he was coming back home to you. Which he wasn’t.

And he—he was a wrecking ball made of ink and silence.

“Why are you here, Jungkook?” Your voice was a whisper already bracing for pain.

This had to be it. His confrontation. His judgement. You running. You fucking him and leaving. Cowardice with a kiss. Like the stitches down your side, a reminder carved into you like art. Like consequence.

Or—worse and somehow better—he was here on Revenant’s orders. You’d been dancing on the edge these past two weeks, and you doubted he’d covered for you on callback day.

You were becoming a stray. And strays didn’t get mercy. They got leashes—or bullets.

But instead of a knife, he dropped the beers on your coffee table with a thud and turned.

“To work,” he said. “Thought I’d show up instead of waiting for you to.”

The guilt slithered up your throat like smoke. You took the hit without flinching.

Maybe you were being paranoid. A cocktail of no sleep and the weight of those men still hunting you. Of too many hours spent remembering the shape of Jungkook in your hands.

You weren’t being unprofessional, you inhaled as you reminded yourself.

You were still doing your job—tracking, reporting, filing notes. You just… needed space, while the field work wasn’t necessary. Distance. Needed to breathe. To exist in a room without drowning in him.

Without unraveling.

Jungkook reached into the six-pack and popped the cap off with a flick of his thumb, muscle memory smooth as murder. “Might as well drink while we sort this crap out,” he said, nodding to the files sprawled like landmines across your coffee table.

He called it crap. You could’ve laughed.

Revenant missions were never casual. They were shadows with knives, cover stories written in ash, warfare so deniable even your heartbeat lied. Blood-on-your-hands kind of work, buried intel with bodies. And the files between you now? They were preludes. Invitations to the next disaster. 

You eyed the bottle like it was a loaded gun.

One rule left unbroken.

Don’t drink with him.

Because when walls thinned, and eventually came down—you knew what followed. Chaos. Heat. Want that left bruises.

And you were barely holding.

“Fine,” you muttered, grabbing one like it didn’t spell your undoing.

Another line blurred. The last one.

You ended up on the floor beside him, backs against the couch, knees brushing in the kind of proximity that shouldn't feel like drowning. Between you—snapshots of death, scribbled intel, faces frozen mid-breath. Your handwriting scratched across the margins like shrapnel.

War lived in your pen. Jungkook had always said that. Like he knew you wrote in rage.

The beer dulled the razor-edge of your posture, but not your perception. Not around him.

Jungkook wore calm like a disguise—like a bomb under a silk napkin. He exhaled cool detachment, but you could smell the lie on him along with the bourbon lurking on his breath. He was trying to be casual, but the effort showed in the curve of his jaw, in every brush of his leg against yours that never pulled back.

Every move was a push.

And you were breaking.

The tension between you snapped tighter, breath by breath. The air was too thick. Too still. One glance too long and you'd combust.

You reached for a grainy photo—light blown out, figure indistinct—and his fingers brushed yours. Featherlight. Incidental.

But it detonated something in your chest.

He didn’t look at you. Just took a swig like he hadn’t set you ablaze.

And you hated him for that. Hated the flex of his throat, the stark line of his jaw, the way his veins caught the light. That fucking light scar on his cheekbone. Hated the heat pooling in your palms, the part of you that screamed to crawl into his lap and burn all over again.

He was still Jungkook.

And you were still hopelessly tangled in the memory of that night.

His mouth on your throat, hands in your hair, breath whispering your name like a curse—those were not ghosts you could outrun.

Silence wrapped around you like a noose. He didn’t speak. Didn’t touch.

But he was there.

A shadow that never left.

Focus, goddammit. 

You forced your eyes to the files, to the pattern you could solve with one hand tied behind your back. Easier than untangling the way his fingers tapped that bottle, like they ached for something else to press into.

He leaned forward, pulled a folder closer. Bit at the metal glint of his lip ring.

You seized the moment to snap yourself out of it. Your voice—measured, steady. Barely.

“That shot was taken two days before the drop. The guy in the background—you recognize him?”

“Mhm,” he said. “One of Choi’s henchmen. Shows up like mold. Slimier, too.”

You huffed, dry. “Perfect. Another one to track.”

He slid a page your way, fingers grazing your wrist longer than necessary. “This spot—see it?”

You did. The pattern was clear. The message clearer. “They’re circling back.”

“Exactly.” He leaned in, voice lower. “You’d think they’d learn. But rats don’t stop running into traps, do they?”

Your spine stiffened. You weren’t sure if he meant the target.

You weren’t sure he didn’t.

The space between you quivered. A standoff without a gun. It was a fragile balance—this cold war between you. The space where hate blurred into want. Where loyalty slipped its collar and curled up next to need.

You were staring at his eyes, trying hard not to dip them to his lips like he was watching yours. 

But you cracked first—anything to break this spell he had you under. “Thought the superiors sent you to keep me in line, not drink and share a slumber party.”

His mouth twitched, slow and wicked. But there was heat behind it—undeniable.

He didn’t even look up. Just murmured, “Pretty sure you were supposed to leash me. But hey, who’s counting casualties?”

The words hit like a bullet—subtext woven through every syllable.

You didn’t answer.

Because you didn’t trust what would come out of your mouth.

Then—ding.

The doorbell split the air like a blade.

You stiffened. Instantaneous. A tripwire pulled in your spine.

Jungkook’s head snapped up at the same moment. His gaze cut from the door to you—catching everything. The flicker. The twitch you hadn’t meant to let show.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t need to.

He was already rising, fluid and dangerous, moving like the door was his to shield. Like you were.

And that—

That was what you couldn’t fucking stand.

You weren’t a damsel. Not a kept thing.

You didn’t need saving. You were his partner for fucks sake!

You moved fast. Intercepted him. Your palm met his chest—not harsh, but hard enough to stop.

Hard enough to remind him.

His body didn’t yield, but something behind his eyes shifted. That burn—low and dark—ignited again. The kind you didn’t dare name.

“You’re not my bodyguard,” you snapped, blade-edged, jaw locked.

His jaw clenched. The muscle under your hand tensed like it wanted to defy you. “No… I’m not.”

And there it was. That weightless second where neither of you moved, both too proud, too furious, too wired.

You knew his tells. He knew yours.

You pushed him just enough to block the door from his view, then yanked it open.

And there was Yoongi.

Leaning against the frame like the world owed him something and he planned to collect in charm. Hoodie half-zipped, eyes glittering with unbothered precision. A smirk pulled at his mouth like he knew he could get away with anything.

“Damn,” he said, low and deliberate, amusement bleeding into every syllable. “If I knew you were answering doors looking like that, I’d have brought dessert.”

His gaze trailed over you—lazy, unapologetic. From the defiance in your stare to the shirt clinging too well and the heat blooming in your throat. He drank it all in.

And for once, you didn’t bite back. Didn’t spit your usual venom. Because you felt Jungkook before you saw him.

His presence unfurled behind you like a stormcloud. Heavy. Electric. Half of his chest brushed your spine, his breath grazing your neck—hot and possessive. Not touching, but near enough to feel the warning in it.

Mine, it seemed to say.

Yoongi’s smirk faltered. Just a little. Just enough.

“And who’s this?” he asked, head tilting like it mattered.

You answered too fast, too sharp. “My partner. And you’re late.”

Yoongi’s brows ticked up, but he didn’t push. He just held out the chicken wings delivery bag, fingers loose, like he wasn’t dropping dynamite between two unstable elements. “Got the intel. Movement patterns. You’ll want to check the second location listed. It’s all inside, like always.” he pointed the packaging with his chin. 

You reached for it, but Jungkook was faster.

He moved around you, body encaging yours like a wall of heat and intent, hand closing over the bag strap—over Yoongi’s fingers. Not hard. But pointed. Held it a beat too long.

A message without words: Back off.

Yoongi didn’t blink. Just arched a brow, amused. “Didn’t know you’d been having company.”

“Didn’t know I needed to check in with you about that,” you said, slicing your voice thin and cold. Ice over a fire.

Behind you, Jungkook went still.

Like you’d just lit a match and dropped it in gasoline.

Yoongi chuckled, stepping back, unbothered. But his gaze lingered—bouncing between you like he could read the unsaid. And maybe he could.

“Guess I’ll let you get back to… whatever this is,” he said, voice wry.

He lingered just long enough to grind his heel in it.

“I’ll be up in my apartment if you need me.”

The weight in his stare as he said it was intentional. You gave a small, polite smile—sharp-edged. Dismissive.

But Jungkook—through your periphery you saw the way his tongue pressed into his cheek like it was trying not to bite through.

Yoongi vanished into the hall.

The door shut behind him with a snap.

And then you turned.

You were on him before he could breathe.

A weapon unsheathed.

Your movement cut through the silence, quick and decisive, and just like that your chest was brushing his. Standing on the tip of your toes so your faces were just inches apart, eyes locked on the black pools in front of you. You could see everything—every flicker, every fracture.

“Do not make me check you.”

Jungkook’s eyes flared wide. But it wasn’t fear. No—what lived there was something hungrier. Darker. His breath shivered. His fists clenched.

He wanted to break something.

Or take you apart.

He was vibrating with restraint. With that desperate, wild thing that had clawed its way loose the moment you slipped out of his bed like a thief. He hadn’t gotten to chase you. To claim what you took with you.

Now? He was seconds from snapping.

“You had me once,” you whispered, venom-laced velvet. “Once. Not even long enough to piss and mark territory. Don’t forget that.”

Then you turned.

Cold. Precise. Beautifully cruel.

Like you hadn’t just sliced him open with your teeth.

You walked away with purpose, spine straight, blood roaring beneath still skin. Left him there in the ruins.

He didn’t follow.

Didn’t speak.

But you could feel him—rage coiled tight in his gut, heat rising like a fever. When you sank into the couch, you didn’t have to look to know he was gripping the air like it betrayed him.

“I shouldn't have come,” he muttered finally. “It was a mistake.”

His voice—low, scraped raw—crackled through the room like static. He stalked toward the table, dropped the delivery bag and snatched up his keys. His stride was all anger and ache.

But before he reached the door, your body moved without thought catching up.

“Wait—Just wait.”

Your hands lifted to your hair, dragging through with frustration. “We should talk about this. We’re partners, Jungkook. We can’t let one night get in the way of our work.”

He stopped like you’d shot him.

Tension rippled through his frame. When he turned to face you, it was slow. Dangerous.

“One night…” he repeated.

Voice like gravel. Like regret. As if it tasted like blood in his mouth.

“God, you must really hate me…” he huffed, the dimples appearing as he gnawed at his bottom lip. “Is that what it was for you? Just one night?”

And there it was.

The air between you thickened. Dense. Combustible.

Every breath you shared was a threat.

A challenge.

A lie neither of you could keep telling much longer.

Then—

Clang.

A metallic thud slammed through the stillness.

The fire stairwell.

Adrenaline sliced through the haze like a blade to the jugular.

The heat between you evaporated—consumed by instinct. No words, no delay. Just the clean, brutal snap of motion as both of you shifted gears like twin chambers firing. He pivoted. You dropped to the shoe bench near the front door, lifted it with practiced efficiency. Underneath—your weapon. And the spare you always kept, just in case. Just for him. 

You tossed the Glock in his direction.

He caught it without looking—like your hand and his were parts of the same weapon, forged to work in tandem. His keys hit the ground, but neither of you so much as flinched.

This wasn’t chaos. This was code.

You and Jungkook moved like a language only your bodies remembered. Poetry written in violence. He stepped left as you went right. Breaths synced. Limbs mirrored.

Partners indeed. But not just that.

The stairwell door creaked again.

You moved into the hallway, silent as ghosts.

“One. Downstairs,” you murmured, voice razor-thin.

Jungkook nodded, just once. “They’re running scared.”

Then the chase detonated.

You sprinted down the concrete steps, the cold biting into your bare feet like punishment. Jungkook’s boots struck beside you, each step deliberate, brutal. Every movement between you practiced, precise, deadly.

You hit the garage’s lower level. Shadows clung to the corners like predators watching from the dark.

Jungkook’s hand snapped to your lower belly, half his fingers grazing bare skin beneath your t-shirt as he halted you. The touch seared, more dangerous than anything else in the room. Your breath hitched, traitorous.

Focus.

Ahead—a figure, caught mid-motion. The guy turned—saw you.

Recognition flared in Jungkook’s voice. “Guy from the photo. Snake tattoo.”

The man bolted.

Jungkook fired. The shot rang clean, ruthless. The SUV’s tire exploded before the target’s foot even left the ground. Rubber shrieked against pavement.

But it wasn’t over.

Two—no, three—more.

Armed. Unafraid.

Professionals.

“Split,” Jungkook muttered, low and lethal.

You peeled right, vanishing behind a beam. Gun raised. Heart hammering. Jungkook ghosted left—faster than light, heavier than wrath.

First one came at you with a crowbar, the arc whistling death.

You ducked the blow and fired—right into his thigh. His scream echoed off concrete. Another came behind him, bulletproof vest thick on his chest. Your second shot knocked him back but didn’t drop him.

You barely adjusted before Jungkook slammed into the guy, body to body, sheer force. The man hit a car hood with a sickening crunch.

You turned—

Too slow.

Another came in low, fast. Trained. 

Fuck.

Your arm lifted, but his hand was already there, wrenching your wrist wide. Pain sparked. You fought back—knee snapping up, breath a growl—but his grip held.

And then you felt him.

Sudden, fierce. Jungkook’s hands on your waist, lifting, flipping you back over his hip. Your body hit the ground—hard.

But his body cushioned it.

Your breath stuttered. 

He was under you. Hot and solid. Every muscle taut, every breath ragged. His fingers lingered too long just below your ribs, brushing over skin no one should be touching. Heat bloomed.

Time stopped.

“Show off,” you muttered, lifting your arm. You fired. The man dropped, clean.

“I like dramatic entrances,” he replied, his voice low and a promise, his eyes all flame.

Another guy emerged from the shadows, slipping behind a van with his gun already raised.

Jungkook moved instantly.

No hesitation, no question—just his body between yours and the threat, shielding you like instinct. The shot rang out, ricocheting off metal, too close. Jungkook didn’t flinch. He grabbed you and rolled you both behind the SUV’s bumper, one fluid movement, his arms tight around you.

Your hand clutched his bicep. His thigh wedged between your legs. His arm beneath your head. The concrete should have been cold, but all you felt was him—hot, tense, grounding.

Your heart thundered. His echoed it.

“Close one,” you breathed, shaken, eyes locking with his.

His breath washed over your lips. “You okay?”

“You’re on top of me.”

A slow grin tugged at his mouth. Dangerous. “Yeah. Not complaining.”

You shoved at him—but it lacked force. Like you needed to push him away before you did something worse.

Jesus. You were still on the clock.

You rolled to a crouch, nodded toward the final attacker. The heat in his gaze vanished. The smirk? Gone. He snapped back into mission mode like it was a second skin.

The last man bolted.

Jungkook pursued.

You followed.

Your heels slammed the concrete. Pain screamed up your legs, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Your blood roared in your ears. Jungkook closed in first, tackled the guy without mercy, slamming him into a pillar so hard the echo cracked down the garage like thunder.

The man fought hard—rage in every limb, desperation in every move. Jungkook was still buzzed from the alcohol, still bleeding—but still stronger. You reached them in a blur. Drove your elbow into the guy’s spine. He dropped like a felled beast. Motionless.

You stood over the body, breath jagged. Heart roaring. Body trembling with more than just adrenaline.

Jungkook leaned against the pillar, bruised and split-lipped. Blood painted a line down the side of his face—sharp, bright, and brutal. It caught the light like a vow. He looked like a tornado just barely held in place.

“You’re bleeding,” you said, voice tighter than you meant.

“I’m fine.”

“You always say that.”

He looked at you. And for a beat—under the flickering garage lights—he wasn’t your enemy. Or a mistake made in a night, the one you’d run from. Or even just your partner.

He was everything you feared you wanted.

His chest heaved. Yours mirrored it.

And then he stepped closer.

You didn’t move.

“You hesitated,”  he said quietly.

You blinked, thrown by the shift. “When?”

“When that cameo scumbag came at you. You looked at me first.”

Your jaw locked. “So?”

His gaze didn’t waver. He stepped closer until you could taste the bourbon on his breath. Blood and sweat clung to the air between you like incense in a burning church.

“So don’t,” he murmured. “Next time, just take the damn shot.”

Your spine stiffened. “You saying I can’t handle myself?”

That dangerous smirk flickered again. But this time, softer. Less weapon, more wound. He reached out—and his fingers brushed your jawline. Just barely. Just the edge of it—slow. Intentional. Reverent. As if memorizing the shape of your defiance.

“I’m saying I notice everything you do,” he rasped. “Especially when it’s for me.”

Your breath caught mid-throat. The confession gutted you more than his touch.

But before you could speak—

A grunt. Wet and gurgled.

One of the bodies on the ground wasn’t quite done dying. He writhed, breath rattling like a broken instrument.

You both turned.

Jungkook stepped back.

Not far. Not enough for the space to cool. Just enough to draw his pistol. Calm and quiet, his fingers wrapping around the grip like it belonged to him, like it knew the shape of him.

And he fired.

One shot. Final.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—It throbbed.

It hit harder than the bullet. Not because of what he did. You’d both done worse. God knows you were past redemption.

But you stared. Not at the body. At him.

Because this?

This was different.

This was standing in the middle of the fire. Not running. Not denying. Just… burning.

“We—we need to deal with the bodies,” you said, but your voice sounded mechanical, hollow. You could feel the revelation of your feelings sending your body into shock. “If they trace this back here... I can't—The ones from the hard drive job, they’re still out there. I can’t risk—”

“Shut up.”

The words hit like a whip and you froze. 

The bastard knew it. Knew your body, your mind like it was his. 

“I got this,” Jungkook said, eyes gentle, steady, locking onto yours. “Take the guns. Check on your informant. I’ll be up in a few.”

Your mouth was dry. You couldn’t leave him, you needed—

“You’re hurt. Not to say drunk,” you bit out, more afraid than angry.

He gave a short laugh—lacking energy, his body was betraying him too. “I’ve had worse.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And yet.”

“I have contacts too, you know. I’ll burn the mess before anyone smells it. Go upstairs.” Then he looked at you again—really looked. And everything in you fractured.

“Trust me.”

And you did. You fucking did.

That was the real problem.

It wasn’t the blood or the mess or the ghosts that haunted you.

It was that.

You trusted him more than you feared what your feelings for him could do.

You’d checked on Yoongi.

Safe. No tail. Still smirking like the devil had given him his lines personally.

By the time you returned to the apartment, the sky had bled into ink—thick, suffocating. One of those nights that clings to your skin, whispers against your pulse. The kind that knows your secrets. The kind that feels sentient.

You’d been pacing ever since. Barefoot. Restless. Your heartbeat ticking like a landmine.

You kept glancing at the window without realizing. At the door. At your phone. Not checking it. Just… listening. As if some part of you knew the kind of mess Jungkook possibly walked into and hadn’t come back from. As if your body was betraying the fear your mouth refused to voice.

Then—

Three knocks.

Soft. Deliberate. One pause. Then two more.

His rhythm.

Always his.

You opened the door before your mind caught up. Like instinct had already laid out the red carpet for your ruin.

And there he was.

Relief hit you like a sharp exhale. Not loud. Not visible. But it bloomed in your chest like pain. You didn’t let it reach your face—didn’t dare. You still hadn’t decided what scared you more: the idea that something had happened to him… or the fact that you cared that deeply if it had.

Bruised. Bloodstained. Sweaty strands of dark hair plastered to his temple like shadows, eyes heavy-lidded and shining too dark in the hallway light. He looked like the aftermath of a war—and yet, you couldn’t look away.

“It’s sorted,” he said. “I identified two of them as Choi’s underdogs, but it’ll take a while to—”

You didn’t let him finish.

“Let me check that cut on your brow,” you said, already grabbing his wrist and pulling him inside. The door shut behind him with a quiet finality.

If something serious had happened, he would’ve led with it. Jungkook was nothing if not brutally efficient—he didn’t bury the lede. Which is exactly why, despite the wreckage on his skin, your focus stayed on him. Not the mission. Not yet.

He followed wordlessly. Heavy-footed. Letting you lead him toward the bathroom like he was tied to you by something ancient and binding.

You rummaged through the cabinet, refusing to look at his face too long, refusing to feel that heat that still hadn’t left your skin from earlier.

Behind you, he laughed—a lazy, low, lopsided sound. The kind that always came with trouble. The kind that curled into your belly and settled there, warm and invasive.

“Baby, it’s a tiny cut,” he drawled, voice syrupy and wrapped in alcohol. His eyes edged something like endearment through the mirror. “I just need a shower. Don’t worry about it.”

Baby.

That nickname again, cutting like a silk against bare skin. A reminder from that night together. A trigger. A temptation.

You turned.

Just in time to catch the sway in his stance. One shoulder slumped against the doorframe. His pupils were dilated. Lips slightly parted. And God, he looked feral—like want was eating him alive from the inside out.

“You’re too drunk,” you said, your voice low and clipped. “How much did you drink before coming here on your fucking bike like a lunatic—before continuing to drink?”

You glared at him, jaw tight. “And don’t even deny it. I saw the damn thing parked out there.”

He grinned, all teeth and danger—boyish and wicked. “Just a bit.”

You let out a short, bitter laugh. “You fucking—”

You moved before the thought even formed, your hand going straight to the exposed skin above his belt—where his shirt had ridden up. Palm flat. Skin too warm. Muscles tight beneath.

You shoved him back. A push that lingered too low. Too intimate.

He stiffened. But didn’t stop you, kept walking back.

His breath grew shallow. His eyes dropped—to your mouth. The air around you turned charged, electric.

“I told you I can hold my liquor,” he murmured, voice fraying at the edges. “I am holding it. Barely. I’ll admit that. But God, you—”

His hand hovered near your throat, clawed fingers curling just short of contact. Not grabbing. Just wanting.

But didn’t.

“You’re— Fuck.” he struggled.

Your knees nearly buckled. That memory—his hands on your throat, mouth on your skin—flared so bright you could taste it.

“You look at me like you want to kill me,” he said. Voice cracking on something too real. His hand dropped. A surrender. But not defeat.

“And maybe I do,” you snapped, though your hand stayed where it was—gripping his side like you needed the anchor. Like you didn’t want to let go. Your nails curled slightly between his belt and his V line. He shivered beneath the pressure.

His pupils dilated further, eyes locking on yours as if remembering everything you too were failing miserably to forget.

And then—he reached.

His hand slid behind your neck, fingers threading into your hair. Not yanking. Not dragging.

Just there. Claiming without question.

Breath warm against your lips.

Your heart stuttered.

Then you reached behind him—found the faucet—and yanked.

Water exploded over both of you, steam rising instantly, curling around your limbs like smoke from a fire you couldn’t put out.

He gasped, startled. His shirt clung to him instantly, outlining every line, every inch, water running in rivulets down the slopes of his body.

“What the—?” he started.

“You said you needed a shower. I agree,” you cut him off, hissing. Stepping into the spray with him, heat crawling down your spine. “You need to sober the hell up.”

He stared at you for a breath, stunned.

Then that look flickered into place.

Dark. Amused. Dangerous.

Water traced a slow path down his jaw, dripping from the cut above his brow. Down his throat. His chest. His voice came low and rough, barely more than a growl.

“Careful,” he murmured. “Or I’ll begin thinking the secret to have you under me is getting you wet.”

You pressed your finger to his cut meaning to hurt—to shut his mouth—, hovering close enough to feel his pulse beneath the skin. Your own shirt was soaked through, clinging to your curves like a dare, and you were suddenly too aware.

He grunted but didn’t pull away. Instead, he smiled. That insufferable, knowing smirk that said he could read every inch of your skin. Worse, that he could get under it.

“You wish,” you snapped, pulling your hand away.

His laugh was low and rough, soaked in sin. “I did,” he said, leaning in until the mist between you was all but gone. “And look at you now. Drenched. Again.”

Silence collapsed over the bathroom like a loaded gun.

You stared at each other like it was war. Like one word, one twitch of muscle, would set the whole damn room on fire.

His gaze locked with yours, dark and searing. Possessive. Like he’d never stopped seeing you as his. Like he knew every thought crashing through your mind in that moment.

And you wanted him.

God, you wanted him.

But the wanting didn’t make it less dangerous.

It made it worse.

You wanted his hands on you. His mouth. His body pinning you to the wall so hard you forgot your name. You wanted him to ruin you—devour every inch, mark every part, leave nothing untouched, nothing sacred. Just like he did that night.

You wanted him because you weren’t supposed to.

Because it would burn everything you’d built—every wall, every rule, every lie. And still, you’d do it again.

His voice broke the silence, rough and low, like a sandpiper doing his best to lure you in.

“I killed them.”

The words crashed into you like thunder. 

He didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. Just stared, soaked and still, letting the truth settle slowly in your lungs like you were taking a drag from one of his cigarettes.

“The rest of the guys from when I…stitched you,” he said, voice hoarse, eyes hollow and burning. “Every last one of them. You don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

Your breath caught—snagged hard in your throat.

“What? When?” The whisper barely passed your lips.

His jaw flexed, twitching like he was chewing on the weight of it. “I had a lot of time on my hands the past two weeks,” his chest kept rising and falling, eyes unrelenting. “A lot of anger to burn.”

You lost yourself in the black pool of them, able to catch your reflection, thinking that the better question would be why, but you knew the answer. And it wasn’t because Jungkook would always have your back, because you were partners. It was the something more.

Whatever thin, frayed thread had been holding you back—snapped.

For a second you had to remind yourself—it’s okay to want something that might ruin you. To crave what cuts. And maybe you were already bleeding.

Your hand reached his collar, tugging. He let himself be pulled, leaning down like a storm bending toward you, moving slow, steady, devastating—giving you time to run. But you didn’t.

Because you wanted him to kiss you.

The moment his lips caught yours, everything burned off like fog meeting sun. The ache. The exhaustion. The war.

The kiss was slow at first—sinful, soaked in longing. The kind that studied every edge of you. Then your teeth caught his bottom lip, dragged with just the right pressure. He moaned—a dark, low sound that made your insides twist.

Jungkook leaned his forehead against yours, breathing heavy through the water falling over your heads.

“This is a bad idea,” you whispered, eyes closed as he teased your lips. 

He trailed a hot path toward your ear, fingers curling around your hips. “Since when do we follow good ones?” 

A bite on your lobe, soft. You lost control.

You pressed into him harder, hand locked in his jaw, seizing his lips completely. He shuddered, fingers coming to slide from your temples through your damp hair. Clutching, desperate. Your bodies taut with desire, tension razor-thin. 

You moved, hands falling on his shoulders, then a push—you climbed him without mercy. His hands immediately under your thighs, squeezing. You were dizzy—drenched in him—just like that night, feeling feverish. Each kiss made your thoughts blurrier, your skin tighter, your breath more ragged.

Jungkook slammed you against the tile wall like he could read your mind, his hips grinding against yours. God, he was so fucking hard. You moaned, he grunted. Water rained down, steaming over your flushed skin, making every nerve feel electric.

You gasped with another roll of his hips, body trembling with every throb of want.

Fuck, you needed out of your clothes. 

Needed them gone—

One leg came down, then the other. You shoved him back, his raven eyes searched for yours, dizzy. Almost supplicant. 

Your lips parted, clit throbbing as you stripped the soaked t-shirt clinging to you. It peeled away slow, like silk over embers, baring you to the heat of his stare.

Jungkook froze.

Breathing heavy. Watching.

His gaze licked your chest, then fell to the stitches still holding on your side, right underneath your ribs. 

“You should’ve taken those out,” his was voice low, raspy, “Now it’ll leave a scar,” and you caught the way his teeth found his lip, that damned dimple deepening—like he was already claiming it. His name etched in flesh.

Good, that had been your intention. 

“No shit…Sherlock,” your lips curled into a knowing smirk. A laughter almost fell from your lips when you saw the realization befalling his eyes. His knuckles whitnening, balled in fists. 

That fuelled you. 

Your fingers fell to strip the boxer shorts next, leaving you only in your black lace panties. You stood bare before him, water sliding down your curves like an offering.

He stared in a daze, gulped.

Like you were a sin too beautiful to resist.

And he was ready to confess the only way he knew how—with worship and destruction.

Jungkook’s inked fingers found the back collar of his shirt, pulling it off in one fluid motion—water trailed down his chest like a whisper. Boots thudded to the tile, cast aside like fallen armor. Still, his gaze never left yours.

Your thighs pressed together as you took him in. 

He was bare but for drenched jeans, dangerous and unguarded. The belt fell next, with a splash, and then his fingers found the button—until you closed the distance, taking over. You dragged his zipper down, slow, eyes piercing his.

His breath hitched.

Not even blood had undone Jeon Jungkook like this. This wasn’t vulnerability. It was exposure. Raw. His chest rose hard; pierced lips parted, begging for that final push—like if you did so, he’d come undone right there.

And you liked the feeling.

You liked the power humming beneath your fingers. The way he vibrated with the effort of not losing it.

Just to test him, to twist the wire tighter, you dropped your hand after unzipping him, let the distance stretch—mocking a retreat. Your steps pulled back, every line of your body begging to be chased.

“Don’t—Come here. Now,” Jungkook snarled, one step faltering.

You chuckled, slow and dangerous, stopping. Your eyes stayed on his, playful and defiant.

Jungkook could twist your mind into knots. Wreck your logic with a look.

But two could play.

And you had fire in your lungs now.

You stalked back toward him, eyes never dropping, and slid to your knees with the kind of poise that could unravel a man.

Tilting your head, biting your lip, you murmured, “Is this what you wished for? When you kept thinking to yourself I’d crawl back to you? That I was yours to keep?”

His breath was wrecked. His jaw flexed.

“Yes,” he said, the word broken with need. “That—and so much more.”

The confession hit the air like a lit fuse on dry kindling.

You smiled—slow and knowing, like a promise draped in danger. “Really?” you whispered. “And what else did you wish I’d do?”

Your hand slid up his thigh—slow, commanding—knuckles brushing soaked denim, the heat of his skin bleeding through. You felt the muscle tense beneath your palm, a quiet shudder betraying his restraint.

Jungkook’s eyes flared—black, volatile, molten. Then he moved. Fast.

He surged forward, seized your waist with fingers that dug into flesh like he was claiming a victory he hadn’t yet earned. He yanked you upright, effortless, like your body weighed nothing to him—like control was already his.

You barely had time to blink.

With a grunt, he flipped you over his shoulder, and the air rushed from your lungs. Your wet hair clung to your back, your cheek pressed to the plane of his spine. A yelp caught behind your teeth.

Then—smack.His palm fell to your ass like a whip, loud and ruthless.

You gasped, startled and electric, the sound swallowed by the hiss of steam and the wet splash of water against tile. The sting bloomed through your skin and burrowed down into heat.

"You're a fucking menace," he muttered, voice rough and thick with something darker than amusement—like each word had been dragged over gravel, heavy with the battle he was losing against himself.

Your laugh came out breathless. Aroused. Dangerous. "Funny, you seem to like it."

He growled—actually growled—and the sound lit up your nerves like dynamite. With one hand steady at your thigh, he reached out and turned off the shower, then walked you out like a man done pretending.

He carried you down the hall like a stolen prize, like something sacred and savage he’d fought to win. No hesitation. No falter. His gait was confident, practiced—and yet you’d never walked this route together before. He still knew exactly where your bedroom was.

The door creaked open and shadows welcomed you. Moonlight spilled across the sheets like it, too, had been waiting.

The room pulsed.

He didn’t lower you gently. He tossed you down like a challenge, like he was daring you to run again so he could catch you all over.

You landed with a bounce, limbs splaying, hair a halo across the bedding, lips parted. The moment held, thick with the throb of everything unsaid.

Then he was over you.

Jungkook’s body came down like a waterfall—damp denim scraping over lace, his weight pressing you into the mattress, heat bleeding through every inch. His arms caged your head. His breath ghosted over your cheek.

He was everywhere.

You arched into him, chasing friction like it might answer the ache inside you. His skin was slick with water, warm and wild. His jeans rubbed with exquisite cruelty between your thighs.

And his eyes—God, his eyes were flame.

He dipped his head, brushing lips to your throat—once, soft enough to almost hurt. Then he bit. A sharp press of teeth that said mine, that said run again and I’ll follow.

“You left, you ghosted me,” he pulled the soft skin beneath your ear between his teeth, like it was penance.

“Ah,” you moaned, your head tipping back, hair plastered to your face, his heat bleeding into you as steam still clung to your skin. One of his hands slid to your breast, bold, hungry, and you could barely think around it.

“I—I’m…”

But the words died in your throat. Thought scattered.

Jungkook’s breath stuttered against your mouth. Hot. Shaking. And then—

He moved.

Devastating.

One hand wrapped around his cock, dragging it out of his jeans with a groan that sounded broken. The kind of sound that could tear open ribcages. The kind that made your breath catch, knees press inward, thighs shake.

The other—

He hooked rough fingers into the lace clinging to your soaked skin, yanking your panties aside like they’d offended him by existing. No finesse. No delay.

You spread your legs before you realized you had. The want in your chest curled like claws—sharp, urgent, feral.

Then he thrust.

Hard. Deep.

You cried out. His name caught on your tongue like a spell gone wrong. He filled you—inch by inch—with a slowness that wasn’t mercy, but control. You arched. He didn’t stop. Buried to the hilt, the stretch a brand, a claim.

He felt perfect. Like he’d been made to wreck you.

You remembered—fuck.

The condom. It hit you mid-moan, a flash of ice through the heat. You weren’t on the shot—you never were. Not with how it messed with your body, your reflexes. Not in your line of work.

Your hands flew to his hips, trembling as you tried to stall his rhythm, tried to choke out words through the haze.

“JK—ah, fuck—Stop. Wait—”

He started to pull back, the motion sudden, his breath sharp, panicked. His eyes found yours and they pleaded.

“No. No, please. Baby, please—”

A breathless laugh fell from your lips. You couldn’t help it. His desperation—it was fucking adorable. You dragged your nails down his back, slow, soothing. “We forgot the condom.”

Relief transformed him, but he didn’t waste a second. He slipped out cursing under his breath, and was on his feet in an instant, already moving.

“Bathroom,” you said, still catching your breath. “Second drawer.”

He came back fast, foil in hand, eyes locked on you like a man starved.

You were already on your knees, waiting for him at the edge of the bed, panties gone. One hand curled around the back of his neck, pulling him in. The kiss was slow, deep. Sin-drenched. You toyed with the damp strands at his nape, shivering at how they curled against your fingers.

Jungkook pushed his soaked jeans off. Finally. Your mouth watered. The white boxers clung, transparent, and left nothing to the imagination. You licked your lips.

You helped take them off too. Then his inked hand found your chest, pressing you back into the mattress. A smirk playing on his lips. The condom hit the sheets a second after. You chuckled, low, breathless.

And then he was on you.

His weight pressed into yours, lips at your ear, voice low.

“Tell me again what you said that night.”

“What?” you breathed. You could barely remember your own name.

“That you hate me,” he bit your jaw. “Lie to me again, and tell me that you hate me.”

“I hate you,” you said—except it came out soft. Like a kiss. Like a confession.

His mouth traveled down. Kisses trailed heat. You whispered it again. He sucked one nipple. 

“Fuck, I hate you.” and again.

His chest rumbled, a dark chuckle as he closed his eyes and trailed down. He dragged his teeth through your lower belly. It coiled. You fisted the sheets. 

“Mhm, I hate you.” you kept chanting like a shield.

He reached between your legs and moaned into you.

“Ah— I fucking hate you,” you gasped, back arching, fingers clawing at his hair, desperate to keep him there.

“I hate your mouth…Those goddamned hands,” and as if on command he squeezed your thighs, his tongue circled, teased, playing with your rationale. “I hate— I—” you started losing yourself, hips undulating, trying to meet his pace. 

Jungkook groaned—devouring you like he’d never tasted anything real before. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Just moaned, begged, burned.

“Don’t stop,” you panted. “Jungkook—”

He didn’t. He ate like a man dying. Sucked and swirled and bit until your body broke, splintered into light, your orgasm ripping through you like it had claws. You cried out, one hand fisting the sheets, the other holding him there.

“Oh, God— Fuck!”

He looked at you from between your legs, licking you through it, slow. 

Then he rose with one last long lick, grinning like a feline, crawling back up, mouth crashing into yours—letting you taste yourself on his tongue. You kissed him back hard, wild, lips swollen, mind reeling.

He groaned into it, and the condom was in his hand in a second. He ripped the foil and rolled it on. His eyes—blown and wild—never left yours.

His hands found the back of your knees, and he pulled, fast. Like he couldn’t bear to wait a second longer. 

He dropped.

And thrust into you—no warning, just heat and pressure and that tight, perfect stretch.

Your mouths clashed. You kissed like addicts, like two people who had tried everything else but nothing ever came close to this.

Your nails sank into his shoulders, searching for something to hold as he drove into you. Over and over.

Jungkook moaned. Deep and raspy. Feral. One arm braced beside your head. The other—he slid under you, gripping your ass, dragging your hips up to meet every punishing thrust.

He fucked you like he was possessed. Like he wanted to possess you.

Your orgasm started building again—fast, feral. He felt it. The way you clawed at his back, your moans climbing in pitch against his neck.

“You thought we were done?” He wrapped that hellish inked hand around your throat—not tight, just there, a tether. His pace slowed. Unbearably slow. His eyes dark, locked to yours. “I’m not done. Understand?”

You barely had time to gasp before he slid out, flipped you like you weighed nothing.

A whimper escaped your lips, thighs clenching. 

He reached out, his hand gripped your jaw, angling your head back to him. His breath came hot over your lips. “Head down. Ass up.”

You stared at him, defiant—because you could. Then, slowly, you leaned even more toward him, let your tongue flick his lip piercing. A challenge. 

“I’ll let you be the boss tonight, then.”

You caught how his tongue poked his cheek. How rage and lust twined in his eyes, before going on all fours and sinking your head further into the mattress, tauting him. 

“You—” he shook his head, jaw tight. He gripped your waist with one hand, the other guiding him to your entrance. “I swear you’ll be so spent you won’t be able to run. Not tonight.”

Then he slammed into you.

The sheets muffled your moan. Your clit throbbed as he forced your knee out and drove in again—Hard, fast, vicious. 

“JK…” you cried out.

His hand fisted in your hair, tugging, arching you flush against his chest. Mouth to your ear. “Ngh, fuck, baby—it keeps getting better–”

He pounded into you. You could barely breathe. Barely think.

“Yeah,” was all you managed, and you squeezed your eyes shut, taking it.

Your walls clenched. Hands pressed into the sheets, rocking back into him, chasing every stroke. 

You arched again, his hands pulled, squeezed—slick skin on his thighs, water still clinging to both of you, and all you could think about was that you could be doing this for two weeks had you not been such a coward.

He hit deep. Again. And again.

“Harder,” you whimpered. “Ah, right there—!”

He grunted and gave it to you.

“Jungkook, I— Mhm–” You shattered. Your orgasm burst white-hot and ruined you.

He kept going, chasing his own end. His hand closed around your breast as he came, groaning against your back, filling the condom with that sexy, throaty moan of his. It echoed deep in your core. 

You both collapsed—sweat and steam and aftermath. 

“Fuck,” he panted against your shoulder blades.

A second passed, just your breaths filling the bedroom, then—

“JK… You’re crushing me.” You chuckled against the sheets, and he pulled out, breath ragged, rolling onto his back beside you. 

You stretched out your legs, sore and blissed out. Watched as he rolled the condom off, tossed it toward the bin.

Then he dragged you to his chest. Lazy grin. Warm eyes.

You kissed him—lazy, honey-slow. His throat rumbled with a sound that made your stomach flip.

“Stay with me,” he breathed against your lips. “Just—”

“I missed you,” you whispered, fingers sinking into his damp hair.

You felt more exposed than when you were beneath him, neck bare and exposed.

“I missed this.”

He went still. Eyes finding yours. Then—he kissed you again, deeper, longer. You wondered if it would ever stop being this… head-spinning. 

When he pulled back, he nuzzled your nose. “I fucking missed you too.”

You lay there. Still breathing. Still burning. Still tangled.

“They can’t know. No one can.” your voice was barely a whisper. 

You didn’t say why. You didn’t need to. Jungkook knew. 

If your superiors caught wiff of it—worse, if whoever was your enemy next did… You’d both have a grave marked with your names. 

“I know,” he said. Then added—grumbling, “But that informant of yours should. The nerve on that guy!”

You snorted. Rolled your eyes. One hand untangled from his hair to cover his face, pushing gently.

He bit your palm with eyes closed. Dragging the flesh there. The vision did something stupid to you. 

In a swift motion, you straddled him.

And he looked up at you like you were everything. Just laid there beneath you, round eyes ravaging on the shape of your body on top of his.

Your hands slid to the space between his chest and abs, feeling him, pinning him. He started to breathe hard, slowly hardening under you again. 

Holy fuck.

His grip returned—your hips in his rough palms. Fingers curling. 

You arched, dipping towards his mouth. Brushing, featherlight, teasing. 

“You should know by now I’m not the most patient guy,” he grunted, fingers running along the expanse of your legs. You laughed against his mouth, low, satisfied. 

Then you bit. His lip. His jaw. His throat.

When you returned to his mouth and he tried to kiss you—eager, barely in check—you stopped him. Smiled. Your lips just hovering, his breath rough. 

You held him there, hand on his jaw. 

Then you rolled your hips on his cock, slow, hard.

Jungkook moaned, head tipping back. 

“My turn,” you clashed your mouth against his.

A faint rustle broke the silence.

Cold air kissed your bare skin—an empty space beside you where warmth used to be. Your arm instinctively reached out, fingers curling into the mattress before you stirred, eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks.

Jungkook…?

You blinked awake. He was sitting at the edge of the bed, lit only by the soft morning sun sneaking in through the curtains. His back was to you, spine a canvas of light and shadow. He bent forward, pulling something from his jeans. The screen of his phone lit up once, a low buzz vibrating through the silence. 

Shit. You’d soaked his phone the night before. Please be working—

He answered it with a rough, still-sleep-heavy “Yeah?”

You moved before your thoughts could catch up—sliding across the sheets like you were weightless, drawn by the scent of him, the pull of him. Your body folded around his, forehead pressing to his shoulder, your mouth tucked into the space just beneath his jaw, breathing him in. He smelled like sweat, like cotton, like you.

He shifted, pulling you closer. 

Jungkook was so deliciously warm it hurt. 

“You owe me, you know,” a voice crackled through the line—male, lazy drawl layered with something sharp underneath. “You dropped a bomb on me last night. Took me four hours to cover it. I want answers.”

The contact.

You hadn’t known a name, hadn’t needed to. But Jungkook had mentioned someone last night. Someone who could clean up a mess. Now, the puzzle was whole.

Jungkook’s fingers found your thigh, skimming over your skin like it was habit. Like he didn’t need to look to know where you were.

“You’ll get them, Taehyung,” he muttered, mouth brushing your hair as he spoke. “Got anything for me?”

A pause. “Yeah. I have what you wanted. Meet me in thirty.”

He turned, lips catching yours—barely there, like he couldn’t not kiss you. Then his hand slid lower, slipping between your legs, teasing, slow and confident.

“Make it two and a half hours,” he said into the phone, voice quieter now, voice that always made you ache.

“Two and a half? What the hell are you—”

“I’m busy.” A smirk tugged at his mouth. “Send the address.”

He ended the call without waiting, phone thunking softly onto the nightstand. His body turned fully, slow and heavy with sleep and want. He looked at you like you were the only thing that had ever made sense.

“Morning,” his lips found your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “Where were we?”

You laughed into his skin, teeth grazing the scar on his shoulder—the one you’d given him that first mission, when you didn’t trust him and he’d called you reckless.

“You were just about to take off my stitches and then make me breakfast.”

Jungkook grinned, unrelenting. “Then round three in the shower?”

You groaned, but you were already folding, fingers running through the soft and haparzed strands of his hair again, lips catching his.

“Regroup. Round three now, everything else later.”

And he was already on top of the situation. Already on top of you.

© ACHERONSOCIETY / 2025, all rights reserved. do not steal, repost, translate and/or claim this work as your own.

[acheronsociety]

✶ WHEN THE STARS REFUSE TO LIE

in which... you try to break up with your fuck budy, sirius black, but he's not ready to let you go just yet.

pairing: sirius black x slytherin f!reader word count: 1.6k content warning: angst ✶ fluff ✶ some cursing, and sirius's irresistible rock star charm

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 time Sirius Black kissed you, it was behind the tapestry of the third-floor corridor. He tasted like rebellion and danger, like the cigarettes he never admitted to smoking behind the Owlery. You were just supposed to be his alibi. A pureblood Slytherin to keep his mother’s mouth shut and her claws from shredding the life he built outside of 12 Grimmauld Place.

But you wore your emerald-green gown like it was armor forged in fire. You looked every bit the darling pureblood, but your smirk had razors tucked in the corners, and your laughter mocked the polished table settings and wine-stained hypocrisy of the Black family name.

You made the room your stage. And Sirius—Sirius couldn’t look away.

He should’ve known.

From that dinner onward, you were a secret. The kind he craved more than firewhiskey and freedom. Behind the pretense of Slytherin-Gryffindor enmity, you two unraveled rules and clothes alike in broom closets and forbidden corridors. You knew how to laugh just loud enough to get away with anything. You didn’t ask for promises. He never offered any.

But you ruined him anyway.

Because you didn’t need him.

And that scared him more than anything.

Now, it’s days after the final Quidditch match of the year. Gryffindor won. Sirius sent you a single line by enchanted parchment: Meet me. Usual place. Celebrate.

But you never came.

Not to the Whomping Willow. Not to the Astronomy Tower. Not to his bed with the charmed silencing spells. You disappeared like mist when the sun rose, and when he checked the Slytherin common room on his map, your dot was gone. 

You vanished. No note. No closure. The kind of silence that says more than shouting ever could. The kind of silence that makes Sirius Black get on his flying motorbike and cross counties to stand outside your window in Wiltshire.

You hear the purr of the engine before you see him.

Then a thud. Window latch. The scent of leather and wind.

He’s inside.

He lands in your room like he owns it—like the world is tilting and he’s the only one immune. His black boots sink into your velvet rug, fingers flexing by his sides, heavy rings glinting with every twitch. His jacket is half-unzipped, revealing a threadbare Muggle band tee, the hem riding up slightly to show a sliver of skin and a sharp hipbone marked with ink.

Sirius looks like sin made tangible. Hair mussed, jaw tight, eyes lined in sleep-deprived defiance.

He looks like trouble. He looks like yours.

And he looks livid.

You’re already standing. You don’t flinch, but your fingers curl into the bedpost behind you.

“Sirius.” you cut a quick glance to your bedroom’s closed door out of the habit of this little secret of yours. “You shouldn’t be here.”

He stalks forward a step. Stops. “You’re avoiding me.”

You lift your chin. “You noticed.”

His nostrils flare. “You didn’t show.”

Your arms cross, slow and deliberate. “You’ve got options. I assumed you wouldn’t be alone long.”

That lands. His jaw ticks. “Bloody hell, you think that’s what this was?”

You shrug, casual cruelty—a perfect Slytherin deflection. “Isn’t it?”

He moves again. This time close enough that your breath catches. “I didn’t sneak around Hogwarts for months, blowing off my friends, just to toss it aside.”

You tilt your head, defiant even when your heart is hammering. “You didn’t exactly make a declaration either.”

“I didn’t think I had to.”

You laugh once. “Right. Because we both knew the rules. No strings. No mess.”

He stares at you like he’s trying to memorize your lies. “I never bloody looked at anyone else.”

You raise an eyebrow, challenging. “Not even that Ravenclaw girl who keeps trailing behind you like a stray? The one Potter keeps pushing on you for stupid double dates?”

He steps in. Too close now. His voice drops. “She’s not you, Trouble.”

Your breath hitches at the adoration with each he mumbles the nickname. He sees it, and it makes him angrier.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you say, before he mentions to inch closer.

“Neither did I.”

He reaches up—like he might touch you—but stops, fisting his hand by his side instead. The restraint in him is louder than any outburst.

You take a step back toward your desk, creating space like it’s armor. “You hate everything I represent, remember?”

He follows, slowly. “Yes, I thought I did, yes.”

“Then why are you here?”

You watch Sirius’s hand run through his messy locks, his eyes burning with something between disbelief and frustration. “Because I’m not walking away just ‘cause you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared,” you snap.

“Yes, you sure as hell are.”

Your hands tighten around the edge of the desk. “Don’t try to psychoanalyze me, Black.”

“Well, I’m not trying ‘cause I know what fear looks like. I see it every time I look in the mirror.” His voice falters, then steels. “But I still showed up, didn’t I?”

You swallow, voice quieter. “You think I want to be some name your mother checks off her list?” 

“You’re not her fucking list! You’re the exception.”

You laugh, bitter and hard. Your locks tingle your cheeks as you shake your head softly. “You’re too good at this.”

“At what?”

“Making girls believe they’re the only one.”

Sirius exhales sharply, then crosses the room so fast you barely register it. His hands land on either side of you, bracing the desk behind you, caging you in. He doesn’t touch you. But you feel his heat. His tension. His goddamn truth.

“I’m not playing a role. Not with you.” he dives in search of your eyes as you refuse to look at him. It takes the tip of his nose to brush yours for him to finally reel you in. “Never with you.”

Your heart aches. But your pride clings.

“I need it to stop,” you grunt.

His throat works around something raw. “No.”

“Sirius—”

He leans in, forehead touching yours. “You think this is easy for me? You think I like that you’re the one person I can’t shut out of my head?”

You close your eyes.

“I hate that you’re the one thing I never meant to want,” he breathes and the warmth of it, lingering on your lips, makes you want to melt onto him. “But here I am, Trouble… Don’t do this to me.”

Your voice breaks as you inhale as much of him as possible. “I just– I can’t do this anymore, Sirius...”

His hands drop, but he doesn’t step back. “Then tell me it didn’t matter. That it meant nothing for you.”

You open your eyes. “Don’t make me lie.”

He looks at you like the war is already lost. But he’s not leaving the battlefield.

His hand comes to your jaw as he stares deeply into your eyes, much like he’s laying down the only weapon he has left. “Then fucking be with me.” His voice is tight, rough. “I don’t get why you’re trying to end this.”

You exhale drily, trying to pry your face out of his hold. Unsuccessfully, your fingers brush instead against your temple like you can wipe the thought away. “Because I don’t want to be a fucking anecdote, for fucks sake. Some story you tell your mates later—about the time you fooled around with the Slytherin girl, the pureblood exception.”

His brow furrows, deeply, painfully. You’re not even looking at him now, eyes flicking to the window like freedom might still be out there. “I’m tired,” you say, softer now. “Of being someone’s secret. Of pretending it doesn’t sting when I see the way they all fawn over you. I can’t do that anymore.”

He stays right there in front of you like an impassive wall. His gaze burning your temple, your cheek, your mouth. “So what—you want a boyfriend, is that it?”

You look at him, jaw tight. “I don’t need the label. But if you’re with me, you’re with me. No secrets. No side comments. No ‘it’s complicated’ when someone asks.”

Sirius blinks. Then he shrugs, all defiance and affection wrapped in a guy trying not to fall apart. “Okay. I’ll be your boyfriend. What else do you need?”

You slap his chest without thinking—open-palmed, not hard, but pointed. He bends back a second before straightening his spine and lets out a surprised chuckle.

“I’m fucking serious about this!” you snap, the words cracking on emotion. “You can’t just be—whatever—about it. I’m not going to be with someone who doesn’t... like me like me.”

Sirius grins now, not smug but almost awestruck. Like he’s never seen you like this. Like he’s never seen anyone like this. “In case you haven’t noticed yet, Trouble,” he murmurs, voice thick with affection, his ringed fingers tangling with your hair, “You’ve been walking me like a dog for months, and I haven’t even complained.”

You freeze.

Then shake your head slowly, lips trembling somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah.” He dives in close again, his other hand coming to brush your cheek. Gentle. Real. “But I’m your idiot. If you’ll let me be.”

For the first time since this started, you let yourself lean into him. To feel the weight of his body, not burning, not to seek a release from it, but tenderly. 

You whisper, eyes like a warning, “If we do this... it really stops being a secret.”

“Good,” he says, voice gravel. “Let it.”

Then his mouth crashes onto yours, and your knees almost buckle if it weren’t for his damn hands anchoring you in place.

© ACHERONSOCIETY / 2025, all rights reserved. do not steal, repost, translate and/or claim this work as your own.

[acheronsociety]

✶ BLOODY CRAWLING BACK TO YOU

in which... you absolutely hate your co-worker, the insufferable Jeon Jungkook. but you're badly hurt, and somehow, your feet led you to his door.

pairing: jungkook x f!reader ✶ ( secret agents au ) word count: 7.7k content warning: smut ( mdni ) ✶ angst ✶ mentions of blood, bruises, fights, sex, and lots of cursing. notes: although I'm a sucker for the arctic monkeys original version, this one was inspired by hozier's cover of "do I wanna know". hopefully it's not too soft for what I've written, and if it is... well, sorry bout that !

⋆ 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒆 𝒃𝒐𝒕𝒉 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒔𝒂𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒔𝒂𝒚 𝒕𝒐𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒘 𝒅𝒂𝒚...

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏 was biblical—like the city itself had decided you were a stain it needed to scrub off the map.

You staggered through alleys slick with city grime, rainwater swirling in neon puddles at your feet. Every step punched a fresh flare of agony through your side, where your coat clung wetly to the blood seeping from beneath. You didn’t know if your ribs were bruised, fractured, or split like kindling—but every breath felt like dragging lightning into your lungs and hoping you didn’t catch fire.

They’d said four men. Maybe five.

They’d lied. It had been closer to eleven—if you were counting the one catapulted through the window. You’d clawed your way through that hell. Fought like an animal in a trap. And you’d gotten what you came for. The hard drive burned cold and hard against your belly, its weight heavier than steel.

But now you were bleeding.

And somehow, your body—battered, burning—had walked you here.

Of all places.

To him.

You stood at his door, water dripping off your soaked clothes to pool at your feet, hand raised in mid-air, suspended in hesitation. The alley behind was too quiet. The storm outside sounded muffled, like the world was pressing in from all sides and this was the eye of it.

You hated him.

You hated him with an intensity that tasted like smoke and felt like lust. Hated his smirk. His arrogance. His voice. His eyes. His mouth. Hated how often you imagined it against your skin, even now.

But you couldn’t walk another block.

And you couldn’t risk what was in your hidden pocket. Couldn’t risk losing yourself out there when you'd already lost too much.

Your fist met the door before your pride could stop it. The knock echoed through the porch. You turned your head, checking behind you out of habit, expecting a shadow to crawl from the storm. Nothing. Another knock, this time louder—sharper, more frantic. Pain bit at your side, sharp as a blade twisting. You doubled slightly, hand pressed harder over the heat blooming beneath your ribs.

And then the door jerked open.

And there he was.

Jeon Jungkook.

Fucking hell.

His black hair was a mess—still damp like he’d just gotten out of the shower, frowzy strands falling across his forehead. His raven eyes, sharp as always, scanned you in a single, sweeping glance. No flicker of surprise. No warmth. Just that same infuriating coolness that always made your blood boil.

“Seriously? Where the fuck have you been? Losing a fight with a sewer?”

His voice was a cold blade, smooth and deadly.

You didn’t reply. You looked past him instead, scanning the dark corners behind his shoulder—checking for threats, anything to distract from his judgment.

“Hi to you too,” you muttered, lips twisting in a smile that wasn’t a smile at all. Sarcasm was armor, and you wrapped yourself in it fast.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood there with his arms crossed like he’d been expecting you—and maybe he had.

That was the thing about Jungkook. He knew your tells like battle scars. And he used them.

"Can I come in?" you asked, the words rasping out before you could steel yourself. Your voice cracked, just slightly, under the weight of everything you were trying not to show. "Please."

That made him pause.

Jungkook wasn’t used to you asking for anything—let alone pleading.

He didn’t say a word. Just stepped aside, eyes never leaving yours.

You passed him like smoke, brushing too close, too fast, but not fast enough to miss the heat radiating off his skin. You didn’t look at him again. Couldn’t.

“Thank you,” you muttered, half breath, half defeat.

The door shut behind you with a soft click.

You and Jungkook had been orbiting the same hell for too long. Tossed together by whatever bastard thought pairing oil with fire was a great tactical move. You worked like wolves. Clashed like storms. And when it mattered, you covered each other’s backs with snarls and bloodstained fists.

Still, you had rules. Self-made. Non-negotiable.

No drinking with him.

No sleeping in the same room.

No letting him see you bleed.

No showing up at his door when you were breaking.

Too late.

The couch called to your bones, but his voice cut through the air like a whip. “You’re soaking wet.”

You rolled your eyes, dragging a hand through your drenched hair. “No shit, Sherlock.”

Your fingers found the back of the sofa, steadying yourself as exhaustion clawed at your spine. Your clothes felt like lead. Your skin itched from the dried blood you knew clinged underneath. If you closed your eyes, you were done for. So you didn’t.

He moved to the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. Leaned against the frame, arms folded, every muscle taut beneath the hold of a black shirt. The battered—and quite edgy—fabric hugged his torso like it wanted to be torn off. His sweatpants hung dangerously low, a taunt all on their own.

Your gaze flicked down. Just once.

Big mistake.

"I’m assuming you got it?"

The husky scrape of his voice pulled your head up. You stared for a beat, then moved to the table in the kitchen like your legs weren’t screaming with every step.

"What do you think?" you bit back, reaching into your jacket and yanking out the hard drive. You chucked it at him without ceremony. “Prick.”

He caught it with the kind of lazy precision that always pissed you off. No flinch. No reaction. Just a long look, like he was trying to read past the rain and bruises to what lay underneath.

But your coat was still on. Your secrets still safe—for now.

You slumped into a chair. He moved beside you, sliding his laptop across the table and plugging in the drive.

"‘Kay then, let's just throw the thing around so we lose the leverage we have and money we won’t be paid for."

You allowed yourself to shut your eyes for a second, and leaned your head against the wall behind you. “Dramatic as ever.”

The clicking of his keyboard filled the room. Rhythmic. Familiar. You focused on it like it might keep you conscious.

“What took you so long then? Are you that out of shape?”

A small laugh escaped, tight with pain. “As if.” You shifted in your chair, wincing as fire flared under your ribs. “They lied. There were more of them than their intel promised. A lot more,” you muttered, voice brittle with leftover rage.

The keyboard stopped.

You opened your eyes to find him staring.

“How many?”

You let out a breath. Winced again. “Ten? Maybe twelve? I didn’t exactly count heads while they were trying to break mine open.”

His expression faltered.

Just a crack. A flicker. Barely there—quick enough that anyone else might’ve missed it. But you saw it. The sharp flash of something unspoken that darted through his gaze like a blade—gone just as quickly as it came.

He stood slowly. Like he was bracing for impact. Like he could already taste the blood in the air. His movements were quiet, calculated. An animal not yet sure if it needed to strike or mend.

“You’re hurt.”

The words were low, almost a growl. Not concerned. Not yet. But deadly focused.

“Not really.” You shot back too fast. Too automatic. The deflection barely made it past your lips before another sharp wince cut through you, slicing clean under your ribs like a warning. “I’m just soaked… and sore. Pretty normal after rain and knocking out a few men.”

His gaze sharpened.

Whatever he’d been doing on his laptop no longer mattered. Jungkook stepped closer, leaving the glow of the screen behind like it was nothing. His full attention snapped to you like the click of a safety being released.

His eyes dragged over you—slow, deliberate. Mapping out every flinch, every shiver of pain beneath your soaked jacket. You felt stripped bare, despite the layers you still wore. You hated that look. Hated how closely he could read you. Like his fingers weren’t the only things that could undo you.

You shifted back in your seat instinctively, tension rippling down your spine.

But his voice cut through your retreat like iron.

“Take that off.”

The command didn’t even try to be soft. You saw the way his jaw tensed around it, like he hated how much he wanted to say it—and how badly he meant it.

Your breath stilled. An unholy cocktail of defiance and heat clawed up your throat.

“Excuse me?”

“You're drenched,” he said, cool and precise, but his tone wasn’t nearly as detached as he wanted it to be. “You're shaking. And now I can bet my ass you're bleeding too.”

His eyes dropped—too focused, too dark—and locked onto your side. His voice lowered, rough like gravel. “Just get in the bathroom.”

Oh. Oh. He was fucking serious.

And that made you want to punch him.

Your throat bobbed as you swallowed the heat rising in it—rage, maybe. Or something worse. Your fingers curled tight against your thigh, jaw grinding. “You can ready your ass then ‘cause you couldn’t be more wrong!”

But even you didn’t believe that. Your body throbbed in agreement, every nerve screaming betrayal beneath the slick black of your sleeves. You knew how to fake strength. But you were running out of it.

You stood. Slowly. Painfully. If you could just make it to the door—

“You have the package,” you muttered, trying to keep your spine straight, even as your knees threatened to fold. “I already did my part. Now you keep it safe.”

You turned your back to him. The mistake was thinking he’d let you go.

You barely made it four steps before his hand was gripping the collar of your jacket, yanking you to a halt. “Just get in the fucking bathroom, for fuck’s sake!”

"Or what?" You spun, fury lashing in your tone, a snarl curling your lips as your fingers fumbled furiously with the zipper.

You would leave his place with or without the damn jacket. You didn’t care. This was a mistake—coming here, letting him see you like this, giving him even an inch of something he could hold over you.

"Or I'll fucking make you," he growled, yanking the jacket from your shoulders as the zipper finally gave way.

The motion twisted your arms awkwardly, pain lancing through your side with a white-hot burn. You faltered. A sharp breath escaped you as your knees buckled.

He caught you immediately.

And when he steadied you, it wasn’t with roughness. It wasn’t with victory.

“Sorry. Fuck—I'm sorry.” His voice dropped, rough and ragged, hands gently guiding you back upright. “Just… please, let me help you.”

Your head fell forward, forehead brushing the side of his shoulder. Not from affection. From sheer exhaustion. From not having the strength to keep up the fight.

When you finally opened your eyes again, his were already watching you, one hand dragging through his hair in a clear sign of restraint. His chest rose and fell beneath that clinging shirt, his breath a little too uneven.

“Look—you came to me. You’re already here.” His hand returned to your hip, grounding and firm. “Let me just take a look at that.”

You opened your mouth, ready to throw another snarky line just to keep the rhythm of control in your corner, but before you could, he was already steering you—gently, insistently—toward the bathroom.

“Jungkook—”

His hand shot up near your mouth, not touching, just fingers curling in the air like he was this close to losing whatever thread of patience he had left.

“Just—shut your pretty mouth for a second.” He turned to open the bathroom door, not waiting to see if you obeyed. “Get in. Take that off.”

He nodded toward your shirt and gave the smallest push to your lower back. “I’ll be right back. No arguing.”

And then he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind you.

His bathroom was bigger than expected. Clinical. Sterile. Almost too neat for someone in this line of work. But it made sense, in that strange, maddening way Jungkook always did. Controlled chaos in the field—total discipline at home.

The dim light spilled down the tiled walls in long, moody shadows. The floor was freezing under your bare feet as you peeled off your shirt, every movement stiff with pain. Your fingers trembled, but you managed it.

Your cargo pants stuck to your thighs, soaked and heavy. You unfastened them, sliding them low enough to access the damage—only to the curve of your hips. Anything more and your pride would unravel too.

You sank onto the closed toilet lid in just your open pants and a black sports bra, arms bracing hard on the basin. Your breath came shallow, dizzy from blood loss.

The door swung open, startling you.

You jerked, arms flying up to cover your chest. “You could always knock.”

“And miss the show?” His voice was low, shameless—but it didn’t bite. There was no cruelty, only that maddening velvet steel that was his signature.

He stepped in slowly, kneeling before you with a med kit tucked under one arm, movements deliberate and devastatingly calm. The sight of him like that—on his knees, flushed skin and damp hair, inked arm flexing beneath that cursed black shirt—made your stomach twist violently.

Desire, or pain. Maybe both.

“Just give me that—I can manage,” you said, reaching for the bottle of antiseptic in his hand.

But his fingers wrapped around yours, guiding your arm down with a tenderness that disarmed you more than any threat. “No, you can’t.”

He looked at you—really looked—his eyes falling to the crimson trail running from your ribs, jaw tightening as he exhaled. “This’ll sting.”

His hands hovered over your skin, the gauze paused midair. He wasn’t moving. Just staring at your torso like it told a story he hated reading.

You shifted. “Well?”

That snapped him out of it.

He pressed the antiseptic to your wound and your world exploded.

“Son of a—”

“Breathe.” His voice was a rasp, low and oddly soft, his free hand finding your hip. His fingers didn’t press—just steadied. A quiet promise not to let you fall.

And for a second, you let him hold you like that.

You lost track of everything once he peeled the bloodied gauze away, his movements deft and careful. Jungkook picked up a hooked needle with the same deadly focus you’d seen him use while disarming a bomb or loading a gun. His teeth came down to snap the nylon thread, the noise sharp in the bathroom’s too-quiet air. Your breath hitched.

Modesty didn’t matter now. Not with the sweat on your brow, the taste of copper in your mouth, and the burn that spread from your side like a live wire. You uncurled your arms from your chest and gripped the basin and wall behind you, knuckles whitening, fingers digging into porcelain.

“Oh, God…”

You didn’t mean to say it out loud.

He noticed—of course he noticed. Jungkook’s eyes darted to your face. Then his hands came down to your knees, grounding you with a touch that was unexpectedly steady. Unexpectedly warm. Like an anchor.

You couldn’t stop staring at the needle, though.

Your gaze clung to it like it might jump at you. You weren’t new to fieldwork—scars littered your skin like a patchwork of every mission that had gone sideways. But stitching? That was personal. Up-close and brutal. It wasn’t the pain that got to you. It was the implication. The intimacy of being opened and closed again in someone else’s hands.

Worse than all that was him seeing you like this.

Panicked. Fraying. Human.

“Hey.”

His voice slipped through your spiraling thoughts.

Then his hand was on your face—firm and unrelenting. His fingers curved under your jaw and tilted your chin down, forcing your eyes to meet his. He looked thunderous, but not in the way you’d grown to expect. Not cruel. Not smug. He looked… patient. Focused. Like he was trying to will the fear out of you.

“You really need the stitches, baby,” he said, and the nickname unraveled something low and sharp inside your chest. “I don’t have anesthesia—But I’ll make it quick, I promise.”

You blinked at him, momentarily mute.

It wasn’t just the pain—it was the softness, the way he said baby like it was a secret he hadn’t meant to let slip. You didn’t know if you wanted to slap him or lean into him.

Your chest tightened. So you nodded, barely.

“That’s it. Keep your eyes on me.”

And then he stitched.

The pain came instantly. Sharp and molten. Your whole body flinched, muscles locking as you grabbed your discarded shirt beside you and shoved it into your mouth to muffle the cry. It was either that or scream.

But you didn’t look away from him.

Not once.

Even through the haze of agony, you couldn’t ignore how he looked up at you between every pull of the thread. His brows furrowed in concentration, his lashes casting shadows over cheekbones sharpened by the low light. That little scar he had on his left one. Every few seconds, his eyes found yours, like he needed to make sure you were still breathing.

And worse—you liked that he was watching.

His fingers moved too near your skin, grazing the edges of you, slow and precise. With each tug of the needle, a jolt ran through your spine. Not all from pain. Your body was buzzing, alive in a way that made you clench your jaw and hate every molecule of awareness you had.

Because why did he have to be this close?

Why did you want him closer?

You took the shirt out of your mouth and swallowed hard. The tension in your voice matched the tension on your skin. “You always do this?”

He didn’t look up. “Do what?”

“Play medic for strays?”

His jaw clenched tight, shadow gathering under his cheekbone. His hand paused on the final stitch, threading the knot harder than needed. His silence was louder than a curse.

He tossed the needle aside like it had burned him, shoving the med kit across the tiles with a careless flick of his hand.

“Only the ones that run into traps alone.”

The words cut deeper than the stitches.

His hands hovered in his lap, still curled into fists. You watched his teeth bite down on his bottom lip, hard enough to make that faint, telltale line dent his cheek. The one that only showed when he was furious. When he was trying to hold back.

You knew that look. You’d seen it too many times. He always wore it before things exploded.

“You should’ve told me,” he said finally. His voice was raw, softer than before. A confession, almost.

You couldn’t handle that softness.

Your gaze dropped to the floor, jaw tight. “It’s just a scratch,” you muttered, but the words rang false in your ears yet again.

He sat back on his heels, eyes still burning through you. “Just a scratch,” he repeated, the laugh hollow. “Yeah, right.”

The silence that followed wrapped around you like a vice.

Not peaceful. Not even quiet. It throbbed—the kind of quiet that made your skin prickle and your lungs tighten. It felt like something had cracked open between you, and neither of you knew how to close it.

You moved to stand, needing air, space—anything that wasn’t this. But before your muscles could engage fully, his hand came down, flat and sure, against your thigh.

Not a grip.

Not a threat.

Just there.

“Don’t,” he said.

You made the mistake of meeting his raven eyes.

Electricity. That’s what it felt like. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing the dark brown whole, and there was something feral clawing behind them. Something wild. Untamed.

Not hate.

Need.

“I’m not staying,” you whispered, barely able to push the words past the burn in your throat.

Jungkook rose in one fluid movement. He was suddenly there, towering over you, too close, too solid, the heat of him crowding the air.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

The words were a promise. A warning. Maybe both.

He turned his back to you before you could respond—walked to the sink like the conversation was over. He scrubbed his inked knuckles hard, the water hissing as it hit the porcelain, blood swirling down the drain in thin, ghost-red streams. He didn’t look at you once.

But he didn’t have to.

He thought you’d stay.

So you stood. Fast. Pain stabbed through your side, but adrenaline burned hotter. You clutched your wet shirt like a weapon, storming for the door with your pride clenched so tight it nearly suffocated you.

He moved before you could touch the handle.

“What is it now? Huh?” His voice snapped like a whip. “What’s the hurry?”

He stood in front of the door like a sentinel. Like he’d expected this after all. His body blocked every inch of escape.

“I’m going home,” you bit, hand flying to the knob. “You have the damn drive, you don’t need me to run it. I’m done here.”

His hand clamped over yours, solid and immovable. His grip was hot, skin calloused. Like steel locked against silk.

“You were bleeding just a second ago, goddammit! You’re hurt. There’s no way in hell I’m letting you out of here.”

Your voice dropped, venomous. “You don’t get to decide.”

Jungkook leaned in, so close you could feel the fire of him, smell the faint cotton-and-cigarette scent clinging to his skin—a contradiction so sharp it made your breath hitch. His voice came out low, all grit and fury, the heat of it brushing your cheek like a threat.

“I do when my co-worker is falling apart and pretending to be fine. You’re not going the fuck out there like that and that’s final. I didn’t stitch you up only for you to drop dead.”

You didn’t speak. Not with words.

Your body did.

You shoved him.

Hard.

Your palms collided with his chest and he staggered back, spine hitting the door with a thud that echoed like a gunshot. His jaw clenched. A muscle ticked in his neck. And for a second—just one second—you thought he might lunge. There was that flare in his eyes again. That glint of the monster you knew better than most. Want tangled with rage. But he didn’t move.

He just stood there, breathing hard, teeth clenched behind those pierced lips he didn’t part. The way he stared—like he could rip you apart and worship you in the same breath—lit something molten in your chest.

Then, abruptly, he turned his face away, playing nervously with the loops piercing his bottom lip. Calmed himself. Swallowed it all.

“I’m running you an ice bath,” he muttered, voice flat but dragging like smoke over gravel. “It’ll help with the bruises. Trust me, you’ll thank me tomorrow.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. You stood there, vibrating with the fury and the pull, while he moved like a storm through the bathroom, filling the tub. You could hear the splash of the water hitting porcelain, could see the slow swirl of mist rising where frost met heat. Jungkook crouched and pulled something from behind the tub—a coiled noose of silver tubing, a trickle system you hadn’t noticed. Typical. Always had a backup.

“There’s clean towels there,” he said, passing you on his way out, pointing to a cabinet with one long finger. His shoulder brushed yours—intentionally or not, it didn’t matter. It burned. “Don’t lock it,” he added without looking at you, already opening the door. “Just in case something happens. I won’t come in. Just—spare me from having to barge through it, will you?”

Then he was gone, the door closing behind him like a full stop.

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

The room was quiet except for the hum of the water. You exhaled slowly, peeling away the rest of your clothes as you hated yourself for complying so easily. The sports bra clung to your skin like a second wound, and your pants stuck as if determined to keep every painful inch of the night stitched to you. Your underwear followed. Cold air rushed in against your naked skin, but it wasn’t the chill that had your blood racing.

You stood over the tub for a moment, teeth sinking into your lip as your fingers hovered. Then, jaw tight, you slipped in.

It was ice.

Literal ice.

You hissed, biting down a scream as the freezing water bit into your bones like knives. But you didn’t get out. You let it happen. Let it burn the heat off your skin. Let it numb the ache in your side and slow the beat of the panic still coiled in your gut.

You stayed submerged there until the pain was dulled by another—the kind that started to settle in your fingertips, the subtle ache of skin flushing blue at the nails.

That’s when you moved. Slowly. Deliberately.

You rose, dripping and goose-pimpled, wrapping yourself in the thick towel you found exactly where he said it would be. Your body felt like it didn’t belong to you anymore, your brain spinning in that hollow, too-calm way that meant you were still in survival mode.

Your eyes fell to your soaked clothes on the floor and tugged at your bottom lip again. Maybe you could use Jungkook’s drier and then call a cab or something. You gulped drily, looking down on yourself and the towel that hid even less than your previous attire. 

But then again, the feeling of having the wet clothing itching back your skin, tormenting your wounds, made you want to yell. 

You decided by leaving them in a heap in the corner and opened the bathroom door with a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

And there he was.

Leaning against the wall right across from the door.

Waiting for you.

Like he knew you wouldn’t bolt.

Like he dared you to.

His eyes dragged up your form slowly, drinking in the towel, the steam curling around your hair, the flush in your cheeks—not just from the water. His lips parted slightly, breath shallow, but he didn’t speak.

The silence between you screamed enough.

He exhaled like he was trying to drag the edge off himself, and you stood there in a trance, waiting for him to move first in this chessboard you stood on every time you were face to face. 

“It’s late. Take my bed,” Jungkook said finally, shoulders tensing, fists balled up inside the pockets of his sweatpants. “The couch is a wreck and you’re not curling up on the floor like some damn street cat.”

Your laugh cut through the air, sharp and disbelieving. “Don’t fucking order me around.”

“Oh, I will, since you bled all over my bathroom and all that,” he shot back without missing a beat, turning down the hall like he’d already won. He didn’t even check if you were following, but of course you did—seething and restless and not quite finished.

Jeon Jungkook was the king of final words. He collected them like weapons. Filed them sharp and threw them with intention. You doubted he even knew how to end a sentence without stamping it in blood.

When he reached his bedroom, the sight of his rumpled sheets made you pause in the doorway. They looked like him. Dark and messy and lived-in. He strode over to a dresser, fingers trailing over the wood as if the casualness could fool either of you. It didn’t. His every movement was intentional—controlled, like he was holding himself together at the seams.

“I’m not staying,” you said again, softer this time. A warning, or maybe a plea.

He didn’t turn around. “You are.”

Then his gaze lifted—through the mirror perched above the dresser. It met yours with devastating precision, and the current in the room sparked like something struck metal.

The bedroom shrank. The walls leaned in. The air felt heavier with every breath you stole, your pulse thudding traitorously against your skin.

You felt everything too much—the towel clutched tight around your chest, the damp fabric molding to your curves; the tendrils of wet hair brushing along your spine; the sting of cold air on your bare thighs. Your nipples peaked beneath the cotton, begging for a little more friction.

Jungkook turned finally, grabbed a shirt from the drawer—white, of all things—and tossed it to you with a flick of his wrist, eyes somewhere over your head. “I’ll dry your clothes after you put that on.”

You caught the shirt with one hand, inhaling as it settled in your grip. It was soft. Lived-in. You could smell him on it.

He gestured with a jerk of his chin. “Bed’s clean.”

You rolled your eyes instead of answering. Arguing now was pointless.

You could dig your heels in, sure. But your body ached. Your side pulsed. Outside, the rain hadn’t let up for hours. And the bastards you’d escaped tonight weren’t going to rest easy. If they were hunting, you weren’t up for round two.

Plus, he did say he would dry your clothes for you. You’d have to wait for that anyway.

Jungkook watched your stance shift—read the surrender in your silence like the tactician he was. Deciding it was safe, he stepped forward, back to the mirror, facing away from you.

He gave you privacy. As if it mattered anymore. As if he hadn’t already seen you stitched and half-naked, skin marked with blood and bruises.

Still, you waited.

You kept your eyes locked on his broad back, on the way his shoulders tightened when you didn’t immediately move. He wasn’t relaxed—he was steel braced for impact. Like he knew what would happen if he turned again.

You let the towel slip. Slowly. Let it fall in a whisper at your feet before grabbing his shirt and tugging it on. It clung in places, soft cotton sticking to damp skin. His scent curled around you, confusingly comforting, irritatingly intimate.

You tugged at the hem—useless. It barely brushed your thighs.

“Of all the black shirts you own, you had to choose the white one for me? For real?”

He turned then—and froze.

His eyes dropped again. Just for a second. Took in the stretch of your legs, the curve of your hips, the little puddle starting to soak through the shirt as you brought your hair all to one side. His throat bobbed.

And when his gaze snapped back to yours, it was searing.

“I’m fine,” you found the need to reassure him, stepping forward. Too close. “This isn’t my first rodeo.”

“I know,” he said hoarsely, voice wrecked. “That’s the problem.”

His eyes were wild—something caged came back, clawing just behind them once more. Like if he stayed a second longer, he’d do something neither of you could undo.

And so, he bolted.

“I’ll finish checking the drive,” he barked, already halfway through the door, not sparing a glance back, closing it behind him.

You were left alone, blinking in the sudden silence, his scent still clinging to your skin, your blood still thrumming like a war drum.

You crossed the room slowly, each step softer than the last, until your legs hit the edge of his bed. And then, without thinking too hard, you slipped beneath his sheets, still warm from his body.

And for the first time in hours, you let exhaustion win.

Your eyes felt too heavy to open, but it was your own voice that betrayed you first—a soft medley of a moan and a whimper, curling out of your throat like it hadn’t asked for permission.

Everything smelled like him.

The cotton warmth of Jungkook’s bedsheets clung to your skin, soaked in his scent, and it made your limbs feel heavier, your thoughts more tangled. You shifted beneath its weight, your body aching and too warm under the covers. A chill skittered down your spine regardless.

Was there a window open?

You clenched the pillow under your head, breath catching as another whimper slipped out, softer this time, needier. “Jungkook,” you whispered into the sheets, the sound too raw for comfort, too real.

And then you felt it—that presence.

Like a sixth sense, prickling beneath your skin. The faint light beneath the door drew the silhouette of a man carved out of stillness, perfectly rigid, perfectly silent.

Your pulse surged.

Maybe he hadn’t heard. Maybe you were imagining it. Fever dreams could do that.

But your breathing turned shallow, and the room spun slightly, dragging your consciousness fully awake. You could feel him, even without seeing his face. You could feel the way his attention wrapped around you from the other side of the door like a noose waiting to tighten.

And then your mouth betrayed you again, raspy from sleep and dry with nerves. “Are you coming in or not?”

The silence fractured.

The door creaked, slow and deliberate. The knob turned with a soft click, and then he was there.

Jungkook’s eyes latched onto yours like a hook in the gut. Gone was the usual sharpness, replaced by something raw—wide and glassy, like he’d just lost a fight with his own thoughts. His hair was a darker mess than earlier, like he’d run his hands through it in frustrated loops. His face looked shadowed, haunted. Sleep hadn’t touched him.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, heat flashing beneath your skin. The thin sheet pooled at your hips, clinging to the sweat and fever coating your bare legs.

He just stood there.

“I tried the couch,” he said, voice low, almost hoarse. Like it hurt to speak.

You swallowed. Hard. “M-My clothes are probably dry now, I’ll go—”

“No.” His voice cracked with something too sharp to be gentle. He gripped the frame of the door with both hands, like he needed to anchor himself or else he’d do something reckless. “Stay. It’s not that.”

His eyes followed your leg sliding beneath the sheets, and your breath stilled.

“What is it then?” you asked, trying not to let your voice tremble.

Jungkook hesitated—then his jaw clenched, breath flaring through his nose. “I kept hearing you… couldn’t sleep.”

You licked your lips, nodding faintly. “I think I’m breaking down in a fever.”

That was all it took.

He stepped inside, slow like he was wading through quicksand. As if afraid you might flinch. His knees met the edge of the bed and he hovered there, wavering fingers finally lifting to your forehead. Then your cheek. Then the slope of your neck. His touch was gentle, hesitant. Like he was afraid to confirm what he already knew—but hungrier for the permission to touch you than he should’ve been.

You didn’t look away.

Your eyes stayed locked on his while his palm lingered against your pulse. And there was heat there, not just from the fever. Your thighs shifted under the sheets, friction teasing your skin in all the wrong—and right—places.

“So?” you asked, breathless.

Jungkook didn’t respond right away. His hand was still on your neck, fingers grazing the sensitive skin behind your ear. His lips parted like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

“Let me… uh, let me check on the stitches.”

He pulled his hand away too slowly, reluctantly, and the air felt colder where he’d been. You nodded faintly, heart hammering, remembering suddenly—damn. You were still only wearing his shirt.

You swallowed again and tugged the covers higher over your hips before raising the hem of his shirt. You stopped right under your breasts, baring the stitched flesh to his eyes.

His breath caught audibly.

He didn’t say a word. Just reached out, and when his fingers found the edge of your wound, they were soft. Reverent. He traced the perimeter of the bruising like he was learning it by touch.

Your eyes fluttered. You hadn’t expected that kind of delicacy from him. But it was undoing you in pieces.

Then his fingers drifted lower. Barely an inch, grazing your skin like they had no business being there—but made themselves welcome anyway. Your stomach coiled, every inch of you taut with anticipation. And when he reached your lower belly, your breath hitched and a moan slipped out.

He froze.

“I—” he whispered, mentioning to pull back his fingers. “I should stop.”

You were faster.

Your hand shot out, seizing his wrist, eyes blazing. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”

His breathing turned frantic, eyes wide and searching your face like it was a war he didn’t want to win.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.” his voice trembled but made no move to get out of your hold. “You have a fever and—”

“And I’d say the same if I hadn’t one,” you interrupted, pulling him closer by the collar of his shirt until his lips hovered over yours.

Jesus, you had to be fucking delirious. 

You struggled to pin his gaze, feeling the burning of your wound from holding your abs tight from the position you were in. But you weren’t stopping this. 

He growled low, like something deep in him finally snapped—and crashed his mouth onto yours.

Your fingers threaded through his hair instantly, tugging with just the right amount of pressure. He moaned into the kiss, biting your lower lip, devouring you with an intensity that blurred every line you’d drawn.

Clothes started melting away, yours first. Jungkook’s mouth only left yours to slide his t-shirt over your head. Then his hands ran all over your naked back as he trailed a path from your neck to the sweet spot beneath your ear, lowering you back down. 

His tongue lashed and you could feel his body was heat and tension and want as you pulled him closer to you. “You’re mine.” he whispered.

God, you needed his clothes gone. 

You tipped your head back into the pillow, a whimper falling out of your mouth as you savored the warmth of his mouth back on your throat. The faint sting of his hand brushing against your ribs completely subsided by the knee he had between your legs, occasionally brushing against your core through the sheets. 

“For tonight,” you teased with a grin. 

Jungkook fisted your hair and covered your mouth ardently, and you moaned feeling his damn tongue all the way down between your legs where you needed him most. Your toes curled in pleasure. 

You didn’t know if it was the burning fever taking control over your body or your own unbridled desire, but you needed him closer, needed to feel his skin on yours. 

You started clawing his black t-shirt impatiently and he chuckled against your mouth, bringing his hand to the collar of it, pulling it out for you. 

His heat poured onto your torso immediately and you shivered, letting your fingers glide over his narrow waist, getting under the waistband of his sweatpants and pulling them down to his thighs. 

When you mentioned doing the same with his boxer briefs, mind dizzy as you felt him hard beneath it, he gripped your wrist, halting your movement. 

“God, you’re killing me,” he lifted himself inches off your face, staring deeply, voice wrecked with need. “We can’t—”

“I told you. This is not my first rodeo,” you said against his mouth. “And I don’t want to think about all of this. Just finish what you started.” 

Jungkook growled and his hand came down on your collarbone, pushing you. You fell back down onto the pillow, gasping as your hair fanned around you. He got up, baring his teeth, yanking his sweatpants and briefs all the way down. 

Your heart started thumping in your ears, heat firing your chest, neck, cheeks, as your eyes drifted up his body. Your own burning for him. 

Fuck. Perfect golden skin. Tight stomach, narrow waist. Toned arms, one of them inked to the knuckles—a devil in the night ready to pounce. 

Killing smile. 

Gentle, so fucking gentle with you tonight. 

Jesus, you really were fucking delirious. 

You clenched your thighs, but he kept pinning you down with his eyes, clearly unhappy about you being injured as well as you not wanting to think about the repercussions of what was going on between the both of you. Which you found adorable because his eyes kept darting to your breasts and then to your thighs as you peeled the sheets from them and watched him struggle to breathe. 

Jungkook was as untamed as you were, and he couldn’t stop the storm coming any more than you could. 

Suddenly, all of him was stretched above you, fitted against your body like sin. He squeezed your thigh, pushing it down on the mattress, and you spread your legs wider. A whimper left your mouth when he came down grinding on you. Your back arching, eyes closing as he sucked a nipple into his mouth. 

“Mmm,” you fisted his hair back again, relishing on the softness of his raven locks.

His hips dipped again, rolling against you, and you bit your lips, pulling his face toward your mouth. “You have—” you tried as another roll of his body made you clench. “Ah—please tell me you have something.” 

He looked up to your eyes, smiling. “Yeah.”

You bit his lower lip, dragging your teeth as he gasped and squeezed your under-thigh. You locked one ankle on his lower back, pushing him into you. 

“Ah, fuck,” he moaned.

His body stretched as he reached for his bedside table, opening the drawer and haphazardly pulling out its contents until he found what he was looking for. Your mouth only left his neck once he rose up, taking out a condom, looking down at you from between your legs. 

Jungkook’s eyebrows were etched in anger as he tore the wrapper with his teeth. His eyes never leaving your body as he tossed it and fisted his cock. 

Instinctively your hand came down to rub your clit and he groaned. 

He looked like a god staring down on you as he rolled the rubber on. Your head swarmed with the vision, your fingers working faster, tummy coiling expectantly. 

“You’re so fucking hot it hurts,” he breathed hard, coming down on you again. Your eyes locked as he reached between you to guide himself. 

Your hands snaked around his neck, one tugging at the hair on his nape as he crowned your entrance, pushing inside just barely. You couldn’t help but clench. “JK…” and he groaned in response. 

“You’ll be crawling back to me,” he whispered, pressing himself deeper and deeper. 

You moaned, relishing how he stretched you.

“You can run away as much as you like,” he kept going, grunting as his inked knuckles wrapped around your neck. “Throw a tantrum for all I care…”

He sank into you, filling you to the brink, so deep, stretching you so completely, that a single cry torn straight from your throat. 

“But after tonight, you’ll be crawling back to me,” Jungkook growled. “Again and again—You’ll be fucking mine.” 

His mouth crashed into yours, making you moan, bringing your legs to the small of his back as he withdrew and sank back in deeper and harder.

“Oh, fuck,” your back arched off the bed. 

Your breathing became labored as he propped himself with his other hand, staring you down as he plunged into you over and over. He gave a little squeeze on your neck, and you clenched around his cock, making him moan, dipping his head back for a moment. 

Jeon Jungkook felt so good. 

God, he felt amazing on top of you. 

You clawed your way from his pecs, down to his abs, and you felt it tighten under your touch. His pace turning unruly, wild.  

You spread your legs wide, as wide as they would go, dazed with fever and how good it felt the deeper he went. “Nhg, you feel so fucking good—fuck,” he gasped. 

“I need–” you held onto him and he sucked the air groaning, “Harder, JK.” he rolled his hips into you on command. 

God, you were spiriling. 

Your hands snaked around his waist, and you digged your nails into his ass, helping him roll into you harder, as you met him halfway. 

Sweat glistened your bodies, and it was getting hard to breathe. You couldn’t give a damn if the stitches would tear, the lush pressure of him on top of you, inside of you, kept your mind reeling. 

You’ll be fucking mine, he had said. 

You already were. 

“Jungkook, I–” you gasped, trying to mold his body to yours as your orgasm started building. “Jungkook–”

“What, Jungkook, what?” he teased. 

But your mouth came to the curve of his neck and collarbone instead, biting and moaning as he kept ramming your spot over and over. 

Your nails dragged down his back, burning his skin as you arched into him. You cried out as you found your release, the world spinning, your body wrecked as euphoria crashed into you. 

Holy shit. 

Jungkook came completely undone a few erratic thrusts later, with the sexiest moan you’d ever heard in your life. He managed to hold himself from collapsing on top of your wound, shifting gently to the side. 

You were both a tangled and panting mess. You closed your eyes, enjoying his heavy breathing on your mouth. 

You felt his hand snaking to your hair again, turning your head to the side. He pecked on your mouth slowly until you opened for him, not helping the whimper as your tongues collided again. 

“Jungkook, what?” he asked again lazily, his eyes barely opening, hazy with pleasure. “What was it that you were going to say before?”

A laugh rumbled on your chest, low. You nuzzled your nose on his and although you were unable to remember what the hell you were about to say, you decided to do what you did best—tease him. 

“Oh, nothing… I was just going to say that, uhm, I hate you.” you kept your eyes closed, waiting for his reaction. 

When he didn’t utter a single word, you opened one of them to see his eyebrows were angry and he tilted his head in that way you fucking loved to tease him about it. 

“You do know I’m literally still inside you—?” 

You snorted, rolling to the side and claiming his mouth once more. 

God, you were fucked. 

-—ᯓ✶ part two !

© ACHERONSOCIETY / 2025, all rights reserved. do not steal, repost, translate and/or claim this work as your own.

[acheronsociety]

✶ ⸻ GREEK MYTHOLOGY AU !

summary: they say the muses abandoned olympus. what they don’t say is why. some claimed betrayal. others whispered that a god particularly feared their power more than any titan… but they didn’t die—they ran. disguised in mortal skin, hiding from the gods they once inspired. now the primordials have built the veil, a trap dressed as a game, and three have been caught. hunted. suspected. desired by the ones who should’ve protected them. and the games have only just begun. ━━━━ FOOTNOTE. ⋆  this is a series of drabbles belonging in the same timeline and universe.

HADES.

ⅰ. ballad of fire and ash ( angst ✶ almost smut )

APOLLO.

ⅰ. burning, traitorous sun ( angst )

© ACHERONSOCIETY, all rights reserved. do not steal, repost, translate and/or claim this work as your own.