Genre: smut, yandere, dark (PLEASE READ WARNINGS!!)
Word Count: 13k (i’m so srry 😭)
Summary: The trial ends, but his mark keeps her chained.
Warnings: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, DD:DNE, police, court rooms, power imbalance, yandere, obsession, kidnapping, captivity, restraints (cuffs), knives, cutting, slapping, confrontations, punishments, explicit threats, harsh language, helplessness, humiliation, jk is fucking crazy!, degradation, suicidal ideation, suspicion, justice explicit: noncon to dubcon, dom/sub dynamics, unwanted sexual touch, humiliation kink, fear kink, rough, unprotected sex, oral (f. receiving), fingering, spanking, multiple scenes
A/N: this isn’t as intense as previous chapters but still has dark moments! proceed with caution!
Note: this flips slightly back and forth between OC, JK, & Jimin in second person.
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It starts with a glance. A hesitation. A barely-there flicker of something wrong.
The cruiser hummed steadily over cracked pavement, slicing through the late afternoon stillness that wrapped around the wooded highway like a secret. Golden light fractured through pine trees, shadows flashing across the windshield in slow, rhythmic intervals. The only sound inside was the faint static buzz of the radio and the intermittent tap of Officer Park’s finger against his department-issued tablet.
Jungkook drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually near his thigh, fingers twitching every few seconds in restless patterns. His eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead- blank, unreadable. He hadn’t spoken since they left the station.
“You hear about that girl?” Park asked suddenly, not looking up.
Jungkook’s fingers stilled.
“What girl?” he replied, tone casual, too smooth.
“College student. Went missing last Friday,” Park said, eyes skimming the screen. “Roommate finally reported it this morning. Said she was driving back from a night class and never showed up. Car hasn’t been found either.”
Jungkook kept his eyes straight ahead. “Kids disappear all the time,” he said after a beat. “She probably just skipped town with some loser and forgot to text.”
Park looked over. “She left her phone. Wallet too. Roommate said she was supposed to meet her for dinner and never came.”
“Maybe she didn’t want to be found,” Jungkook muttered. He adjusted his grip on the wheel. Too casual. Too flat.
Park watched him for another long second. Then: “Yeah. Maybe.”
Silence stretched between them. Outside, the trees pressed closer to the shoulder, crowding in like sentinels. The sky was starting to bleed orange behind the hills.
Then the call came through.
A light crackle, then dispatch:
“Unit 12, we’ve got an update on that missing persons. Cell phone last pinged near mile marker 63. Southbound. That’s right by Oak Ridge trail access.”
Park sat forward. “That’s not far.”
Jungkook didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
“Turnoff’s just up ahead,” Park added. “You mind if we check it out?”
Jungkook’s jaw flexed once. “Sure.”
He signaled and pulled onto the gravel path. The cruiser bumped over uneven rock, trees swallowing the light as they pushed deeper into the woods.
The parking lot at the trailhead was empty. A faded hiking map on a rotting wooden board. No tire marks. No trash. Just silence.
They stepped out.
Jungkook moved stiffly. Park did a slow scan of the area, eyes narrowed. “Car could’ve been dumped further in,” he said, walking a few feet toward the treeline. “Or she pulled off somewhere that’s not on the map.”
Jungkook’s boots crunched against the gravel. He gave a slow nod, as if he were considering it. His face remained unreadable.
“Let’s walk the perimeter,” Park said, gesturing left. “I’ll check that side. You take the right.”
Jungkook turned without a word and disappeared into the woods.
But his mind was racing.
He hadn’t touched her today.
He hadn’t spoken to her in hours. The last thing he did was refill the water glass and kiss her forehead.
He hadn’t tied the cuffs too tight. Hadn’t nicked her with the knife last night, not like the others.
That meant something, didn’t it?
She was still perfect.
She was still there. Waiting.
Just the thought of it made his mouth go dry.
He needed to get back before anything else happened. Before anyone followed this too far.
He needed to see her.
Just once more.
═══════
You don’t know how long you’ve been down here.
Time lost meaning somewhere between the cold concrete walls and the dim bulb overhead. No sun. No moon. Just endless dark and that tiny slit of daylight through the basement window, long since faded into night. You’re not sure if it’s the same day. You stopped counting after three.
You lay still in the bed- if you can call it that. A mattress too soft, sheets too clean. The illusion of comfort is almost worse than nothing at all. You’re naked beneath them, body tense under the weight of the blanket he tucked around you with mock tenderness. Leather cuffs bite into your wrists and ankles, tethering you flat to the mattress, spread open, exposed.
You stopped fighting the restraints a long time ago.
At least, physically.
In your head, you’re still screaming.
He hasn’t come back in hours.
That should feel like relief.
But it doesn’t.
Because every tick of silence down here doesn’t mean freedom. It means something’s coming. And the longer the silence stretches, the heavier it gets. Like the air thickens. Like your lungs fill with static. You keep waiting for the sound. The slow creak of the lock, his boots on the stairs, that low, pleased hum he does when he’s about to touch you.
You want to cry, but the tears come too easily now. He said he liked them the first few times. Called you pretty when you sobbed. Now he tells you it makes your face look puffy. He likes you quiet. So you bite your lip until you taste blood and let the tears fall silently down your cheeks, soaking the pillow beneath you.
The knife glints from the nightstand beside you, resting just out of reach. He leaves it there on purpose. You know he does. Just close enough to see… but never close enough to take. You’ve stared at it for hours before. Imagined how it would feel pressed to your own throat. Wondered if he’d still call you his good girl if you finally did something he didn’t expect.
But he always expects everything. Somehow.
Your eyes drift toward the door.
It’s closed. Locked. Always.
You count the seconds between breaths to keep from losing your mind.
You think about screaming, just to hear your own voice. But then you remember the last time you did that, and the bruises he left around your neck.
So you don’t scream.
You just wait.
And in the silence, your mind races.
What if no one is coming?
What if this is it?
What if he never gets caught?
You flinch when the doorknob rattles- but no one enters. Just a jolt of metal. A tease. A ghost.
You swallow hard, heart pounding, throat dry and raw. The glass of water beside the knife is half full, already warm. You’ve learned not to drink too fast. He monitors everything. Watches everything.
And you can’t stop wondering if he’s watching now.
Tomorrow, he said, he might take the cuffs off.
You don’t know if that’s a promise or a threat.
You stare at the ceiling and count the tiny cracks until your vision blurs, trying not to imagine what his voice will sound like when he comes back down those stairs.
Trying not to imagine what your body will feel like after he touches you again.
You squeeze your eyes shut.
And wait.
═══════
You must’ve dozed off.
When you open your eyes again, the room is dimmer, quieter, cloaked in something thicker than darkness: anticipation. The small window above the bed is pitch black now, moonless and starless. Your limbs ache from the strain of being still so long, the leather cuffs cutting tiny red crescents into your skin.
Then you hear it.
Boots on stairs.
You don’t tense anymore. You’ve learned not to. You just lie there, eyes wide open, heart a dull throb in your ribs.
The lock turns.
The door creaks.
And he’s there.
Framed in the door like a shadow- uniform shed, hair messy, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. A smile curls at the corners of his lips, sweet and too calm.
“There you are,” he says softly, like he’s greeting someone he missed. Like he came home from work and found you waiting.
You force yourself to meet his eyes.
He crosses the room slowly, a small plate in one hand and a new glass of water in the other. Your stomach clenches- not in fear this time, but hunger. Real hunger. You haven’t eaten since yesterday.
He sits at the edge of the bed and gently sets the plate on the nightstand. “You’ve been so good today,” he murmurs, brushing hair off your forehead with careful fingers. “Didn’t scream. Didn’t fight. My perfect little girl.”
You flinch at the word “girl,” even now.
He notices. His smile widens, as if he’s proud of the way it makes you squirm.
“I missed you,” he adds, voice lower now. “All day. Couldn’t stop thinking about you. Wondering if you missed me too.”
You stay quiet.
You always stay quiet when you’re not sure what answer he wants.
He leans closer, nose brushing your temple. “I know you did. I could feel it.”
Then, in a strange motion- almost ceremonial- he lifts your right wrist and slowly unbuckles the cuff. Your hand falls to the bed, numb and tingling. You stare at him, startled, but say nothing.
“I trust you,” he says, tilting your chin up with a finger. “Not fully. But more than I did. And I think you’ve earned something tonight.”
He picks up the plate. A soft piece of bread, a few grapes, something that smells warm. Nothing special. But your stomach aches just seeing it.
“I’ll let you feed yourself tonight,” he says, holding the plate out just far enough to tempt you. “Do you want that?”
You nod.
He raises a brow.
“…Yes, sir,” you whisper.
His smile returns, beaming now. “That’s my girl.”
You take the plate carefully, hands shaking slightly, and begin to eat. Slow, small bites. Not from fear but from habit. You’ve learned he likes it when you take your time. When you savor it. You feel his eyes on your mouth as you chew, and you swallow hard.
When you finish, he takes the plate and sets it aside.
Fingers curl around your thigh, slow and reverent. No sudden movements. No violence. Just that sickeningly gentle touch. His breath warms your ear as he speaks.
“I think you deserve a reward for being such a good girl.”
You stiffen, but you don’t pull away.
Not when he murmurs softly. Not when his hand trails higher.
He kisses your shoulder, brushing your skin like he’s trying to memorize every inch.
“You’re so warm,” he says. “So soft. I dream about this.”
You want to turn away. You want to scream. But instead, your legs part slightly, involuntary, conditioned, and his fingers move between them.
He groans when he feels you.
“See?” he whispers. “You do like me.”
You swallow hard, your throat dry as his words settle over you like a promise. You know what’s coming, and yet, the knowledge does nothing to ease the tension coiled tight in your chest. His gaze drops to your body, lingering on the curve of your hips, the swell of your breasts, before meeting your eyes again. “Let me take care of you,” he says, his tone thick with desire, possessive and tender all at once.
Your breath catches as he strokes you with agonizing slowness, drawing lazy circles over your clit. It burns- not from pain, but shame. The worst part is the flicker of heat blooming deep in your belly.
You hate that your body responds.
He doesn’t need to say anything- he feels it. Knows it.
“Good girl,” he praises, voice thick and low. “Let me take care of you.”
And he does. Carefully. Methodically. His fingers part your folds, his touch gentle yet firm, as if he’s worshipping you and claiming you all at once.
Your breath hitches as he strokes you with agonizing slowness, his touch deliberate, calculated. You bury your face in your shoulder, trying to muffle the sounds that escape your lips, but he hums into your skin, proud and possessive.
“That’s it,” he whispers, his voice a dark promise. “Let it out.”
You don’t protest. You don’t push him away. Instead, you let your head fall back against the pillow, your eyes closing as his touch sends waves of pleasure crashing over you. His mouth replaces his fingers, his lips pressing softly against your cunt, and you gasp, your legs trembling as he hums into you, the vibrations sending shivers through your body.
He takes his time, his tongue tracing lazy patterns, his hands holding your hips steady as if to remind you that you’re his, completely and utterly his. You feel your muscles tighten, your body coiling tighter and tighter, and you know you’re close, so close, but he doesn’t rush. He savors every moment, every sound you make, every shudder that runs through you.
When your legs tremble and you whimper, he looks up, his dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
He smiles, a slow, possessive curve of his lips, “Such a good girl,”he murmurs, his voice a dark whisper. “Let me feel you cum.”
And you do.
Your body arches off the bed, your free hand clutching at the sheets as pleasure crashes over you in waves. You cry out, your voice hoarse, your body shaking as he continues to lap at your core, milking every last drop of pleasure from you.
When you finally collapse back onto the bed, breathless and boneless, he leans over you, his lips brushing against your sweat-dampened skin.
“There she is,” he breathes. “My good, good girl.”
You hate him.
You hate him so much it feels like it’s eating you alive.
But tonight… you let him believe otherwise.
Because that’s what keeps you alive.
═══════
The morning sun slices across the gravel and asphalt in pale streaks. Dew glitters on the weeds that edge the shoulder of the winding forest road. A long strip of yellow police tape flutters weakly in the warm breeze, tied between two skinny trees.
“Here,” Jimin says, crouching beside a battered ditch, one gloved hand pointing into the shallow overgrowth.
The tow truck beeps far in the background, hauling up a dented sedan coated in pollen and pine needles. No signs of damage, no forced entry. The keys were still in the ignition when they arrived. A cell phone that’s dead. A wallet. A half-melted granola bar in the cupholder.
Jimin runs his fingers over something soft and pale half-buried in the dirt.
It’s a pair of underwear.
He lifts them slowly, careful not to disturb any surrounding evidence.
“…Jesus christ,” one of the officers murmurs from behind him.
Jungkook stands off to the side, arms crossed, face unreadable beneath the brim of his hat. When he hears the rustle of fabric, he looks up.
His eyes meet Jimin’s.
Nothing in his expression shifts. Blank. Bored. Even as the tech starts bagging the underwear and murmurs to herself about the size, the fabric, the fact that they look… torn.
Jimin straightens up, face tight. “She left everything behind.”
“Could’ve been an animal,” Jungkook offers. “Or heat stroke. Maybe she wandered off.”
“Panties don’t end up thirty feet from the car because of heat stroke.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Jimin glances over, watching Jungkook out of the corner of his eye. Waiting.
Jungkook shrugs again, not looking up this time. “I don’t know, man. Maybe she had a fight with someone. You know how young girls are.”
Jimin narrows his eyes. Something in his gut shifts- cold and sour. “You’re usually more talkative.”
Jungkook finally turns to face him, smiling faintly. “You saying I’m not allowed a quiet day?”
Jimin forces a laugh, but his fingers twitch near the cuff of his jacket.
“Just saying. You’ve been off lately. Real quiet.”
“Long shifts,” Jungkook says. “And this case is weird.”
They walk back toward the car in silence. But Jimin notices the way Jungkook’s fingers drum against his thigh. Not anxious. Pissed. Barely contained.
And when the radio crackles to life a few minutes later, squawking that a volunteer search team found a trail of fabric about half a mile down- a torn-off jacket, another piece of clothing, shoeprints that don’t quite make sense.
Jungkook’s jaw tenses so hard Jimin can see the muscle pulse.
But still, he says nothing.
Doesn’t ask what kind of fabric. Doesn’t ask how far it was from the car. Doesn’t even offer to go check it out.
Jimin watches him carefully, tucking away every reaction. Every silence.
Because there’s something off here.
And Park Jimin is starting to see it.
═══════
The squad room smells like burnt coffee and stale donuts. Overhead lights buzz softly above the low murmur of overlapping conversations. Whiteboards cluttered with maps and notes take up the far wall, red string trailing between highways, towns, names, dates. Beneath the mess, a photo: Y/N’s photo. Smiling. Frozen in time.
“She didn’t just vanish,” someone mutters behind Jimin. “That girl was taken.”
“Who leaves their wallet, phone, panties behind and just walks into the woods?” another adds, frustrated.
Jimin stands by the coffeepot, not listening- or at least pretending not to. But his ears catch everything.
Jungkook is sitting at his desk across the room. Same routine: boots on the desk, paper cup in hand, unread file open in his lap. On the surface, he’s the picture of detached professionalism. But Jimin’s been watching.
And Jungkook’s been too quiet.
“Hey,” Jimin says suddenly, stepping closer. “Can I ask you something?”
Jungkook looks up lazily. “Shoot.”
“You were on shift the night she went missing, right?”
A pause.
Jungkook blinks once, casually.
“Yeah. Think so.”
“You were alone, right? I was out sick that day.”
Another pause- thinner this time.
“Right,” Jungkook says slowly. “Yeah, solo run.”
“You patrolled that area?”
Jungkook takes a sip of his coffee, stalling just slightly.
“Didn’t get down that far. Got rerouted to a call in town. Some kids lighting fireworks or something.”
“Nothing was logged.”
Jungkook tilts his head, playing dumb. “You sure? Might’ve been logged under someone else’s ID. Or I got pulled into dispatch. I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember?”
“It was two weeks ago.”
Jimin says nothing. Just watches him.
Jungkook finally shrugs and stands, brushing invisible lint from his jacket.
“I’ll check the logs later. You good?”
Before Jimin can say anything else, Jungkook’s already moving down the hall, out the door, smile still frozen on his face.
But the moment the door swings closed behind him, it drops.
His expression collapses into something cold.
Ugly.
Furious.
Outside, he exhales slowly, jaw tight.
He knows what Jimin’s doing.
He knows what this means.
He just doesn’t know how much time he has left.
═══════
You hear him before you see him.
The door slams upstairs. Heavy boots hit the floor like thunder. You flinch where you lie in the dim room, ankle cuffs cold against your skin, wrists bound loosely above you in leather restraints that are more for symbolism than security.
He’s home.
And he’s angry.
You curl in on yourself instinctively, bracing. When Jungkook has bad days, they always echo down here.
The basement door creaks open slowly. He doesn’t stomp now. No. Now he takes his time. You feel each slow step down the stairs in your spine.
The silence is worse than yelling.
He appears at the bottom of the steps, shoulders tense beneath his jacket, eyes dark and unreadable. He doesn’t speak at first. Just looks at you. Like he’s trying to remember why he brought you here in the first place.
Then, softly, “They’re asking questions.”
Your mouth goes dry.
He walks over, pulling the chair closer to your bed and sitting down, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together like he’s a preacher about to deliver a sermon.
“They found your car. Your phone. Your stupid little wallet with those dumb stickers on your license.”
He looks up at you, head tilted.
“They want to take you away from me.”
You blink fast, heart hammering. You don’t say it but he sees it anyway. That tiny flicker of something in your eyes.
Hope.
He sees it. And his face darkens instantly.
“I knew it,” he snarls. “You want to leave me. You still think someone’s coming.”
He stands so fast the chair topples behind him. You cry out as he grabs your wrist restraints and unfastens them in one violent motion, dragging you forward.
“Fine,” he spits. “Let’s see how much you want them after this.”
He flips you effortlessly, shoving you onto your stomach so that you’re bent awkwardly at the edge of the mattress. You gasp, palms pressed flat to the box spring.
His voice is low in your ear.
“Keep your legs still.”
You try- but your body’s shaking too hard.
The first slap lands hard against your ass. You yelp in pain and shock, nails digging into the blanket.
The next is harder.
“You think anyone else would keep you alive?” he hisses between hits. “You think anyone else would feed you, clean you, love you like I do?”
He keeps going- never saying what this is. Never calling it punishment. But you know.
Each strike is a twisted affirmation of his care. Each bruise, a vow.
When he finally stops, your breathing is ragged, face damp with sweat and tears. He pulls you closer again, undoing his belt slowly, the sound enough to make you whimper.
But he pauses. Doesn’t go further.
Instead, he leans over you, chest against your back, and whispers:
“Say it.”
You don’t respond.
He yanks your hair back, forcing you to look at the reflection of yourself in the dark TV screen across the room.
“Say it. That you’re mine. That no one’s coming.”
You try to swallow your fear. But it spills out anyway.
“…No one’s coming.”
“And?”
“I’m yours.”
He releases you slowly, breath calming against your ear. The belt never lands again.
Instead, he tucks the blanket clumsily around you and leaves you there, bent and spent, body throbbing in time with your heartbeat.
You listen as his footsteps fade back up the stairs.
The lock clicks into place.
You don’t move for a long time.
═══════
Jimin always trusted his gut. It’s how he’s cracked dozens of cases over the years. It’s not always about the evidence laid out on paper- sometimes it’s about the tension in a voice, the lie too easily said. Sometimes, it’s about a look that lingers one second too long.
Jungkook’s been off.
At first, Jimin wrote it off as stress. They’re all worn down. But today, after the morning briefing, as chatter dies down and files are handed out, Jimin notices Jungkook lingering in the hallway. Not speaking. Watching.
He’s always been quiet. Focused. Intense in that obsessive way that made him good at his job. But now it’s something else. His silence feels too calculated.
Back at his desk, Jimin clicks through the case files again, zeroing in on the timeline.
Y/N was last seen on a Wednesday.
He was out sick that night.
Jungkook worked solo.
He pulls up the GPS logs from the patrol car Jungkook had that evening. Half the coordinates are missing. Scrambled. Unaccounted for.
A frown pulls at his mouth.
That same evening- a speed trap had been active near the edge of town, just off the forest highway. Someone had tripped the radar. But no citation was ever issued. The system just registered the spike in speed. Then silence.
His heart beats a little faster.
He leans back and exhales. “Shit.”
A knock startles him. He minimizes the file just as Jungkook appears at his cubicle door.
“Everything okay?” Jungkook asks, voice casual.
Jimin nods slowly. “Yeah. Just reviewing files.”
Jungkook tilts his head, lips pressed into a flat line. “Need help?”
“No, I’ve got it.”
There’s a pause. Not long, but long enough.
“You seem a little…tense,” Jungkook observes, stepping a bit closer. The air shifts slightly. It’s nothing overt. Nothing actionable. But Jimin feels it.
“Just tired,” Jimin lies. “Long week.”
Jungkook smiles- that same smile he always wears and yet somehow it feels more like a mask than ever before.
“Well. Let me know if you need anything,” Jungkook says, tapping twice on the cubicle wall with his knuckles before walking off.
Jimin watches him go.
When he’s sure Jungkook’s gone, he reopens the files. Pulls up the GPS logs again. Then the radar spike.
The speed was clocked at 87 mph. Too fast to ignore.
And the time stamp?
9:16 p.m.
The same window Y/N’s roommate said she was expected home.
It wasn’t just a coincidence. Not anymore.
His stomach churns.
It’s still circumstantial and Jimin knows he has to be careful. But deep down, something cold is settling in his bones.
If Jungkook did this…
He’s been sitting in the station every day since.
Laughing. Drinking coffee. Reading her file.
And no one else suspects a thing.
Not yet.
═══════
The forest feels thinner now. Stripped bare. As if the trees themselves are holding their breath.
Jimin steps over a fallen branch, the underbrush crunching beneath his boots. No backup. No dogs. Just his flashlight and a growing sense of dread.
He’s walked this same path three times already. But something nags at him today. A whisper in his gut that won’t shut up. That won’t let him go.
Then he sees it.
Just a flicker of red caught on a jagged branch. A torn thread, fluttering slightly in the wind.
He crouches down. Brushes it free.
Lace. Black. Not uniform issue. Definitely not weather-proof.
Something no one should be wearing out here.
His eyes narrow, and he steps forward slowly, sweeping the light ahead. The soil dips unnaturally ten feet from the branch- not from boots, but from something heavier. Dragged. Uneven lines press through the leaves, leading toward a blackened patch of earth.
He kneels again, heart thumping harder now.
Ash. Burn marks. Scorched paper melted into the ground.
Beneath it, something glossy glints under his light. Melted plastic- warped, but still identifiable.
He lifts it carefully.
Half a student ID. A smile, burned at the corners. A first name blurred. But the face was unmistakable.
Y/N.
Jimin breathes in sharp and slow.
He doesn’t radio it in. Not yet.
He slides the ID into a small evidence bag from his coat pocket and stands slowly, staring at the woods around him like they might swallow the truth whole if he looks away too long.
Back at the station, everything still hums like business as usual. Phones ring. Coffee brews. Laughter echoes down hallways.
And Jungkook? He’ll be there too. Reading case files. Asking questions. Watching. Always watching.
Jimin exhales and turns back toward the path.
He knows now. He’s sure. Someone took her.
And that someone is closer than anyone thinks.
═══════
You chew slowly, the lukewarm stew sticking to the roof of your mouth.
Across the room, Jungkook watches you eat like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. He sits on the floor with his legs crossed, smiling, eyes soft and warm and so, so wrong. There’s a calmness about him today. Too calm. Like a storm holding its breath.
It’s worse than when he’s angry.
“You’ve been such a good girl,” he says at last, setting his tray aside. His tone is gentle, sweet even- the same voice he uses when he washes your hair. “I’ve been thinking…”
Your fingers tighten slightly around the spoon. You don’t speak. You don’t have to.
“We should go somewhere. Like a cabin. Maybe even a new city.” He grins, like he’s sharing a secret. “Somewhere no one knows your name. I’ll take care of everything. IDs. Clothes. Papers. A fresh start.”
Your stomach knots. You nod like it’s the best idea you’ve ever heard. Swallow another bite.
He shifts onto his knees and crawls toward you, closing the space in slow, reverent inches. His hand brushes your hair back from your face, fingers lingering at your temple.
“Your roots are growing out,” he murmurs. “You want me to dye it? Maybe trim the ends?”
You force a tiny smile. “Okay.”
His expression flickers with delight. “You’d let me?”
“Of course.” You don’t blink. Your voice doesn’t shake.
He beams like you’ve told him you love him. “See? That’s what I love about you.”
He doesn’t kiss you. He just rests his forehead against yours, cradling your cheeks like you’re something delicate and precious.
“We’ll leave in a few days,” he whispers. “They’re getting too close.”
Your heart stutters.
That’s it. That’s the slip.
He knows someone’s coming. He’s scared. He’s planning something.
You nod again. Just enough. Just believable.
He smiles wider. Too wide. The kind of smile that never reaches his eyes.
Later, when he’s asleep beside you, warm and heavy and deeply still, you stay awake. You don’t move. You don’t breathe too loud.
You count his exhales like they’re ticking down the seconds.
And then, barely more than a breath, you let yourself whisper into the dark:
“He’s not planning a vacation. He’s planning a disappearance.”
═══════
The precinct is loud today. Louder than usual. Phones ringing, boots thudding across tile, radios squawking between static.
But all of it fades for you.
You sit at your desk, sipping coffee like it’s just another day. But your fingers are tight around the mug. You don’t realize you’ve been staring at your screen for twenty minutes. A report open but untouched.
Behind you, voices rise.
“One more time: she was last seen near Old Pine Trail, right?”
“Yeah. Roommate says she was headed home after class, but she never made it.”
“Parents didn’t even know she was missing ‘til the roommate called three days in.”
You force yourself to breathe slower. Look natural. Smile, even. The coffee burns your tongue, but you don’t flinch.
Jimin walks in. You don’t look at him, but you feel it. That shift in energy. His presence like a cold front sliding under the door.
He sits across from you, too casually. Swivels his chair. Leans in with that quiet curiosity that always meant trouble.
“Hey,” he says. “You remember that solo patrol shift last month?”
You nod without thinking. “Kind of? Why?”
“You were covering the west sector, right?” His tone is light, but his eyes aren’t.
“That’s right.” You sip again. “Boring night. Nothing out there.”
Jimin tilts his head. “You sure you didn’t file anything that night?”
“Nope.”
“Huh.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Weird. That was the night that missing girl supposedly vanished.”
You set your mug down a little too fast. “There were no incidents. I’d remember.”
“Right, of course.” He smiles. But it doesn’t reach his eyes either.
You stand suddenly. “Gotta piss.”
You walk too quickly toward the bathroom, but you don’t care.
Behind you, Jimin watches.
And he starts to think about the other weird things.
The little flashes.
The tension in your jaw when her name comes up.
The way you always ask what people know.
═══════
You haven’t been fed today. Not yet.
The light from the window is dim, filtering through in pale strips across the floor. Your legs are stiff from the cuffs. Your shoulders ache.
But your mind races.
You know something’s shifting. You saw it in his face last night- the flicker of panic. Of calculation.
He’s going to run.
You don’t know how long you have.
The tray stays empty near the door for hours.
When you finally hear the key in the lock, your heart skips.
Jungkook steps in slowly, and you know instantly: he’s not calm anymore.
He’s rattled.
But he smiles anyway, fake and tense.
“Miss me?” he says, voice sing-song and tired.
You nod automatically. You don’t trust your voice.
He kneels beside the bed and strokes your hair back from your face. “They’re asking more questions.”
You blink up at him.
His smile fades. “Do you still want them to find you?”
Your stomach flips. You shake your head, fast.
He watches your reaction closely. Too closely.
Then, suddenly, he stands. “I’m going to make dinner. You’re going to eat every bite.”
You nod again, staying still.
Because if he feeds you, it means he still wants to keep you.
And if he still wants to keep you…
You still have time.
The food is different tonight. Warm. Real. Not the bland, mushy leftovers or packet meals he sometimes throws in a bowl. This is roasted chicken and buttered rice. The scent hits your nose like a memory from another life.
You sit quietly against the headboard, ankles still cuffed, wrists free. You don’t say anything.
You never speak first anymore.
Jungkook sets the tray down with a too-gentle touch. There’s a softness in his movements that makes your skin crawl. You recognize this mood- the slow, syrupy version of him that always comes after panic. After fear. He’s trying to feel in control again.
He kneels on the bed beside you, elbow bent, chin propped lazily in his palm like this is domestic. Like you’re lovers.
“Eat,” he says softly.
You obey, picking at the food even though your stomach is already tightening in dread.
He watches your every bite. You feel the weight of his gaze like hands around your throat.
“You know,” he murmurs after a while, “I keep thinking about that little apartment of yours. So small. So lonely. You never really had many friends, did you?”
You don’t answer.
“I saved you from all that.”
You swallow. Nod.
“I can give you better.” He brushes a hand against your knee, trailing upward slowly. “I’ll keep giving. You just have to stay good.”
You nod again, even faster. “I’m good,” you whisper.
He smiles. But there’s something hollow behind it.
“Say it,” he says. “Say you’re safe here.”
You pause.
“Say it.”
“I’m safe here,” you murmur.
He hums in approval. “Say you want to stay.”
You hesitate. His hand stops mid-thigh. Tightens.
“I… I want to stay.”
He leans in, voice low and sweet. “Atta girl.”
His fingers move under your nightshirt, and he pushes the tray off the bed. It hits the floor with a dull clatter.
You try not to flinch.
He climbs over you- slow, deliberate, every inch of him calculated. Like he’s savoring this. Like this is a ritual.
“You’re my everything,” he breathes against your skin. “No one else gets this. Only you. My good girl. My only girl.”
He slides inside you without preamble- slow but firm, one arm braced beside your head, the other hand cradling your cheek like a lover.
It burns. It always burns. Even when your body reacts, your mind doesn’t. You know better.
“You like this, don’t you?” he murmurs, rocking into you. “Being taken care of. Being mine.”
You force your lips to move. “Yes, sir.”
He groans- the sound raw, low, like he lives for that.
His rhythm quickens.
“Say you want it.”
“I… want it.”
“Say please.”
“Please.”
The words taste like iron.
He kisses your temple, murmuring praise, petting your hair like you’re something sacred.
And you just lie there. Staring at the ceiling. Your nails dig crescent moons into the sheets.
You hate the way your body yields. The way your thighs shake. The way a small, dark part of you obeys before your brain can stop it.
He finishes with a moan- deep and drawn-out, like prayer- and stays inside you, breathing heavy against your ear.
You lay there, the weight of Jungkook’s body pressing into yours, his breath hot against your ear. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing. His cock still buried deep inside you, throbbing gently, a reminder of what just transpired.
His hand slides down your cheek, his touch almost tender, a stark contrast to the roughness of moments before. His fingers trace the curve of your jaw, then drift down to your shoulder, his grip firm but not unkind.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates against your skin.
You don’t respond. You can’t. The words feel foreign, like they belong to someone else.
For a moment, the room is silent again.
Then he speaks.
“We’ll leave soon.”
You blink. Your heart thuds.
He pulls out and rises, tucks himself back in, and pulls the blanket over you with such tenderness it almost makes you gag.
You don’t move. You just whisper:
“Okay.”
But in your head, a scream coils like smoke behind your eyes.
═══════
The station hums with routine. Phones ring. Radios crackle. People laugh too loud about things that don’t matter.
But something’s off.
It’s been gnawing at the edge of Jimin’s mind for days now- that fraying thread he keeps turning over. He hasn’t said anything. Not yet. Not until he’s sure.
He sips cold coffee at his desk and clicks through dashcam archives. The timestamp glows back at him from the monitor: 9:16 PM- the night that girl’s roommate said she never came home.
He taps the file.
The video loads.
Jungkook’s patrol car cruises down the narrow backroads near the edge of town. Headlights cut through the woods. There’s a timestamp jump. Two minutes of blank screen. Then the video resumes.
That’s not normal.
Dashcams don’t just… blink out like that. And they definitely don’t miss the exact stretch of road where her phone pinged last.
Jimin narrows his eyes.
He checks the report from that night. Jungkook had logged the route as “routine patrol.” No stops. No citations.
But Jimin remembers that night. He was home sick. Called out around 7 p.m. Jungkook had been on solo duty.
He rubs his chin, rereads the report.
No activity logged between 9 and 11. A dead window. And right before that window, the roommate said the girl had been texting her- about running late, about speeding home. The last ping was near Route 16. Near the woods. Near where Jungkook’s car just happens to vanish off camera.
He pulls up another screen. A second cam from a local gas station.
Playback. Midnight. Jungkook’s cruiser again. Pulling out onto the main road.
Jimin leans forward.
He looks closer at the car. The front grille looks scuffed. There’s a faint smear- dirt? Or…?
He doesn’t finish the thought.
He clicks to enlarge the dashcam log. There- another error. Jungkook’s data upload was manually overridden.
That’s not a thing a cop does.
Unless they have something to hide.
Jimin’s chest tightens.
He leans back in his chair, brows furrowed, mind racing.
He remembers the stiffness in Jungkook’s jaw the other day. The weird, half-casual smile when they mentioned the missing girl. The barely-hidden tremor in his voice.
And then there was that offhand joke someone made in the break room- something about lone wolves and dirty secrets- and Jungkook didn’t laugh.
He just looked up.
Like he’d been caught.
Jimin swallows hard. His cursor hovers over the “Print” button.
He clicks.
A low hum of the printer starts behind him.
He doesn’t even flinch.
He knows something now.
Knows it in his bones.
And in the eerie silence between clicks and beeps and distant hallway chatter, a thought blooms sharp and cold in his head:
He did something.
And I think I know what.
Jimin doesn’t flinch when the printer spits out the final page.
He stacks the sheets. Clips them neatly.
Stares at the timestamp.
Another breath. Steady. Quiet.
He reaches across his desk and clicks open a new file- an old one. One that hasn’t been touched in months.
A list of unsolved missing persons cases.
Names. Faces. Ages.
Each one tagged with a location.
A date.
And without meaning to- without even blinking- Jimin watches the pattern begin to write itself.
Every time.
Every single time.
Jeon Jungkook was working alone.
═══════
Three days.
That’s how long Jimin’s kept his mouth shut.
Three days since the file. Since the timelines lined up. Since that sinking feeling in his chest hardened into something sharp and unshakable. He hasn’t spoken a word to anyone at the station. Not even when they joked about serial killers or took bets on whether the missing girl had just run off with some sketchy Tinder date.
He didn’t laugh.
He just kept watching.
And today, he drove to Jungkook’s house with a manila folder sitting heavy on the passenger seat like it could scream.
Inside: dashcam timestamps, error logs, satellite pings, and photos of other girls who’d never come home. All with dates. All during shifts when Jungkook had been alone.
He parks across the street. Kills the engine. Watches the quiet little house with its perfectly trimmed yard and harmless white door.
It looks normal.
But nothing about this feels normal anymore.
He opens the car door.
Walks toward the house.
Raises his hand.
Knocks.
═══════
Jungkook is downstairs, humming to himself as he sets the tray down- pasta with extra butter. Your favorite. A soft napkin. A cold drink. Everything perfect.
His voice is a low croon. “I made your favorite. You’ve been so good, haven’t you?”
You sit on the edge of the bed, uncuffed except your right ankle. You’ve learned not to flinch when he touches you. You’ve learned the right expressions. The right silences.
He leans in and kisses your temple like a man drunk on his own fantasy. “We’re leaving soon,” he murmurs, eyes gleaming. “This weekend. I bought tickets. New names, new life. You’ll love it.”
Your lips part, barely.
He grins. “You’re gonna look so pretty in that little dress. I saw one online. Baby blue. Sweet. Innocent. Like the first time I saw you.”
You don’t speak. You can’t. Not now. Not after everything.
He brushes your hair back. “Don’t worry, baby. No one’s gonna take you away. Not ever.”
And then-
KNOCK. KNOCK.
Everything freezes.
Jungkook stiffens like a wire pulled taut. His head jerks toward the stairs. The sound echoes like a gunshot in the stillness.
“No,” he whispers. “No, no, no, no-”
He turns to you, eyes wide and blazing. “Shut up,” he hisses.
You barely have time to gasp before his hand slaps over your mouth, crushing your scream before it can rise.
“Don’t-” he seethes, voice cracking at the edges. “Don’t make a fucking sound.”
He wrestles you back onto the bed, already reaching for the restraints.
He straddles you, breathing heavy, eyes darting toward the ceiling as another knock sounds. You struggle, but your arms are shaking. You’re not fast enough.
He shoves a wadded gag between your teeth and ties it tight behind your head.
“Don’t make a sound,” he growls. “Don’t even fucking breathe loud.”
You scream anyway- muffled, pathetic, desperate- as he clamps the cuffs back on your wrists.
Your wrists buckle under his grip. You try to shake your head. That’s all it takes.
CRACK.
His palm collides with your cheek so hard your head whips to the side. Your lip splits against the gag.
Before you can even blink, he’s reaching toward the nightstand.
The knife.
You scream behind the cloth. The world tilts.
Jungkook holds the blade to your throat- not pressing, not yet- just letting it sit there. Cold. Intimate.
His voice is barely a whisper.
“You scream again, I’ll make you silent forever. You want to bleed out all over this bed? Huh?”
You sob silently, every muscle locking up as the edge teases your skin.
He doesn’t break the skin. But you know he could. You know he’s done it before.
“I’ll cut your tongue out,” he whispers. “And you’ll still be pretty to me. If you ruin this, I’ll kill you right here. I’ll make it slow. And messy. I’ll make them watch. Got it?”
You sob through the gag.
Then- gently, as if it never happened- he lowers the blade. Kisses your wet cheek like he’s soothing a nightmare he caused.
Tightens the cuffs around your wrists.
And leaves you there.
═══════
Upstairs, the door swings open.
Jungkook forces a smile, the kind he used to use on drunk drivers and nervous civilians.
“Hey, man,” he says. “Didn’t know you were stopping by.”
Jimin stands there, calm and still, holding the folder.
He smiles back.
But it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Got a minute?”
Jimin steps into the house like it’s nothing. Casual. Confident.
The living room is spotless. Not a cushion out of place, not a stray speck of dust on the gleaming hardwood floors. The blinds are half-drawn, letting in just enough sunlight to warm the room but not enough to feel welcoming.
Jungkook closes the door behind him, a polite smile already painted across his face. It’s almost perfect. Almost.
“Coffee?” he offers, voice light as he motions toward the kitchen.
Jimin doesn’t sit. “Sure. Smells good.”
In the silence that follows, the pot begins to hiss on the stove. Jungkook busies himself with the routine- pulling two mismatched mugs from the cabinet, stirring in sugar like muscle memory. But his shoulders are tight beneath the stretch of his shirt. Too tight.
Jimin’s gaze doesn’t leave him. “So…”
Just that. One word, hung loose between them like a noose.
“You said you worked that whole night, right?” Jimin asks. “The night Y/N disappeared?”
Jungkook doesn’t flinch, but his spoon clangs against the mug a little too hard.
“Yeah,” he says casually. “Why do you keep asking that?”
“Just double-checking something.” Jimin’s voice is still friendly, but thinner now. Wire-thin. “There was a section in the dashcam footage that glitched. Route 16. You remember that?”
The clatter of porcelain. Jungkook gives a short, nervous laugh. “Come on, you know how ancient that system is. It glitches all the time.”
“Mm,” Jimin hums. “Right. Just weird that your GPS went dark at the same time. For forty-five minutes.”
Jungkook turns then, mug in hand, eyes sharp. “Seriously? You’re digging into that? You think I had something to do with this?”
Jimin shrugs, all loose limbs and soft eyes. “Didn’t say that.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“You were alone that night,” Jimin says, a little quieter now. “No partner. No witnesses.”
Jungkook’s grip on the coffee mug tightens.
“You here to interrogate me?” he asks, a little too fast.
Jimin smiles. But it’s not warm. “Just… making conversation.”
Another beat.
Then Jungkook lets out a loud, forced chuckle and moves back toward the living room, plopping onto the couch.
“You wanna see my logs again? My reports? Be my guest. I’ve got nothing to hide.”
He sips his coffee like it’s just another Tuesday.
But Jimin doesn’t follow.
He stays by the doorway. Watching.
“Cool,” he says finally, reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket. “Because I already pulled them.”
He holds up a manila folder. Nothing flashy. Just thick enough to carry weight.
Jungkook stills.
And in the silence that stretches between them, the walls of the house suddenly feel much, much smaller.
═══════
You don’t know how long you’ve been listening.
The walls are thick. The ceiling above you is padded- soundproofed. But not completely. Not enough. Not today.
There are seams- cracks in the walls, weak spots in the floorboards. Normally, all you hear is silence. But now, voices bleed through. Not clearly. Not full words. Just tone.
Footsteps. Two sets. Heavier than usual. Slower. The way they move- it doesn’t match Jungkook’s usual pacing. There’s a hesitation in the air. A pause between words. A beat that doesn’t belong.
Your body jolts upright as much as it can- only to be yanked back by the leather cuffs tight around your ankles. You gasp through the gag still stuffed in your mouth, panic choking you before breath even reaches your lungs.
Someone else is here.
Someone else is here.
You writhe against the bed, wrists straining where they’re pinned above your head. You’ve gotten good at not making noise. At not crying. At not giving him any reason.
But now your body rebels. Every cell surges with the desire to scream.
The voices come again.
One of them was warm and easy. Fake.
The other? Unfamiliar. Curious. Measured.
You can’t make out the words. Just the tone. But your heart latches onto it like a lifeline.
Your head jerks toward the vent on the far wall. You can’t reach it. Your ankles won’t let you. But you twist until your hip presses against the mattress, every movement burning your muscles raw.
The cuffs bite into your skin. The gag muffles your breath.
Still, you listen.
“…whole night, right? …Route 16…”
You go still.
The stranger’s voice- probing now. Almost too careful.
The silence that follows tells you everything.
He’s being questioned.
You let out a desperate whimper into the gag, tears stinging the corners of your eyes. The hope is so loud, it drowns everything else.
Then footsteps again- sharper now. Heavier. A shift in energy that vibrates through the walls.
Your pulse hammers.
You dare to dream that the voice will come closer. That someone will find the hatch in the floor. That this will be over.
Please. Please. Please.
You don’t know who’s up there. You don’t know if they’re safe. If they’re real. If you scream, and it’s not safe- if it’s another trick, another game- you’ll pay for it. You always do.
Because what if it’s another trick? What if it’s a game?
He’s done that before.
You bite down on the cloth gag and sob so hard your whole body trembles.
More footsteps now. One set moving away. Toward the front. You press your ear to the wall.
Then-
“Cool,” the unfamiliar voice says. Closer now. Sharper. “Because I already pulled them.”
Silence.
Heavy. Loaded.
You feel it all the way in your bones.
He’s being questioned.
Someone knows.
You choke back a sob, biting the inside of your cheek until it bleeds.
You want to scream. To kick the walls. To yell your name so loud the whole street hears.
But you don’t.
You curl in on yourself. Shake. Hope.
Hope hurts more than anything else.
Upstairs, a door creaks. A chair scrapes back.
Then silence again.
You’re not sure if you’ll survive the next ten minutes.
Or if you want to.
You don’t hear the door upstairs shut.
You feel it.
Like the house itself flinches.
Heavy boots echo across the ceiling. The rhythm is off. No whistling. No idle humming. Just stomps. Sharp, purposeful steps headed straight for the basement hatch.
Your throat tightens against the gag.
You know this version of him. The one who doesn’t speak until the anger curdles into something quieter- something colder. The version of him that won’t look at you right away. That makes you wait.
The lock disengages with a mechanical click. Then silence. Just long enough to make your stomach turn.
Then the basement door creaks open.
He descends without a word, the light from above casting his silhouette across the room like a shadow twice his size.
You don’t breathe.
He doesn’t look at you right away. Instead, he walks to the small table near the wall, wipes his hands with a cloth he doesn’t need. His jaw twitches once. Twice.
“You know what you did,” he finally says. Voice low. Flat.
You shake your head, eyes wide, pleading. But the gag turns your denial into nothing more than a muffled whine.
“Don’t play dumb now.” He laughs. Bitter. “You really thought you were clever.”
You try to shake your head. It’s pointless.
He crosses the room slowly. Too slowly. Drops to his knees beside the bed and grabs your chin. Not gently.
“You think I didn’t see the way your eyes lit up when you heard someone else upstairs? Like you were about to be saved?” His voice cracks on the word, then darkens. “You really thought someone was gonna take you from me? Do you think they care enough to save you? They don’t. No one ever does.”
You shake harder, trying to explain with your eyes that you didn’t- that you couldn’t- that you never made a sound.
But he doesn’t care.
He never does when he’s like this.
His chest rose and fell sharply, his eyes dark and burning. You could see his jaw flexing, his hands twitching at his sides as if he was holding himself back from something worse.
“You really don’t get it, do you?” His voice was calm and that made it worse.
You whimpered behind the gag, trying to shake your head, but the restraints made the movement slight, pitiful.
“Pathetic,” he spat. “Even now, you’re trying to lie to me with your eyes.”
Before you could react, he leaned down suddenly and slapped you across the face. Hard. The impact snapped your head to the side, leaving your cheek stinging and your ears ringing.
“You think I don’t know what you’ve been doing? You think I don’t see when someone tries to betray me?” His voice grew sharper with each word.
He grabbed your face, squeezing your cheeks harshly between his fingers, forcing you to look at him. His breath was hot, laced with fury.
“Look at you… tied up like this. Weak. Helpless. And still so stupid.”
He spit directly into your face without hesitation. The wet humiliation dripped slowly down your cheek, mingling with your tears.
“You’re mine. Say it,” he hissed.
The gag muffled your attempt to obey, and he chuckled darkly. “You can’t even speak properly. How convenient. I don’t really care what you have to say anyway.”
He reached to the side and picked up the knife. The blade gleamed dully in the low light as he ran a thumb along its edge. Then, slowly, deliberately, he pressed the cold steel flat against your stomach through your clothes, making you flinch involuntarily.
“Do you know how close you are to ruining everything?” he murmured. He dragged the knife upward, slow and threatening, until it rested just beneath your collarbone. The tip pricked your skin lightly, enough to feel that sharp, terrifying promise.
“I should make you regret it,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “You made me look weak today. You made me feel weak.”
He exhales slowly. Controlled.
Then looks at you again.
“Do you know what happens to people who make me feel weak?”
You shake your head frantically, tears streaking down your face into the gag.
He leans down. His voice is quiet. Too quiet.
“They don’t get second chances.”
“I could end this right now,” he whispered. “One slip…” The blade grazed gently over your throat, teasing but not cutting deep. “But I like you too much to waste you. So I’ll just remind you who you belong to.”
With a sudden flick, he drew a small, shallow nick across your shoulder. A tiny bead of red welled up instantly. You gasped, jerking instinctively against the ropes, but they held you firm.
“See? Barely anything,” he said softly, almost sweetly, tilting his head like he was admiring artwork. “But it’s enough. Enough for you to remember what I can do.”
He leaned closer, his mouth brushing your ear as he spoke.
“If you ever try to play me again, I won’t stop at these little cuts. I’ll slit your fucking throat. Do you understand me?”
Your muffled sob was met with another sharp slap to the face.
“Quiet,” he ordered. “You’re already lucky I’m even letting you breathe after what you almost cost me.”
He stood, towering over you, and then his hand wrapped around your throat- not enough to choke you completely, but enough for your vision to blur slightly, for your lungs to panic at the lack of air.
“You’re nothing without me. Nothing.” His grip tightened for a moment, just until your body trembled uncontrollably, then he let go abruptly. You gasped, chest heaving, tears sliding hot down your face.
He smirked at the sight of you- tied, shaking, silenced, utterly powerless.
“Remember this feeling,” he said coldly, running the knife one last time down the length of your trembling thigh, leaving faint scratches in its wake. “Because next time, I won’t stop.”
With that, he straightened, tossing the knife carelessly onto the nightstand. He looked down at you with a strange mix of contempt and satisfaction.
“You’re going to stay right there,” he muttered. “Think about what you did. Think about what I could do.”
And with a final, cruel glance, he turned and left the room- leaving you bound to the mattress, breathless and trembling, every nerve buzzing with fear.
═══════
Jimin doesn’t drive straight back to the station.
He pulls into an empty lot three streets away, kills the engine, and sits in the quiet for a moment. His hands are loose on the wheel, but his mind is spinning so fast it feels like the whole car vibrates with it.
He replays the conversation in Jungkook’s house over and over. The tightness in his voice when Route 16 came up. The fake laugh. The way his fingers gripped that mug like it was the only thing keeping them from shaking.
Jungkook has secrets.
Jimin knows it in his gut now.
He exhales slowly, pulls his phone from his jacket, and scrolls to the one number he actually trusts for this.
Yoongi.
The line clicks after two rings.
“Yeah?” Yoongi’s voice is low, rough. The voice of someone who never sounds surprised by anything.
“It’s me.”
“Jimin?” A pause. “You sound… off. What’s going on?”
“I need you to hear me out,” Jimin says quietly. “But this stays between us. For now.”
“…Go on.”
Jimin swallows. Looks out the windshield. Jungkook’s house is just barely visible from here, a harmless silhouette against the afternoon light.
“It’s Jungkook,” he says finally.
A longer pause. “What about him?”
“I went over his dashcam logs. The night that girl- Y/N- vanished. There’s a forty-five-minute gap in his footage. Route 16. Exact area her phone pinged before it went dead.”
Yoongi exhales slowly.
“That could be a glitch.”
“Not with the GPS going out at the same time. And not with him lying about where he was. I checked traffic cams. His car was parked near the trailhead. For almost an hour.”
Yoongi doesn’t respond right away. Jimin presses on.
“And it’s not just her. I pulled old cases. Missing women from nearby towns. All different types. No connection except timing. And every date matches nights he was working solo patrols.”
Now Yoongi whistles softly. Low. Unimpressed, but not surprised. “Shit.”
“I went to his house today,” Jimin says, voice flat. “He was… off. Defensive. You know how he usually smiles, jokes- just smooth? Not today. He cracked.”
Yoongi’s voice stays even. “And you’re sure?”
“I’m sure enough to risk my badge.”
Silence. Then Yoongi: “What do you need from me?”
“A warrant. For his car. His dashcam. His house.” Jimin’s grip on the phone tightens. “We can’t wait. If he’s got her, every hour counts.”
Yoongi hums, thinking. “It’ll take time. You know how the chief feels about him. Golden boy. He’s clean on paper.”
“I don’t care about paper,” Jimin snaps. Then softer, “You didn’t see his eyes. He’s hiding something. I can feel it.”
Yoongi sighs, but there’s resolve in it. “Fine. Send me what you’ve got. I’ll take it to a judge I trust. We’ll get the paperwork moving. But Jimin-“
“What?”
“You need to be careful. If you’re right about this, he’s not just a cop. He’s a cornered animal. That’s the worst kind.”
Jimin looks back at the darkened windows of Jungkook’s house. His jaw tightens.
“I’m already careful,” he says.
“Good,” Yoongi says. “Because when this breaks, it’s going to be loud.”
The call ends.
Jimin sits there for another long moment, phone heavy in his hand. Then he starts the car.
The plan is in motion.
And one way or another, Jungkook’s mask is going to crack wide open.
═══════
The precinct feels heavier today. Or maybe it’s just Jimin carrying the weight of what he knows.
He walks in with a folder tucked under his arm, face neutral. No one pays him any special attention- they’re all busy with their own reports, their own small dramas. A couple of officers glance up, nod. He nods back.
No one suspects what’s sitting in his hands could bring their golden boy down.
Yoongi’s waiting for him in the corner office. Not his office- he doesn’t even like having one. But today he’s claimed the space, blinds drawn. He gestures for Jimin to close the door.
“You bring everything?” Yoongi asks.
Jimin drops the folder on the desk. It lands with a dull thud. “Everything I could pull without raising alarms.”
Yoongi flips it open. Dashcam logs, redacted GPS readouts, photocopied missing-person flyers. One by one, the patterns emerge in black and white. Dates circled. Times highlighted.
Yoongi whistles low. “Damn. It’s all here.”
Jimin crosses his arms, leaning back against the wall. “It’s enough to get probable cause?”
“Yeah,” Yoongi mutters, scanning another page. “Enough for a warrant to search his cruiser, maybe his personal laptop. The house might still be a stretch- judges are picky with cops. But this? This is ugly enough to push through.”
He sits back in the chair, rubbing his temple. “You’re really ready to go all in on this? You know what happens if we’re wrong?”
Jimin doesn’t blink. “We’re not wrong.”
Yoongi studies him for a moment, then nods once, sharp. “Okay. Then we move quiet. If he’s as unstable as you’re saying, the second he suspects, he’ll bolt. Or worse.”
Yoongi pulls out his phone and dials a number. The call is short, clipped. A favor to a judge he knows who doesn’t look the other way for badges. They arrange an urgent meet at the courthouse.
“Let’s go,” Yoongi says, grabbing the folder.
═══════
The courthouse is quiet, the echo of their footsteps filling the marble halls. The judge they meet is older, stern, the kind of man who’s seen every excuse in the book.
“You’re accusing one of your own?” the judge asks, voice calm but sharp.
“We’re not accusing,” Yoongi says, laying the documents on the desk. “We’re presenting evidence.”
The judge flips through the pages slowly. His frown deepens with each one.
“The dashcam gaps line up with her last phone ping,” Jimin says quietly. “And not just her. There are others. Women who vanished on nights he was solo on patrol. The timing isn’t coincidence anymore.”
The judge closes the folder with a soft snap. Sits back. Looks at them both.
“You understand,” he says, “this will destroy his career if you’re wrong. And yours, too.”
Yoongi doesn’t flinch. “We’re not wrong.”
The judge holds their gaze for a long moment. Then he signs the paper. The warrant slides back across the desk, the ink still drying.
“You have 48 hours,” the judge says. “Use them wisely. No leaks. No noise. If he catches wind of this before you move, it’s over.”
Jimin nods, jaw tight. “Understood.”
Back in the car, Yoongi exhales through his nose. “Alright. We’ve got it. Cruiser, locker, house. All legal. All clean.”
Jimin stares out the windshield at nothing. His mind is already running ahead. Planning the move.
Yoongi glances at him. “You know he’s going to fight. Guys like him always do. When they’ve had control this long? They don’t give it up easy.”
Jimin finally looks over. His eyes are hard. Steady.
“Then we don’t give him the chance.”
═══════
The clock in the briefing room ticks too loud.
Jimin sits across from Yoongi at the empty table, the signed warrant lying between them like a live wire. Yoongi taps a pen against the edge of the folder, gaze distant but sharp.
“Alright,” Yoongi says finally. “We’ve got 48 hours. We need a plan airtight enough he doesn’t see it coming.”
Jimin nods. “No leaks. We only bring in people we can trust.”
Yoongi’s mouth tightens. “That’s a short list.”
They both know it. Jungkook is well-liked. Respected. The kind of officer who’s the first name on people’s recommendation lists. Golden boy. Perfect smile. Clean record. He’s untouchable on paper and that’s exactly how he’s gotten away with this for so long.
Jimin exhales slowly. “Who do you trust?”
“Seokjin. Maybe Hoseok,” Yoongi says. “They don’t worship him. And they’ve both handled sensitive ops before.”
Jimin nods, already making mental notes. “We tell them as little as possible until it’s time. Just enough so they know what to expect.”
Yoongi flips through the warrant again, double-checking the details. “We’ll start with his cruiser and his locker at the station. If we find anything there, it strengthens the case before we even hit the house.”
Jimin leans forward. “And the house?”
Yoongi’s eyes harden. “That’s where we’ll find her.”
The words hang in the air. Heavy. Too real.
Jimin swallows the bile rising in his throat. “We have to assume she’s still alive.”
“She is,” Yoongi says firmly. “She has to be.”
═══════
The door creaks. Seokjin steps in quietly, shutting it behind him. His brows are knit, sensing the gravity of the meeting before a word is spoken.
“You wanted to see me?”
Yoongi nods toward a chair. “Sit. What we’re about to tell you doesn’t leave this room.”
Seokjin’s eyes flick between them, curiosity sharpening into something more serious.
Yoongi doesn’t waste time. “We have probable cause that Jungkook’s involved in Y/N’s disappearance. And maybe others.”
Seokjin doesn’t speak at first. He just blinks, processing. “You’re sure?”
Jimin slides the folder across the table. “Take a look.”
Seokjin opens it. Page after page. Timelines. Dashcam gaps. Missing women. The pattern so clear it feels like it’s screaming.
“Jesus Christ,” Seokjin mutters. “You’re saying… he’s been doing this for years?”
Jimin’s jaw tightens. “Yes.”
Seokjin closes the file slowly. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t doubt. He just looks at them both, a quiet resolve settling over his features.
“What do you need from me?”
═══════
Within the hour, Hoseok joins them too. The four of them sit together in the locked briefing room, mapping out the operation.
Yoongi lays it out in clean, clipped steps: Hoseok and Seokjin will secure the station, keep eyes on Jungkook and his locker. Jimin will handle the cruiser search personally- he’s the one who knows what they’re looking for. Yoongi will oversee the home search team. Quiet. Controlled.
“If he senses even a hint of this before we’re ready, he’ll destroy evidence. Or worse,” Yoongi says flatly.
Hoseok frowns. “Worse?”
Jimin meets his gaze. “If he’s got her alive, he won’t keep her that way if he thinks we’re closing in.”
The room goes still.
Yoongi finally nods. “So we move smart. Fast. No hesitation. We search in waves. First the cruiser and locker. Then, once he’s at the station and distracted, we hit the house.”
Seokjin exhales, slow and tense. “And if he resists?”
Yoongi doesn’t blink. “Then we make sure he doesn’t have the chance.”
They finalize the plan late into the evening. Every detail accounted for. Every role set.
When they leave the room, the precinct hums with normalcy- phones ringing, officers laughing, paperwork stacking.
No one outside that locked door knows what’s coming.
But in less than 24 hours, Jungkook’s mask is coming off.
For good.
═══════
The next morning feels too normal.
Jimin moves through the precinct like it’s any other shift. Coffee in hand. Nods at people he doesn’t trust. Yoongi is already there, leaning casually against the front desk like he belongs anywhere but here.
Jungkook breezes in five minutes later, perfectly on time, like nothing in the world could touch him. Smile easy. Uniform crisp.
“Morning,” he says.
Jimin forces a nod. “Morning.”
The mask is flawless. Too flawless. And it makes Jimin’s skin crawl.
Yoongi catches his eye from across the room. Just a flicker. The signal. It’s time.
While Jungkook is busy in the briefing room, Hoseok keeps him distracted- routine updates about patrols and traffic. Nothing suspicious.
Meanwhile, Jimin and Seokjin slip out back toward the lot.
Jungkook’s cruiser sits parked in its usual spot. Clean. Ordinary.
Jimin unlocks the door with the warrant in hand, his gloves already on. The interior smells faintly of air freshener- too much of it. Like someone was covering something.
He starts slow. Methodical. Glove compartment. Under the seats. Floor mats. Everything looks spotless.
Then he pops the trunk.
A duffel bag sits in the corner. Nondescript.
Seokjin glances at him. “Here we go.”
Jimin unzips it.
Inside, there was nothing overtly damning. Just a spare change of clothes. Rope. A flashlight. Duct tape. Things that could mean everything or nothing at all.
But when Jimin digs deeper, his fingers brush something soft.
Fabric.
He pulls it out carefully.
A scarf. Floral. Pale blue. Stained.
Jimin’s chest tightens. He knows this fabric. He saw it in the roommate’s photo- Y/N always wore itt.
Seokjin exhales sharply through his nose. “That’s enough for probable cause to move on the house.”
But Jimin’s not done.
He kneels again, shining the flashlight deeper into the trunk lining. That’s when he sees it: a faint smear of something brown-red, sunk into the carpet fibers. Old. Cleaned, but not clean enough.
Seokjin mutters under his breath. “Son of a…”
Jimin takes photos. Bags the scarf. His hands are steady, but inside his pulse is roaring.
This is it. The first crack.
While Jimin is in the lot, Yoongi handles the station locker. Same calm precision.
He opens Jungkook’s locker quietly, rifling through the neat stack of uniforms, the personal items arranged almost obsessively.
In the back, beneath a false bottom panel, Yoongi finds it.
A small, battered notebook.
He flips it open.
Names. Dates.
Every missing woman.
Yoongi doesn’t say a word. He just tucks the notebook into an evidence bag and closes the locker like nothing ever happened.
When they regroup in the empty conference room, no one says much.
Yoongi places the notebook on the table. Jimin lays the scarf beside it.
The air feels heavier now.
“This is it,” Seokjin says quietly. “We move on the house today.”
Yoongi nods once. “We’ll need more bodies for the entry team. And we do it while he’s out on patrol. No chance for him to panic.”
“And if she’s there?” Hoseok asks.
“She’ll be there,” Jimin says. Voice like steel. “We get her out.”
Meanwhile, upstairs, Jungkook laughs with a rookie about something meaningless. Totally at ease.
He has no idea the ground beneath him is finally giving way.
═══════
The team moves like shadows.
Two unmarked cars ease to a stop a few houses down. No sirens. No noise. Just four officers stepping out, each one hand-picked. Seokjin. Hoseok. Yoongi. Jimin.
Jimin’s heart pounds in his ears, but his hands are steady. He’s not nervous. He’s focused.
Yoongi signals with two fingers- go.
They move in pairs, silent on the front lawn. Hoseok covers the side entrance. Seokjin stays by the vehicles, eyes scanning the street.
Jimin and Yoongi approach the front door.
It’s unlocked.
That sends a chill down Jimin’s spine.
Yoongi raises his brows but says nothing. They push the door open slowly.
The house is quiet. Too quiet.
Inside, it’s immaculate. Every surface polished. Photos on the walls arranged with mathematical precision. No sign of struggle. No trace of life.
Yoongi motions toward the living room. “Clear.”
Jimin checks the kitchen. “Clear.”
They move down the hallway, each step heavier than the last.
A faint hum of an air vent is the only sound.
Then they see it.
At the end of the hall was a door with a lock too heavy for a normal house. Reinforced.
Yoongi’s eyes meet Jimin’s.
“This is it.”
They don’t kick it. Not yet.
Yoongi leans in, listening. Nothing. No sound from the other side.
Jimin crouches. His fingers brush the edge of the doorframe. It’s solid. Too solid.
Hoseok appears behind them, his expression grim. “Basement access?”
“Yeah.” Yoongi gestures. “Get it open.”
Hoseok pulls the lockpick set from his belt. Works fast. The door gives with a soft click.
They open it slowly.
A narrow staircase leads down into darkness.
The smell hits first.
Not rot. Not death. Just something off- stale air, disinfectant, and faint metal.
Yoongi raises his flashlight, cutting through the black.
“Jimin. You’re on me.”
Jimin nods, stepping in behind him. Hoseok follows. Seokjin stays at the top, keeping the entry secure.
They descend one creaking step at a time.
The beam of light swings across concrete walls. A small table. A mattress on the floor. A chair. And then-
Jimin stops breathing..
Against the far wall, chained to the bedframe was a girl.
At first she doesn’t move. Doesn’t even seem to see them. She’s flat on the bed- ankles drawn tight, wrists bound, mouth gagged.
Her eyes are half-shut, too hollow, too tired to believe what she’s seeing.
Yoongi crouches instantly, lowering his weapon. His voice goes soft. “Hey. Hey, it’s okay. You’re safe.”
She flinches at the sound.
Jimin steps closer, hands raised, voice calm but urgent. “Y/N? It’s okay. We’re here to get you out.”
For a long second, nothing. Just her wide, glassy stare.
Then, barely audible-
A whimper.
Yoongi moves carefully, slowly. He cuts the gag first, tossing it aside.
She gasps when the cloth comes free, the sound breaking like glass in the silent room. Her lips are cracked, raw.
Jimin kneels beside her, his own heart breaking in his chest. “It’s okay,” he says softly. “We’ve got you. You’re safe now.”
She shakes her head violently.
“No,” she whispers. Voice like paper. “No… he’ll come back. He’ll-”
“You’re safe,” Jimin repeats firmly. “He’s not here.”
She sobs. Silent, shaking sobs that rack her entire body.
Yoongi works on the cuffs, and when the last one clicks open, she just collapses forward into Jimin’s arms. Weightless.
Hoseok steps into the room, eyes scanning the surroundings. “Jesus Christ…” he mutters under his breath.
On the wall behind the bed are faint marks- scratches. A small table holds a glass, a knife, and folded clothes. Like a twisted imitation of care.
Jimin doesn’t look. He just keeps his arms around her, holding her upright.
She doesn’t answer. She just clings to him like someone who doesn’t believe the nightmare is ending.
Yoongi stands, his face unreadable. “We need to move. Before he comes back.”
Jimin nods, lifting her carefully. She’s light- too light.
They head up the stairs, slow and steady, every sense on high alert.
When they reach the top, Seokjin is already at the door, gun drawn, watching the street.
“All clear,” Seokjin says.
“Then let’s get her out,” Yoongi replies.
They move quickly but quietly, loading her into the back of the unmarked car. Hoseok covers their exit.
As the car pulls away from the house, Y/N curls into herself in the backseat, eyes darting nervously, like she still expects him to appear.
Jimin looks out the window at Jungkook’s perfect, ordinary house shrinking behind them.
For the first time in days, he breathes.
But it’s not over.
Not yet.
═══════
epilogue-
Five months later, you’re sitting on the witness stand.
The courtroom feels colder than the basement ever did.
The jury sits in two stiff rows, their expressions carefully neutral. The judge looms above it all, stern and silent. On the other side of the room sits Jungkook- handcuffed, shackled, wearing a plain prison uniform.
He doesn’t look small. He doesn’t look broken.
He looks exactly the same.
Your voice shakes as you speak. You’re not even sure what words are leaving your mouth anymore. The attorney keeps asking questions.
“How long were you held?”
“Did he harm you physically?”
“What threats did he make to prevent your escape?”
You answer automatically. Quiet. Precise. Just like they told you to.
You talk about the arrest, the assaults, the kidnapping, the torture disguised as care. About the others he hinted at. About the nights he told you there was no escape, that you’d never see daylight again.
Your hands tremble in your lap.
And through it all… you feel his eyes on you.
Jungkook hasn’t looked away once.
His attorney tries the insanity angle. Calls him unstable, detached from reality, “mentally unfit to understand his actions.” He says Jungkook was driven by delusion. By obsession.
But the prosecution doesn’t let it stick.
They bring out the evidence- the scarf from his trunk, the bloodstains in his cruiser, the hidden notebook with names and dates. They present forensic proof that ties him to the disappearances of three other women. Their bodies still haven’t been found.
The jury deliberates for hours.
You sit in a small waiting room, staring at your hands until they call everyone back in.
The foreman stands, holding the slip of paper.
“We, the jury, find the defendant, Jeon Jungkook, guilty on all counts.”
The courtroom goes silent.
The judge’s voice follows, steady and final:
“For the crimes of first-degree kidnapping, wherein the defendant unlawfully and knowingly abducted the victim by force and without consent – 25 years; aggravated assault resulting in serious bodily injury, wherein the defendant intentionally caused grievous harm – 15 years; aggravated sexual assault and rape, wherein the defendant did unlawfully and by forcible compulsion engage in sexual intercourse without the victim’s consent – 30 years; unlawful imprisonment, wherein the defendant knowingly restrained the victim in violation of her liberty – 10 years; and three counts of second-degree murder, wherein the defendant did unlawfully and intentionally cause the deaths of three individuals – 40 years for each count. These offenses, when combined, result in a total of 180 years. Therefore, this court sentences the defendant to life imprisonment without the possibility of parole. These sentences shall run consecutively, ensuring permanent confinement.”
A murmur ripples through the gallery.
You finally allow yourself to breathe. Just a little.
Jungkook turns his head slowly, that same calm, unreadable mask on his face. Then he smiles.
Not a soft smile. Not even bitter. It’s the same smile he gave you the first time he saw you on the side of that road.
As the bailiffs move to escort him out, he leans slightly toward the aisle, voice low but clear enough for only you to hear.
“I’ll see you again,” he says.
Your blood runs cold.
Then, softer, a cruel twist to his lips, “And if you miss me… just look down baby.”
Your stomach drops. Because you know what’s carved there. JJ. His initials. His mark.
The bailiffs pull him back, leading him toward the holding cell. He doesn’t fight. He doesn’t look at anyone else.
Just you. And he’s still smiling when the heavy door slams shut behind him.
You sit frozen in the witness box, heart hammering, the courtroom spinning around you.
It’s over. But you’ll never be free.
Not really.
═══════
that’s how it could have happened…
═══════
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These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.
A/n:Welp, it's been a long while and I very much apologise for the long hiatus but I'm back to writing now. While my works are in drafts and still being written, I'll be posting headcanons to get used to writing again 🙂
Dilf Namjoon who is a widower and with an infant son to take care of.
Dilf Namjoon who thinks of hiring a babysitter while he goes to work and earns money for both his son and him.
Dilf Namjoon, who can't find a damn good babysitter since most of them are just trying to get in his pants. Who spends weeks interviewing candidates, going through background checks, only to be met with disappointment every time.
Dilf Namjoon who eventually gives up, deciding that if he can’t find someone good enough, he’ll just have to work from home more. It’s frustrating, exhausting, but he refuses to leave his son with just anyone.
Dilf Namjoon who one day finds a towel fallen on his balcony, strange, since nobody lives upstairs. Later, he finds out that someone just recently moved in.
Dilf Namjoon decides to give the item back himself since the person doesn't even realise that their towel is missing.
Dilf Namjoon who knocks on the door and sees you, right out of the shower and hair dripping wet, looking like an angel.
Dilf Namjoon who awkwardly stands there since he forgot why he was there in the first place. When you ask if he needed something, he awkwardly clears his throat and hands you back your towel
Dilf Namjoon who finds out you live alone and assures you that you can come to him for help whenever you need help and not hesitate.
Dilf Namjoon who can't get the image of you out of his mind after that. He keeps thinking of you in ways he shouldn't.
Dilf Namjoon who tries to push those thoughts aside until the day he desperately needs a babysitter for an urgent meeting. Who goes through a mental list of possible options, only for your name to be the first one that comes to mind.
Dilf Namjoon who never intended to rely on a stranger, until he meets you. Until he sees the way his son, who is usually wary of new people, reaches out for you without hesitation.
Dilf Namjoon who is relieved when you agree without hesitation, who watches as his son immediately takes a liking to you, clinging to your hands and giggling as if you were always meant to be there.
Dilf Namjoon who is elated to find that you have no problem looking after his son again and that it's easier since you've been looking after your brother and cousins since a young age.
Dilf Namjoon who invites you over for dinner as a thank you for taking care of his son. He laughs at the fake-offended face you make and says that's what neighbours are for and there's nothing to thank you for.
Dilf Namjoon whose heart skips a beat when you sit with them for dinner. The entire evening, he keeps blushing. The way you take care of his son to the way you help him out in the kitchen, he can't help but think of a domestic life with you.
Dilf Namjoon who realises he is in love with you, when you tuck his son in his bed, when you kiss his forehead so softly.
That night, he kept imagining a life with you as his wife. Sure, he is older than you but isn't that better than boys your age? He's such a loyal gentleman and he earns well as well.
He'd take care of you so well, you don't ever have to worry about anything.
Dilf Namjoon who starts worming his way into your life, you need help with the hinges of your door? Don't worry, Namjoon is perfectly capable. You need to shift the heavy sofa to the other side of the room? Namjoon makes sure to flex his muscles.
Dilf Namjoon who asks for your laptop under the excuse of needing it for work, making sure it seems natural when you offer it to him yourself. Who copies all your files onto his own, going through your photos, your messages, learning everything he can about you.
Dilf Namjoon who learns the recipe you were learning from videos on your laptop and makes them the next time you come over.
Dilf Namjoon who is more than ready to teach you the recipe himself if it means to spend more time with you.
Dilf Namjoon who finds ways to accidentally touch you while you both are cooking. You think he is trying to hug you? Nope, he is just trying to take something from the cabinet above. When his fingers brush against yours while handing you a spoon? He is just making sure you are holding the spoon correctly.
Dilf Namjoon who finds every excuse to keep you close. Who makes sure his son gets attached to you so that you have no choice but to stay.
Dilf Namjoon who grows annoyed when he sees another man drop you off at your apartment late at night. Who waits outside his door, pretending as if he was just about to close it, and asks why you were out so late.
Dilf Namjoon who clenches his jaw when you casually mention that you were just out with friends and that the guy was only being nice. Who doesn't like that answer. Who files that man’s face into his memory, just in case.
Dilf Namjoon who keeps inviting you over under the pretense of his son missing you, using every opportunity to learn more about your life. The first thing he confirms? You don’t have a boyfriend. Good. But even if you did, it wouldn’t have mattered. He would have handled it.
Who can’t take it anymore. Who has spent too many nights imagining what it would be like to have you in his arms, in his bed, forever his.
Dilf Namjoon who drugs you once, just once, slipping something into your tea so that you drift off into a deep sleep. Who lays beside you in his bed, wrapping himself around you as if you were already his.
Dilf Namjoon who takes your phone while you sleep, unlocking it effortlessly with your fingerprint. Who goes through your messages, growing irritated at the guy who keeps flirting with you. Who deletes those messages, blocking the number entirely.
Dilf Namjoon who watches as you wake up the next morning, completely unaware of what had happened.
Dilf Namjoon who comes running to you when his son starts crying, saying he won't calm down until and unless you are there because he had a nightmare and wants his mom (Namjoon encouraged him to call you that) to calm him down.
Dilf Namjoon who convinces you to stay the night when it gets too late, who insists it’s alright to stay at his place. His son, now completely attached to you, whines and clings to your hand, making it impossible for you to refuse.
Dilf Namjoon who stands in the doorway of the guest room after tucking his son in, watching as you settle under the blankets, his heart pounding. You trust him. You feel safe with him. If only you knew the thoughts running through his mind.
Dilf Namjoon who, when the moment is right, makes his move.
In the middle of the night, you wake up to get a glass of water. Only to find him standing there drinking a glass of wine, shirtless.
You think he hasn't seen you and about to make your way back to the guest room to not make it awkward, until he calls out your name.
"Thank you, you know, for taking care of my son," he says, motioning towards the wine. "Do you want some?"
"Thank you for the offer, but I don't drink," you say sheepishly, your gaze dropping.
"And besides, there's no need to thank me. S/n is a wonderful child. I love spending time with him."
He steps closer, the edge of the table pressing against your back, effectively caging you. "He can be yours," he states, his voice low.
"What?" you stammer, your heart suddenly pounding frantically against your ribs.
"I'm saying, he can be your child. Hell, he already is your child at this point. Do you know, when he has nightmares, he calls for you?" His eyes, dark and intense, bore into yours. "I'm serious. I can be a good husband."
He corners you against the counter, his hands resting on either side of you, trapping you. "You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this," he murmurs, his voice thick with longing. His fingers trail along your jaw, tilting your chin up so your eyes meet his.
Dilf Namjoon who finally kisses you, deep and possessive, claiming you with every touch. He smirks as you kiss him back after a while. Who lifts you effortlessly, carrying you to his bed, whispering words of devotion against your skin.
Dilf Namjoon who knows this isn’t just one night.
Dilf Namjoon who presses a kiss to your temple as you drift off in his arms, whispering, "You’re never leaving me now."
Dilf Namjoon who refuses to let you go, you are his wife now, rings and vows can wait.
Dilf Namjoon who has no intention of ever letting you go.
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