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You never planned on taking in a hybrid. Especially not one like him.
You offer him food. A place to stay. Rules.
He offers you obedience. Tension. Trouble.
Because hybrids like him don't know how to exist without earning their place and you're about to learn that kindness, to someone like Jungkook, can feel just as dangerous as cruelty.
A/N: if you're here for emotional damage, slow-burn tension and a little bit of chaos-then yeah. let's go... this fic is messy in all the ways: hurt, comfort, trust issues, anc a hybrid who doesn't really know how to be safe even when he finally is.
When you find out the person you care about most in the entire world has been taken away, probably lost forever, you really only have three choices:
Option one: Be wise. Stay logical. Take a deep, deep breath, and calmly try to figure out where they dragged him.
Option two: Throw a really bad fuss about it. Scream until your lungs split, cry until you choke, and nearly vomit your empty stomach right onto the floor.
Option three: Go end your life on the nearest bridge.
Of course, you completely skipped option one, went straight to option two inside that sickening lobby, and now, finally, you're standing here on the very edge of the concrete railing, looking at the drop.
Because just twenty minutes ago, you were slamming your palms against the counter of the cruel facility, your vision swimming in streaks under the harsh lights. You had run the entire way to get there, your legs shaking so violently they felt like water because the damn bus never came. You had pushed your body past its absolute limit, desperate to beat the clock.
And for what? Only for those absolute dicks at the front desk to look at you like you were stupid.
"I'm sorry. There is nothing we can do, Miss," the first lady said, her manicured fingers tapping idly on her keyboard.
You were trying so hard to just catch your breath, your chest heaving violently, but the air felt like pure glass in your throat. All that agonizing running, only to be met with the cold announcement that Jungkook had already been sold.
"Please," you gasped, leaning so heavily on the counter that your knuckles turned translucent. "Please... I have the money. Look, I can pay extra. Just get him back. Or give me the address of the new owner! I'll go there, I'll trade him back, please, please..."
The front desk lady shot you a glare that didn't hold a single ounce of real sympathy. The tight bun on top of her head stood so sharp and pointy it looked like a radio antenna desperately trying to catch a signal that would magically remove you from her face. Still, she forced her voice into that sickeningly professional tone:
"As I said, Miss, that is simply not possible."
"But why?!" You screamed, tears finally blurring your sight. "I told you I would buy him! I announced it!"
Movement near the back hallway caught your eye. You spotted Ryan stepping out from the restroom corridor. He recognized you instantly, his entire posture freezing up as his face shifted into a deeply awkward look.
"You!" You yelled, pointing a trembling hand at the shelter guy as he reluctantly walked over toward the desk, clearing his throat. "I told you! You knew I was coming back with the money!"
"Hey... Calm down, please," Ryan muttered, raising his hands defensively and nervously looking around the lobby. "It wasn't my call, okay? An early private auction was opened for the VIPs. It was a direct order from above. Like I told you earlier, we don't hold reservations here, so Asset 701—"
"Don't call him that..." you breathed, your voice cracking.
Ryan didn't comment on the interruption. He just let out a heavy sigh, continuing in a flat, matter-of-fact tone. "He was placed on the auction block because of the massive interest. The buyers wanted him today."
"I don't care. Get him back!" you sobbed, the anger ripping out of you. "Do something to get him back!"
Ryan winced, shifting his weight uncomfortably under your furious gaze until he let too much slip. "Look, even if I could, the rabbit didn't behave anyway. He didn't even get sold."
You froze. The frantic, painful hammering in your chest stopped dead.
"What?" You stared at him. " What do you mean he didn't get sold? She just said the auction was sold out!"
"Well... the bidding hit the mark," Ryan admitted, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "But there was a massive incident on the stage. He went completely feral. Threatened a high-profile buyer. He’s a total menace, a major safety liability."
"Where is he then?!" You demanded, lunging slightly forward over the counter. "If nobody bought him, where is he?!"
"I don't know," Ryan said quickly, shaking his head. "They just took him."
"Who took him?!"
"I don't know!"
"How do you not know?! You work here!" The tears were spilling over your cheeks in streams now, the brutal exhaustion of the past week completely crashing down on your shoulders. You looked at him pleadingly, your eyes begging, completely stripped of any pride. "Please, Ryan. Just tell me."
Ryan looked down at your trembling form, and for a fleeting moment, a flicker of genuine pity crossed his face. He let out a heavy, defeated sigh and glanced at the two front desk ladies next to him. One of them didn't even bother to hide her annoyance, rolling her eyes and shifting her weight as if your heartbreak was nothing more than a minor workplace inconvenience.
Ryan looked back at you, his shoulders dropping. "I'm sorry. I really am." he said, his voice changing to a low murmur. "But that animal was dangerous. The state he was in today? He would have killed you if you took him home. He's completely unhinged."He stepped back, delivering the final, crushing blow. "They took him to the back facilities. He's probably going to get put down. "
"No... no, no..." The words spun around your head, making the edges of your vision go completely black.
"Miss, it really is for the best—" the front desk lady started, her voice sounding like it was underwater.
But you couldn't breathe in that room anymore. A sudden, violent wave of nausea slammed into your guts, and you slouched over, your knees buckling as you nearly fainted right there on the polished floor. Your stomach churned so hard you thought you were going to vomit.
Ryan moved around the counter, his face twisting with worry. "Is everything alright?" He asked, as if that wasn't the dumbest, most agonizing question anyone could possibly ask in that exact moment.
As he reached out to steady you, a blind surge of rage fractured through your panic. You aggressively threw your elbow back, catching him hard in the chest to shove him away. Without another word, you spun on your heels and bolted. You burst through the glass doors, running blindly until your weak legs brought you right to the edge of this bridge.
The wind here is freezing, biting directly into the sweat drying on your forehead. You stare down into the abyss. The stone ledge beneath your worn sneakers is sharp and uneven, the water far below looks dangerously shallow, and you can easily just lean forward and end it right now. Just step off and let the quiet take you. If Jungkook is gone... what is left to fight for?
A hollow weight settles behind your ribs as you stare at the dark horizon. It’s funny, isn't it? You had spent your entire adult life building walls, mastering the art of being the lonely type, the kind of person who survived by relying on nobody and needing nothing. Yet, somehow, that stupid, stubborn bunny had burrowed his way so deeply under your skin that your chest felt entirely empty without his presence pressing into your side. You had gotten so used to the quiet rhythm of his breathing, the soft twitch of his ears, and the desperate way he anchored himself to you.
Is this what love is? This breathless terror that left you trembling over a freezing river? You miss the simplicity of a life before him, the raw innocence of a time when your heart didn't feel like a ticking bomb, constantly induced by fear.
Because loving Jungkook doesn't feel like a gentle comfort; it feels like drowning. It’s like being dragged beneath a freezing tide where you are constantly gasping for air, never allowed to fully breathe because you are always waiting for the next strike.
But you know with absolute certainty that Jungkook is not the one to blame for this suffocation. He is completely innocent in all of this. His love isn't the thing holding you under; It’s the world. It’s this filthy, transactional system that treats him like property, making it a crime for the two of you to just exist in the same space. He never asked to be hunted, and he never asked to be caged. All he ever did was love you with everything his bruised soul had left.
And just when you had finally opened your eyes to your own feelings, accepting the depth of what you felt for him, a merciless wave crashed down and ripped him right out of your grasp before you could even hold him tight. Without him, the very air in your lungs feels like a complete waste. If he isn't breathing it with you, you don't want it either.
Your spiraling thoughts are suddenly shattered by a obnoxious burst of laughter echoing down the pedestrian walkway.
Stepping back slightly from the ledge to avoid drawing any attention, you look around the sprawling city grid, finally noticing the heavy passage of time. The sky has completely bruised and darkened into a deep grey. Beneath the flickering streetlights, the arteries of the city are beginning to swell with manic activity. People are flooding out of the office buildings from long work shifts, car horns are blaring into the gridlock traffic, and groups of teenagers are loitering on the corners. Among them are crowds of people wearing expensive fabrics and sharp, confident outfits meant for a wild night out, clearly heading to some local bar or, if they are fancy enough, to the exclusive NVN club to get lost and drink the night away.
Then, you freeze. Your fingers lock around the cold railing of the bridge so hard the metal bites painfully into your palms.
The NVN club.
Your mind violently fractures, flashing backward to the heavy bass of Hobi's birthday, to the suffocating heat of that night in the club, and the terrifying time when you accidentally discovered what truly hid beneath its glamorous surface. You remember the sickening metallic scent of blood, the terrifying roars of the crowd, and the hidden fighting ring where broken hybrids were forced to tear each other to pieces for the amusement of the wealthy.
You remember the words of the guy who had been sitting next to you, his voice sounding like a distorted blur in your memory:
"From what I heard, the hybrids here are the ones snatched up because they’re life-threatening. Danger to society, right? Might as well use 'em for entertainment before they get put down."
The realization hits hard, sending a violent spike of adrenaline through your exhausted veins. They didn't take Jungkook to a veterinary clinic to be peacefully euthanized. The shelter wouldn't waste a high-value asset like a purebred rabbit just to bury him in a backyard. They are a transactional machine; they wouldn't just throw away half a million dollars of potential profit. If he was too aggressive for the elite buyers, if his unhinged rebellion had labeled him a dangerous menace to society, they wouldn't kill him for free. They would sell his violence. They would capitalize on his fangs.
You need to get to the NVN club. Right now.
The next thing you know, you are already moving. Your legs find a sudden surge of strength as you wrench your hands away from the cold railing and throw yourself back onto the pavement. You are leaving the bridge behind, the freezing wind whipping through your hair, biting into your cheeks as a wild spark of hope ignites right in the center of your chest.
It is a twisted, sickening kind of hope. Under any other circumstance, you would never, ever wish for Jungkook to be thrown into a hellhole like that subterranean club–a place where creatures are treated like disposable toys for bloodsport. The very thought of him in a cage like the one you saw that night makes your stomach twist into knots. But right now? You are down on your knees, mentally praying for it.
You manifest with everything your shattered soul has left that he is inside that fighting ring. Because if he is there, it means he isn't dead yet. It means you aren't too late. If he is there, he is still breathing, his heart is still beating, and there is still a chance for you to find him, to tear him out of their hands, and to keep your promise.
Not far from the foot of the bridge, the harsh city lights of the main strip give way to a dim, sketchy alleyway where a line of unregistered taxis always idles against the curb.
Normally, you wouldn't catch yourself dead in one of these specific, off-grid taxi lines. They always look incredibly creepy, the drivers leaning against the steering wheels with predatory stares that trace anyone walking past alone after dark.
There is an old, rusted payphone ringing persistently against the brick wall nearby, its shrill tone echoing off the pavement, adding to the suffocating grit of the street.
Under any other circumstance, your survival instinct would tell you to keep walking, but tonight you throw open the back door of the first cab you reach and slide onto the worn leather seat, the faint scent of stale smoke hitting your nose.
"NVN club." you pant out, slamming your bank card against the plastic partition before the driver can even open his mouth to complain. "Drive. Now."
The driver blinks at you through the rearview mirror, tracking the desperation in your eyes, before slamming his foot onto the gas. The car screeches away from the curb, throwing you back against the seat.
As the taxi weaves aggressively through the streets, a sharp vibration buzzes against your thigh. You pull out your phone, the screen illuminating your face with a barrage of worried text messages from Hoseok
Hobi: Y/N?? Did you get him?
Hobi: Please text me when you can, I'm getting worried.
Hobi: Are you guys safe?
You can't leave him hanging. The last thing you want is for Hoseok to think you just swindled his personal life savings and hopped on a flight to a tropical island to live your best life. You quickly tap out a rushed reply, your fingers trembling over the cracked glass.
You: Hobi, I'm so sorry. I am alive. I still have the money safely with me, but the plan went completely sideways. I didn't get Jungkook from the shelter. They moved him out, but I have a solid lead on where they took him. I am checking it right now. I will explain everything later, I promise.
You shove your phone back into your bag, puffing your cheeks out with air as a sudden wave of nausea rolls through your stomach. The sheer amount of adrenaline coursing through your veins, makes your vision spin uncomfortably as the car moves forward.
But as the neon-drenched skyscrapers of the entertainment district finally loom into view, the taxi slows to a brutal, agonizing crawl. Two blocks away from the NVN club, the traffic grinds to a complete halt. Horns blare in a deafening chorus as lines of luxury sports cars and blacked-out SUVs jam the multi-lane street, completely gridlocked.
Your knee bounces erratically. Five minutes. Ten minutes. You are losing time.
So your hand flies to the handle, and you violently wrench the car door open. The driver glances back, eyes wide in the rearview mirror, his mouth already opening to shout after you. But before he can utter a single word, you throw a rushed, breathless "Thank you!" over your shoulder and hurl yourself out, slamming the heavy door behind you as your feet hit the exhaust-fumed street.
You sprint through the narrow gaps between the idling cars. Annoyed faces stare out at you through the tinted glass windows, their eyes tracking your frantic, disheveled form as you dodge side mirrors and leap over the painted lines of the asphalt, driven by nothing but the terrifying imagery of what they might be doing to Jungkook right now.
As you round the final corner, you are met with another massive wall of traffic, but this one is made entirely of people.
The sidewalk leading up to the NVN club is a sprawling sea of human flesh. The ropes keeping the queue in place are straining under the sheer volume of the crowd. The atmosphere is thick with the suffocating scents of expensive cologne, and the distinct hum of anticipation.
Massive bouncers in tailored black suits stand guard by the heavy double doors, their faces completely expressionless as they ruthlessly check IDs and turn people away.
In the middle of the line, a loud, aggressive shoving match breaks out between two heavily intoxicated men, a girl in a sequined dress screaming in the middle of them while a nearby guard steps in, his hand already reaching for his baton.
You stand at the edge of the concrete, your heart hammering against your ribs as you try to calculate how the hell you are going to get inside. The line stretches so far down the asphalt that it disappears around the dark corner of the block where you can’t even see the end of it. If you wait for your turn, you will be standing out here until tomorrow morning. By the time you get past those doors, it may be too late.
Swallowing down the lump of panic in your throat, you keep your head low. You try to blend into the chaos, shifting your weight and slipping past the loud groups of people, moving forward inch by inch along the side of the brick wall. You just need to get close enough to the front to slip past the velvet rope when the guards are distracted by the fight.
You manage to bypass a dozen people, your chest tight with hope. You duck your shoulder, about to slide right under the heavy velvet rope, but in the middle of the process, someone deliberately steps directly in front of you. Before you can back away, a hand clamps firmly around your arm.
Your head snaps up. A ginger girl stands blocking your path, her long nails digging sharply into the fabric of your jacket sleeve. She smacks her gum loudly, her heavily smudged smoky eyes looking like someone had just blown a handful of ash directly into her face. She scans you up and down, taking in your messy appearance.
"What exactly do you think you're doing?" she asks loud enough to instantly draw the attention of the surrounding group.
You force a tight, incredibly nervous smile, as you gently attempt to wrench your arm out of her tight grip.
"I'm sorry, I just... I'm meeting someone at the front. I really need to get through."
"Oh, really?" A mocking laugh escapes her lips as she releases your arm, only to cross her own over her chest. "You're meeting someone? Let me guess, your imaginary VIP boyfriend? Look at you."
She pointedly gestures down at your decidedly not-so-clubbing outfit, her eyes practically drilling holes into your worn jacket and scuffed shoes.
You squeeze your lips together, the humiliation burning hot in your throat because, sadly, you do look quite like something resembling a piece of trash, or a desperate homeless human (which, given your lack of a real bed or shower, you technically are.) You can't even argue with her. The only saving grace is that at least your makeup skills are better than whatever ash-disaster she has going on.
"Let me make it clear for you: Get your ass to the back of the line."
You stare at her for a tense moment, and she glares right back at you, her jaw working aggressively on her gum.
Just then, the crowd shifts and the line starts moving again.
"Come on, get the fuck moving, people!" someone farther back in the queue shouts impatiently.
So you step back to get out of the line. Not because you are a coward, and definitely not because you can't talk for yourself, but because your eyes dart past your shoulder and catch one of the massive bodyguards giving you a sharp, warning look. You can't afford getting banned from the club because of a stupid sidewalk fight just yet.
Swallowing your rage, you just mumble a venomous "Bitch" under your breath as you catch the girl's ugly victory smirk.
You turn away, your hands instantly flying to your hair, brushing through the tangled strands in a nervous tic. Your eyes scan the massive exterior of the NVN club, looking for any possible sign of an alternate entry point.
They must have an emergency entrance. A back door. A delivery hatch. Anything.
Breaking into a rushed jog, you begin to circle the perimeter of the building. The venue is colossal, occupying nearly half a city block, and the trek takes a frustrating amount of time. Somewhere along the side, you pass the very end of the queue—the miserable souls who will definitely still be waiting out here by sunrise—but you don't even think about taking a place there. You keep moving.
The back of the club is a stark contrast to the front. The glossy pink neon disappear, replaced by a distinct lack of luxury. Finally, you come face-to-face with an enormous iron gate blocking off the rear loading dock. The bars are thick, topped with sharp, menacing metal spikes. Climbing over it would probably leave you hanging like a skewered kebab. But honestly? That's fine. You're a snack anyway.
You shove your shoe into a gap in the metal bars and hoist yourself up. You are halfway up the gate, your muscles straining, when a loud, sharp rip echoes in the air. You clench your teeth, as a jagged metal edge tears right through your sleeve. Great. Your jacket is ruined, right along with your will to live.
But just as you manage to yank the fabric free from the spike, a loud mechanical buzz cuts through the alley. The iron structure beneath you trembles violently, automatically starting to slide open to the side, with you still clinging to it like a feral raccoon. The worst part is that your foot gets completely stuck between the moving bars.
"Shit, shit, shit!" you panic, as the gate carries you sideways.
Suddenly, a massive tour bus swings into the street, a heavy bass beat vibrating from its frame. The headlights flash on, completely blinding you when you look back. Trapped, blind, and terrified of getting crushed, you give one final heave. You manage to wrench your foot free and jump off just in time, landing hard on the concrete—only to realize your shoe is still trapped, riding away from you with the gate.
The bus doors hiss open and a wave of noise spills out; loud music, laughter, and the sharp clatter of high heels on metal steps. A group of women in short, glittering dresses and dramatic wigs begins pouring out, shrieking and singing something in Russian at the top of their lungs.
You stand there frozen, one leg slightly raised like a confused flamingo, as one of the women pauses dramatically on the bottom step of the bus. She lifts a half-empty bottle of champagne into the air like a trophy.
“Woohoo! Gates open, legs open!” she yells, her voice thick with an accent.
Before she can take another step, a woman with a layered blonde wig shoves her from behind. “Get off, Marika, my tampon is halfway out!”
Marika whips around so fast her massive breasts jiggle violently under her tight dress. “Push me again and that tampon will end up deep up your fake nose, you cow!”
The two of them start shoving each other on the narrow stairs, their voices rising in a rapid-fire mix of English and Russian while the other women spill around them, laughing and shouting encouragement.
You take few steps forward, trying to blend into the chaos, when your eyes catch on a familiar face near the back of the group. Svetlana. As you stare through the glaring headlights, you spot a few other familiar faces right behind her, and a heavy dread settles deep in your gut as you realize exactly who they are.
These are the "Caucasian Ladies." The untouchable VIP regulars from the bar you work at. The same rich, entitled bitches who had sneaked Jungkook into the lounge once before, treating him like their personal toy.
A woman next to you, whose dramatic, spider-leg eyelash extensions are literally peeling off and hanging halfway down her cheek, stops mid-laugh. She looks down at your feet, then up at your face, her heavily lined lips curling into a suspicious pout.
"And who is this one?" she asks. "Look at her. Did the bus hit her on way here?"
The comment draws a few eyes, and your breath hitches as Svetlana herself slowly turns her head. She stands with the cigarette tilted casually between her fingers, a cloud of thin gray smoke escaping her red lips. She looks you up and down, a sharp flash of recognition goes across her face. Her heels click sharply against the pavement as she approaches you, the rest of the women parting to let her through.
"Well, well, well," Svetlana purrs, stepping forward until the expensive silk of her coat brushes against your torn sleeve. She takes a long, slow drag of her cigarette, her eyes glittering with dark satisfaction. "Isn't that my favorite bartender?"
Before you can even formulate a response, the blonde wigged woman next to her gasps loudly, as she points a manicured finger directly at your chest. "The bitch that took our bunny!"
You instinctively roll your eyes, the audacity of these women overriding your panic for a split second. You open your mouth, ready to give her a piece of your mind, but the words cut off instantly.
A massive, stone-faced bodyguard appears in the open gates, his heavy boots thudding against the concrete.
"Ladies, inside. Main backstage entrance is cleared. Move it," he barks, gesturing toward the interior of the club.
The crowd of women immediately starts shifting, babbling in Russian as they head toward the open doors. Svetlana gives you one last amused look and begins pushing past you to join them.
Desperation snaps through your veins. Forget your pride. Forget the fact that you hate her. You reach out and grab Svetlana firmly by her elbow, stopping her in her tracks. The woman freezes. She looks down at your hand, her eyebrows snapping together in a dangerous glare.
"I need your help," you say, your voice tight, and completely deadpan despite the hammering in your chest.
Svetlana lets out a sharp, mocking laugh, her eyes dancing. "Is that so? What could you possibly want?"
"I just need to get inside the club." you press, your eyes locking onto hers. "Please. Just get me past the guards."
Svetlana hums, tilting her head as she evaluates your ragged appearance, from your torn sleeve down to your single gray sock. A slow, incredibly wicked grin spreads across her red lips. She steps closer, blowing a stream of smoke right over your head.
"Then beg me. On your knees, little bartender."
You freeze. You look at her, your jaw clenched so hard it aches, but you can see the bodyguard getting closer out of the corner of your eye. You don't have a choice. Swallowing every last drop of your pride, you exhale a shaky breath and actually start lowering your weight to drop to the concrete.
But before your knee can even touch the ground, Svetlana bursts into a loud, melodic laugh. She throws her cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath the sharp point of her designer heel.
"Oh, dignity of a wet paper towel," she scoffs, shaking her head as her heavy silver earrings glint under the lights. "I make one little joke, and you throw yourself on floor? Get up, Darling. You look ridiculous." She waves a dismissive hand. "Where I come from, we say only dogs beg on four legs. Have at least little respect for yourself."
You instantly straighten up, a hot flush of anger heating your cheeks as you glare at her. She just smirks, entirely amused by her own twisted humor.
"Do you know how to dance on a pole?" she asks out of nowhere.
"What?" you blurt out, your brain short-circuiting. "No, I—"
"Too bad. You will learn fast," she cuts you off smoothly.
Before you can argue, the bodyguard notices the delay. His brow furrows deeply as his eyes lock dead on your disheveled form. "Hey! You there. You're not on the list," he demands, his heavy boots thudding against the asphalt as he rushes over to intercept you both just as you start heading toward the open gate.
Svetlana doesn't even blink. With practiced grace, she effortlessly slides her arm through yours, pulling you flush against her side. She looks the massive guard dead in the eye with untouchable authority.
"She is with us," She states smoothly. "She is our special guest. The star of tonight's show."
The guard hesitates, looking you up and down one last time with deep suspicion, but nobody safely questions Svetlana. He quickly backs off, raising a hand to gesture for you both to move through quickly.
As you and Svetlana pass through the heavy threshold, the mechanical hum of the iron gate kicks up behind you, starting to slide shut. Just before the heavy back doors click into place, you hear the guard's muffled voice echo in the alley:
"What the fuck... What idiot left a shoe stuck in the gears !?"
Then, the door slams shut, cutting off the outside world.
Svetlana leads you down a labyrinth of long, industrial corridors, everything moving at a dizzying rush. You end up in a sprawling backstage dressing room that looks like a neon bomb exploded in it. Wardrobe stylists, makeup artists, and half-naked dancers are running in every direction.
Before you can even think about slipping away, a frantic woman with a headset spots you, and next thing you know you are immediately thrown into a chaotic assembly line of preparation.
You try to protest, to tell them you're just trying to find someone, but your voice is completely drowned out by the backstage madness.
Within minutes, your ragged clothes are aggressively stripped off, replaced by a ridiculously small, dangerously tight dress that barely qualifies as fabric, and your feet are shoved into impossibly high, platform heels. Someone shoves a short, neon-blue wig with blunt bangs onto your head, pinning it down mercilessly.
"Sit!" a makeup artist commands, shoving you into a chair.
A barrage of brushes, blinding glitter pallets, and heavy lip gloss slams into your face, masking your exhausted eyebags under a dramatic, shimmering eyeshadow.
"Okay, honey, you're up! Don't keep the high rollers waiting!" a stage manager yells, completely ignoring your wide, panicked eyes.
Before you can scream a refusal, the velvet backstage curtains are ripped open, and a violent shove sends you stumbling forward. Your wobbly platform heels hit the slick surface of the main stage, and you instantly put your arms out to keep from face-planting.
Your eyes strain against the blinding glare of spotlights that slice through a thick, sweet-smelling haze of stage smoke. The deafening thud of a heavy bassline vibrates right through the soles of your shoes, rattling your ribs.
As your vision adjusts, the scale of the club opens up around you. You're on an elevated runway that snakes through a packed, dim VIP lounge. On two smaller side stages, other dancers are already performing, their bodies twisting effortlessly around gleaming steel poles in practiced movements.
The crowd below is a sea of tailored suits, expensive watches, and predatory grins. Drunken cheers echo through the air as a rain of crisp dollar bills flutters down from the upper booths, sticking to the sweat-slicked skin of the performers.
Panicking, you realize every eye in your section has just locked onto you—the new girl in the blue wig.
A collective roar of drunken approval goes up from a nearby table of businessmen. Your heart hammers against your ribs. You can't just stand here like a mannequin. Forcing your trembling legs to move, you shakily navigate the few steps toward the central pole. You grip the cold metal, your knuckles turning white. Taking a deep breath, you try your absolute best to fake it. You arch your back, throwing your head back to let the blue bangs fall over your eyes, and slowly drag yourself in one awkward, agonizingly tense circle around the steel bar.
You try to make it look like a sultry catwalk as you move away from the pole, but the lethal height of the clear heels makes you look more like a newborn deer on ice.
Screw this, you think, the urgency of finding Jungkook crashing back into your mind. I don't have time for this.
Instead of continuing the show, you completely abandon the stage presence. You practically bolt toward the small flight of stairs leading off the runway into the main crowd. The moment the VIPs realize you aren't putting on a show, the cheers instantly sour. A loud, unified wave of "Boo!" and disappointed groans erupts from the tables.
"Hey! Where are you going?!" someone shouts, a crumbled bill bouncing off your shoulder. "What a rip-off!"
You don't care. You don't give a single damn about their money. Ignoring the insults throwing themselves at your back, you trip down the final step and hit the main floor, stumbling blindly through the crowd as you run for your life toward the neon-lit exit doors.
But the club is a sprawling, labyrinthine nightmare. Instead of the exit, you burst through a heavy set of double doors and find yourself trapped in a long, unfamiliar VIP corridor lined with private velvet-curtained booths. Your ankles twist dangerously inside the platforms, shooting sharp needles of pain up your calves with every step. You feel completely ridiculous, but you keep pushing anyway. Left. Right. Another turn.
You finally push through the main dance floor first, where hundreds of bodies move beneath flashing lights, hands raised in the air as the bass shakes the entire room. Then the bathrooms. Then, at the end of a dim side corridor, you see it. The door. The one you remember. FIRE EXIT.
You throw your entire body weight against the push-bar. The doors fly open, and you plunge down a steep, dark concrete stairwell. The deeper you go, the louder the muffled thudding music of the main club fades, replaced by something far more terrifying: a raw, primal roar of human bloodlust. The deafening vivat noises of a ravenous audience bounce off the damp walls.
You sprint down the last flight of stairs, your wobbly heels clacking loudly, and burst directly into the massive, dark underground arena. But the moment your eyes adjust to the dim room, your heart drops into your stomach.
It’s too late.
The frantic roar of the crowd is already peaking, shifting from suspenseful shouting into a chaotic cheer of victory and disappointment. You stand frozen by the entrance, your hand gripping the cold metal doorframe just to keep your buckled knees from giving out entirely.
In the center of the room, illuminated by a single, harsh white spotlight, is the fighting ring. Steam or smoke or stage haze hangs in the air, making everything look slightly unreal.
The match is over.
Your vision blurs, dizziness washing over you in a violent wave as you stare at the shapes inside the ring. One figure is sprawled motionless across the blood-stained canvas, face down, limbs heavy and unresponsive. Sitting directly on top of his back, pinning him down with brutal finality, is the victor; a massive, heavily scarred tiger hybrid, his striped ears pinned back as he draws in ragged breaths.
An announcer's voice booms over the crackling PA system, echoing off the walls: "Fight done! Winner by total submission... Asset 912!"
No... no, please, no, your mind screams. The room spins violently. Black spots dance at the edges of your vision as a sickening certainty takes hold. That's him. The broken, unmoving body on the floor is Jungkook. The world tilts, and a sob chokes in your throat.
The arena staff swarm the cage to secure the victor. The winning hybrid suddenly snaps, baring razor-sharp fangs at the guards. A brilliant flash of blue electricity arcs from a prod, slamming into his shoulder. The hybrid convulses, his muscles freezing instantly as he collapses into a twitching heap, completely paralyzed by the shock.
As the handlers drag the aggressive victor away, the other man flips the defeated hybrid over onto his back to check for a pulse. You lean forward, your breath completely hitching in your throat, staring through the haze. The bright spotlight catches the details of the fallen hybrid's face.
It isn't Jungkook.
You let out a ragged, gasping breath, your chest heaving violently. It’s a completely different hybrid; a panther hybrid, his tail twitching weakly against the canvas as the medics load him onto a stretcher.
The force of the emotional whiplash hits you like a physical blow. Your legs lose all their strength, completely liquefying under the weight of your relief and lingering terror. Before you can faint, you blindly stumble backward toward the spectator tribunes, practically collapsing onto the lowest row of benches. You sit down hard, burying your face in your trembling, glittering hands, trying to stop the room from spinning.
"Whoa there, sweetheart," a slurred voice chuckles from the row above you. A man reeking of cheap whiskey leans over, his eyes traveling slowly down your impossibly short silver dress. He lets out a low, appreciative whistle. "Nice ass. Are you the prize for the next round?"
You don't even have the energy to glare at him. You just bury your face deeper into your hands, mumbling a tired "fuck off" under your breath.
But as the words leave your mouth, the realization suddenly pierces through your brain. You straighten up instantly, your posture stiffening as you whip your head around to face the man. "Wait. Next round?"
Right on cue, a sharp, electronic four-second tone beeps over the PA system, signaling the start of the next match. The crowd's low chatter instantly swells back into a hungry, anticipatory rumble. Down below, the heavy iron security gate on one side of the pit groans open. Your breath catches in your throat. You dig your fingernails so hard into your seat.
From the right gate, the staff drags out a skinny, panicked Dog hybrid. He wears a heavy iron collar chained tightly to a short leash. He looks completely disoriented, his wide eyes darting around the arena maniacally as he tosses his head from side to side, whimpering. You feel a sickening pang of pity for him; he clearly doesn't know what's going on. When he hesitates, the guard behind him brutally lashes him across the shoulder blades with a heavy leather whip, forcing him to walk faster.
Then, the left gate opens.
Your heart stops dead in your chest. Compared to the trembling dog hybrid, this one walks out with a eerie stillness. There is no struggling. No resistance. His hands are cuffed tightly behind his back, his head sloped low toward his chest so that a curtain of dark, messy hair shadows his face. Long, soft black bunny ears flop forward over his shoulders, completely motionless.
It's Jungkook.
He is bare-chested, wearing a pair of loose, dark fabric shorts low on his hips. The harsh arena spotlights catch every single contour of his body, and it's devastating. His skin is a map of violence; faded white lines, angry red welts, and fresh, dark bruises cutting across his skin ribs.
You expect him to be trembling, to see the same wild terror in his eyes that the dog hybrid has. But as he stops at the entrance of the ring, he remains terrifyingly calm. There is no panic in the way he carries himself. Instead, his posture is heavy with a quiet, hollow resignation, as if he has already accepted that this cage is the only place he was ever meant to die.
The guards aggressively push both hybrids toward the center of the ring, opening the heavy chain-link cage doors. They rough-handle the dog hybrid inside, quickly unlocking his collar before scrambling out. The moment the boy realizes he's free, he panics and bolts back toward the exit, but it's too late. The heavy cage door slams shut right in his face.
Through the mesh, you watch Jungkook. Finally possessing free wrists, he doesn't rush, nor does he look at the screaming crowd. He stands perfectly still for a moment, slowly rubbing his reddened wrists to restore the circulation. Then, with a deliberate motion, he lifts his head. His dark, hollow eyes pierce through his messy bangs, locking dead onto his frantic opponent.
The dog hybrid, realizing his escape is completely blocked, slowly turns around. His breath hitches in a visible shudder, light brown hair falling haphazardly into his eyes as he takes a proper look at the standing bunny.
For a fraction of a second, the puppy goes completely still. You can see his eyes widen even further, a feat you didn’t think was anatomically possible given how terrified he already was.
Jungkook doesn’t react at the look. He doesn’t even blink. You shift uncomfortably on your hard bench, as the trembling dog hybrid takes a hesitant step toward the center. His hands are shaking so violently they look like a blur. He opens his mouth, his lips moving as he tries to say something to Jungkook–perhaps begging for mercy, perhaps pleading for a quick end. But his voice is completely swallowed by the bloodthirsty arena.
"Fight! Fight! Fight!” The crowd erupts into impatient roar, demanding the violence they paid to see.
You are violently startled when Jungkook moves without a warning. In the blink of an eye, he closes the distance, his hand shooting out to catch the boy ruthlessly by the back of his neck, and slams the poor puppy's face directly into the metal cage. The dog hybrid stumbles back, clutching his bleeding nose. Realizing there is no mercy to be found, survival instinct finally overrides his terror. With a desperate, choked cry, he lunges forward, swinging wildly, completely forced into fighting back.
For a long moment, you just sit there. Frozen into place, staring at the raw, unadulterated violence unfolding right before your eyes.
You have seen Jungkook fight before. You knew he carried a dangerous strength beneath his soft exterior. But back then, he had fought like a shield, driven by a desperate need to protect you. This is entirely different. From the outside, he looks utterly ruthless, a machine of pure, unhinged determination. He tracks his opponent with a predatory focus, shifting his weight effortlessly as he dodges the dog's sloppy swings. He steps in, delivering shar blows that make the crowd cheer in wicked delight. It looks like slow, calculated torture. It looks like the "dangerous menace" the shelter workers warned you about. The feral animal that belongs in a cage.
But if you look straight into his tired, dark eyes, you can see the agonizing truth. It’s not different at all. Jungkook doesn't want to do this. He hates every single second of it. You catch the minute details that the bloodthirsty crowd is too blind to notice. You see the way he subtly controls the trajectory of his fists, intentionally angling his knuckles so his heaviest punches land on the meat of the boy's shoulders or the thickest parts of his ribs; moves designed to exhaust and drain the puppy's energy rather than fracture his skull or deal lethal wounds. You see the brief, agonizing twitch of Jungkook’s jaw every time the dog hybrid cries out in pain.
He isn't fighting because he's a menace. He's fighting because he's a broken boy carrying more pressure than anyone should have to bear. He knows the rules of this filthy machine: If he loses, it's over. If he wins, he gets to live another day.
And staying alive is the only thread of hope he has left to cling to. He's doing this because he remembers the quiet rhythm of your breathing. He's doing this because he remembers the soft, gentle way you held him when the world was too cruel. He's enduring this absolute hell because, somewhere beneath the bruises and the broken pieces of his soul, he's still desperately fighting his way back to you.
You snap back to reality when the brown-haired boy lands heavily on his back with a dull thud. His head lolls back in pain, his chest heaving as abreathless groan escapes his bloodied lips. Jungkook approaches him, his chest rising and falling in steady intervals.
You need to end this. You didn't run across the city, and humiliate yourself in a neon wig just to sit here and watch Jungkook be systematically destroyed from the inside out. You came to get him out, and you will not let him inflict another ounce of this torment on another living creature or himself.
The stadium seats vibrate as the crowd reaches a fever pitch, screaming, jeering, and throwing empty cups toward the mesh. They want blood. They chant for Jungkook to finish the dog hybrid off once and for all.
You look around the roaring tribunes, and a profound hatred curdles in your stomach. You see hundreds of humans surrounding the pit, yet there isn't a single ounce of humanity left in this room. You hate every single person here with a burning passion, and you wish the entire roof would collapse and smash straight onto their stupid faces.
Driven by a sudden surge of adrenaline, you bolt from your seat and hurtle down the concrete steps toward the cage. The absurdly high platform heels twist dangerously on the uneven steps, but you don't care.
"Hey! Blue wig! Get the hell back to the stage area!" a massive, muscle-bound guard barks, his heavy boots instantly pivoting as he spots you trespassing into the secure perimeter.
"Jungkook!" you scream at the top of your lungs, your voice instantly swallowed by the deafening uproar of the audience.
He doesn't hear you. Down in the ring, Jungkook is already dropping to his knees directly over the exhausted boy.
Your foot suddenly catches on a thick tangle of heavy black cables snaking across the floor. You stumble violently, the lethal heels giving out beneath you as you pitch forward, barely catching your balance. Through the cage, you see Jungkook raise his arm, his blood-stained fist frozen high in the air, his dark eyes locked on the boy beneath him as he prepares the final blow to end the match.
Panic completely hijacks your throat. "Jungkook, no! Stop!" you shriek, your voice cracking into a desperate sob.
Before you can take another step, the massive bodyguard slams into you from behind, his giant arms wrapping around your waist and aggressively lifting your feet right off the ground.
"Let go of me! Put me down, you asshole!" you scream, thrashing violently against his grip. You kick your legs wildly, the dangerously short silver dress riding all the way up your hips, leaving your underwear completely exposed to the flashing lights as you fight to break free, but you don't give a single damn about your modesty. "Put me down!
The sheer, piercing desperation of your voice somehow cuts through the roar of the crowd.
Jungkook’s head suddenly snaps toward the source of the commotion. His bunny ears twitch violently, and he looks up, his dilated eyes lock directly onto yours. Time completely stops. The entire underworld arena seems to evaporate as you make eye contact.
But the distraction is fatal.
The hybrid beneath him is still fighting for his life. Seeing Jungkook completely lose focus, the brown-haired boy finds a final, desperate burst of survival instinct. He sits up abruptly and lunges forward, throwing his entire weight into a brutal tackle that catches Jungkook completely off guard, burying his shoulder right into Jungkook's bruised ribs.
"No!" you scream, your heart leaping into your throat as you watch Jungkook crash sideways into the ground.
But you don't get to see anything else. The bodyguard ruthlessly wrenches your body around, dragging you backward through the heavy exit doors and throwing you out of the arena, cutting off the sight of the ring as the metal doors slam shut, leaving you screaming into the dark corridor.
You throw your entire body weight against steel, the impact rattling through the bones of your shoulders, but the door doesn't budge. Through the small, wire-reinforced glass window, you can see the shadow of the massive guard leaning his weight directly against the frame from the other side, barricading you out.
You spin around frantically, your eyes sweeping the dark corridor. It’s a dead end. Exposed pipes hiss with steam overhead, and the distant bass of the upper dance floor pulses rhythmically, completely indifferent to the nightmare unfolding beneath it.
Then, you see it.
Gleaming like a drop of fresh blood at the far end of the hallway, illuminated by a single flickering bulb: the small, red plastic emergency casing of the fire alarm.
You don't calculate the consequences. You scramble toward it. Reaching the box, you don't even look for a hammer; you curl your hand into a tight fist and slam it directly into the thin glass pane. The glass shatters, jagged shards biting into your knuckles, but you barely feel the sting. You plunge your bleeding index finger onto the heavy white button, jamming it deep into the wall.
For a terrifying beat of three seconds, there is absolute silence.
Then, the world breaks.
A deafening, high-pitched electronic siren cuts through the air, accompanied by the harsh strobe of red emergency lights pulsing from the ceiling. The sudden shift in atmosphere is instantaneous. Within moments, the heavy iron doors you were just pounding on are violently thrown open from the inside. The massive bodyguard stumbles out backward, his eyes wide with panic as the alarm blares above his head. Terrified spectators pour into the hallway, desperate to escape what they believe is a catastrophic fire. They shove past you in a rush toward the club's exit, their panicked voices swallowed by the shriek of the alarm.
Suddenly, a loud hiss echoes from the ceiling. A split second later, the overhead emergency sprinklers trigger, unleashing a torrential, icy downpour of water. The freezing water hits you instantly, completely drenching the short dress and plastering the blue synthetic bangs flat against your forehead. The heavy glitter on your face begins to wash down your cheeks in shimmering, messy tears.
Fighting against the current of the escaping crowd, you duck your shoulder and forcefully shove your way back through the open double doors, plunging right into the main fighting hall. The automated fire system hasn't just unlocked the emergency exits; it has completely short-circuited the electronic security grid of the arena. Down in the pit, the heavy chain-link cage doors are swinging wide open. And it’s not just the main ring; the holding cages along the dark perimeter walls have clicked open, too.
The other dangerous, high-value hybrids that were locked up in the dark, waiting in line for tonight's bloody entertainment, realize they are free.
A wolf hybrid throws his head back, letting out a wild laugh that cuts through the blaring sirens before vaulting over the security railing. Beside him, a sleek black panther hybrid blurs past a screaming guard, his claws extended as he fights his way toward the exits. The arena staff–completely overwhelmed and soaked to the bone–desperately swing their electrified riot prods, but it’s no use. The blue electricity arcs uselessly through the heavy downpour of water, short-circuiting in their hands and sending them stumbling back in fear as the creatures they treated like disposable property finally take their revenge.
The air is thick with the scent of ozone, wet concrete, and pure, chaotic freedom.
Your eyes dart frantically through the lights and the thick curtain of fake rain. You wipe the water from your eyes, your heart hammering against your ribs as you scan the entire room, desperate to spot one single, specific pair of black bunny ears.
Then, through a sudden flash of a red strobe, you spot him.
Jungkook is wrestling with a hulking security guard near the edge of the cage. The guard catches him off balance on the slick floor, tackling him onto the wet concrete. Jungkook thrashes violently beneath him, twisting with everything he has to break free.
The man drives one heavy knee into Jungkook's chest, pinning him down, while his trembling hand fumbles through the pocket of his tactical vest. When he finally pulls it free, the crimson emergency lights catch the gleam of a long metallic syringe filled with amber-colored fluid.
God, no. The thought screams through your mind, paralyzing you for a fraction of a second. Jungkook sees the needle, his jaw clenching as he bares his teeth, his ears pinning flat against his wet hair as he tries to throw the man off. But his movements are sluggish.
Your eyes scan the floor around you. Amidst the discarded trash, your high-heel kicks against a half-empty whiskey bottle left behind by a fleeing spectator. You dive for it, your fingers gripping the sticky glass neck just as the guard forces Jungkook’s head down against the wet floor, baring the side of his neck.
The guard drives the needle home. Jungkook lets out a muffled cry as the metal pricks deep into his skin. But before the man can fully depress the plunger, you are there. Bringing the heavy glass bottle down with every ounce of strength you possess, you smack the guard squarely across the jaw. The guard groans, dropping the syringe as he falls sideways, clutching his face and whining in agony on the floor.
Jungkook immediately throws the man's weight off him, scrambling backward against a concrete pillar. His trembling hand flies up to his neck, fingers pressing hard against the puncture wound where the needle had pricked him.
"Jungkook! Are you okay? Can you hear me?" You drop the broken bottle, dropping to your knees beside him, your hands hovering in the air, terrified to touch him.
He doesn't respond. He can't.
A low, guttural groan tears from the back of Jungkook's throat. A sound so raw and animalistic it makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.The drug (whatever fraction of it managed to enter his bloodstream) is working with terrifying speed.
The symptoms manifest violently before your eyes. The artificial rain cascading from the ceiling washes the old, dried blood from his face, revealing a complexion that has gone deathly pale under the pulsing red lights. His jaw is clenched so tightly the muscles in his cheeks violently twitch, and his hands curl into fists so severe that his knuckles turn stark white, his claws digging deep into his own palms.
On the floor, the injured guard rolls over. His eyes go wide with absolute horror as he looks at the syringe lying on the floor, then at the physical state of the bunny hybrid.
"Shit... oh, shit," the guard wheezes, his voice cracking with error, as he looks up at you. "Run... you need to run..."
"What?" you demand, your voice shaking as you look between the man and Jungkook. "What did you give him?!"
"I grabbed... I grabbed the wrong one," the guard stammers, his boots slipping on the wet floor as he desperately tries to stand up to save his own skin. "That wasn't the sedative. That’s the combat catalyst... the stimulant. We use it to make them violent... to make them kill."
Your blood runs entirely cold.
Slowely, you turn your head back to Jungkook. His head tilts up, his wet, dark hair parting to reveal eyes that look completely unhuman. His pupils are so massively dilated they have entirely swallowed his irises, leaving two endless, pitch-black voids. There is no recognition in them. No warmth. No Jungkook. Right now, his drug-rattled brain only registers a shape in his immediate vicinity. A target.
You try to act calm, to keep your breathing steady, but the primal fear seizing your muscles makes your instincts take over.
Cautiously, painfully slowly, you begin to stand up from the wet concrete. Jungkook’s blown-out eyes stalk your every move. His head tilts slightly, like a beast tracking it’s prey. You are absolutely terrified to break eye contact, instinctively knowing that looking away might be the final invitation for him to strike.
As you reach your full height, Jungkook begins to stand up too. He doesn't rise like a human; he uncoils, his movements dangerously fluid, his muscles trembling with a volatile energy.
Your survival instinct screams at you. You take a slow, agonizing step backward, your shoes splashing quietly in a puddle. Jungkook immediately matches your movement, taking a deliberate step forward. He closes the distance you just tried to create, his gaze locked entirely on you. You are the closest living thing to him, and the chemical cocktail in his veins is demanding blood, demanding violence, and right now, all of his hyper-fixated attention is locked entirely on you.
You take another slow step back, your hands raised slightly in a placating gesture. "Kook…" You breath out, voice trembling as you try to reach whatever is left of him. "Jungkook, please, it's me..."
Jungkook’s black bunny ears twitch. "Run," he pants.
This time you don’t have to be told twice. You sprint. You sprint for your life–your stupid, messy, tragic little life that you actually hate, but right now, your body is screaming at you to preserve it. The problem is, you are a tragic runner. It certainly doesn't help that your feet are still shoved into a pair of ridiculous high heels. Each stride is a clumsy gamble against gravity as your heels clack frantically against the slick concrete floor.
Desperate to shorten the distance to the outside world, you make a blind, panicked choice. You throw your weight against the nearest door. It is a bad, fucking choice. The second you cross the threshold, the oppressive darkness tells you everything you need to know: you have never been in this part of the corridor system before. This could easily end tragically for you.
Before the heavy door swings shut behind you, you steal one quick look back.
Jungkook is still remaining in his exact spot. He hasn't chased you yet. Instead, he’s dropped to one knee, his nails digging so brutally deep into the concrete floor that his knuckles are turning purple. He is fighting himself. He is actively resisting a drug designed to turn him into a mindless killing machine, all just to give you a head start. The willpower of his resistance makes a pang of deep admiration cut through your terror.
But you can't stop. You turn and barrel down the suffocating corridor.
You push forward, making two sharp, panicked turns into the labyrinth of the building's underbelly. The silence doesn't last. A minute later, a loud, echoing bang reverberates through the concrete. The door has been thrown open.
Then come the footsteps.
Panic blinds you. As you tear around another corner, your eyes land on a heavy metal cleaning trolley stocked with chemical bottles, brooms, and industrial buckets. You throw your weight against it. The trolley crashes down onto the ground, spraying soapy water and plastic bottles across the floor. It's a pathetic attempt to stop a creature that can leap security railings, but it's all you have.
Ahead, a green, glowing sign cuts through the shadows: EMERGENCY EXIT.
You almost scream as the cold night air hits your sweating skin. Far off on the other side of the club, the distant, wailing sirens of approaching firetrucks and police cruisers cut through the night.
Safety is over there. Help is over there.
But you don't turn toward the lights. You immediately wheel around and dive into the deep, lonely shadows of the narrow alleyways behind the venue. Because you know one thing for certain: no matter how close you are to dying tonight, you can't let a single soul see the feral, drugged bunny hybrid that is currently tearing through the darkness right behind you.
You don’t get to run for long. As soon as you plunge into the nearest alley, a hand crashes into your back, launching you into a stack of metal crates propped against the brick wall. They collapse with a metallic clatter, sending you launching headfirst toward the ground. You hit the asphalt hard, your hands shooting out just in time to catch yourself. Pain explodes through your wrists as your palms skid across the rough ground, while the unforgiving concrete scrapes the skin clean off your bare knees.
You let out a panicked shriek, your heart leaping into your throat as you scramble to crawl away. Your nails dig desperately into the cracks in the stone, scraping against the rough ground as you try to drag yourself forward.
Then long fingers suddenly wrap around your bare ankle.
Before you can even react, Jungkook gives one sharp, effortless yank. You slide helplessly across the stone, your body dragged flat on your stomach until the sliver of open space above disappears, leaving you completely trapped beneath him.
He pins your lower half to the asphalt with the trembling weight of his thighs. He isn't massive or hulking like the arena guards; his frame is lean, almost dangerously skinny from his time locked away in the shelter facility, but the drug pulsing through his veins has turned his muscles into absolute iron.
You try to push up onto your scraped elbows, but Jungkook instantly drives his palms down against your shoulders, ruthlessly pressing you back down into the concrete. He leans his entire upper body over yours, trapping you in the narrow space between his arms.
His breathing is a frantic, ragged mess, hot breaths ghosting across your neck. Violent shivers wrack his body as the icy water from the arena evaporates from his pale skin.
"Kook... Stop," you choke out, your eyes watering from the stinging pain in your knees and the sheer terror locking up your joints.
You manage to tilt your head sideways to look up at him, and your breath hitches. His pupils are still completely blown out, black pools staring down at you, but the feral glaze of the stimulant is warring with something else. His jaw is clenched so tightly that a thin trickle of dark blood is beginning to ooze from the corner of his lips, where he has bitten the inside of his own cheek to keep from snapping. The veins in his neck are pulsing erratically against the raw puncture wound from the needle. He is still fighting it. The drug is screaming at him to tear you apart, but his soul is desperately trying to claw its way back to the surface through the chemical haze.
Slowly, his fingers leave your shoulders, sliding up to cup the sides of your neck. His hand shaking so violently against your skin that you can feel his rapid, terrifying pulse. For a horrifying second, you think he’s going to choke you.
But he doesn't.
Instead, his dilated eyes snap shut, his long lashes fluttering weakly as a dark, twisted war rages behind his eyelids. He lets out a broken, miserable groan of pure agony. His forehead drops heavily against the back of your shoulder, his wet hair burying into your neck. The velvety bunny ears flop forward, draping over you, softly tickling the side of your jaw and moving the damp strands of your bright blue wig.
He fight the urge to tear you apart, to destroy the closest living target, to feed the primal monster the arena created. His grip on your throat tightens just enough for you to feel the lethal weight of his raw strength, a terrifying reminder that he could break you in a split second.
"Y/N..." he rasps out, the sound tearing from his throat like a suppressed sob. "Y/N... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Run... please, why didn't you run faster?"
He presses his face harder into the crook of your neck, his chapped, bloody lips brushing against your skin as he inhales your scent like a dying man grasping for oxygen. He is entirely submissive to his love for you, even while his body is a weapon primed for violence.
"I don't want to hurt you," he whimpers against your skin. "Don't let them take me back. Please... just hold me down.
"Okay... okay, I will," you stammer, your voice cracking with emotion as you try to push your weight upward. "Just let me get up, Kook. Let me turn around."
The moment you try to move out from under him, Jungkook lets out a warning groan. He brings his fist down, slamming it violently into the concrete ground right next to your head.
"Don't," he gasps out, his muscles locking up in a rigid spasm as the drug surges again. "Don't move. If you move... I can't... I can't control it
You freeze instantly beneath him. Your eyes dart to the side, locking onto his fist. The skin over his knuckles is split and raw, oozing fresh blood where he had ruthlessly pulverized it against the stone. A cold dread washes over you; not for your own safety, but for his. You cannot let him do this to himself. You refuse to let him break his own body.
For a few agonizing seconds, the only sound in the narrow alleyway is the heavy rhythm of his panting. But then, you feel it; the subtle shift in his weight. His chest heaves in a shallow pattern, and the rigidity in his thighs begins to waver, slackening just a fraction as the physical toll of fighting the stimulant leaves him momentarily weakened.
Taking advantage of the sudden dip in his strength, you gather every single ounce of force left in your body. You wedge your elbows beneath you and forcefully push him off your back.
Jungkook lets out a disoriented whimper as his balance shatters. He tumbles sideways off your lower half, landing heavily on his hip before pushing himself back up into a sitting position. His arms instinctively fall behind his back, his hands pressing flat against the concrete to keep his upper body upright, his dark ears drooping low, head swaying slightly as the world spins around him.
You scramble frantically to your feet, your plastic heels slipping dangerously on the asphalt before your knees finally steady. Your breath catches in your throat as you look down at him. Jungkook's head snaps up. He looks like a cornered animal, his wide doe eyes tracking your every movement as his muscles coil tight, a desperate instinct urging him to spring up after you.
"No," you blur out. You instantly wave your scraped hands in front of you, gesturing sharply for him to stay down. "Don't move, Jungkook. Stay right there."
To your absolute relief, he freezes. He sinks slightly back onto his hands, his chest heaving as he watches you with wide, vulnerable eyes.
The dangerous tension draining from his shoulders at the command tells you everything you need to know: the drug is losing its grip on his nervous system. The dose had been too small to keep him in that state much longer.
"Okay... Okay, good," you whisper, your voice shaking as you try to calm your own hammering heart.
The flickering glow of the distant streetlight cuts through alley, catching the single, heavy drop of sweat that tracks slowly down from Jungkook’s temple, carving a clean line through the grime on his pale cheek. He sits perfectly frozen, but his shaking irises are wildly active. They wander all over your body, tracking the fresh, angry red scratches on your palms, the grit embedded in your skin, and the raw, bleeding scrapes on your bare knees where the concrete had bitten into you.
A crushing wave of guilt floods his features, twisting his pretty face into a mask of pure agony. His bottom lip trembles, making him look heartbreakingly innocent despite the blood staining his mouth. You can practically see the toxic realization settling into his brain; the devastating thought that he did this to you, that his weaponized body turned on the only person who came to save him.
You desperately don't want him to fall down that rabbit hole. You can't let him drown in that crippling shame all over again.
Gulping down the last of your panic, you drop to your knees directly in front of him on the gritty ground.
You reach out, your hands trembling as you gently push his wet, tangled black hair back, clearing the strands out of his eyes so you can see him fully. His forehead is burning hot against your fingertips, but his pupils are finally beginning to shrink, returning to a normal size.
As soon as he registers the soft, familiar touch of your hands, the last of his resistance crumbles. Jungkook shifts forward with a low, needy whine, completely abandoning his defensive posture as he practically falls into your space.
You catch him, finally wrapping your arms tightly around his bare back and pulling him flush against your chest. You gently guide his face into the warm crook of your neck, burying him there, shielding him from the cruel lights of the outside world. You hold him with everything you have, a protective ache tearing through you as you feel every single one of his ribs pressing against your body; a painful reminder of how much he has starved, how much he has suffered while you were apart.
You are finally getting him back, but he feels like a shattered piece of glass, fragile and barely held together by nothing but the desperate strength of your embrace.
"Just breathe," you whisper as you press your palm flat against his spine. "Just breathe, Kook. Fight it. You're okay. I've got you."
For a long slice of time, you stay exactly like that in the dim alley. Jungkook’s fingers lock into the fabric at your back, his blunt nails digging deeply into your flesh through the thin, silver material. The pressure is painful, but you welcome the ache; it is the only thing proving he is actually here, alive, and in your arms. He holds onto you, his entire muscular upper body rigid, as if he is genuinely convinced that the moment his grip slackens, the chemicals in his blood will tug him straight back into the dark.
You rock him softly, running your hands over the rigid line of his spine, soothing the violent tremors racking his thin frame until his breathing gradually slows from messy, panicked gasps into soft, exhausted sighs.
The blaring sirens of the emergency vehicles sound further away now, echoing across the streers as a completely irrelevant background noise to the fragile sanctuary you've built in the dark alley.
After a long, heavy silence, the brutal grip on your body subtly shifts. Jungkook’s head moves slightly against your shoulder, his chapped lips brushing against your wet skin as he finally speaks, his voice a tiny, raw friction in the quiet.
"Y/N."
"Hmm?" you swallow hard, your throat feeling completely dry as your voice comes out in a raspy whisper.
Jungkook slowly straightens up from your embrace, his weight lifting off you. Your hands reluctantly slide down from his back, falling to your sides as he sits back on his heels. He looks at you curiously, the feral intensity entirely drained from his features, leaving him looking soft and deeply exhausted.
You furrow your brows unknowingly, tracking the way he slightly tilts his head to the side, his long ears shifting with the movement.
"What?" you ask softly.
He blinks his large, glossy doe eyes, staring at you intently. "Why do you look like this?"
You lean back slightly, your eyes automatically dropping down to look at yourself, realizing he is talking about your absolutely ridiculous, slutty appearance. A soft, amused sound escapes you despite everything. Of all the things he could be focused on after everything that happened—a cage fight, and a drug-induced struggle for survival—this is what his hyper-focused, recovering brain is concerned about.
"Oh... this," you murmur, a tired smile tugging at your lips as you look back up at him. "This is... a long story."
You watch him bite his bottom lip, his long ears drooping as he continues to scan the neon-blue bangs plastered to your forehead.
You nudge his knee gently. "What? You don't like it?"
"No," he pouts, his voice dropping into a flat, blunt murmur.
Before you can say anything else, his hands come up, and his fingers grip the edges of the blue wig. With one swift tug, he pulls the wet synthetic hair completely off your head, tossing it aside into the dirt.
Your natural hair instantly tumbles down over your shoulders, damp but familiar. Jungkook stares at you, a soft docility settling over his face as his ears give a small, content twitch at the sight of the real you. Yet, true to his stubborn nature, he still lets out a tiny, bratty huff, turning his nose up slightly at the discarded wig.
"Don't wear that again," he grumbles, his voice small, a possessive little demand that sounds so entirely him it makes your throat tight. "It's ugly."
"Okay," you nod, cracking a fragile smile as you reach out to brush a stray, wet lock of black hair from his eye. "I won't."
You look down at the two of you—your scraped knees and ruined, glitter dress, his bare, scarred chest and bloody fists.
"Kook, we have to find a place to clean up," you say, pushing yourself up onto your aching feet.
Jungkook follows your lead, pushing himself up from the asphalt. His long legs are a little unsteady, but he manages to hold his weight.
"Are we not... going home?" he asks, the word home leaving his cracked lips with a heartbreaking, fragile naivety.
You freeze in your tracks. Your heart completely drops into your stomach. You realize, with a sickening pang of guilt, that Jungkook has no idea. He doesn't know about the landlords raid on your apartment, the eviction, the fact that you have absolutely nothing left to your name.
"There is no home anymore, Kook."
Jungkook's entire face falls. His large eyes widen in panic, his ears pinning sharply back against his wet hair as if the roof has just caved in on him all over again.
Seeing the sheer terror distorting his features, you immediately step into his space, grabbing his cold, wounded hand.
"But I will find us something," you say quickly, forcing an assuring, confident tone into your voice. "I'll sort it out, okay? I promised you I wouldn't leave you, and I meant it. We are going to be fine. I'll find us a place. Just trust me."
You tug his hand firmly, turning toward the mouth of the alleyway. "Come on."
He doesn't resist. He takes a deep, shaky breath and starts moving right behind you. The two of you step out into the dimly lit peripheral streets, both of you limping heavily. Together, you probably look like two battered war survivors dragging themselves back across the border of a destroyed country.
As you walk, your mind begins to spiral into a chaotic loop. Where do we go first? You can't take a drugged, bleeding, bare-chested hybrid into a public hotel. Should you sneak into the bar and risk getting caught by Markus? Or should you go to Hobi?
You instinctively navigate through the shadows, sticking strictly to the side streets and industrial alleyways. You completely avoid any main roads where a human could possibly see you.
Behind you, the soft, rhythmic scuff of Jungkook’s shoes suddenly slows.
"Is it because of me?"
You don't look back. You can't bear to see the look on his face right now. You keep your eyes locked straight ahead on the dark concrete, your grip tightening around his fingers.
"No," you lie smoothly, forcing a casual, tired shrug into your shoulders. "Of course not. I just... I missed my rent payments while everything was going crazy. The landlord was an asshole anyway. It has nothing to do with you."
Behind you, the bunny hybrid doesn't say a word. He doesn't call you out on the lie, but his long ears droop heavily forward, shadowing his face. His hybrid instincts can easily pick up on the sudden spike in your heart rate and the tight friction of your grip, sensing the utter lack of sincerity in your voice. But he doesn't press you. He simply walks on in silence, his head sloped low toward his bare chest, letting you drag him blindly into whatever unknow comes next.
The labyrinth of backstreets grows progressively darker as you guide him deeper into the city's commercial district.
Suddenly, as you turn a sharp corner into a narrow dumpster alleyway, you stop dead in your tracks. Your arm extends instinctively, your hand pressing flat against Jungkook’s bare chest to halt him.
"Wait," you breathe.
Just a few yards ahead, illuminated by the flickering neon sign of a distant convenience store, a pair of bare, bruised legs is sticking out from behind a massive blue recycling bin.
Jungkook’s ears instantly snap upright, his posture locking into a rigid, defensive guard as you both approach quietly.
Leaning heavily against a stack of torn trash bags is an unconscious hybrid. His torso is slumped forward, and his head is lolled lifelessly to the side, resting against the brick wall.
"Kook... it's the dog hybrid from the fight," you notice, your eyes widening in horror.
He looks fatal. The boy looks completely, devastatingly dead. His skin has taken on a sickening, ghostly grey tone under the dirt and sweat. Thick, dark blood has crusted around his nose and mouth, but the worst of it is the deep, jagged laceration slicing across the side of his head, sluggishly leaking crimson down his neck. The heavy iron collar is gone, but the skin beneath it is a raw, purple ring of blisters.
"Tae..." Jungkook raps.
"Tae?" You look up at him, your brow furrowing in deep confusion. "Wasn't that the name of your childhood friend? The one from... your old shelter? Your happy memory?"
Jungkook doesn't speak. He just gives a small, slow nod, his long black ears pinning tightly.
A sickening wave of sorrow washes over you as you realize the sheer cruelty of the nightmare you just witnessed in the arena. They had recognized each other. When the gates had opened and they were thrown into that blood-soaked cage, they hadn't just been facing an opponent—they had been forced to face a person from a past where they were still innocent. Jungkook had been forced to systematically dismantle and break his only childhood friend, turning off his own humanity just to survive a match he never wanted to fight. They never had a real choice.
Without a word, you cautiously step over a pile of debris, trying to move gently so you won't startle the dog hybrid if he suddenly regains consciousness. You lean down over his frame, pressing your trembling index and middle fingers firmly against the cold skin of his neck, you search for a pulse.
You look back over your shoulder, your eyes reflecting a deep, mirroring panic as you meet Jungkook's waiting gaze.
"His pulse is barely there," you whisper frantically. "Kook we have to help him. Or he will die."
ANOTHER A/N: omg finally FINALLY i finished this chapter. im so happy it's done i could perform a happy twerk right now lol. it was so hard to get back to writing after my vacation break (ya know i got lazy and shit) 😅
But im curious how you guys feel about this chapter. a bit happened i guess. i got asks before if kook will ever get in touch with his childhood friend (Tae), so i thought i would write their little cutesy reunion <3
also if any of you wonders ' hmm how the heck that stupid wig survived almost the whole chapter on y/n's head after all that running and practically rolling on the ground? ' well i dont know either. lets just pretend gravity is different there ok? i facepalmed myself so hard rereading this shit but i really dont have the time to do any more corrections cause im going on a nap right now and thats kinda urgent.
Tag list: @lolfccfvvvvbbbb @achbbys000 @reicoolboy @junglekookz @ttipa @strawberryberrygirl @kyljjk @viillamilla @junkookloverinfinity @hellomate1234 @lindsayjoy444 @canarystwin, @svnk1ssd @sleepyeclipes @doublebunv @lunaryoongie @mochiminiee @aestheticalime @namroo @lostinjk @celliez @twilightsparklingwater @uhmsothisiscrazy @joonmonjagi @mrpranjalmr @isamisaaoo @channit @bjoriis @zzzoooma @stardust-n-raindrops @oopscoop @existingbtw @mooniepersona @givemethatkookie @mikrokosmosellen @soratomyaza @reesesbutterwithwoozi (if you wanna be tagged, just let me know 💌 and if you wanna be untagged also let me know ;))
No because who allowed Jeon Jungkook to look this dangerous on stage? 😭 Standing on the edge of my seat screaming into my pillow over these gifs fr. The stage presence? Impeccable. The vocals? Out of this world. He literally owns the entire venue and he KNOWS it smh. Pls let me recover from this performance in peace 🧎♂️🔥💦
⊹ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 : highly explicit content, alcohol consumption (crying drunk), aggressive car making out, unprotected skin-on-skin contact, heavy finger stretching, car backseat manipulation, deep throating, intense grinding.
─── ─── ─── ─── ─── ─── ─── ─── ─── ─── ───
▷ 𝗣𝗟𝗔𝗬 𝗦𝗧𝗢𝗥𝗬
The bass from inside the club is nothing but a thud against the concrete wall behind your back. The neon pink and blue signs flash overhead, distorting the tears streaming down your cheeks into a blur. Your throat burns from the tequila shots you had practically forced down your throat over the last three hours, your mind completely hazy.
You had caught your date—the guy your older brother had insisted was "perfect for you"—pressed up against some random girl by the VIP bar, completely ignoring the fact that he was supposed to be with you.
So you ran. You stumbled out into the cool night air, sinking down onto the curb right outside the velvet ropes, your hands covering your face as the messy sobs finally broke free from your chest. Your tight dress offered absolutely no protection against the chill, your heels discarded somewhere on the pavement beside you.
"Hey. What the hell are you doing out here?"
The voice is deep, clear, and instantly recognizable. It hits you like a bucket of ice water, cutting straight through the alcohol fog clouding your brain.
You slowly lift your face, squinting through your wet eyelashes. Standing right in front of you, looking like a literal god under the streetlights, is Kim Seokjin.
Your brother’s absolute best friend. The man who had been a constant, towering presence in your life since you were a teenager. And, most importantly, the man you had been hopelessly in love with for the last five years of your life. He was always just out of reach—too mature, too close to your family, too busy running his own successful business.
Right now, he looks devastatingly handsome. He’s wearing a sharp, tailored charcoal suit, the top two buttons of his white dress shirt undone, his expensive silver watch catching the neon light as he stares down at you with a heavy, deeply frustrated scowl. He had clearly just stepped out of the private lounge upstairs.
"Jin?" you hiccup, your voice cracking as fresh tears well up in your eyes. "What are you... why are you here?"
"Your idiot brother told me you went to the bathroom twenty minutes ago and never came back," Jin growls, stepping closer. His eyes sweep down your shivering frame, tracking the tear stains ruining your makeup and your bare feet on the concrete. The scowl on his face darkens into pure fury. "Did that little prick do something to you? Tell me right now."
"He... he was with someone else," you sob out, your hands flying back to cover your face as the embarrassment washes over you all over again. "I want to go home, Jin. Please, just don't tell my brother. I feel so stupid."
Jin lets out a lowbreath through his nose. Before you can even react, he drops down to his knees right on the dirty concrete in front of you, completely unbothered by the fact that he’s ruining a two-thousand-dollar suit. His large, broad hands reach out, gently but firmly grasping your wrists and pulling your hands away from your face.
His dark eyes soften, a rare, incredibly tender expression washing over his sharp, model-like features.
"Look at me," Jin whispers, his voice dropping into a low, soothing baritone that makes your heart hammer violently against your ribs. He uses the pad of his thumb to gently swipe away a heavy tear falling down your cheek. "Hey. Don't cry over some pathetic little boy who didn't know what he had right in front of him. You are far too beautiful, far too special to be sitting on a curb crying over a nobody. Do you understand me? You're too good for this."
The sheer sincerity in his voice, mixed with the proximity of his face, completely snaps something inside your alcohol-soaked brain. For years, you had locked your desire away, hiding every single sigh, every lingering look, every daydream about what those plump, perfect lips would feel like against yours. But right now, feeling completely broken and hearing the man of your dreams tell you how beautiful you are, the filter is entirely gone.
"Jin," you breathe out, your eyes dropping directly to his lips.
Before he can even stand up, you lean forward, your hands gripping the lapels of his charcoal suit jacket as you press your mouth directly against his.
Jin freezes completely. His entire body goes rigid as steel under your hands, his breath catching sharply in his throat. For a horrifying half-second, you think he’s going to push you away, yell at you, tell you that you're just his best friend's little sister.
But then, the absolute dam breaks.
His large, strong hands fly to your waist, his fingers digging fiercely into the silk fabric of your dress as he pulls your body flush against his chest, completely devouring your mouth right there on the pavement.
The kiss is chaotic, wet, and thick with an explosive, long-dormant hunger. Jin's tongue slides past your teeth with a heavy, possessive stroke, tasting the sweet tequila on your tongue and claiming your mouth like he owns it. He tilts your head back, his teeth biting down sharply on your lower lip, making you let out a breathless, needy groan that he drinks right back down his throat.
He breaks the kiss for a fraction of a second, his chest heaving, his eyes completely dark, blown out, and predatory.
"Up. Right now," he commands, his voice a rough, breathless rasp.
He stands up, practically lifting your body off the ground with him. He hooks his arm securely around your waist, keeping you anchored to his side as he guides your stumbling, shoeless steps around the corner of the building toward the dark, VIP parking lot. He pulls out his keys, a sleek, black luxury sports car chirping as the lights flash.
Jin opens the heavy passenger door, but instead of pushing you inside the front, he grabs your hips, hauling you straight into the spacious, leather-lined backseat. He climbs in right after you, slamming the heavy, soundproofed door shut, plunging the two of you into a dark, intimate world lit only by the distant neon glow filtering through the tinted windows.
The second the door clicks shut, Jin is back on top of you.
He crowds your body against the plush leather seats, his heavy frame pinning you down effortlessly. His hands are everywhere—ripping his own suit jacket off and tossing it onto the floorboards, his long fingers instantly finding the straps of your silk dress and shoving them down your arms, exposing the tops of your bare breasts to the cool air of the car.
"Jin, please," you whimpered, your hands tangling in his dark hair, pulling him back down as your hips instinctively arched up against his thigh. "I've wanted you for so long. God, I'm so freaky for you."
A dark, dangerous smirk cuts across Jin's face under the dim lights, his eyes raking over your flushed, ruined expression. "Who knew you were hiding such a dirty mind," he rasps, his large hand sliding down to grip your chin tightly, forcing you to look straight into his blown-out pupils. "I will give that mouth something to do."
He drops his head down, his mouth aggressively capturing yours once more while his hand slides down the length of your bare torso. The silk dress is pushed all the way up to your waist now, leaving your bare legs exposed. Jin’s fingers find the edge of your lace underwear, ripping the fabric to the side with an impatient, brutal tug that makes you gasp into his mouth.
He doesn't hesitate. He dives two long fingers straight into your wetness, finding you completely soaked, dripping with an intense, desperate heat that had been building up for years.
"Ah! Jin!" you scream out against his lips, your fingers clawing at the white fabric of his dress shirt, popping two more buttons open as he pumps his fingers deep inside you.
The rhythm is fast, hard, and completely dirty. The slick, squelching sound of his fingers working inside your tight walls fills the quiet interior of the car, mixing with the heavy, frantic pants escaping both of your lungs. Jin bites your jawline, his teeth leaving deep red marks on your neck as his thumb presses down heavily on your clit, rubbing it with a crushing pressure that brings you straight to the absolute edge within minutes.
"You're so tight," Jin groans hoarsely, his forehead resting against yours as his fingers stretch you open, thoroughly ruining you. "You're so beautiful," he whispers, his voice cracking with pure, unadulterated lust as he watches your face unravel. "Look at how wet you are for your brother's friend. Look at what you're doing to me."
"I'm gonna come—Jin, please, I can't hold it," you wail, your back arching completely off the leather seat as the white-hot tension in your lower belly snaps.
Your inner muscles contract in violent, frantic waves around his fingers, your release pouring out over his hand as a loud, sobbing cry escapes your lips. Jin lets out a dark, triumphant chuckle, keeping his fingers locked inside you until the last contraction fades, drinking in the tight, crushing grip of your climax.
But he isn't anywhere near done with you.
Slowly, he slides his wet hand out of your core. He sits back on his knees, his breathing shallow and ragged as he hooks his fingers into his own belt, unbuckling it with an impatient, mechanical click. He zips down his trousers, freeing his thick, rock-hard length right in front of your face. He’s massive, veiny, and leaking a heavy drop of pre-come at the twitching tip.
"Get on your knees," Jin commands, his voice dropping into that terrifyingly dominant register that leaves absolutely no room for argument.
You scramble onto your knees on the leather seat, your hands gripping his broad shoulders for balance as you lean down, opening your mouth wide to take his thick head past your lips. You suck him with a fierce, desperate hunger, your throat relaxing as you slide his entire length deep into your mouth, your hand stroking the base.
Jin lets out a sharp, ragged hiss, his hands instantly flying to the back of your head, his long fingers tangling in your hair as he holds you in place. His hips twitch forward, driving himself deeper into your throat until you let out a muffled, choked sound, your eyes watering from the sheer size of him.
"Fuck, you're trying to ruin me," Jin pants, his knuckles whitening in your hair as you continue to wrap your lips tightly around his girth, the wet sounds of your mouth against his lower belly echoing loudly in the car.
He lets you suck him for a few more agonizingly perfect seconds before he gently but firmly hauls your head back, his eyes completely wild. He grabs your waist, spinning your body around and slamming your back flat against the leather seat once more. He doesn't give you a single second to breathe; he grabs both of your legs, lifting them high and pinning them completely wide open against his broad chest, exposing your dripping, swollen center under the dim parking lot lights.
He lines his thick, throbbing length right against your wetness, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an overwhelming, possessive greed.
"Now," Jin whispers, his voice a dark, breathy purr. "Let's see how much more that freaky little body can take from me."
With one heavy, brutal shove of his hips, Seokjin buries his entire, thick length deep inside you in one deep stroke, the wet smack of his skin against yours sealing your fate as the luxury car dissolves into a sweet, chaotic blur of absolute, forbidden pleasure.
─── 💀 :*･ﾟ 🚘 ───
⊹ 𝐚/𝐧 : NO BECAUSE WHAT WOULD I ACTUALLY DO TO HAVE KIM SEOKJIN IN A TAILORED SUIT SLAM MY LEGS WIDE OPEN IN THE BACKSEAT OF HIS CAR FR FJSDHFKSHF 😭😭
↳ You’re having one of the worst days of your life: a fresh (failed) breakup, too many emotions, and alcohol that doesn’t do anything to shut the feelings off. You end up in the darker streets of town without really thinking. That’s where you meet him — a stranger who looks like trouble, the kind you should avoid but don’t. You just need to get out of your head for a while. One thing leads to another, and before you know it, you’re following him to his place without asking any questions.
"You," he says smoothly. His gaze drops again, a heavy, deliberate sweep down to the hem of your dress. "Like why someone like you is wandering around this part of town at 2AM, looking like a fucking hooker."
A/N: okay sooo i randomly stumbled on this in my notes. It’s actually one of the few one shots i wrote a while ago and i didn’t want it to just sit there and go to waste… so here we are.
I think it was originally supposed to be a longer fic but for now i’m leaving it as a one shot. Buuut i might consider continuing it in the future. IDK let me know what you think <3
You swallow the last drop of the bitter, shitty alcohol drink you bought in the hope it would comfort you in some magical way. (It didn’t.)
It’s your fifth, actually. But at least the others had the decency to taste tolerable. This one? It’s rat poison in a bottle, settling on your tongue like it pays rent there, refusing to leave.
You probably look fucking pathetic, all dressed up in your high heels and the new black silky mini-dress that was supposed to make you feel fancy tonight, carrying a cheap bottle of something cold called “Sweet Kiss” that you chuck into a street-side yellow trash bin. It hits the rim, and just when you think you’ve gotten rid of it, the bottle slips straight through the broken bottom, because of course even the bins here are useless.
You stumble as your heel catches in a crack in the pavement and gets stuck.
“Oh, come on,” you snap under your breath, yanking your foot hard enough that you almost go down.
You wobble, curse, and try to steady yourself on nothing but pure attitude, but your next steps aren’t any better. But it isn't because of the uneven pavement. It’s because you’re not sober. Not even close. But you’re still not as drunk as you want to be. You need to forget. Delete things from your mind. Or just pass out. Honestly, passing out sounds like a five-star experience right now.
You look around and realize you don’t even know when your feet brought you here— Here, on the side of town where no one comes unless you’re a gangster, a murderer, an outcast, a human without a future, or whatever category people like you are supposed to avoid.
It’s the area where things happen, and the things that happen are fucked up. The streetlights here are dim and spaced too far apart, buzzing like they’re dying. The buildings are old and tired, their facades stained with water damage and graffiti that looks less like art and more like warnings. There are boarded-up windows, cracked concrete, chain-link fences with torn plastic bags caught in them.
It’s a poor estate, totally different from yours: no manicured hedges, no security alarms, no private backyards. Just noise, shadows and the feeling that you’re being watched by people who know exactly what you are. (Someone who doesn’t belong)
But you’re too drunk to care. Too sad to take your ass the other way and leave. You might end up like that blonde girl you saw on the local news. Her ponytail wagging as they held her covered corpse from the building that might have been the one you just passed. They said she died of overdose, but you know better than to believe it. An overdose wouldn’t go through her head with a gun. That wasn’t the only murder case here. But your will to live isn’t exactly sky-high in this moment anyway.
Exactly four hours ago, you broke up with your boyfriend. Well... You broke up with him only in your head. You stormed out of his house before there was even a conversation about it. He ran after you, too, but not far, cause his whole dick and buttcrack were out, so thank god he didn't follow you all the way here like that. Being single is a state of mind at this point.
It was suspicious from the start. He was supposed to take you on a date to that fancy restaurant, reservation ready, pick you up in one of his expensive cars like you were the prize in some glossy advertisement. You dressed up for him. You did your makeup like you were going to be kissed in candlelight. Then you waited. And waited. And waited. But he never came. Didn’t even call back. So you took a taxi to his place thinking maybe he forgot, or maybe someone killed him, because Eunwoo never forgot about you. He was too obsessed with looking like the perfect boyfriend to risk being late.
You arrived at his place and let yourself in using the security code. You'd been his girlfriend for three years, so of course you knew it. But instead of an emergency, you were met with a sickening sight: him and your ex-best friend in his bed.
Yes, they were naked.
Yes, they were fucking.
How could he do that? How could he cheat on you the night after he promised to treat you to the best manicure in town? The sheer audacity is almost impressive. Now you’re heartbroken, and to make it worse you’re left with one nail chipped in the corner, because there’s no way you’re getting that appointment registered under his name. Absolutely not. You’d rather remove your nails with a chainsaw than let him pay for it.
What a life.
It’s not like you loved him. Not really. Eunwoo was a nice guy, yeah. Handsome, wealthy, the kind of man your parents adored. Oh, they fucking loved him. He was polished, polite, and perfect on paper.
The relationship always felt like it was on show. You both looked good together. Everyone said so. Strangers said so. Your parents said so like it was a business merger. But you felt stuck in this relationship, like you were playing a role you never auditioned for, and now you don’t even know how you’ll end it properly.
How do you even tell your dad that the son of his boss cheated on you? Knowing he’ll probably find a way to soften it, excuse it, turn it into something manageable. Because ending this cleanly isn’t just personal, it’s inconvenient. It affects work, deals, things that always seem to matter more than you do. You can already picture the awkward silence, the forced sympathy, the way your dad will try to “handle it” like it’s a business negotiation.
You laugh under your breath, and it comes out sharp and a little unhinged. Your eyes sting. You swipe at your face and realize your makeup is probably ruined, streaked down your cheeks like a bad cry in public, which, to be fair, is exactly what this is.
You keep walking, heels clicking unevenly on the cracked pavement. Somewhere nearby, music thumps through thin walls, and a dog barks in short, angry bursts.
Then you hear a scream.
It slices through the night, high and raw, and your whole body goes rigid. You stop mid-step, heart punching up into your throat.
You should actually get out of here. That’s the sane thought. The sensible thought. The thought a normal person would listen to. But instead, you turn toward the sound and find yourself rounding the corner of a high building.
There’s a dark playground in the middle of the estate. Rusted swings hang from a metal frame, barely moving in the wind. A broken slide sits half-sunk in dirt and gravel. Trash is scattered everywhere, like it’s been turned into a personal dumping ground instead of a place for children.
And there’s a kid on the swing.
He can’t be more than seven or eight. Pajamas, no shoes, feet dragging in the dirt with each lazy back-and-forth. His hair sticks up in messy tufts, and his eyes are fixed on nothing in particular, like he’s staring through the night. You swallow hard. What if he’s possessed or something? What kind of kid is out here alone at this hour? Where are his parents even?
You keep on walking. You don’t know the rules here. You don’t know what you’re walking into.
A loud bang cracks through the air.
Then another.
It sounds like someone slamming a body, or a metal wall, hard enough to rattle the buildings around the corner. You flinch so hard your heel skids on the pavement. You freeze, trying to figure out if you just imagined it, because when you look back at the little kid, he’s still swinging. Same slow rhythm. Same blank stare. Like that’s his calm background sound. Like violence is just part of the weather.
Your stomach turns.
Another scream. Closer this time. A string of curses follows, sharp and ugly.
Footsteps pound the ground, fast and frantic.
You back away slowly, instinct screaming at you to move, to run, to get the hell out of here, but your heels keep catching and your legs feel like they’re made of water. You almost stumble into the side of a broken car parked by the pavement edge.You grab the rusted doorframe for balance, heart hammering so hard you can feel it in your teeth.
Then movement.
From behind the garage ahead, a boy stumbles into view. blood smeared down half his face, dark and wet in the weak streetlight. His shirt is torn at the collar, and he’s breathing hard, eyes wild. He stumbles, catches himself with one hand against the side of a building, and leaves a red handprint there like a signature.
Behind him, four other guys burst around the corner.
They seem your age. Maybe a year or two older. The kind of guys every mom would lock the door for. They look like they’ve just come out of a fight, but nothing like the boy who just got away. No blood on them. No panic. Just adrenaline and the kind of confidence that comes from knowing the street belongs to them. One has a split lip. Another’s knuckles are scraped raw. One of them is wearing a jacket too nice for this place, like he stole it or bought it with money he didn’t earn cleanly.
The injured guy tries to pull away, but he doesn't have the time to leave. The one with the face tattoo yanks him by his already ripped collar and slams him against the cold brick of the building wall. He leans in close, his voice low, but sharp enough to slice through the silence and reach your ears.
"You have two days to get that money. You hear me? Miss it by a second and we’ll make sure your own mother won’t recognize your dead shit."
The terrified boy nods frantically, but the boy holding him only tightens his grip, twisting the fabric until the boy chokes on his own breath. "I said, do you hear me?"
The injured guy forces out a rough, trembling, "Yes."
A boy whose face you can't see stands further back in the shadows, his face completely concealed beneath a deep hood. Hands tucked deep inside the pocket of his hoodie, he watches the scene with quiet detachment. "Let him go, Jay. Don't want him to drop dead before the payment clears." He speaks, his voice flat and bored.
the Jay guy releases the boy’s collar and gives his shoulder a light, almost patronizing pat, shaking him off with an amused, mocking gesture. He tilts his head to the side and barks, "Go."
He doesn't have to tell him twice. The guy scrambles to his feet and runs, the sound of his hurried footsteps echoing off the walls into the dark.
“Run, run, you fucking pussy!” one of the boys screams after him.
Your heart hammers against your ribs. You don't know what to do. You are standing right on the same pavement, mere yards away from them. You don't think straight. That's for sure. You push yourself away from the car and start walking, your boots quiet on the pavement, praying just to slip away. You keep your head down and hope they don't see you. Maybe it can stay that way.
"Fucking idiot. Waste of time," the guy with the split lip spits out as he clicks a lighter. A bright orange flame flickers, and he takes a drag from his cigarette, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke. "He gonna dip, watch me be right."
"He doesn't have the balls, man," another one replies with a sarcastic scoff. They exchange a few more low, sharp remarks as you press yourself close against the brick wall, trying to melt into the shadows.
"Alright, works done," Jay says, rolling his shoulders. "Let's get out of here."
They turn, and your heart sinks, they start walking directly in your direction. The one with the cigarette stops as he spots you in the shadow of the wall. He looks you up and down, his eyes lingering for a long, heavy second, before letting out a puff of smoke with a smirk.
"Wrong neighborhood, baby," he murmurs, his tone laced with dark, quiet confidence. He takes a step closer, crowding your space. "What's a girl like you doing here? How many for an hour?"
The others chuckle, the dark sound vibrating in the narrow alleyway. Panic floods your chest.
"Let me go," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.
"Why?" he taunts, stepping in. "You got a boyfriend?"
"Yes," you blurt out, your voice shaking.
"Oh, yeah?" He chuckles, looking around the empty alley with mock surprise. "I don't see him here."
Panic flares in your chest. You need to get out of this, fast. Further up ahead, walking alone in the opposite direction, is the guy who stayed in the back. He had split off from the group a minute ago. You act on pure instinct, not thinking about the consequences.
"He's there," you say, pointing a trembling finger ahead.
"Where?" the boy with the cigarette asks, squinting into the gloom.
You point directly at the figure walking away with his hood up, his back turned to you. You don't know him, but out of everyone here, slipping away alone feels like the smartest, quietest move. So, you naturally hope he is more merciful than the rest of them.
The cigarette guy whistles, turning his head toward the receding figure. "Damn, JK. This one yours?"
The called-out boy stops in his tracks, his broad shoulders stiffening before he slowly turns around, though not fully facing the group. Even in the dim, shadowy light of the alley, his face remains obscured beneath the deep hood, but you can sense the immediate irritation radiating from him as his peace is disturbed
Jay lets out a low chuckle and calls out, "She says she"s with you."
JK's gaze shifts, the heavy weight of his stare finally landing on you. Underneath the shadow of his hood, his expression is unreadable and heavy. He takes in the entire scene: the smirking boys blocking your path, and your tense, uncomfortable stance pressed against the damp brick wall. He doesn't seem particularly moved or panicked by the fact that you are being harassed, looking at you with an almost detached, lazy indifference.
But after a long beat, he sighs. "Yeah," he mutters, his voice flat. "Let her go, dick."
The guys clearly didn't expect this. A stunned silence hangs for a beat before they mutter something shocked amongst themselves. Jay drops his arm, muttering a curse under his breath as he steps back. The sudden movement, combined with the rush of adrenaline leaving your body, causes you to stumble on your heels. Your ankle wobbles, and you step off the pavement and onto the uneven road.
Hesitant, not knowing what else to do, you start walking in the direction of the boy who probably just saved your life.
Behind you, you hear the shuffle of sneakers and the quiet grumbling of the boys as they finally walk away, their footsteps fading into the damp night air. But your gaze is locked entirely on the boy standing there. He is waiting for you now, fully turned in your direction.
As you get closer, the details of his face sharpen under the amber glow of the streetlamp. His eyes are incredibly dark and intense, holding an exceptional, piercing depth that makes your breath catch. A metallic silver glint catches the faint light from a sleek piercing in his eyebrow, and as he parts his lips to chew his gum, you catch a glimpse of the piercing on his lower lip.
Despite his intimidating aura, you can't help but notice how incredibly fine he is. So fine that your breath catches in your throat all over again. Yet, his posture is completely relaxed. Hands buried deep in his blouse pockets, jaw moving slowly as he chews a piece of gum with a thoroughly bored look on his face.
He watches you approach, his gaze unwavering, until you are just a few feet away, standing awkwardly in front of him. The streetlights flicker, casting long, dancing shadows around you. The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable, punctuated only by the distant hum of traffic and the soft snap of his gum.
He looking down at you with sharp, unblinking eyes. His gaze drops, lingering a bit longer on the hem of your dress that barely reaches your thighs, before his eyes meet yours again.
"You just gonna stand there, or what?" he asks, his voice low but sharp, cutting through the quiet.
You look at him, completely at a loss for what to do. You feel incredibly stupid standing there under his intense scrutiny. Your hand tightens instinctively on the strap of the purse hanging from your shoulder. You sway slightly on your feet, the sudden rush of adrenaline from the confrontation had made you feel alert, but now you realize the alcohol hasn't evaporated like you thought it had. You are still pretty drunk, and the world is tilting just a fraction.
JK tracks your slight wobble. He looks closely at your face, taking in your wide eyes and flushed cheeks, and lets out a soft, amused snort. He tilts his head, a lazy, mocking smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
"Rough night?"
Panic flares in your chest as you suddenly realize what you must look like. Probably like complete trash. Quickly, you raise a hand and wipe beneath your eyes, desperately trying to smudge away any stray tears or ruined mascara, as you look away, embarrassed, and mutter, "It's a long story."
He hums, the sound vibrating low in his chest. “Yeah?” You risk a glance back at him. His dark eyes are locked onto yours, a challenging, almost daring glint in them. “I have time.”
You bite the inside of your cheek. You know exactly what that is. An invitation. And you know—clearly, painfully—that this is not something you should be walking into. Getting involved with a stranger you just witnessed in the middle of something that looks a lot like illegal business? That is not the kind of decision a decent girl like you makes. Not the kind of decision that ends well.
But...Honestly? Fuck it. You don’t know what else to do with yourself tonight anyway, and walking alone in these heels is clearly a terrible idea.
As if reading your mind, JK takes a step back. Then another. He begins walking backward, keeping his eyes on you, one eyebrow raised in a silent challenge.
You take a hesitant step forward, following him.
Seeing you comply, JK lets out a quiet, knowing smirk. He turns around smoothly, hands still buried deep in his pockets, and begins walking at a normal, steady pace.
You catch up, falling into step beside him, the clicking of your heels keeping rhythm with his heavy boots. The silence returns, but it feels a little less suffocating now.
You clear your throat. "...Thank you."
He doesn't look at you, just keeps his eyes on the empty street ahead. "For what?"
"For going along with my lie?" you say, looking up at his profile.
He glances down at you, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "What lie?"
You stop for a split second, giving him a flat, please-don't-do-this-right-now look.
JK actually laughs at that, a low, genuine sound. He chews his gum, his jaw working as he looks back ahead. "Bold move, by the way. What if I had told them to keep you?"
You don’t answer right away. For a fleeting, terrifying second, your mind slips back into the dark alleyway. You see the scenario play out differently: JK doesn't turn around, his dark form vanishes into the shadows, and you are left completely alone with Jay and his crude, idiot squad. The thought makes a cold knot of dread tighten in your stomach, far colder than the midnight breeze biting at your bare legs.
You swallow the lump in your throat and shrug, staring down at the cracked pavement. "I don't know," You look up at him, your voice gaining a tiny spark of defiance. "You didn't though."
“Mm,” he hums, almost approving. “Lucky you.”
You watch his profile as he walks, the sharp angle of his jawline cutting through the dim light. The alcohol in your system makes you bolder than usual, pushing a question past your lips before you can filter it. "Why?— Why did you help me?"
JK shrugs casually, his broad shoulders shifting beneath the heavy fabric of his hoodie. He doesn’t look at you immediately, but when he does, his dark eyes slide over you with a slow, calculating intensity.
"Maybe I wanted to figure it out."
Your brows knit together. "Figure out what?"
"You," he says smoothly. His gaze drops again, a heavy, deliberate sweep down to the hem of your dress. "Like why someone like you is wandering around this part of town at 2AM, looking like a fucking hooker."
You let out a sharp, offended huff, your face heating up despite the chill. You pull at the hem of your dress, suddenly hyper-aware of how much skin you are showing. "I am not a hoo—"
"I didn't say you were one," he cuts in, his voice dripping with lazy amusement. "I just said you look like one tonight."
Your jaw tightens. "For your information, this—" you gesture vaguely at your outfit, "—is a designer piece. It's a high-end fashion choice, not whatever trashy thing you're implying."
He snorts, the corner of his lower lip pulling up as he parts his teeth, the small silver piercing glinting in the dark. "Sure it is."
Before you can snap back, JK suddenly halts. He tilts his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he listens to the quiet empty space behind you. The silence of the streets seems to press in closer, heavy with damp air and the distant, lonely wail of a siren.
After a beat, he looks down at you. “You shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs, his deep, rough voice dropping lower. "This place isn't a runway."
“I've noticed” you mutter, shivering as a gust of wind sweeps through the street.
JK doesn't reply. Instead, he veers off the main road, turning sharply down a narrow, unpaved path that cuts between a row of old, dilapidated corrugated metal garages. You hesitate for a fraction of a second before following him. The transition is jarring. The sparse streetlamps of the main road vanish, swallowing you both in a thick darkness.
The ground beneath your heels changes from asphalt to loose gravel and dirt, making every step a treacherous balancing act. You sway, your hand flying out to brush against the cold, rusted metal of a garage wall to keep your balance. The smell of old oil, wet earth, and rust hangs heavy in the air, mixed with the faint, sweet scent of JK’s mint gum.
You gulp, a sudden spike of raw fear piercing through your alcohol-fogged brain. He won't kill me, right? You look at his broad back, his dark silhouette almost blending entirely into the shadows ahead of you. He is so much taller than you, so effortlessly dangerous. If he wanted to make you disappear, this would be the perfect place.
Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic rhythm in the quiet night. But just as the panic begins to claw at your throat, a low, buzzing hum vibrates through the air. You round the corner of the last garage, and the darkness is suddenly shattered by a harsh, colorful glow. Tucked into the corner of a quiet junction is a small, weathered 24-hour supermarket. Its glass windows are covered in faded posters, but what catches your eye is the buzzing neon sign hanging in the window. It flickers erratically, casting a sickly halo of electric blue and warm orange light across the ground.
JK looks back at you just at the edge of the neon's glow, his face half-illuminated by the blue light, the other half swallowed by the shadows of his hood. His eyes reflect the neon colors, waiting to see if you can still keep up.
You stumble slightly on the last patch of gravel, stepping onto the cracked concrete of the storefront’s small parking lot. JK pulls open the glass door of the supermarket. The metal frame groans. Instead of walking straight in, he holds the door open with his forearm, his hand buried deep in his pocket as he waits for you to catch up.
You internally curse yourself with every agonizing step for deciding to wear these stupid heels. The thin straps dig mercilessly into your skin, your arches burning with heat. You silently pray you won’t end up with bloody blisters by the end of the night. JK’s gaze drops to your feet, tracking the wobble in your ankles and the rigid, pained way you’re forcing yourself to walk. He doesn't say a word, nor does he offer a hand, but there’s a knowing glint in his dark eyes. He simply jerks his chin toward the brightly lit interior of the store.
You swallow your pride and hasten your steps, squeezing past him through the doorway, your shoulder brushes lightly against his chest. Even through the heavy fabric of his dark hoodie, you can feel the solid, toned frame of his body and a sudden rush of warmth that smells faintly of mint and the crisp night air.
He steps in right after you, the glass door shutting behind him with a heavy sigh. The market is exactly what you’d expect from a shady, late-night joint on the edge of town. It is small and cramped, illuminated by harsh, buzzing fluorescent lights that make your alcohol-induced headache throb. The yellowing linoleum floor is scuffed, and the narrow aisles are packed mostly with dusty cans, rows of cheap liquor behind sliding plastic sheets, neon-colored snack bags, and a spinning rack of outdated magazines.
Behind the counter sits a girl with messy, shoulder-length brown hair. She is leaning back lazily on a stool, chewing aggressively on her thumbnail while staring blankly at a muted TV hanging in the corner. Her plastic nametag, pinned crookedly to her blue polo, reads Mikayla. The moment JK steps into her line of sight, her entire posture shifts. She stops biting her nail, sits up straighter, and runs a quick hand through her hair, her eyes lighting up with immediate interest. JK doesn't pay much attention to her, though.
"C'mon," He grunts towards you.
Before you can even register it, he disappears down a different aisle than the one you instinctively head toward. You freeze, cursing under your breath as you have to awkwardly pivot on your aching heels, backtracking to follow him down the narrow path of the alcohol aisle.
By the time you catch up, JK is already moving with practiced efficiency. With one veiny hand, he effortlessly grips two sweat-beaded glass bottles of beer by their necks. Using that same hand, he snags a bag of spicy Takis on his way and heads toward the front counter.
You follow close behind. As he stops at the register, you end up standing right behind him, so close that your chin is practically hovering over his shoulder. Up close, you can smell the clean scent of his laundry detergent overriding the stale, vinegar-like smell of the supermarket.
It’s immediately obvious he knows the girl behind the counter. Honestly, you aren't surprised; this place is likely the only landmark for miles in this desolate neighborhood. Mikayla leans over the counter, a sweet, practiced smile spreading across her lips.
"Hi," she says, her voice dropping an octave.
JK gives a single, lazy nod in greeting. "Sup, Mik."
He thuds the two glass bottles and the bag of Takis onto the counter. Mikayla slowly slides the beers across the scanner, the red laser beep cutting through the quiet. She twirls a strand of her brown hair, her eyes locked onto JK’s face.
"Haven't seen you around the last couple of nights. Missed you.... You free tomorrow?
JK doesn't even blink. His expression remains entirely bored, his jaw slowly working on his gum. "Busy," he replies, his voice flat and completely uninterested.
Mikayla's smile falters slightly, but before she can push further, JK's dark eyes drift to the side of the register. There, sitting next to the lighter display, is a large plastic rack stocked with various colorful boxes of condoms. Without a hint of hesitation he reaches out with his free hand, his silver bracelet catching the harsh light, as he casually snags a black package from the stack and tosses it onto the counter next to the beer.
Mikayla freezes. Her gaze drops to the box, and then her eyes slowly slide past JK's shoulder, landing directly on you. She side-eyes you with a mix of surprise and sharp judgment, her eyes lingering on your smeared makeup and the high-end designer dress. A wave of intense heat rushes to your face. Your heart does a panicked flutter, and you quickly avert your eyes, pretending to be deeply, fascinatingly engrossed in a display of cheap air fresheners on the opposite wall.
Mikayla clears her throat, her demeanor instantly turning colder as she grabs the box and scans it.
"Anything else?" she asks, her voice tight.
Instead of answering her, JK slowly turns his head back to look at you. You feel his gaze and reluctantly look up, your brows furrowing in a mix of embarrassment and confusion.
He looks thoroughly amused. The corner of his lip is tugged upward in a lazy smirk, his dark eyes sparkling with a teasing, dangerous light.
"You want something, babe?" he asks smoothly, his voice dropping into a low, teasing rasp.
Oh god you think, your stomach doing a weird, dizzying flip at the casual use of the pet name. Your cheeks burn even hotter. You shake your head quickly, clutching your purse tighter against your side.
"No... I'm good," you mumble, your voice barely audible.
JK lets out a quiet, breathy chuckle, clearly satisfied with your reaction. He turns back to the counter, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a crumpled wad of cash. He tosses a twenty-dollar bill onto the counter, not even waiting for Mikayla to count out the change before he grabs his items and slides the condoms into his pockets.
"Keep it," he mutters to the girl, already turning around and walking toward the exit, leaving you to hurriedly scramble after him.
The cold night air hits you immediately. The chill cuts right through the thin fabric of your dress, making your bones freeze instantly. Goosebumps erupt across your bare arms and legs, and you instinctively wrap your arms tight around your chest.
JK pauses on the pavement, his dark eyes dropping to take in your violent shivering.
"You're shaking," he states flatly.
"I'm not," you lie, but your teeth chatter so hard the words barely make it out. You are practically vibrating like a terrified chihuahua.
JK lets out a soft, mocking huff. He turns his head and spits his gum into the dark gravel. Walking over to the side of the building, he stops near a wide, low window sill. The glass of the window is completely plastered with faded, peeling posters, blocking any view of the inside.
He pulls one of the glass beer bottles forward, positioning the metal cap against the sharp, rusted edge of the windowsill. Then he strikes the top with the heel of his palm. A sharp hiss-pop echoes in the quiet alley, and a tiny puff of white carbonation escapes the mouth.
He extends his arm, holding the cold bottle out to you. You take it, your freezing fingers stinging against the icy glass. You look down at the dark amber liquid with a faint grimace. You absolutely hate beer. With practiced ease, JK pops the lid off his own bottle, the metal cap clinking onto the gravel. He leans his shoulder against the damp brick wall, tilts his head back, and takes a long, slow sip. You watch his throat bob, the sharp line of his jaw flexing under the dim, blue glow of the flickering neon sign.
Your legs are practically screaming at you. The burning pain in your arches from the heels is too much to bear. Shifting your purse higher on your shoulder, you turn and gingerly hop up onto the wide concrete window sill, sitting down with a small sigh of relief. Your short dress rides up even higher on your thighs, but at this point, you're too exhausted and drunk to care.
You look up at him, gathering your courage. "So... do you have a name? Or do you just go by JK?"
He lowers the bottle, and looks down at you, his eyes dark and unreadable beneath the heavy fringe of his hair. "Jungkook,"
"Jungkook," you repeat, testing the weight of it.
"You?
"Y/N."
He doesn't react with the polite enthusiasm of a normal stranger. Instead, he just hums, his dark gaze dipping slowly to your bare legs dangling off the sill before rising back to meet your eyes. There is a thick, magnetic tension in the quiet space between you, the kind that makes your heart beat for reasons that have nothing to do with the cold.
" Fits you," he murmurs, the silver piercing in his lower lip catching the blue light of the neon. "Still could be a fake name for tonight, though. Since you like lying so much."
"I'm not lying," you mumble, looking down at your hands clutched around the cold bottle. Your cheeks burn with a sudden spike of heat, embarrassment from the memory of your desperate lie to Jay still fresh. "... not right now."
Jungkook lets out a soft, breathy laugh that is more like a huff of air. "Guess I'll have to take your word for it. For now."
The way his eyes linger on your lips makes your stomach do a dizzying, complicated flip. Desperate for a distraction and shivering violently, you look down at the beer in your hand. You need something to burn through the chill, and maybe a bit more liquid courage will stop your knees from shaking.
You lift the bottle and take a large, sudden chug. The bitter, yeasty liquid burns down your throat, but the sheer volume of it hits your already intoxicated system like a physical wave. The world tilts on its axis, the blue and orange neon light stretching into long, blurry streaks.
"Easy," Jungkook’s voice warns, low and rough.
But you don’t stop. You keep swallowing, desperate to drown out the freezing cold and the nagging ache in your chest. Before you can take another gulp, long fingers wrap firmly around the neck of the bottle. With a swift, effortless jerk, Jungkook snatches it right from your sticky lips.
You let out a soft, frustrated whine, your lips parting as a stray drop of beer slips down your chin. "Hey—"
"I said fucking easy," Jungkook grunts. His voice has lost its lazy amusement, replaced by a sharp, commanding edge that vibrates right through your bones.
He doesn't look angry, just entirely done with your reckless behavior. He reaches to the side and grabs the purple bag of Takis, then tosses it at you. It hits your chest before collapsing onto your bare thighs. "Eat," he orders.
You whine again, a small, stubborn sound, but your hands instinctively reach for the bag. Your cold, clumsy fingers fumble with the plastic, tearing it open. The sharp, spicy scent of chili and lime instantly hits your senses. You pull out a rolled tortilla chip and pop it into your mouth. The intense spice burns your tongue, instantly cutting through the bitter taste of the beer. You suck the red dust off your fingertips, slowly licking your thumb as you look up at him through your eyelashes.
The alcohol is swirling heavily in your brain now. Watching him lean there, his broad chest rising and falling beneath his dark hoodie, his jaw moving as he watches you eat, a sudden rush of heat floods your cheeks. You find yourself daydreaming: imagining sliding off the concrete sill, pressing your palms against his chest, and pushing him hard against the damp brick wall. You want to wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him until the taste of beer and spice is completely lost in his mouth.
A fleeting thought of your boyfriend tries to push through the fog. You have a boyfriend. A boyfriend who cheated. And who knows… maybe a few minutes of making out would actually clear your head.
Jungkook tilts his chin up slightly, his dark eyes tracking the slow path of your tongue over your bottom lip. "Where you live?" he asks.
You shake your head slightly, a dizzy, half-drunken smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. "Can't tell you that. You are a stranger after all."
He raises one eyebrow. "A stranger, huh?" He takes a slow sip of his beer, his eyes never leaving yours. "Funny. I thought you told my boys back there something else."
You roll your eyes, but a shiver of heat goes down your spine anyway, remembering Jay and the guys and how they probably still think you two are actually together.
"Maystreet," you mumble, finally giving in. The name of the wealthy, tree-lined avenue feels incredibly foreign out here, surrounded by rusted garages and gravel.
Jungkook’s eyes narrow just a fraction. "Maystreet," he repeats, his tone dripping with irony. "Damn. Fancy. You're a long way from your bubble, then."
He shifts his weight off the brick wall and drains the last of his beer in one long swallow. With an effortless flick of his wrist, he tosses the empty glass bottle toward a rusted metal trash bin sitting at the corner. The sharp, echoing clank of glass hitting the bottom of the bin rings out loudly in your ears, making you jump slightly on your perch.
Jungkook steps closer, closing the distance until he is standing right between your dangling legs, completely blocking out the biting wind. The scent of rain, fresh mint, and clean laundry envelops you, warm and intoxicating. He leans in, his dark eyes reflecting the erratic, pulsing orange and blue of the neon sign above. His hands come up on either side of you, bracing against the surface behind you, caging you in without actually touching, cutting off any easy way out.
"Tell me, Y/N," he starts, his voice dropping into a low, quiet murmur that feels entirely too intimate. "How did a girl from Maystreet even end up out here?"
You tilt your head back slightly, drawing in a shaky breath. Your lips part, and you run your tongue over them, tasting the lingering lime and salt. “I went on a walk.”
He lets out a sharp snort, a small puff of white condensation escaping his lips in the cold air. “A walk? Here? In three-inch heels and a dress that barely covers you?”
Your fingers tighten unconsciously around the crinkled bag of Takis still resting on your lap, the plastic crackling loudly in the space between you.
“Yes,” you mumble, not quite meeting his eyes this time.
His gaze doesn’t let go of you. It drags over your flushed skin, lingers on your lips, then settles back into your eyes, searching, like he’s peeling something back layer by layer.
“Why?”
You shrug. The filter between your brain and your mouth is completely gone, and the raw truth slips out before you can stop it. "My boyfriend cheated. So I was hoping for a bullet in my head."
Jungkook’s expression shifts. The indifferent, bored look falters for a fraction of a second, replaced by a dark, assessing intensity. He doesn't offer pity. He doesn't look like the type to ever feel sorry for anyone, but his posture tenses.
"A bullet is messy," he says, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous purr that sends a thrill of pure adrenaline down your spine. "And a waste of a good dress." His dark eyes lock onto yours. "Your ex is a fucking idiot."
You catch your breath. The word 'ex' rings in your mind, a sudden pang of reality making you bite your lip nervously. You haven't actually broken up with him yet. You haven't even had the chance to scream at him.
Jungkook notices the hesitation, the sudden panic in your eyes. He leans in even closer, until his breath brushes over your lips. "Cause he's your ex, right?"
You try to tilt back a little, but the cold window pane blocks you from retreating. He catches the subtle movement and lets out a soft laugh under his breath—a cynical, knowing sound that makes you feel utterly pathetic for holding onto a relationship with someone who discarded you.
But before you can find the words to explain yourself, Jungkook's posture shifts. In one fluid motion, he closes the distance between you. He catches your lips with a firm, deliberate pressure.
You let out a sharp gasp, and the plastic bag of Takis slides from your lap, tumbling onto the window sill with a soft rustle. Your hands reach out, clutching onto his solid shoulders for balance as the world spins. Jungkook deepens the kiss, his lips moving against yours with an intoxicating mix of confidence and heat, completely washing away the bitter taste of the beer and mint and replacing it with the sharp tang of chili.
His hood falls forward, the oversized fabric creating a private, shadowed tent that completely covers your face from the street, enveloping you both in his scent of mint and faint cologne. His hand slides slowly, tracing a line from your thigh, moving upward and slipping just beneath the short hem of your dress. The sensation of his bare skin against your upper thigh sends a jolt of electricity straight to your core.
You know you should stop this. Especially here. Outside the store where Mikayla probably still hides inside, mourning the way Jungkook turned her down flat. But the thought is distant, muffled under the heat of his mouth.
Jungkook is a good kisser. A fantastic one. Compared to Eunwoo, there's no contest. There is a confident rhythm to the way his lips move against yours, commanding and experienced. His lip ring presses cool against your bottom lip at first, then warms with shared breath, the metal adding a subtle friction that makes your head spin. This is nothing like the monotonous, mechanical pecks you were used to with Eunwoo.
A soft, desperate sound gets lost in your mouth as he shifts his weight closer. He presses a firm, teasing bite onto your lower lip, asking for entry. You hesitate for only a second. You part your lips with a soft gasp. His tongue slips inside, hot and assertive, intertwining with yours in a deep, wet rhythm. You let out a quiet, breathless moan as your hand slide from his shoulders to the fabric of his hood, fisting the material and pulling him closer until there's no space left between you.
His tongue explores yours slowly at first, then with increasing hunger, tasting every corner of your mouth while his hand on your hip tightens, thumb stroking into the bone. His other hand cups your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the angle, and you feel his chest press against yours, solid and warm even through the layer of fabric. The kiss turns sloppy, heated, wet sounds filling the small space between breaths, his lip ring occasionally clicking against your teeth in a way that sends shivers down your spine. Your legs part wider around his waist instinctively, pulling him flush against you, and he groans low in his throat, the vibration passing from his lips to yours.
A police siren wails somewhere in the distance, growing closer, cutting through the haze like a blade. Jungkook freezes. Then he disconnects from you abruptly, pulling back just enough to look at you, chest heaving, lips swollen and glistening, eyes dark and wild.
The siren fades as quickly as it came, disappearing into another street, but the spell is broken. He stares at you for a long moment, his thumb brushing across your lower lip as if memorizing its shape. The hand under your dress retreats slowly, tracing a line down your leg and gripping your thigh one last time before falling away. He then wipes his mouth with the back of his palm, the dark, wild look in his eyes slowly receding into an expression of cool, untouchable detachment.
He steps back, the sudden drop in temperature making the air feel instantly sharp, and tosses a casual "Let's go" over his shoulder.
You blink, your head still spinning from the rush of the kiss, your fingers trembling as you grip the edge of the cold window sill in a daze.
"Where?"
He is already a few steps ahead, pulling his dark hood further over his head and fixing it.
"My place."
Your heart hammers against your ribs in a frantic, wild rhythm. "Your place?"
Jungkook slows his pace and glances back over his shoulder. "Unless you want to sit there and wait for that bullet," he says, his voice rough and laced with dark challenge. The cynicism is back on his face, a lopsided, dangerous smirk playing near his lower lip piercing. "I promise my bed is a hell of a lot comfier than this concrete"—He pauses, slowly running his tongue over his lower lip and the metallic hoop of the piercing before his gaze fixes onto yours. —"and I assure you it will make you forget whatever the fuck his name is."
A flush of heat rises to your cheeks. You look at him, bewildered and a little helpless, but you slide down off the sill and begin to follow him. Every step on the uneven, unpaved path is agonizing. You let out a small gasp, struggling to keep your balance.
Jungkook stops and looks back, taking in your clumsy, slow movements. He lets out an irritated, heavy sigh and rolls his eyes. "For fuck's sake."
Before you can even react, he closes the distance between you in two long strides. You let out a startled gasp as he yanks you up effortlessly, throwing you over his strong shoulder. His firm, hand rests dangerously high on your thigh, right under your butt, holding you securely against his frame. Your world tilts upside down. As you hang there, your hands press against the solid, warm muscles of his back, feeling the heavy, rhythmic movement of his stride as he carries you.
"What the hell? You didn't have to do that!" you protest, your voice muffled and laced with embarrassment as the blood rushes to your face.
Jungkook scoffs, his deep voice vibrating right against your ribs as he walks. "I don't have all night for you to parade around in those ridiculous stilts."
You let out a huff, lightly thumping your fist against his broad shoulder. "I was walking just fine."
“Were you?" He murmurs
He shifts his grip, his palm pressing firmly against the back of your thigh, holding you flush against him. The possessive heat of his touch sends an involuntary shiver down your spine.
Irritated by his arrogance, you try to squirm and shift your weight, hoping he’ll just put you down. But instead of releasing you, Jungkook's grip only tightens, his muscles tensing under your palms.
"Just hold the fuck still and stop squirming," he snaps, his voice low and dangerous.
"—but—"
"Or I'll drop you."
The blunt threat makes the breath catch in your throat. You shut your mouth immediately, letting your body go loose and giving up the struggle. You hang over his shoulder, listening to the steady, heavy thud of his boots on the pavement.
Not much later, the rough pavement gives way to the concrete steps of a gray, obscure apartment block. The building doesn't even have a main entry door. He navigates the dimly lit, narrow stairwell with the practiced ease of someone who knows every creak in the floorboards. He climbs to the second floor, passes the stairwell, and turns to the left, coming to a halt before the first door in the corridor. Reaching into the back pocket of his pants with his free hand, he pulls out a heavy brass key and unlocks the deadbolt with a sharp click.
As soon as you are inside, he lets you down. Your heels click sharply on the worn floor as your feet touch the ground. A sudden wave of dizziness hits you, the blood rushing from your head down through your body, and you have to reach out to steady yourself against the cool wallpaper.
Jungkook slips off his boots, not bothering to line them up neatly, and disappears down the dark hallway, leaving you standing in the entryway.
You look around, your eyes adjusting to the dim, amber light of the space. To the right, a bathroom door is slightly ajar, revealing a mirror and the faint sound of dripping water. The apartment is nothing like your polished, high-end place. There are no marble countertops or plush carpets, just the bare-bones utility of a bachelor pad.
With a sigh of pure relief, you slip your heels off, nearly moaning out loud as the agonizing tension finally escapes your aching arches.
From somewhere deeper in the flat, you hear the clinking of glass and the metallic snap of a can opening.
"You want another drink?" Jungkook’s voice calls out.
You follow the sound to the left, stepping into a small, cramped kitchen area. Jungkook is already leaning against the counter, his head tilted into the open fridge as he pulls out a silver can of Jack Daniel's and cola.
"No, thank you," you say, your voice sounding smaller than you intended.
He closes the fridge with a dull thud, not looking particularly offended. "Good," he mutters, cracking the tab open. He points with his chin toward the back of the apartment. "Go sit," he orders, unbothered by your hesitation.
You look past him into the dark living room area. There isn't much to see: a worn, dark gray fabric sofa, TV, a plastic crate converted into a record player stand, and a few scattered vinyl sleeves resting on the floor. A faint breeze drifts in through an open glass door leading to a tiny, cluttered balcony.
On your way to the sofa, you flick on a standing lamp in the corner, the yellow light casting long shadows. You drop yourself onto the cushions, smoothing down the front of your dress and running a hand through your messy hair.
A moment later, Jungkook joins you. Plopping down on the sofa, leaving a noticeable gap between your bodies, and stretches his long legs out, manspreading comfortably. His hood is down now, revealing his dark, messy hair. He drops his head back against the cushions, eyes closing for a brief second, exposing the clean, sharp line of his throat.Then, he takes another slow sip of his drink and turns his head, looking at you expectantly.
"What?" you blurt out, feeling suddenly self-conscious under his intense gaze.
He doesn't say anything. He only lets out a quiet snort and reaches for the red-and-white package of Marlboros sitting on the low coffee table. He taps a cigarette out, placing it between his lips, and flicks a silver Zippo. The bright orange flame illuminates the sharp, breathtaking angles of his face, the silver of his lip piercing glinting in the light. He tilts his head back again, blowing a thick stream of grey smoke high into the air.
You look at him, feeling hypnotized but also deeply insecure. There is nothing to be surprised about: you are alone in a stranger's apartment, a boy who definitely isn't a saint. He might be incredibly hot, but you know better than to be here. The lingering memories of the violent, blood-stained face of the boy in the alley flash through your mind. Jungkook was there. He was a part of it all. The alcohol running through your bloodstream strips away your caution, making you ask the one question you know you probably shouldn't.
"What was the deal with that guy earlier?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. "The one... you know, that ran away."
You can tell instantly that Jungkook doesn't like the question. Your heart skips a panicked beat as his jaw tightens, a sharp muscle leaping in his cheek. He turns his head slowly, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a lethal, chilling intensity.
"Don't be fucking nosy," he says, his voice dangerously quiet. The burning cigarette remains suspended between his fingers. "You got out of there alive. Keep it that way."
He keeps his gaze heavy on yours, waiting to see if you understand the gravity of his words. You swallow hard, biting the inside of your cheek, and give a small, submissive nod.
Seeing you like this, flushed, quiet, and completely at his mercy, Jungkook lets out a soft, resigned breath. He looks at you for a beat longer, the harshness in his eyes softening into something much warmer, much more dangerous. He lazily taps his lap with his free hand, signaling you to come over to him.
You look at his lap, then back up to his eyes. Your mind is screaming that you are completely out of your head, but the alcohol and the magnetic pull of him are too strong.
Slowly, you slide off your spot and climb over his thighs, straddling him.
Jungkook lets out a low, rough huff as your weight lands squarely over his crotch. Because of the movement, your dress rides all the way up, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. His hand immediately slides up your bare thigh, his fingers tracing slow, possessive circles against your skin. With his other hand, he lazily taps the ash of his cigarette into a glass ashtray resting on the arm of the sofa.
"You know," he murmurs, his tone dropping to a low, gravelly hum as his fingers immediately trace a slow, burning circle on your exposed thigh. With his other hand, he taps the ash from his cigarette into a heavy glass ashtray placed on the arm of the sofa. he murmurs, his dark eyes burning up into yours, his voice thick and teasing. "You still owe me one."
You look down at his lips, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs. "What do you want?" you whisper.
He just shrugs, takes another drag of the cigarette, and, without warning, exhales the thick, gray smoke directly into your face. You cough, the harsh tobacco catching in your throat as your eyes water.
"I don't know," he says, his eyes gleaming with a mocking satisfaction. "Surprise me."
The challenge in his voice and the smoky tang of his lips send an intoxicating rush of heat straight to your stomach. You slip your hand into his dark, messy hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands, and pull him slightly upward. Jungkook looks up at you, a heavy, unreadable spark in his eyes. It's a mix of surprise and dark, quiet anticipation.
You press a soft kiss to his lips, parting them gently before your teeth catch the cool, metallic hoop of his piercing. The unusual sensation makes a shiver run through his frame. You wince inwardly at your own clumsiness, suddenly hit with the realization that you know very little about pleasing a man properly. Eunwoo was your only boyfriend, and with him, sex was always a quiet, clinical routine where you never felt the need to experiment or be bold. For the first time, you feel a sharp pang of regret over your inexperience.
But Jungkook doesn't seem to mind. A deep, approving rumble vibrates in his chest. His hand shifts from your thigh to the small of your back, his grip firm and hot as he pulls you closer until your breasts are crushed flush against his chest. He tilts his chin, opening up for a much deeper kiss. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, confident and demanding, taking complete control as you start to grind your hips into his lap, the friction making your breath hitch in your throat.
Between the heated kisses, an overwhelming, tipsy curiosity takes over. The alcohol loosens your tongue, and you can't help but start yapping.
"You live alone," you murmur against his lips, the statement sounding half like a question. He hums against your mouth, a low "mm" as confirmation.
You disconnect for a second, catching your breath as your flushed face hovers just inches above his. "Do you do this often? Bring girls up here for a night?"
Jungkook doesn't stop. He ignores the question, his lips pressing to your jawline and slowly trailing down to your neck, leaving a trail of warm, wet, and slightly messy sucks along the sensitive skin. The contrast of his cool piercing against your heated throat sends a shiver through your entire body.
"Sometimes," he mumbles a late reply against your skin, his voice muffled and rough, before his mouth finds that perfect spot and a soft gasp escapes you.Your two hands grip his shoulders tightly as a shiver courses through your body.
The heat of his lips and the wet friction against your throat make your head spin, but a sudden, reckless curiosity overtakes you. Looking around the dim, half-empty room, you can't help but picture him living here—isolated in this sad, obscure apartment at the very edge of the town, existing entirely in the shadows.
"Does it ever get lonely, Jungkook?"
Jungkook stops in his tracks. His lips brush one last time against the sensitive skin of your neck, lingering for a fraction of a second before he pulls back. You look down at him in surprise, a panting, flushed mess, the sudden absence of his touch leaving a cold prickle on your skin.
His eyes are dark and unreadable, but he doesn't answer immediately. He reaches over to the heavy glass ashtray, taking one final, slow drag from his cigarette, the cherry glowing bright orange in the dim living room, before pressing the ember out with a quiet hiss.
He looks up into your eyes, his expression turning serious and guarded. "Y/N."
You blink, breathless and dizzy, your hands still resting on his shoulders. "Yes?"
"No more questions,"
"Why?" you ask, your brows furrowing as a sudden sting of rejection pierces your heart.
Jungkook lets out a soft breath. "Because we're just passing the time. No need to complicate it."
You stare down at him, and deep down, you know he is entirely right. With him sitting beneath you—his dark, pretty mouth slightly parted, his intense eyes glittering in the amber light—you realize you don't want to risk falling for him. This isn't a fairy tale; this is just something for fun, a way to survive the wreckage of the night and forget the betrayal that brought you here. It is a collision of two completely different worlds that shouldn't make sense, yet here you are, bridging the gap.
You nod slowly, letting the realization settle in your bones. If this is just for tonight, you might as well use the moment for everything it's worth.
You let out a quiet, breathless "...okay."
Jungkook hums, satisfied, his intense gaze watching you as you reach for the open can of Jack Daniel's and cola from beside him. You bring it to your lips and take a big gulp, the sweet, burning liquid cutting through the haze in your mind.
As you lower the can, his hands slide from your thighs, slipping upward under the hem of your dress and groping your bare hips. His thumbs press into your skin, sending a jolt of heat straight to your core. You set the can down on the coffee table, turning your full attention back to him, and reach for the zipper of his heavy dark blouse.
You pull it down, sliding the fabric off his shoulders to reveal the simple white T-shirt underneath. You lean in, kissing him again as he shrugs out of the jacket, the makeout session growing increasingly heated. His hands grip your waist, pulling you tightly against him. With every touch, you take him all in, the intoxicating realization washing over you that he is yours for just a night. Only one.
Jungkook shifts beneath you, guiding your hips so that you are perfectly aligned over his crotch. A low, ragged moan escapes your lips as you feel the hard bulge pressing against your center. The sudden surge of pleasure is so overwhelming that you have to tilt your head back, breaking the kiss to catch your breath.
As your eyes flutter open, you notice his exposed bare forearms. For the first time, the dim amber light reveals a collection of dark, detailed tattoos winding up his skin. You tilt back a little, your gaze dropping to trace the ink, and gently run your hands over the textured lines on his arm. Jungkook notices the shift in your attention. He glances down at his own arms, a faint, amused smirk playing on his lips as he looks up at you.
"You like them?" he murmurs, his voice a gravelly purr.
You look up at him, the ghost of a smile on your face as your breath fans across his lips. His hands have already moved, slipping beneath the fabric of your dress and beginning to fidget with the clasp of your bra.
"They're hot," you confess, a little dazed. "But... my mom would absolutely kill me if she knew I was making out with someone covered in tattoos. She thinks they're a sign of Satan."
Jungkook throws his head back and lets out a low, rough laugh. His eyes glinting with a dangerous, teasing light as his fingers unlatch the bra beneath your dress. "Good thing your mom isn't the one in my apartment tonight."
Before you can process it, he shifts you abruptly. You let out a surprised gasp as your back slams against the cushions of the worn sofa. Jungkook pulls back just enough to look down at you, his chest heaving, his dark hair falling over his forehead, and his eyes wild with a fierce, unmistakable possession. The rough denim of his jeans scrapes your bare thighs as he yanks your dress up and over your head in one swift tug, bra following it to the floor. Cool air hits your skin, nipples hardening instantly, leaving you exposed in nothing but soaked panties.
He hovers, muscles flexing under his t-shirt, gaze raking your body like he owns every inch. He doesn't waste a second and dives down, one hand fisting your hair to arch your neck, mouth latching onto your breast. His lips seal around your nipple, sucking hard, tongue flicking the peak before teeth graze and bite, marking the soft flesh with blooming hickeys.
"Jungkook," you breathe out, voice cracking as a wave of intense pleasure crashes over you, hips bucking up instinctively.
Your fingers claw at his shirt, yanking it up and over his head. He disconnects from your nipple with a slick pop, saliva stringing from his lips to the red, swollen bud, but he immediately switches to the other breast as soon as the t-shirt lands on the floor. His tongue swirls in devastating patterns. The sensations you've never felt before ripping moans from your chest. You squirm beneath him, thighs squeezing his waist, arching your back to shove more tit into his mouth, needy whines spilling as your nails rake his bare shoulders.
He trails lower, lips dragging hot and open-mouthed down your ribcage, nipping the bones, then across your stomach, tongue dipping into your navel. His breath fans your skin, eyes locking on yours.
"Please," you whimper, legs trembling.
He chuckles, low and mocking, vibrations humming against your hipbone. "So fucking greedy."
His fingers hook your panties, ripping them down your legs in a tear of fabric. You lay there bare, pussy glistening and spread for him, clit pulsing under his stare. Totally dependent, chest heaving as he rises to his knees, unzipping his jeans with a metallic rasp. His cock springs free thick and veined, and you bite your teeth at the sight. His gaze holds yours for a loaded second before his hand goes to his back pocket. He pulls out a small, foil packet, rips it open with his teeth, and rolls the condom onto his length with a smooth, practiced flick of his wrist. Then he wraps a fist around it, pumping slow and deliberate a few times, shaft swelling harder, before notching the blunt tip at your entrance.
You squirm, hips twitching toward him, slick coating his cockhead. He raises an eyebrow, silent question hanging—want this?—holding still, teasing your folds.
"Just go already," you whine, desperate, voice breaking.
With a smirk, he snaps forward, cock slamming balls-deep in one brutal thrust. Your moan rips out, raw and shattered, walls clenching around the sudden stretch, burning full, his girth splitting you open. You slap an arm over your face, hiding the overwhelmed tears pricking your eyes.
"Nuh-uh," he growls, prying your arm away with strong fingers, pinning your wrist beside your head. "Look at me while I fuck you."
His eyes bore into yours, as he hovers fully now, abs flexing, biceps bulging. He pulls out slow, dragging every ridge along your spasming walls, then pounds back in, hips snapping with punishing force. The sofa creaks under the assault, his cock rearranging your insides with each deep plunge, hitting that spot that makes stars burst behind your lids. He sets a brutal rhythm, skin slapping skin, one hand bracing beside your head, the other gripping your thigh to hitch your leg higher, opening you wider.
"Fuck," he grunts.
You claw his back, heels digging into his back, urging him deeper. Every withdraw leaves you aching empty, every slam fills you to bursting rattling pace, your tits bouncing wildly. He bites your neck, sucking another hickey, tongue soothing the sting before teeth scrape your collarbone.
A sharp gasp breaks from your lips as his long cock penetrates you to the very fullest, hitting a spot so deep inside you that your vision blurs again. The sheer precision of his movements makes it blindingly obvious just how experienced he is. Caught in the haze of the rhythm, a sudden, sharp pang of envy twists in your chest. You can't help but wonder about the girls who came before you, and the ones who will be in his bed in the future, because the pleasure he is giving you right now is pure, unadulterated bliss.
Your hair is a wild, tangled mess, fanning out across the worn sofa cushions as you toss your head back, completely losing your grip on reality. Pleasure coils tighter, walls fluttering, his thickness drags your nerves raw, tip kissing your cervix. You sob his name, your body seizing on the precipice, but Jungkook doesn't relent. Instead, his rhythm becomes a blur of raw, unbridled need. He pounds through your peak, his hips driving hard and fast, the friction rattling your bones. Seeing your vulnerability, his free hand slides down, his calloused fingers finding your wet, swollen clit. He applies just the right amount of pressure, pinching and circling the sensitive nub while his cock continues to hammer deep inside you.
A ragged cry tears from your throat as you are pushed completely over the edge.
The world whites out as you shatter, pussy convulsing in violent spasms, gushing around him, nails drawing blood down his spine. He follows with a guttural roar, cock swelling impossibly thicker, burying deep to flood the condom with thick ropes of cum. He grinds through it, prolonging the pulses, both of you locked in shuddering bliss, breaths mingling in harsh pants.
He slips free from you with a wet squelch and you already feel devastatingly empty. The void aches, craving him back.
You never planned on taking in a hybrid. Especially not one like him.
You offer him food. A place to stay. Rules.
He offers you obedience. Tension. Trouble.
Because hybrids like him don’t know how to exist without earning their place and you’re about to learn that kindness, to someone like Jungkook, can feel just as dangerous as cruelty.
A/N: if you’re here for emotional damage, slow-burn tension, and a little bit of chaos–then yeah. let’s go.
this fic is messy in all the ways: hurt, comfort, trust issues, and a hybrid who doesn’t really know how to be safe even when he finally is.
The night clings to you like a damp rag as you drag yourself through the alley after your shift at the bar, the sharp click of your heeled boots scraping against uneven pavement. Your jacket is zipped tight over your too-short skirt, but it does little to keep the cold from seeping in. Exhaustion weighs heavy in your limbs, pulling at every step.
This shortcut is the only way you’ll make it home before dawn, but the alley is a mess. Overflowing trash cans choke the narrow path, the stench of rot thick in the air, sticking to the back of your throat with every breath.
You spot two hybrids hunched over a bin, ears twitching as they rummage for scraps.
Their feral eyes lock on you under the sputtering bulb, panic flashing before they bolt like startled rats, vanishing deeper into the dark.
You keep walking.
In this world, hybrids are nothing but slaves, collared and owned by humans who buy them for work, pleasure, or status. The lucky ones get kept; the rest end up abandoned, haunting alleys, scavenging to survive or pleading with passersby to claim them before the authorities drag them off.
You'd never had a hybrid. Couldn't afford one. Couldn't even afford to properly feed yourself most of the time, honestly. The bar paid just enough for rent and ramen (on good weeks). On the bad ones, all you had were late-night prayers that the power wouldn’t get cut off.
You veer into the next alley, narrower and colder. An older woman emerges from a shadowed doorway, bleach-blonde hair stark under the streetlight, long coat swishing around her legs as she wobbles on sky-high heels. A silhouette peels from the darkness; a lean boy bunny hybrid, black ears flopping slightly as he blocks her path.
He says something out toward the woman. His voice is quiet, too quiet for you to make out the words from where you are. The woman recoiles immediately.
"Fuck off, filthy mutt," she spits, shoving past, coat flapping like a dismissal.
His shoulders slump, but those endless doe eyes snap to you. Up close, he’s pretty—devastatingly so. Dark, messy black hair clings to his pale forehead, a black hoodie hanging loose over his lean, taller frame, torn trousers slipping low on narrow hips. A fresh bruise shadows his cheekbone, vivid purple against skin so white it almost glows. His lips are full, slightly parted, breath uneven—and above it all, dark bunny ears twitch faintly, tense and alert.
Your heart clenches, caught between pity and unease, as you try to slip past him. “Excuse me.”
He shifts, blocking you. 'Wait. I'll make you feel so good. I'm... good with my tongue. Please.' His voice dips low, ears twitching forward.
Your stomach drops.
He is young. Younger than you, maybe. Definitely younger. Tall but thin. Lean in the way that isn't natural, but is the product of too many missed meals.
''I really don't have money,' You say, clutching your bag.
''Please.'' The plea cracks, and before you can dodge, he crowds your back against the rough brick wall.
You gasp as the stone digs into your spine, his taller frame pinning you with peer desperation. His mouth finds your neck, lips warm and insistent, they move against your skin with a practiced, mechanical precision; kissing, open-mouthed, trailing slowly up toward your jaw.
He smells like rain and his soaked hair brushes your cheek, droplets cold on your skin. He must've stood here through the earlier downpour.
You push his chest, hands fisting the wet hoodie. "Stop—"
But he captures your lips, kissing deep and messy. His tongue slips past resistance, teasing yours with expert flicks. One hand cups your jaw, angling perfectly; the other braces the wall. You shove harder, but he chases, nipping your lower lip, sucking it soft and swollen until your knees weaken.
He's too good. Knowing just how to unravel reluctance.
His hand shifts, no longer bracing the wall, and instead slips beneath the edge of your jacket, brushing against the bare skin of your waist. The touch is cold at first, then burning, sending a sharp shiver through you that you can’t control.
A sound almost escapes you. You force it down, breath catching, and jerk your head back, breaking the kiss.
But he doesn’t stop. His lips drag down, grazing your jaw before pressing against your throat again, slow and insistent. You feel his breath shudder against your collarbone. His body is close enough that you can feel how cold he is, how the hoodie does nothing against the night air, how his body almost leeches warmth from yours as he presses in. He is doing this to survive.
"Wait—stop," You pant.
He pulls back slightly, dark eyes locking on yours, breath ragged. You fumble for your wallet, fingers clumsy as you pull out the last of your cash. Pressing it into his palm. "Here. Buy food. Please, just... eat something.''
His fingers curl around the money, but confusion clouds his gaze. He looks down at it. Then back up at you. The bruise on his cheek looks worse up close. You can see the fine detail of it–the way the skin had broken slightly over the bone. Someone had hit him hard. Recently.
Where do you want me?" he asks, voice low.
You blink. "What?"
"Where." He glanced down the alley, then back at you. "Here? Or— somewhere else?"
The realization hit you like cold water.
He thinks this is a transaction. That the money is a down payment. That you’ve given him something and now you expect something in return. Because that’s how it works. That’s the only way his world works. Humans don’t just give. They buy. They trade. Every kindness has a price tag, and he’s already calculating what he owes you.
"Oh—no. No, no, that's—" You shake your head quickly, heat rising in your face. "You've got it wrong. I don't want anything from you. I was just—"
You pause. He is staring at you like you are speaking in a language he'd lost the translation for.
"I don't want anything," you repeat, quieter this time. "You look like you need it more than me. That's all."
"Do you really think I'm gonna take your money for free?" Hurt sharpens his tone, ears pinning back.
You open your mouth but he starts talking, faster now, stepping back like you had burned him.
"You really despise me that much? Rather throw money at me like pity than let me earn it?" A bitter sound escapes him. "Hybrids earn what we get. You think I don't know what this looks like?" He gestures at himself, and the motion is furious, self-loathing, like he is presenting evidence to a jury. "Am I so repellent that you'd rather throw cash at me so I'll just fuck off—"
"What? No, that's not—" Your voice comes out strangled. Guilt hits you so hard it feels physical, a fist closing around your throat. And in your peripheral vision you see it: the bills crumpled in his hand, clutched so tight his knuckles have gone white, and suddenly they look filthy, something you'd done wrong, something you should have known better than to offer so carelessly.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” he says, looking down, voice tight. “You get to walk around with your money, your choices… your decency.” His fingers curl slightly, like he wants to throw the cash back but can’t. “But I don’t. I don’t get to just exist without earning my place.” He lets out a shaky huff, jaw clenching. His eyes flick back up to yours. “You think this is kindness, but you’re just making it worse. Because now I owe you, and I can’t even pay it back, because you won’t let me.”
A single drop hit the pavement between you.
Then another. You felt the first fat raindrop land on your shoulder, soaking instantly through the thin fabric of your jacket, cold as a needle. Then one on your cheek and the back of your neck.
He stops talking. He lookes up at the sky for half a second, just long enough for the lamplight to catch the hollow beneath his eyes where it seems that proper sleep hadn't been in a long, long time. He looks back at you, but his expression had closed. Gone flat. The anger had burned through whatever fuel it had found and now there is just a raw, exhausted emptiness underneath it, and somehow that is worse.
"Forget it," His voice is barely audible, swallowed almost immediately by the rain.
He reaches out. Opens his fist. He holds the wet bills toward you.
You look at the money in his outstretched hand. Rain pools in his open palm.
And for one second–one shameful, honest second, you hesitate. Because you need that money. Tomorrow's lunch. The electric bill you're already behind on. You look at those bills and your brain does the math automatically, the broke-person math that never turns off, the constant low hum of can I afford this, can I survive without that...
But then you look at him.
Ears flat. Shoulders curled in. Standing in front of you with his palm outstretched like he's offering back the only thing of value he's been given in what might be weeks, because he'd rather go hungry than owe a debt he can't repay.
Your fingers close around his wrist. Firm enough to stop him, to push his hand back toward his own chest.His dark eyes flick to your face. Wary. Waiting for the catch.
"Let's go to my place. It's two blocks away.''
Surprise flickers across his bruised face, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second before he nods and steps back.
You lead, heels splashing puddles, his footsteps shadowing yours as rain blurs everything toward your flat. As soon as you get to the building, the damp chill seems to settle right into your bones. Water streams off your jacket in heavy rivulets, soaking through to your skin. You can feel his eyes on you, heavy with unspoken expectation, as you fumble with keys. The lock sticks as always, gritty old steel fighting back, and finally, after a few frustrated tugs, you shove it open.
The stairwell smells stale and mildew. The apartment is on the third floor, at the end of the hall. Your apartment isn't big, but it has enough space for a sagging couch, a kitchenette, a bedroom that's more closet than anything plus a small bathroom.
You flick on the single bulb overhead, casting shadows that stretch long across the wood, and kick off your boots by the door, toes aching from the shift.
The bunny steps in behind you, dripping on the worn wood. Without a word, he bends to peel off his sodden boots. Then he moves to unzip the black hoodie. He shrugs it off, letting it drop to the floor with a dull thud.
Your breath hitches.
Underneath, he doesnt have anything but a lean torso marked by jagged scars. thin white lines crisscrossing his ribs and shoulders, remnants of who knows what abuse. Bruises bloom darker on his arms, pale skin stretched tight over muscle that's wiry.
He stands there, bare-chested and shivering. His wet black hair is plastered to his forehead. Heavy drops of water run down his neck, over the scars on his collarbone, dripping onto the floor. His huge, dark doe eyes are shadowed with exhaustion, but they are fixed on you with a stubborn intensity. Waiting for the command.
You swallow hard, running a hand through your own soaking wet hair to push it back from your face. Clothes are plastered to your body, freezing cold.
Your gaze flicks to the small radiator. The towel you’d hung there earlier, hangs freshly washed, still faintly warm. You grab it without thinking and toss it toward him.
He doesn’t catch it.
It slips through the air and lands near his feet with a soft sound.
“Just… dry off or something,” You mutter.
He looks down at the towel, then back at you, teeth sinking into the inside of his cheek.
"I can make tea..."
He straightens, glossy eyes locking on yours, ears drooping slightly over his messy black hair. ''I won't be useless,'' he murmurs, voice low and edged with resolve, stepping closer.
You instinctively take a step back, as he aproaches, then another, until the back of the sofa presses against your butt, stopping you short. There is something in his look that silences you. Something fragile. You can’t push him away when he already looks this broken.
And suddenly he’s there, on his knees in front of you, hands sliding up your bare legs under the skirt, pushing the fabric higher. Your breath hitches as his fingers hook into your panties, tugging them down with efficient pull, exposing you to the cool air.
'Wait—' You start, but his mouth is already there, head vanishing under the hem of your skirt, tongue pressing flat against your pussy in one long, wet lick that makes your knees buckle.
He eats you out like it's his profession. Skilled, unrelenting, lips sealing around your clit with gentle suction while his tongue circles and flicks, dipping lower to thrust inside you, tasting every fold, black ears tickling your thighs.
Wet sounds fill the small space, his nose bumping your mound as he works deeper, one hand gripping your thigh to hold you steady while the other braces your hip. Pleasure coils tight and fast, unbidden, your body betraying any denial as slick heat builds between your legs.
You didn't want this. Didn't ask for it, but oh God, it feels good. His mouth hot and urgent, drawing gasps from you that echo off the walls.
Your hands flail, grasping the arm of the couch behind you to stay upright, fingers digging into the fabric as your legs tremble. It's hard to stand straight. The intensity hits you like a wave, your pussy throbbing under his assault.
Suddenly he hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, the muscle there flexing under your calf as he tilts your hips forward. His tongue plunges even deeper into your soaked entrance. You yelp. The new angle letting him fuck you with it, swirling and probing your walls.
One of your hands that was grasping the couch now dives under your skirt. You grab a fistful of his damp hair, trying to shove him away. But he groans into your core, the vibration rumbling through your clit, refusing to detach, tongue thrusting relentlessly, slurping up your arousal, as his bunny ears twitch wetly between your thighs.
You know this is wrong. Your mind screams it even as your pussy clenches around his invading tongue. The heat of his breath overwhelming your senses.
In a surge of panic, you seize his long ears, and yank his head back hard. His head emerges from under your skirt, dark eyes locking onto yours with a feral intensity. His lips are plump and rosy, swollen from the sucking, your juices smeared across his chin and cheeks in a glossy sheen. He looks utterly wrecked, wild and unhinged, breath coming in heavy pants.
Your leg stays draped over his shoulder, pussy exposed and throbbing, suddenly cold without his mouth sealed to it. A trickle of your slick runs down your thigh. You pant heavily, heart racing as you stare down at him.
"You don't like it?" He rasps, his voice husky and edged with challenge, tongue darts out to lick a stray drop of your slick from his lower lip.
"It's great, really," you breath out, voice shaky, as your grip loosens on his ears just a fraction, "but that's enough."
"But I didn't finish," he murmurs, eyes narrowing as he leans in again, trying to bury his face back against your heat. You tighten your hold on his ears again, holding him back inches away, the wet fur slipping through your fingers.
"Let go," he growls, a hint of whine threading through the command.
After a moment of hesitation, you release his ears reluctantly, and in an instant, he's diving back in. His teeth sink into the soft flesh of your inner thigh, a sharp sting that makes you hiss, the pain blooming hot and immediate under his molars before his tongue soothes it with a broad lick.
You gasp, but before you can react, his tongue shoves deep inside your pussy, burying to the hilt in one brutal thrust, fucking your walls with insistent strokes that make you throw your head back, a sharp cry escaping as the pleasure overwhelms you. Your knees buckle, your body arching as you nearly collapse on the spot.
One of his hands clamps around the leg over his shoulder, fingers digging into your thigh with bruising force, while he pushes you back, pinning your ass against the solid back of the couch. The fabric yielding under your weight, letting you slump against it for support as he spreads you wider.
Dazed, your hand dives back into his hair, not pushing this time but yanking him closer, pulling his face flush against your heat in a haze of need. He moans into your cunt, the sound muffled and vibrating through your sensitive nerves, his tongue drilling deeper, with a rhythm that make your vision blur.
You'd heard whispers that bunnies were infamous for their stamina in bed, wild lovers who could go all night, but you never imagined this; This voracious, mind-melting devotion, his mouth turning your resistance to ruin.
You moan, the pleasure twisting sharper, a tear welling in the corner of your eye from the overwhelming stretch of his tongue spearing you open.
You are close. Warmth pooling inside of you, impossible to ignore. He senses it, pulling back just enough to whisper hot against your pussy, "Cum for me," before his teeth graze your outer lips in a teasing bite, gasping into your folds as he laps harder, faster.
You can't take it anymore. Your walls flutter wildly around him, release crashing through you in violent spasms, thighs quaking over his head as you soak his face, the sweet tang of your cum flooding his mouth. He keeps licking through it, drawing out every aftershock, until you're a boneless, panting mess.
He drags one final, languid lick through your spasming pussy. You slump fully against the backrest of the coach now, all flushed and trembling, skin prickling with sweat. Slowly, he rises from under the hem, while your leg slides off his shoulder.
His cheeks are flushed, lips parted, chin slick. He lifts the back of his palm to his mouth and wipes slowly, smearing away the mess absentmindedly.
He stays on his knees.
His hands rest on his own thighs, and he looks up at you with those dark doe eyes. His eyes search your face carefully, almost anxiously, like he’s trying to read something you haven’t said yet.
It hits you: He’s waiting for a reaction. The way a worker waits for a supervisor to inspect the job. The way a dog waits to be told it did the trick right.
You're still breathing hard. Your fingers grip the edge of the couch cushion, knuckles white, chest heaving. "You did well," you manage, voice a little shaky.
His ears twitch. Straight up. Completely vertical, almost comically fast, the dark fur catching the light. "Really?"
"You… yeah. You did really well." You nod, swallowing, still catching your breath. "You deserve a meal," you add softly, hoping it’ll make him eat with you.
His head tilts slightly, brows furrowing as he searches your face. “I do?”
You straighten a little, tugging your skirt down over your thighs, trying to pull yourself together. “Yeah,” You breath out. “I… I’ll make us something.”
Your gaze slips, unintentionally, over his bare, skinny abs, and then downward, noticing the bulge in his pants where his palm rests. Heat creeps up your neck. Your eyes flick around the room for a moment, cheeks burning. Embarrassment creeps in. You clear your throat. When he doesn’t move or say anything more, you add, “You can stand up.”
He blinks, gaze flicking down at his own knees pressed to the worn wood floor. Then back up at you.
“You don’t have to stay down there,” you murmur, watching him.
You can see the war happening behind his eyes. The trained instincts, drilled into him for obedience and control, clash with something new: this unfamiliar thread of kindness, the gentle permission you’re giving. He doesn’t know how to respond, how to act when softness isn’t met with command or expectation.
Slowly—very slowly—he begins to rise, careful, almost reverent, eyes never leaving yours. Like he's waiting for you to revoke the permission mid-motion, to tell him to get back down, to change your mind.
“Yeah… okay,” you mumble, more to yourself than to him, shifting awkwardly as you step toward the kitchen. You don’t know what to do with yourself. You look around, your gaze drops, and lands on the grey towel still crumpled on the floor.
“You know what…” you mutter, bending down quickly to pick it up. You walk back to him and hold it out. “Take this,” you say, voice steadier now. “Go to the bathroom. Shower." You point toward the bathroom so there’s no confusion. "There's hot water—well, warm water, the landlord's water heater is questionable... Just turn the handle to the left. Take your time. I'll make something for you to eat."
For a second, he just stares at the towel.
Then, slowly, he reaches out, fingers brushing the fabric before gripping it. He nods once.
You turn away. Then stop. Your eyes drop to his clothes: The soaking wet hoodie on the floor, the ruined trousers clinging to his legs, torn and filthy and probably the only things he owns. The thought of him putting them back on after a shower makes your stomach turn.
“Wait—” You snap your fingers lightly, already pivoting. "Hold on. Don't— just wait a second."
He freezes mid-step, one hand on the bathroom doorframe, ears snapping upright.
Before he can respond, you’re already moving, disappearing into your room. You dig through your drawers, pushing past your own clothes until you find something that’ll fit: An oversized blouse and a pair of basketball shorts your ex left behind.You hesitate for a second, staring at them. Then you grab them and head back out.
He’s still standing where you left him. You hold the clothes out. “Here. Change into these. Put your wet stuff in the washing machine. I’ll deal with it later.”
There’s a small pause before he answers, voice quiet. “…Okay.”
He takes the clothes, and then turns, disappearing into the bathroom. The door clicks shut.
A beat of silence.
Then the shower starts. The pipes groan and rattle loudly through the walls, making you wince. You hate how everything in this building sounds like it’s about to fall apart any second. Ancient. All of it.
You let out a slow breath. Then you turn and head to your room. Your clothes are still plastered to your skin, cold and heavy, and you peel them off mechanically, dropping the whole damp pile into the corner without a second thought.
You reach for the first things your hands land on: a big sweater from a second-hand shop, black with faded pink straps stitched across it, soft from too many washes. You pull it over your head, then grab a pair of shorts and slip them on, finishing with your worn slipper shoes.
Your hair is still damp, clinging in wet strands down your back. You gather it up lazily, twisting it into a loose bun, securing it with a pen you snatch off the nightstand, too tired to bother looking for a proper hair tie.
Then you head to the kitchen.
You stand in front of the open fridge. The light illuminates what you already know is there (almost nothing.)
You work with what you have. Some leftover meat. A half-wilted green onion, edges soft but still usable. A couple of mushrooms. You slice everything quickly, efficiently, like you’ve done this too many times before. Soy sauce. Mirin. A small knob of ginger, grated in.
You fill a pot with water, setting it on the stove, the quiet clink of metal grounding you as the flame flickers to life.
By the time the noodles have softened and the broth has taken on that simple, savory smell, you’re already reaching for the bowls, moving quickly, efficiently.
Just as you’re about to serve, the bathroom door opens.
You glance up. The bunny hybrid steps out barefoot, damp hair clinging to his forehead. The oversized blouse you gave him hangs comfortably on his frame, sleeves brushing past his wrists. The basketball shorts sit low on his hips, and for a moment, you notice how much comfier and fresher he looks than before.
He sniffs the air. A small, sharp intake through his nose, his head tilting slightly to the side, and his ears perk up,. His eyes drift toward the stove, where steam curls from the pot and pork sizzles softly in the pan.
“I’m—almost done,” you say quickly, turning back to the pot, ladling the broth into the two bowls. You arrange the pork on top in uneven slices, fan the mushrooms beside them, scatter the green onions across. You grab chopsticks for both of you, hesitating for a second before adding a spoon to each bowl too, just in case.
Then you carry everything over to the coffee table by the sofa, setting the bowls down carefully. You lower yourself onto the fluffy carpet, crossing your legs. You pat the floor.
"Sit down."
He does. No hesitation this time, or maybe just less of it. He lowers himself onto the carpet across from you, legs folding awkwardly beneath him, and his eyes drop immediately to the bowl in front of him. He stares at it. The steam curls up from the surface, and his dark eyes track it like it might disappear.
It's not a feast. Not even a proper recipe. Just sad-pantry udon. But it’s warm. And it’s better than nothing.
You pick up your chopsticks and spoon. "Eat," you say. "Before it gets cold."
You dig in, slurping the noodles as your gaze flicks up to him. Across the table, he picks up his chopsticks. His grip is wrong. Fingers positioned awkwardly, the sticks held at an angle that makes them look more like weapons than utensils. You realize he might not even know how to use them. Still, somehow, he manages to hook a few noodles and lift them to his mouth.
He takes the first bite, and his eyes widen. A low, involuntary sound slips from the back of his throat as he swallows.
Then he starts eating fast. Too fast.
The chopsticks are abandoned within seconds. He grabs the spoon. Noodles barely make it to it before he’s pulling them in, swallowing quickly, barely chewing. The broth follows in hurried gulp. The spoon scraping the bottom of the bowl, tilting to catch every last drop.
You stop eating.
Your chopsticks hover halfway to your mouth, noodles dangling from them, forgotten. You just... watch him: The way his ears stay up the whole time, trembling slightly with each motion. The way his throat bobs when he swallows, the pale column of it working rhythmically. You watch him eat like a person who has been starving. Because he has been starving.
Before you’re even halfway through yours, he’s done. The bowl is empty. Not a drop of broth left. He looks up at you, cheeks flushed, eyes wide.
You look at your own bowl. Half-full. Noodles swelling in the cooling broth, the pork going soft. You put down your chopsticks and push your bowl across the table, until it stops in front of him. “Here. Eat mine. "
"That's yours," he says, eyes flicking to you, suspicious, hesitant.
"Im not hungry."
It's a bit of a lie. Your stomach isn't full, and the smell of ginger and soy is still pulling at something low and empty inside you. But it's not your first meal of the day. You had cereal before your shift. A cheap granola bar on your break. The kind of nothing‐calories that keep you standing but don't actually fill anything.
But the way he's looking at the bowl... the way his fingers are still wrapped around his own empty one, lingering on the porcelain like he can't bear to let go of the last thing that fed him– makes you not want to eat.
“I ate while I was cooking,” you shrug, trying to sound casual. “I’m full. I don’t want this to go to waste. So eat.”
He stares at you.
That look again. The one that scans your face, hunting for the lie. You hold it. Keep your expression steady, hands relaxed on your knees, and you pray your stomach doesn't growl and ruin the whole act.
You exhale when his hand moves. He pulls the bowl toward himself. Slowly. He eats again. Less desperately this time. Not slow. You don't think he's capable of slow when it comes to food, but this is definitely more measured.
You watch him from across the table. Knees pulled to your chest, chin resting on your folded arms. The rain taps against the window in a rhythm that's starting to feel almost soothing.
You can't help but notice that he looks so much softer now.
Softer than how he looked earlier, when he was on his knees between your legs. The thought makes heat crawl through your neck.
You clear your throat. Loudly. Possibly too loudly. He glances up, spoon frozen halfway to his mouth.
You sit up straighter, uncurling from your ball, pressing your palms flat against your knees like you're grounding yourself. Your face is still burning. You hope he can't tell.
"Hey," you say. "I just realized something."
He waits. Dark eyes watching.
"I don't know your name."
His eyes flicker. The spoon hover above the bowl single drop of broth falls from its curved edge back into the soup with a soft plip. He looks at you like he's weighing whether this is safe. Whether he can give you an act of trust.
He swallows the food in his mouth. Hard. His tongue slides over his bottom lip, catching the salt left behind.
"Jungkook," he says finally.
Jungkook.
You repeat it over in your mind. You think it suits him.
"I'm Y/N," you say. Only fair. He gave you his name; so you give him yours.
He blinks. Then nods, his eyes scanning your face briefly, before his gaze drifts past you. Toward the window behind your shoulder, where a harsh white flash illuminates the room for half a second before fading.
You follow it
The sky outside is black, broken only by the occasional crack of lightning that bleaches everything for a split second. The wind howls. The rain hammers.The storm is rolling in fast.
You look back at him.
"Stay for the night," you say.
He looks at you. Ears flick. "What?"
"The storm." You nod toward the window. "It's not safe to sleep out there. You can take the couch."
He glances at the sagging couch. Then back at the window, where a crack of thunder rattles so loud the lightbulb overhead flickers. His jaw works. Something complicated passes behind his eyes. Not gratitude, not relief. Something harder.
"Why do you care?"
The question lands like a stone in still water. Raw demand of someone who's been burned by kindness too many times to accept it without interrogation.
You exhale. "No one should sleep outside when it's like this."
He stares at you for a long moment. Then his gaze drops to his hands, still resting around the bowl. "Im used to it."
You shake your head, pushing yourself up to your feet. “Don’t be stubborn. Just stay. One night won’t kill you.”
You reach up and pull the pen from your hair. The bun unravels immediately, damp strands falling heavy past your shoulders. You shake it out with one hand, fingers raking through the tangles.
He's watching you, curiously.
You pad toward the bathroom. Halfway there you stop, not turning around fully, just glancing over your shoulder. "Put the bowls in the sink when you're done," you say. "And use the blanket on the couch. It's not a request."
Your slippers tap softly against the floor as you continue to move, the sound quiet in the otherwise still apartment.
“Y/n.”
His voice stops you just as your hand settles on the doorknob. You glance back, slightly, hair swaying over your shoulder.
“I’ll be out in the morning,” he says quietly. “I won’t overstay.”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” he echoes.
For a second, you just look at him. Then you turn away and step inside. The door clicks shut behind you.
⊹ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 : roommate au, crush to lovers, accidental exposure, bathroom smut, heavy oral, explicit finger fucking
⊹ 𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐞s : blonde jimin, wet hair, heavy vocal praise, high-key desperation, shameless making out
⊹ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 : highly explicit content, deep throat oral, extreme finger stretching, dripping wet crevice, rough thigh handling, direct wall pinning, heavy vocal dirty talk.
─── ･ﾟ: * 🎐 :･ﾟ 🧴 ･ﾟ: * 🎐 :･ﾟ🧴 ･ﾟ: * 🎐 :･ﾟ ───
▷ 𝗣𝗟𝗔𝗬 𝗦𝗧𝗢𝗥𝗬
The apartment has never been this quiet. Usually, the hallway is filled with the low rumble of your other two roommates laughing, cooking, or locking themselves in their bedroom to do whatever couples do when they think the walls are soundproof. But tonight, they are out of town for the entire weekend, leaving the massive, modern flat completely empty.
Well, almost empty.
You shuffle down the dim hallway toward the bathroom, a soft cotton towel slung over your bare shoulder. As you pass the threshold of the kitchen, you can’t help but look toward the living room couch.
Park Jimin is sprawled out across the
cushions, completely lost in his own world. His newly bleached, blonde hair is a beautiful, messy halo around his face, falling into his eyes as he stares lazily at the flickering television screen. He’s wearing his favorite set of slate-gray silk pajamas—the button-down shirt is left entirely unbuttoned halfway down his chest, exposing a smooth, golden expanse of skin, his sharp collarbones, and the faint shadow of his pectoral muscles. The loose pants sit low on his narrow hips, clinging to the thick contour of his thighs as he casually pops a handful of popcorn into his mouth.
He turns his head as you walk past, his hooded, crescent-shaped dark eyes locking onto yours. He lets out a low, sleepy hum, his lips curving into that soft, utterly devastating smirk that has been driving you crazy for the last six months.
"Going for a wash, sweetface?" his voice is a rough, bedroom rasp that pulls directly at your lower stomach.
"Yeah," you mutter, clearing your throat to hide the sudden dryness in your mouth. "Don't eat all the snacks."
"No promises," he chuckles, his eyes dropping down your frame for a lingering, heavy second before he turns back to the TV.
You slip into the bathroom, locking the door with a quiet click. The shower is hot, the steam rising quickly to coat the glass tile and the wide mirror in a thick, opaque fog. You scrub your skin until it’s pink, your mind completely hijacked by the image of Jimin sitting just thirty feet away in those thin gray pajamas. You’ve had a massive, pathetic crush on him since the day he moved his boxes into the spare room, but living together meant keeping your mouth shut. You didn't want to make things weird. But tonight, with the apartment completely vacant and the air thick with summer heat, the desire feels ten times heavier.
It’s only when you turn off the water and step onto the bath mat that the reality of your situation hits you.
You scan the counter, then the back of the door, then the basket in the corner. Your heart drops into your stomach. In your rush to get away from the sight of his bare chest, you completely forgot to bring your change of clothes. No underwear, no shorts, no shirt. Just the small, white towel hanging over the shower bar.
You press your forehead against the cool wooden door, letting out a soft curse. You could wrap the towel around yourself and run across the hall, but Jimin is sitting right there. The kitchen light casts a direct shadow onto your bedroom door. He will see everything.
Taking a shaky breath, you crack the bathroom door open just an inch, the hot steam billowing out into the cooler hallway.
"Jimin?" you call out, your voice slightly muffled by the damp air. "Jimin, are you still there?"
The rustle of the popcorn bag stops instantly. A moment later, you hear the soft, sliding friction of his silk pajamas against the couch cushions, followed by the heavy, rhythmic padding of his bare feet against the hardwood floor. The shadow of his tall, lean frame appears behind the frosted glass of the door.
"Yeah? Everything okay in there?" he asks, his voice right on the other side of the wood.
"I... I'm an idiot," you whisper, your face burning with an intense heat that has nothing to do with the shower. "I forgot my clothes on my bed. Can you... would you mind grabbing the gray oversized tee and the shorts on top of my covers?"
There is a long, agonizing pause. You can hear his slow, steady breathing through the gap.
"Your clothes?" Jimin echoes, his tone shifting. It loses that lazy, roommate casualness, dropping into something much thicker, slower, and suddenly dangerous. "You're in there completely naked, then?"
Your breath hitches in your throat. "Jimin, please, just grab the shirt."
Instead of walking away, the door handles jiggles. You jump back a step as the door slowly pushes open, the gap widening until Park Jimin is standing right in the doorway, his broad shoulders leaning heavily against the frame. His blonde hair is pushed back away from his forehead now, his dark eyes absolutely blazing as they slide down your dripping, bare shoulders, down to where the white towel is clutched desperately against your breasts, barely covering your hips.
The air in the bathroom instantly turns electric. The casual boundaries of the last six months dissolve in a fraction of a second under the sheer, unadulterated weight of his gaze. He doesn't look like your roommate right now; he looks like a predator that just realized the cage door was left wide open.
"You know," Jimin murmurs, his eyes tracking a single drop of water as it slides down your collarbone and disappears into the terrycloth towel. He takes a slow step forward, his bare feet crossing into the damp tile of the bathroom, his gray silk shirt swaying open to reveal the smooth skin of his stomach. "Im starting to think you did that on purpose."
"Jimin..." your voice is nothing but a breathless whimper, your back hitting the cold glass of the shower stall as he closes the distance between you.
"You've been looking at me all night," he whispers, his smaller, ring-clad hand reaching out to grip the edge of the sink, effectively pinning you between his body and the glass. His face is inches from yours, his breath smelling faintly of sweet butter and pure heat. "Don't think I haven't noticed the way you look at my mouth when I'm sitting on that couch. You want it, don't you?"
You can't even lie. Not with him standing this close, his musk completely overpowering the scent of your body wash. You let out a shaky nod, your fingers tightening around the knot of your towel. "Yes. God, yes, Jimin."
A wicked, breathtaking smirk cuts across his handsome face. He reaches out, his thumb catching your lower lip and tugging it down roughly, exposing the wet, pink interior. "I will give that mouth something to do."
Before you can even process the words, Jimin’s hand flies to the back of your neck, his fingers burying deep into your damp hair as he hauls your face up to his. His mouth crashes onto yours with a terrifying, raw ferocity that knocks the wind right out of your lungs.
He sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, his tongue sliding past your teeth with heavy, slick strokes that leave you instantly dizzy. You let out a loud, desperate groan into his mouth, your hands completely abandoning the towel as it slides uselessly to the bathroom floor. You reach up, your bare arms wrapping tightly around his neck, pulling his silk-clad body as close to your wet skin as physically possible.
Jimin groans out loud, the deep sound vibrating straight into your chest. His large palm slides down your bare side, his fingers digging fiercely into your hip, lifting you up slightly until your center rubs directly against the hard, thick length straining against his gray pajama pants. Even through the silk, the heat of his erection is staggering.
He breaks the kiss for a split second, both of your lips connected by a thin, glistening line of saliva. His eyes are dark, completely wild as he looks down at your bare, flushed body.
"Down," he rasps, his hands pushing your shoulders down toward the floor. "Get on your knees for me, sweetface. Show me how much you want it."
You don't hesitate for a single second. Your knees hit the bath mat, your eyes looking up at him through your eyelashes as Jimin stands over you, his breathing shallow and frantic. He reaches down, unbuttoning the remaining buttons of his gray shirt with trembling, impatient fingers, throwing the silk top into the corner of the room. Then, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of his gray pajama pants, sliding them down along with his black boxers, freeing his thick, rock-hard length right in front of your face.
He’s huge, veiny, and already leaking a clear drop of pre-come at the twitching tip under the warm bathroom lights.
You reach out, your wet hands wrapping around the back of his thick thighs to pull him closer. You lean forward, your tongue sliding out to lick the entire length from the base to the swollen head, making Jimin let out a sharp, ragged hiss as his hands instantly drop to grip your blonde-streaked hair.
"Ah... fuck," he growls, his knuckles whitening in your locks as you open your mouth wide, sliding his thick head past your lips.
You take him deep, your throat relaxing as you wrap your lips tightly around his girth. You suck him with a fierce, desperate hunger, your head moving rhythmically up and down his shaft while your hand strokes the base. The wet, slapping sound of your mouth against his lower belly echoes loudly off the tiled walls, mixed with the ragged, breathless curses leaving Jimin’s lips.
"F-fuck, you're so good at this," Jimin pants, his hips instinctively twitching forward, driving himself deeper into your mouth until you let out a muffled, choked sound. He looks down at you, his thumb running across your wet cheek. "You're so beautiful," he rasps, his voice cracking with pure, unadulterated lust. "So fucking beautiful like this."
He lets you suck him for a few more agonizingly perfect seconds before his grip on your hair tightens, gently but firmly pulling your mouth away from his length. You let out a needy whine, looking up at his slick, dripping shaft.
"Not yet," he breathes, his eyes completely blown out. "I need to feel how wet you are for me."
Jimin grabs your arm, hauling you up from the floor in one quick motion. He spins you around, slamming your bare back flat against the large bathroom mirror, the cool glass a shocking contrast to the blazing heat of his body. He doesn't give you a second to adjust; he reaches down, grabbing your right leg and hooking it over his hip, forcing your crevice wide open under the bright lights.
You are completely exposed, dripping wet, your slick juices coating the insides of your thighs from the sheer anticipation.
Jimin lets out a dark, wicked chuckle at the sight. He brings his hand down, his long, elegant fingers instantly diving into your wetness. He slides two fingers deep inside you in one heavy, continuous shove, making your back arch completely off the mirror as a loud, piercing scream echoes through the room.
"Look at you," Jimin groans, his mouth dropping down to bite sharply at your shoulder blade while his fingers work inside you. He pumps them rapidly, curling his knuckles upward to hit your sweet spot with a punishing, relentless rhythm. "You're drowning me, sweetface. You're so fucking wet for your roommate."
"Jimin! Ah, god, faster—please," you sob out, your hands desperately grasping the edges of the sink counter to keep yourself upright as his fingers stretch you open, creating a wet, squelching sound that fills the small room.
He adds a third finger, his thumb pressing down heavily on your swollen clit, rubbing it in fast, tight circles until your inner walls clamp down around his hand in violent, frantic pulses. You are flying toward the edge, your vision blurring as your head rolls back against his bare shoulder.
"Come on," Jimin commands, his voice a rough whisper against your ear as his fingers drive deeper, thoroughly ruining you. "Come right here on my hand. Let me feel it."
With a loud, broken cry, your body shatters. A massive, liquid orgasm rips through you, your walls convulsing wildly around his fingers as your release pours out over his hand. Jimin lets out a dark, triumphant growl, keeping his fingers locked inside you until the last contraction fades, enjoying the tight, crushing grip of your climax.
Slowly, he slides his hand out, his skin completely drenched in your slick fluids. He doesn't even wipe it; instead, he grabs your other leg, lifting you completely off the ground until your back is pinned against the glass, your legs spread completely wide open around his narrow waist.
He lines his thick, throbbing length right against your dripping, ruined center. His dark eyes lock onto yours, a wild, possessive grin spreading across his face.
"Now," he whispers, his breath hot against your lips. "Let's see how much more that pretty little body can take."
With one heavy, brutal thrust of his hips, Jimin buries his entire length deep inside you, the wet smack of his skin against yours sealing your fate as the quiet apartment disappears into a breathless, chaotic blur of absolute pleasure.
You never planned on taking in a hybrid. Especially not one like him.
You offer him food. A place to stay. Rules.
He offers you obedience. Tension. Trouble.
Because hybrids like him don't know how to exist without earning their place and you're about to learn that kindness, to someone like Jungkook, can feel just as dangerous as cruelty.
A/N: if you're here for emotional damage, slow-burn tension and a little bit of chaos-then yeah. let's go... this fic is messy in all the ways: hurt, comfort, trust issues, anc a hybrid who doesn't really know how to be safe even when he finally is.
Your mission to gather the amount of money you need is not an easy process. It’s not even hard, or super-extremely hard. It's agonizingly, terrifyingly, drenching you out until you feel entirely hollowed from the inside out—hard.
You are standing at a cramped counter at the front of a brightly lit convenience store, the electronic hum of the drink coolers vibrating through your skull. In your trembling hands, you hold a single piece of cardboard. It’s your third lottery ticket of the day. The first two are already crumpled at the bottom of the plastic trash can by your knees, useless strips of paper that cost you money you couldn’t afford to lose.
Okay, Y/N. You’ve got this. you tell yourself, your heart hammering against your ribs. You are going to scrape this thing, it’s going to say you won a million dollars, you’re going to walk right back into that hellhole of a shelter, adopt Jungkook, and get the fuck away from this place.
You take a deep breath, grounding your teeth together, and use the edge of a stray coin to frantically scratch away the silver coating. The gray dust accumulates under your fingernail as the letters beneath begin to reveal themselves. You stop, your breath hitching in your throat.
Bad luck. Try again.
A bitter, humorless laugh bubbles up in your chest. Yeah, no shit, you think, staring at the mockery of the bold, colorful text. No shit you have bad luck. If your life hasn't made that abundantly clear, this cheap piece of cardboard certainly cements it.
"Any luck yet, sweetheart?"
The cashier, an older lady with faded permed hair and a nametag that reads Mae, leans her elbows on the counter, looking at you with a sympathetic, yet tired expression. She’s been watching you lose for the last ten minutes.
You quickly shake your head, forcing a hollow smile as you crumple the ticket in your palm, the sharp edges digging into your skin.
"No. Not today."
"Want to try another one? Third time's a charm, but the fourth might be the jackpot," she offers, her hand already reaching toward the plastic dispenser of tickets.
"No," you say softly, clearing the silver dust off your fingers onto your jacket. "No, I'm fine. Thank you."
You toss the crumpled ball of paper into the small plastic bin, feeling the crushing weight of reality settling right back onto your shoulders.
The truth is, you don’t know what the fuck to do. You are completely out of options. You had given yourself a strict two-day deadline to find the money, because deep down, you know the terrifying reality of the shelter system. You need to get Jungkook out by tomorrow at the absolute latest to ensure no one else buys him, no one else touches him, and no one else locks a collar around his neck. But as you stand there in the middle of the store, the absolute helplessness of your situation washes over you. There is nothing you can really do.
You are at your absolute limits, both physically and mentally. Your mind races through impossible scenarios, growing more desperate by the second.
Earlier this morning, you had actually stopped by a public park, staring down into the murky water of a large stone fountain. For a wild minute, you had seriously considered diving in, rolling up your sleeves to scoop up the copper coins resting at the bottom. But that would be no use. Even if you cleaned out the entire fountain, you wouldn't even have enough to buy the shittiest, most stale loaf of bread from the bakery down the street, let alone buy a hybrid's freedom.
Pushing open the door of the convenience store, the crisp air hits your face, shocking your exhausted system. You pull your worn jacket tighter around yourself and slip your hand into your pocket, retrieving your phone. You stare at it, your thumb hovering over a single contact name, frozen by a wave of intense humiliation.
God, you hate to beg. You hate to be a burden, to be the person who comes knocking on someone’s door with an empty wallet and a desperate plea, and you have spent your entire adult life working yourself to the bone specifically so you would never owe anyone a single cent. But this isn't about pride anymore. This is a life-or-death situation.
You don't even have a roof over your head right now. You had actually spent the previous night hiding out in Marcus's cramped, cluttered little back office at the bar, curled up on a hard leather couch with a threadbare blanket. You had snuck out in the early hours of the morning before anyone arrived. Everyone at work still thinks you're missing shifts because of a "family emergency," and you're letting them believe it.
But the alternative, returning to your childhood home, is something you simply aren't ready for. You don't want to face your mother. You would rather risk being caught sleeping at the bar by Marcus in the worst-case scenario than step back into that house.
At least sleeping at the bar gave you the chance to plug your phone into a wall charger. You had used the battery life to text Jimin, keeping it brief and vague. Just a quick: I'm okay, my mom is sick and I need to take care of her for a bit. Don't worry.
Jimin doesn't need to be dragged into your burdens. He don't need to carry the weight of the mess you were currently drowning in.
But as you look at the screen now, you realize there is only one person left who might actually be able to pull you out of this quicksand. Even though the sheer embarrassment of it makes your stomach churn, you dial Hoseok's number.
The phone rings once. Twice. Three times. Each ring feels like a death toll.
"Y/N!" Hoseok’s warm voice cuts through the line, immediately contrasting with the bleak grey street around you. "Hey! What's up?"
"Hey, Hoseok," you say, your voice cracking slightly before you quickly clear your throat, trying to sound as normal as possible. "I'm sorry to call out of the blue. Do you happen to have some time today? It's... it's kind of important."
There’s a brief pause on the other end, the ambient noise of shuffling papers and distant drilling fading slightly as he senses the underlying tension in your tone.
"Did something happen?" he asks, instantly becoming alert.
"No," you blurts out automatically, the defensive instinct to hide your mess kicking in. But then you squeeze your eyes shut, your knuckles turning white around the casing of your phone. You can't afford to play strong. Not right now. "Actually... yes. Yes, something happened. But... I'd really rather not talk about it over the phone. Please"
"Oh, of course. No problem," Hoseok says quickly, his concern deepening through the line. He doesn't press you, doesn't demand answers you aren't ready to give, and you could weep from the gratitude of it. "Listen, I'm actually out right now preparing things at the Care Home I'm opening up. It's pretty busy with the contractors, but I can definitely talk. Actually, I'll text you the address right now. Come over, and we can sit down. Sound good?"
A massive wave of relief, mixed with a sting of anxiety, washes through you. "Okay," you whisper, nodding even though he can't see you. "Okay, I'll be there. Thank you, Hobi.
You disconnect the call, the screen going dark, and finally let out a breath that feels like it’s been trapped in your lungs since forever.
The journey to the address Hoseok texted you takes roughly thirty minutes of mindless walking, your feet aching on the hard pavement, but the distraction of the changing scenery keeps your brain from spiraling completely. You easily could have taken the bus to cut the time in half, but you refuse to waste a single cent of the change left in your pockets. Every coin matters now.
When you finally arrive, you find yourself standing before a charming brick building surrounded by a quiet, leafy park. Your steps falter as you look up at the architecture. You had actually walked these paths before, and you vividly remember staring at the grand structure, thinking about what a tragic waste it was for such a beautiful building to just sit on the market. It had so much potential to be used for something good.
A new, freshly painted wooden sign near the entrance reads The Sunshine Care Home. Pushing through the unlocked front doors, you are instantly hit with the scents of fresh paint, sawdust, and industrial floor polish. The interior is a massive maze of bright corridors, high ceilings, and large, towering windows that let in the pale pools of sunlight currently fighting to get through the thick clouds outside.
"Y/N! Over here!"
You turn your head toward the sound to see Hoseok jogging down a wide hallway, a thick interior design magazine clutched in his hand. He’s dressed in comfortable, paint-splattered cargo pants and a cozy, oversized knit sweater.
"Hobi," you breathe, the familiarity of his presence instantly loosening the tight knot in your stomach.
"Hey, I'm so glad you made it," he says, stepping up to pull you into a hug. The embrace makes you realize just how intensely cold your body actually is. Hoseok pulls back, his sharp eyes instantly scanning your face. He catches the subtle redness of your bloodshot eyes and your ghostly, pale complexion, but he carefully keeps his tone light to spare your fragile pride.
"Come on, let me show you around real quick first," he says, flashing you a soft smile as he lifts the heavy magazine in his hand, tapping the glossy cover. "The contractors just finished the main lounge, and I could really use a second pair of eyes. I'd appreciate some help with choosing the interior furniture before I go crazy looking at swatches."
You follow him through the sprawling building as he proudly shows off the architectural progress. He keeps a steady pace, pointing out exactly where the large dining tables will go, the low-set countertops specially designed for accessibility, and the expansive glass doors that lead out to what will eventually be a communal garden. He talks passionately, his hands gesturing wildly as he describes his vision of creating a sanctuary that feels like an actual home, not a sterile, unfeeling institution.
You try your absolute best to smile, nodding in all the right places and forcing words of encouragement past your frozen lips. But inside, your mind is screaming. A frantic, deafening ticking clock echoes in your skull with every single second that passes;
Anytime; Anytime, a buyer with deep pockets could walk into that shelter. Anytime, someone could look through the glass at Jungkook's broken form and decide to buy him. Anytime, Jungkook could be gone forever, and you are running out of air.
"And this is going to be my little office," Hoseok says, pushing open a door to a small room that is currently empty save for a desk, two chairs, and boxes of files. He shuts the door behind you, instantly cutting off the distant sound of a contractor's drill down the hall.
Hoseok sets the magazine down on the desk, his bright smile fading into a look of deep, unconditional concern. He pulls out one of the chairs for you.
"Sit down, Y/N. You look like you're about to collapse."
You sink into the chair, your legs instantly feeling like lead. Hobi pulls the other chair up directly opposite you, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, giving you his full, undivided attention.
"Talk to me. What happened?"
Your hands tangle together in your lap, as you swallow hard, the humiliation of what you are about to do burning in the back of your throat.
"Hobi... I need help. I need a lot of help, and I wouldn't be here asking if I had any other choice in the world."
You take a shaky breath, and then, the dam breaks. You tell him everything. You tell him about the shelter, about the glass partition, about the heartbreaking injustice of what they are doing to Jungkook. You describe the agonizing scraps of life he's being forced to live, and how you tried everything. You confess you lost your home, that you're currently sleeping at the bar, and that you're probably going to lose your job, too. Markus was already furious at you for being out sick for a week, and it's only a matter of time before he finds out you were locked in a jail cell, too.
Your entire life is systematically crumbling to ash around you, but as the tears finally spill over your lashes, you realize you don't care about any of it. None of that wreckage matters compared to the absolute terror of losing that fragile, precious bunny. He is too important, too deeply woven into your soul, and the thought of letting him slip through your fingers again is a pain you simply cannot survive.
Hoseok listens in absolute, stunned silence. His jaw tightens when you mention Jungkook's condition, his expressive eyes darkening with a mix of sorrow and anger at the cruelty of the system.
"I need to adopt him, Hobi. I have to get him out by tomorrow," you choke out, a hot tear spoiling over your lashes. "But the adoption fees... they're too much. It's an obscene amount of money, and I don't have it."
Hoseok blinks, processing the staggering numbers you just laid out. He runs a hand through his hair, looking down at the floor for a long moment. "Y/N... that is a lot of money. Especially right now."
"I know, I know it is," you say quickly, panic rising in your chest as you try to explain yourself. "And I know what you're thinking. Why don't I just take out a bank loan or a line of credit? I tried, Hobi. I can't. My mother... she completely ruined my credit score years ago. She took out credit cards and loans in my name, piled up a mountain of debt, and left me to drown in it. I paid it all off, but the banks won't even look at me anymore. I'm completely blacklisted. If I could take on the debt myself to save him, I would do it in a heartbeat, but I can't even get a dime from a lender."
You lean forward, your voice cracking with desperation, completely stripping away your pride.
"I would never, ever ask this of you normally. I know you're putting everything you have into this eldery care home. But please... if there is any way you can help me..."
Hoseok looks at your trembling frame, his expression softening into something incredibly tender and fiercely protective. He lets out a slow sigh, but it isn't a sigh of annoyance. It's one of resolution.
"Hey," he says gently, reaching out to wrap his warm hands over your freezing fingers. "Stop. Breathe."
You look up at him through a blur of tears.
"I'm not going to lie to you, things are incredibly tight with the renovations," Hoseok says, his voice steady. "But... I actually do have a personal emergency fund saved up. It's separate from the business account. There is the amount you need."
Your breath hitches, your heart stopping completely. "Hobi..."
"I'm going to give it to you," he says firmly, nodding his head. "I'm going to transfer it to your account right now."
A gasp chokes out of you. Throwing your arms around his neck, you pull him into a tight hug, burying your face into his shoulder.
"Thank you. Oh my god, Hobi, thank you," you sob into his sweater. "I will pay you back, I swear to you. You have my word. I'll do whatever it takes."
Hoseok rubs your back, his embrace steady and grounding. "It's okay. Take your time, Y/N. Just go get him."
You finally let go, stepping out of the Sunshince Care Home with a newfound spark of hope cutting through your exhaustion. For the first time in days, the suffocating weight lifts from your chest. You have the money. You are coming for him.
But inside the clinical, cold walls of the shelter, there is no light. No real hope.
Jungkook sits pressed flat against the wall, in the exact same spot he has occupied for a week. The air is thick with the sterile stench of bleach and the low, collective misery of the isolation block. He feels reduced to something pathetic. All he can do is sit here in his cage, locked away like a dog in a kennel, entirely and brutally dependent on human mercy. He is an animal, after all. A sad-eyed, scraggly, starved stray mutt who can do nothing but whine and whine into the dark, begging for his favorite human to come back and drag him out of this terrifying place.
His dark, bloodshot eyes scan the empty space behind the glass. He stares at the exact tile where your shoes had pressed into the floor, wishing you were still standing there. Wishing he wasn't so horribly alone.
A trembling, broken whimper slips past his cracked lips, a sound of pure longing that seems to scrape against the bottom of his throat. His ears twitch weakly against his skull, catching the distant, haunting echoes of the shelter’s corridor before flattening completely against his head. A violent twitch jerks through his jaw, his teeth clenching together so hard the bone aches, and before he even realizes what he is doing, his blunt fingernails scratch viciously into the tender skin of his own forearm. He digs in until the flesh breaks, a slow bead of crimson welling up under his nail. He doesn't even flinch. The physical pain is nothing compared to the sickening spiral in his chest.
The sight of his own blood blooming against his skin doesn't register as injury; it’s just another mark of the cage, another stain on a body that feels entirely ruined without you. He rubs his cheek against his shoulder, a instinctive action, trying to find even a microscopic trace of your scent left on his skin. But there is nothing.
He is so sorry that he loves you.
In his mind, you deserve to be adored, but you don't deserve the kind of love he gives you. The love he carries is a heavy, parasitic thing; it brings nothing but misery. He can see how he swallows you up whole, how his desperate attachment eats you alive, but he can't hold himself back anymore. He needs you too desperately. You were the one who showed him what warmth felt like, even if his own response to it is unfair, ugly, and dark. But when you touch him, you are so sweet to him. It makes him selfish. It makes him a cruel, vile thing, because once he tasted your affection, his body mutated around the feeling. He cannot ever live without it again. He refuses to.
The deprivations of the cage are doing strange, feverish things to his hybrid instincts. Without your touch, his skin feels like it’s peeling off. A shameful, overwhelming heat pool low in his belly, born from sheer sensory starvation. It's a filthy, needy ache that makes his nails dig even deeper, dragging through the fresh cuts on his arm as if trying to tear out the longing built up under his skin.
His body is desperate to be handled, to be bruised or comforted by you, completely unraveled by the memory of your hands. He craves you so intensely it borders on a sickness, his scent glands flaring in the dark, releasing a bitter, distressed pheromone that clings to the cramped cell.
He is too exhausted to move. He can barely breathe. Every muscle in his body screams at him to just lie down and rot, to refuse the meager rations the guards shoved through the slot. He cannot eat. He cannot sleep.
Yet, he still forces himself to do it. For you.
With a pathetic sob vibrating in his throat, Jungkook forces his rusty, aching spine to bend over the scratched plastic bowl. His stiff fingers reach down to pick up a piece of bruised vegetable. He forces his jaw to move, chewing the nasty, bitter carrot, swallowing the filth down just so his heart keeps beating. Just so he doesn't die before you get back.
When the bowl is empty, he curls himself into a tight, defensive ball in the corner. He shuts his eyes tight, desperately trying to force his mind into sleep. But the dreams won't come. There is no escape in the dark, because the nightmare is already happening.
He doesn't manage to drown out the world for long. The echoing thud of boots vibrates through the floor, accompanied by the muffled murmurs of a few people heading down the corridor. Jungkook’s long ears instantly snap upright, his head lifting slightly as his heart jumps into his throat. For a wild, desperate fraction of a second, he thinks it's you. He forces his exhausted eyes open, as his head lifts slightly.
But it isn't you.
Through the glass, he watches as three men pull a scrawny feline hybrid out of a cell by force. The cat hybrid keeps its head low, its tail tucked tightly between its legs, trembling violently as they drag it down the hall.
Jungkook sneers silently. He recognizes the uniforms. They are the shelter workers alongside a couple of professional hybrid trainers. He knows exactly how these people operate. To the wealthy customers walking the showroom floor, the workers are all sweet smiles, gentle voices, and rehearsed empathy. But behind closed doors, away from the public eye, they don't give a fuck about the animals. They don't treat hybrids like people; they don't even treat them like animals. They treat them like defective machinery. To them, hybrids are just high-end property, merchandise that needs to be broken in before it’s sold.
Then, their heavy leather boots turn, directing themselves right toward his cell.
Jungkook snaps his eyes shut again, letting his head drop back against the floor. He doesn't want them to see he is alert. He doesn't want to give them the satisfaction of knowing they’ve stirred him. But it’s no use. The digital beep of a plastic keycard swiping against the lock echoes in the quiet block, followed by the heavy creak of the glass door swinging open.
Next thing he knows, they are invading his space. The suffocating scent of sweat crowds out his distress pheromones. Suddenly, the sharp, crackling spark of a taser tears through the air. It's a loud, threatening sound meant to terrify him into submission.
"Get up, Bugs Bunny. Early premium auction line-up. Move it," a harsh voice barks.
Jungkook opens his eyes, his dark gaze cutting upward through the messy strands of his fringe. Standing directly over him is a stout worker with his hair pulled back into a greasy man-ponytail, a heavy shock-baton gripped in his gloved hand.
Jungkook lets out a low, mocking snort through his nose. His expression remains ice-cold, his lips pressed into a stubborn line. He has absolutely no intention of going anywhere.
"Don't make us drag you," the ponytail man grunts, reaching down and grabbing Jungkook by the collar of his shirt.
The bunny lets out a dangerous groan, his muscles locking up instantly. With a sudden, violent heave of his broad shoulders, Jungkook yanks himself out of the man's grip, the cheap fabric of his shirt ripping slightly under the force. He glares straight up into the guard's eyes, his pupils dilated into two dark, lethal abysses.
"Don't touch me," Jungkook spits.
He doesn't blink, locking the man in a dead-eyed stare that promises nothing but violence.
The worker stiffens, trying to chuck out a dry, amused laugh to save face in front of the others, but the quick tightening of his jaw and the dark flush on his neck give his anger away.
"Get the fuck up," He snarls.
Jungkook’s eyes dart past the guard's shoulder, freezing on the trainer standing near the cell door. In the man’s gloved hands, a thick steel collar glints under the light.
A wave of panic crashes through Jungkook's chest. He backs away blindly until his spine hits the cold wall of his cage. These people don't get to put a leash on him. They don't get to control his breathing, they don't get to drag him around like a broken object, and they sure as hell don't get to own him. The only person who has any right to his neck, the only person he would ever willingly submit to, is you. The thought of these filthy hands forcing that iron against his throat makes his stomach turn with a violent revulsion.
But his defiance isn't enough to stop them.
The ponytail man steps in aggressively, lunging forward into Jungkook's personal space. Before Jungkook can lash out, the guard hooks a heavy arm under Jungkook's left shoulder, using his entire body weight to wrench him away from the wall.
Jungkook twists violently, a guttural, feral snarl ripping from his chest. He manages to throw the guard off balance, but the man grips the fabric of his shirt tighter, digging his fingers into Jungkook's skin.
"Get a hold of him! Grab his other side!"
Before Jungkook can fully stand, a second man dives into the fray, tackling him from the side. The weight of two fully grown men crashes down on him. Jungkook thrashes, his muscles straining, but they use their sheer numbers to pin his arms behind his back, forcing him down hard onto his knees.
"Look at you," the first guard spits, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Think you're special just because you're a premium breed? You're still just a weak fucking stray mutt."
Jungkook rests on his knees, panting heavily, huffing the stray hairs out of his face as he glares up at them. Even on his knees, forced into a submissive posture, there is a dangerous, bratty defiance in the way he carries himself. He looks like a pet, pretty and vulnerable under their hands, but he refuses to look pathetic. His tongue is sharp enough to draw blood.
He tilts his head, a dark, mocking glint in his eyes despite the bruising grip on his arms. "If I'm just a weak mutt," he rasps, his voice smooth but dripping with venom, "why are you shaking so hard just to hold me down?"
"Shut up," Ponytail snarls, tightening his grip until Jungkook's shoulder joints pop.
Before Jungkook can snap back, another figure steps into the cell to help guide them out. It’s Ryan. Jungkook’s eyes narrow into slits, a toxic, burning wave of jealousy flaring hot in his veins. He remembers this pathetic excuse of a man. This was the worker who had been oddly, irritatingly nice to you during the viewing. The one who had smiled too widely and dared to stand too close to what belonged to Jungkook. He absolutely despises him.
Ryan raises his hands, offering a fake, gentle look as he approaches. "Come on, bunny, just cooperate. Your pretty savior isn't coming back for you. So let's make this easy."
The mention of you coming from Ryan's mouth is the absolute final straw. Jungkook refuses to appear backed into a corner. He will not submit; he will bite back.
Feigning weakness for a split second, he lets his body go limp, causing the two guards to relax their grip. The moment their hold loosens, Jungkook snaps his head forward with a predatory burst of movement, his jaw snapping shut inches away from Ryan’s throat with a sickening crack of his teeth.
Ryan lets out a pathetic, high-pitched shriek, scrambling backward in pure panic. His boots lose their grip on the slick floor, and he goes crashing hard onto his backside out in the corridor, his clipboard clattering away into the dark.
A hidden, wicked smirk tugs at the corner of Jungkook's bloody lips, entirely invisible to the men pinning him down.
He wants this. He needs them to be terrified of him.
He will do absolutely anything. Look as dangerous, feral, and completely unhinged as possible, to discourage any wealthy bastard from putting a single bid on him today. If he presents himself as a completely broken, untamable monster that bites the hands trying to feed it, the elite buyers won't want him. They want submissive luxury, not a creature that looks ready to slit their throats in their sleep. He will play the villain if it means keeping himself pure for you.
"You fucking untrained, flea-bitten shit!"
A heavy iron grip clamps down on the back of his neck and slams his face brutally into the cold concrete floor. A professional hybrid trainer, a massive man with scarred knuckles and eyes like flint, drives his knee into Jungkook's spine and pins him there with crushing force.
Jungkook thrashes against the hold, but the trainer digs a painful pressure point right into his shoulder blade, making Jungkook gasp as a sharp spike of agony shoots down his arm.
"You think you're tough?" the trainer spits right into Jungkook's ear, his voice low and venomous. "You're nothing but property. I’m going to hold you down, and by the time I'm done with you, you're going to learn exactly how to be a good, quiet little pet for whoever buys you today. You got that?"
He extends a scarred hand blindly out behind him toward the cell door. "Give me the leash."
One of the nearby workers quickly steps forward, placing a thick, heavy steel chain collar into the trainer's waiting palm. The cold metal clinks sharply in the quiet cell.
Jungkook is pinned, his chest pressed against the filth of the floor, the raw scratches on his forearm stinging against the concrete. Slowly, he rolls his head to the side, looking up through daggers at the trainer. He spits a mouthful of blood directly onto the man's polished black boot.
"Try it," he growls. "Put a collar on me. See how long you keep your fingers."
The trainer’s face darkens with rage, lifting a fist to strike him, but the other guards quickly intervene, knowing they can't present a heavily bruised hybrid to the buyers.
They yank Jungkook’s wrists behind his back, clamping them into reinforced steel cuffs with a sickeningly definitive click. They haul him to his feet and begin to drag him down the long hallway toward the premium auction stage.
The walk is agonizing. The lack of sleep and physical exhaustion take their toll, making his vision blur dangerously, and the cold air bites into the fresh cuts on his arm. But Jungkook keeps his chin held high, his gaze remains deadly, shooting a lethal warning to any worker who dares to look his way as he passes.
From behind the scratched glass windows of the neighboring cells, the dull eyes of the other hybrids watch him go. They look at him with a mixture of terror and pity, knowing exactly where that hallway leads. But Jungkook doesn't want to be an object of pity. He will survive this walk. He will fight every single person in that auction room if he has to. Because somewhere out there, you are holding his heart, and he refuses to let them break it before you get back.
The heavy doors groan open, and Jungkook is thrust directly into the blinding glare of the premium auction showroom. The room is built like a small, opulent amphitheater thag cast in suggestive amber glow. In the center sits a raised, circular stage made of polished black marble, illuminated by sharp, clinical spotlights that track every movement. It’s a theater designed entirely for objectification.
Jungkook knows this stage. He has been on structures exactly like this before in his past, but back then, the survival instinct had dictated his compliance. Usually, he would present himself perfectly; standing tall, shoulders squared, flare his scent pleasantly, and put on the mesmerizing, submissive show he had been beaten into learning. He would do whatever it took to look pristine, expensive, and alluring to secure a wealthy master who might treat him slightly better.
But not today.
Today, he carries himself like a stubborn brat. He lets his shoulders slouch just enough to look arrogant, his long rabbit ears pinning flat against his neck in a lazy slant. He stands dead-center in the light, a bruised doll, refusing to give them the graceful posture they paid to see.
There are roughly ten buyers scattered in the dim VIP seating below him. Their eyes are sharp, calculating, and inherently dirty as they scan him up and down.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the head of the facility announces, stepping up to a microphone at the edge of the stage, his voice dripping with rehearsed charisma. "Presenting Asset Seven-Zero-One. As you can see, he is a purebred rabbit hybrid. A magnificent specimen. We all know how exceedingly rare mature leporidae lines are in the current market, especially one of his physical caliber. Yes, he is high-maintenance, delicate, highly sensitive to surroundings, but the return on investment is unparalleled. His genetics are flawless."
The crowd stirs, leaning forward with hungry, analytical eyes.
"He looks a bit... rough around the edges, doesn't he?" an older woman in the front row notes, her sharp eyes trace the fresh, dark red scratches scoring his forearm and the smudge of dirt on his jaw.
"Just a minor disciplinary hiccup, nothing to worry about," the trainer from earlier speaks up from the shadows of the stage, his voice tightly controlled. "He simply needs a firm hand to remind him of his place."
"Let's see what we're actually bidding on then," another woman commands from the center row. She is dressed in a low-cut, expensive black dress, her gold necklace catching the glare of the spotlights. "Take his shirt off. We can't judge the merchandise through rags."
Because Jungkook'a wrists are shackled tightly behind his back in tight steel cuffs, the handlers don't bother trying to navigate his sleeves. Instead, the ponytail guard steps up behind him, fists bunching into the collar of his scrub shirt, and rips the cheap fabric right down the center with a loud tear. The shirt is peeled away and tossed aside, leaving his entire upper body completely bare.
A collective, sharp intake of breath echoes from the audience. Despite his week of starvation, Jungkook's body is a masterpiece of sultry perfection. The stark lighting carves deep shadows across his chest, the sharp definition of his collarbones, and the sculpted lines of his abdominal muscles. His skin is pale, glistening with a fine sheen of sweat.
The contrast is dizzying, almost indecent; the soft, innocent velvet of his dark rabbit ears framing a hyper-masculine frame built entirely for power. The eyes of every bidder in the room are pulled downward by the harsh glare of the spotlights, tracking the dangerous, deeply etched lines of his V-line where they disappear beneath the low-slung loose waist of his uniform trousers. He looks entirely like a delicate, high-end toy, a creature designed for pure temptation, but the unyielding tension in his shoulders screams that he is a stubborn animal who would gladly tear a throat out if given an inch of slack.
"Oh my," the woman in the black dress purrs, her eyes darkening as she slow-scans his chest down to his low-slung trousers. "The scratches actually make him look rather... exquisite. Feral."
She stands up, the silk of her dress rustling as she walks right up to the edge of the low stage. Jungkook doesn't move an inch, but his pulse hammers violently in his throat. He keeps his chin tilted up, trying his absolute best to look anywhere but at her deep, exposed neckline standing right at his eye level. He refuses to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.
"He has cuffs on," a wealthy man in the back observes, squinting through his glasses. "Is he aggressive?"
The facility director chuckles smoothly, waving a hand. "Let's just say it is better not to remove them until he is securely in your private quarters, sir. He has a bit of an... attitude. But a shock collar corrects that within a week."
"A fighter," the man in the back comments with a dark, amused chuckle. "Even better. Breaking them in is half the fun."
The woman in the black dress steps onto the platform, invading Jungkook's space. The heavy, suffocating scent of her perfume fills his nose, a chemical stench that makes his rabbit instincts scream to flee, to bite, to hide, to do anything but remain still. She reaches out a manicured hand, her long, blood-red nails lightly tracing the line of his collarbone, dragging slowly over the skin.
Jungkook’s entire frame tenses under the contact, his breath hitching into a sharp sound as his body reacts against his will.
"Let's see how cooperative those rare instincts are," she whispers, her voice dripping with a sickening sweetness that makes his skin crawl. She pulls her hand back slightly, looking over her shoulder at the staff with a demanding tilt of her chin. "Make him do something for me. I want to see if he knows how to please a master."
The ponytail guy doesn't hesitate. Stepping up behind Jungkook, he swings his heavy boot and violently kicks the back of Jungkook's right knee. The hybrid lets out a guttural groan as his joint buckles underneath his frame, the sudden impact rattling straight up his spine.
"Asset Seven-Zero-One. On your knees. Present your head," the director commands.
Jungkook freezes, his muscles locking in raw defiance. Every single ounce of his stubborn, proud soul screams at him to stand tall, to force them to use the taser, to let them beat him until he passes out on the floor rather than submit to this woman's whim. He is not theirs. He belongs to you.
But before he can do anything, his other knee is ruthlessly kicked out from behind. With a pained whine, Jungkook collapses forward, his knees hitting the hard stage with a bruising, echoing thud right in front of the woman. Because his hands are cuffed tightly behind his back, he has no way to break his fall, forcing him to overcompensate by arching his spine aggressively just to keep from face-planting onto the stage.
He forces his head low, letting his dark, sweat-dampened fringe fall forward completely hiding his face from the predatory eyes in the crowd.
The woman smiles triumphantly, she steps closer, until the fabric of her skirt is almost brushing against his bare chest. She reaches down, her fingers tangling deep into the soft fur of his ears, petting him with a scratchy stroke.
Jungkook’s stomach turns with a wave of profound nausea, a broken whimper slipping past his teeth despite how desperately he tries to choke it back. He wants to tear away from her hand, but the brutal reality of his sensory starvation betrays him. His body has been locked in a cold cell for a week, entirely devoid of warmth, and the sudden, prolonged friction of a human hand triggers a shameful, erratic heat low in his belly. It is an evolutionary curse, a cruel hybrid reflex that mistakes any touch for closeness, making his skin prickle with a filthy, unwanted arousal that he fights with everything he has. He feels utterly degraded beneath the scorching heat of the lamps, the needy, starved ache in his core twisting into something sharp and deeply hateful.
"Good boy," she purrs, entirely misinterpreting his trembling as submission. She leans down so low that her breath brushes against his ear, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper for the audience. "Now look at me."
Jungkook slowly lifts his head.
He doesn't look at her face. He doesn't look at her triumphant smile. Instead, his wildly dilated eyes snap directly to the vulnerable pulse point at her throat. His upper lip curls back in a silent, predatory sneer, exposing the sharp edge of his fangs. His gaze is completely unhinged, dead-eyed, and radiating a quiet, demonic malice that promises a slow, bloody death the very second those handcuffs come off.
The woman freezes instantly. The smirk dies on her lips, the color draining from her face as she catches the pure, murderous venom burning in his eyes. The illusion of her control shatters in a fraction of a second. She pulls her hand back as if she’s been burned, taking a stumbling step away from the edge of the stage.
Jungkook lets his head drop back down, a dark, silent satisfaction settling over him through his heavy panting. They can look all they want, he will ruin anyone who tries to take him.
A tense silence hangs over the amphitheater for a beat, before the woman manages to clear her throat, forcing a shaky laugh to cover her panic. She smooths down her dress, turning back toward her seat with a slow stride that tries to reclaim her dignity.
"My, my... what an absolute menace," she purrs, looking over her shoulder one last time, her eyes tracing the line of his shackled wrists. "He’s a vicious little beast, isn't he? But oh... I do love a challenge. There is nothing more delicious than completely breaking something that thinks it can bite."
" Alright, then...We will open the bidding for Asset Seven-Zero-One at one hundred thousand dollars—" the director’s voice booms over the speakers."
Before the director can even finish the sentence, a bright electronic chime rings out from the left side of the amphitheater.
"One hundred and fifty thousand," a man’s voice calls out, adjusting his cufflinks.
Chime.
"Two hundred thousand!" The black dress woman counters immediately from the front row, her shaky panic completely morphing into a territorial hunger. She wants the beast that just threatened her. She wants to own the teeth that flashed at her throat.
Jungkook’s head snaps up, a cold shockwave of panic rips through his veins. His left ear shoots straight up, twitching erratically in a sudden, sickening thrill of adrenaline.
It wasn't supposed to go like this.
This wasn’t the plan. He had bared his fangs, he had acted unhinged and filthy and dangerous so they would think he was a liability. He was supposed to be a defective, untamable monster that nobody wanted to risk their money on. But these sick, wealthy bastards didn't see a threat. They saw a rare rabbit hybrid whose spirit would be intoxicatingly fun to crush. His rebellion was just a premium feature to them.
"Three hundred thousand!"
"Three hundred and fifty from the gentleman in the second row!" the announcer calls out, his voice escalating with manic glee.
The numbers are blurring together, rising with terrifying speed. Jungkook thrashes weakly against the heavy steel cuffs behind his back, the metal edges cutting deep into his skin, drawing fresh blood that slick his bound wrists. He tries to wrench his torso forward, to break the degrading pose, but the iron-grip hands of the guards clamp down on his bare shoulders, bruising his muscles as they ruthlessly pin him down and keep him locked in place on his knees.
Four hundred thousand.
Four hundred and fifty.
Jungkook's eyes grow wide, completely dilated in pure horror as his gaze shoots past the blinding glare of the spotlights, desperately locking onto the security doors in the back of the room.
Where are you?
The question screams through his mind, drowning out the manic shouts of the bidders. You promised. You had looked him in the eyes and promised that you would save him, that you would get him out of this hellhole. He had clung to those words in the cell like a lifeline. He had let them beat him, cuff him, and degrade him on this stage because he believed you were coming.
But the doors remain heavily shut.
You won't save him.
"Five hundred thousand dollars!" The woman in the black dress screams, her eyes locked on his trembling form.
A heavy, breathless silence falls over the other bidders. Nobody moves. Nobody counters. Half a million dollars for a single, broken soul.
The announcer’s face lights up with a sickening grin. He raises his gavel, the polished wood catching the blinding glare of the spotlights.
"Going once for five hundred thousand... going twice..."
Jungkook lets out a strangled, desperate sob, his heart shattering completely inside his chest as the wooden gavel descends.
ANOTHER A/N: Hii! How r we doingg??
I know, I know you guys are waiting for Kook and Y/N to finally reunite, and I promise it’s happening very soon! I'm aware most readers are probably here for the romance, but I really wanted to flesh out the government and shelter side of hybrid life first. So please bear with me on this part ♡♡♡
Anyway, I tried really hard to finish this chapter up before my vacation. I won't be home for the next two weeks, so unfortunately, I don't know exactly when the next chapter will be ready. But Thank you sooo much for understanding and being so patient with me!
Love uuuu sm <3
