Jungkook's Sunshine

OT7~She/her

[gloriousstarfishcoffee]

The following story has disturbing theme:

(Complete)

Part-1

Part-2

Part-3

Part-4

Part-5

Part-6

Part-7

MDNI🤍

[gloriousstarfishcoffee]

INK, SKIN AND SIN

7. The Bond That Will Continue.

Pairing Jeon jungkook!unknown identity x Reader!florist

MDNI 🤍

Reader's POV

I was scared because his voice had become too frequent in our house.

It echoed in the rooms, slipped into conversations, lingered even after he left. I told my mother that I didn’t feel comfortable, that something about him felt wrong, that everything I had experienced after meeting him terrified me.

She only caressed my head and said softly,

“It’s just anxiety.”

I screamed.

Anxiety doesn’t do this.

I thrashed, cried, begged them to listen. My father took me to another hospital, and this time they gave it a name psychosis. They said it gently, like labeling me would make it easier to swallow.

They changed my medication again.

Now my thoughts feel heavier. Slower. Like they no longer belong entirely to me. I can’t make decisions on my own anymore but when I sleep, there’s a voice in my head that does it for me.

Always.

His visits never stopped.

Even when my mother refused to let him in, he came anyway, smiling politely, saying he needed to study me. No one questioned that word. He always held my hand, warm and steady, like an anchor.

I would cry while looking at him.

And he would smile.

Not cruelly. Not sharply.

Comfortingly.

As if this-

my fear, my confusion, my unraveling-

was exactly how things were meant to be.

A few weeks later, my parents started noticing changes in me.

They said I seemed calmer. More settled. Even relaxed especially around him. I didn’t cry anymore. I didn’t scream. I didn’t resist when he held my hand. He spoke gently to them, reassured them, explained my condition with practiced patience.

They trusted him.

They started mentioning his name often at breakfast, during dinner, while watching television. His presence became routine, unquestioned, almost necessary.

And then… it stopped.

The arguments.

The worry.

The fear.

I never thought I would reach a point like this.

One evening, he sat across from my parents, hands folded neatly in his lap, voice steady and respectful. He said he cared deeply for me. That he understood me. That he wanted to take responsibility.

He asked for my hand in marriage.

The room fell quiet.

I waited for hesitation.

For doubt.

For someone to look at me and ask what I wanted.

Instead, my mother smiled softly.

“Why not?” she said.

My father nodded in agreement.

They looked relieved.

As if this was the solution they had been waiting for all along.

I sat there, numb, listening to plans being made about my life, my future, my name changing—while he reached for my hand under the table, thumb brushing over my knuckles in a familiar, calming motion.

My body relaxed before my mind could react.

And that’s when I understood-

I hadn’t been cured.

I had been prepared.

Jungkook's POV

It was easy.

I hadn’t realized how fragile families were how desperately they want a solution that looks peaceful. They handed her to me like relief wrapped in ritual.

She stands in front of me at the altar.

Trembling.

Her fingers twist into the fabric of her clothes, knuckles pale, lips moving silently as she chants prayers under her breath. Not loudly. Not enough for anyone else to hear.

I chuckle under my breath.

My dream is finally taking shape.

She looks small like this. Soft. Devout. Trying to anchor herself to a god who has been silent for a long time now. It makes her look… cute.

The priest keeps talking.

Too slowly.

I want this to be over. I want the moment sealed, irreversible. Once the words are spoken, no one will question why she listens to me. No one will ask why she needs my permission to rest, to think, to exist.

She lifts her eyes for just a second.

They meet mine.

Fear flickers there familiar, comforting.

I smile back at her.

Reassuring.

Because after today, she won’t need to remember how afraid she was.

She’ll only remember that she belongs to me.

I tighten my grip just enough for her to feel it.

Not pain,never pain.

Pressure. Certainty.

Her breathing stutters when the vows are spoken. I can feel it through her fingers, the way her pulse flares and then settles when I lean closer, when my thumb traces that familiar, calming circle on her skin.

Good.

She still responds.

The priest asks her the question.

There’s a pause.

Too long.

Her lips part, no sound coming out. Her eyes dart not to me, but somewhere past my shoulder, as if she’s looking for an exit that doesn’t exist anymore.

I lean in, my mouth near her ear, my voice low enough that it sounds like a thought instead of a command.

“It’s okay,” I murmur. “You’re safe. You always feel better after this part.”

Her shoulders drop.

The word comes out of her mouth like a reflex.

“Yes.”

Relief ripples through the crowd. Her parents smile. Someone wipes away tears. They don’t see the way her knees almost buckle, or how she steadies herself by holding onto me.

They don’t notice how she doesn’t look at anyone else.

When the ceremony ends, I guide her away before anyone can crowd her, before anyone can overwhelm her. She clings to my sleeve like she’s afraid the world will rush back in if she lets go.

“Too much noise,” I tell them gently. “She needs rest.”

They agree instantly.

They always do.

In the car, she sits stiffly beside me, staring out the window. The city blurs past, lights stretching into long, indistinct lines. Her reflection in the glass looks faint, like she’s already halfway gone.

“Did I do the right thing?” she whispers suddenly.

I don’t answer right away.

Timing matters.

When I speak, my voice is warm, practiced, steady the voice she trusts when her own thoughts turn against her.

“You don’t need to decide that,” I say. “I’ll decide for you.”

She exhales.

It’s the deepest breath she’s taken all day.

By the time we reach home, her head is resting against the seat, eyes heavy, body slack with exhaustion. I help her inside, remove her jewelry, guide her to the bedroom she’s been in more times than she knows.

She watches me with dull curiosity as I prepare the injection.

Routine.

Her arm lifts without being asked.

As the medication slips in, her muscles soften, her gaze unfocuses. I brush her hair back, tucking it behind her ear, and smile down at her.

“Sleep,” I tell her. “Tomorrow will feel simpler.”

Her eyes flutter closed.

And as I sit beside her, listening to her breathing even out, I realize something that makes me almost laugh-

She won’t remember the altar.

She won’t remember saying yes.

But she’ll wake up married to me anyway.

And that, I think, is the most faithful kind of vow.

Third person POV

She woke to unfamiliar quiet.

Not the kind that comes after celebration—but the careful quiet of a place where nothing is allowed to disturb her. Pale curtains filtered the morning light. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and something floral, deliberately calming.

She lay still, trying to understand why her body felt heavy in a way sleep didn’t explain.

Her left hand was warm.

Someone was holding it.

She turned her head slowly.

He sat beside the bed, already dressed, already composed, watching her as if he had been awake long before she was.

“You’re up,” he said gently, smiling.

Her chest tightened.

She searched her mind for context. A reason. A memory that would make this scene logical. Nothing came only fragments. Lights. Voices. A pressure on her fingers. A word she couldn’t fully recall but that echoed like a bruise.

Married.

The thought appeared fully formed, without origin.

She tried to sit up. The room tilted.

“Easy,” he said, standing immediately, one hand firm on her shoulder. “You had a long day yesterday.”

“Yesterday…?” Her voice cracked.

He guided her back down with practiced ease. “You don’t remember. That’s okay. You don’t need to.”

That sentence settled over her like a blanket warm, suffocating.

She noticed then the details she hadn’t looked at yet.

The ring on her finger.

The suitcase by the door with her clothes folded inside.

The prescription bottles on the bedside table new labels, her name printed neatly.

Her name.

Her heart began to race.

“I feel strange,” she whispered.

He nodded, unsurprised. “You always do after stress. Your mind needs time to catch up with your body.”

Always.

The word lodged somewhere deep.

He helped her drink water, watched carefully as she swallowed her medication, his thumb brushing her knuckles in that familiar, grounding rhythm. Her breathing slowed despite herself.

Outside the room, the house remained silent no parents, no guests, no witnesses to contradict him.

Only him.

Later, when she stood in front of the mirror, wrapped in clothes she didn’t remember choosing, she barely recognized the woman staring back. There was something missing in her eyes not fear, not sadness.

Ownership.

He appeared behind her without sound, adjusting the collar of her shirt.

“You’ll get used to this,” he said softly. “You always do.”

She opened her mouth to ask when, or why, or how-

But the questions slid away before they could take shape.

By the time he led her out of the room, hand steady around her wrist, the doubt had dulled into something quieter.

Acceptance.

And somewhere, far beneath what she could name or resist, her body followed-

as if it had been here many times before.

She wakes to the weight of quiet.

Not the kind that belongs to sleep, but the kind that presses in from the walls, heavy and watchful. Morning light filters through unfamiliar curtains, pale and thin, resting on furniture she doesn’t recognize yet feels expected to be there.

For a long moment, she doesn’t move.

Her body is warm. Too warm. As if it has been wrapped, protected, arranged while she was gone.

She turns her head.

A ring glints on her finger.

Gold. Simple. Final.

Her breath catches not sharply, not enough to alert anyone but her chest tightens all the same. She lifts her hand slowly, studying it like it belongs to someone else. The skin around the ring feels tender, as if it has been touched and turned too many times.

She doesn’t remember the ceremony.

She doesn’t remember the vows.

But her body reacts with familiarity, not shock.

That frightens her more than memory loss ever did.

From the kitchen comes the sound of movement soft footsteps, the clink of a cup against a saucer. The ordinary noises of a morning shared.

He appears in the doorway moments later.

Calm. Composed. Dressed neatly, like a man who has already lived half the day. He smiles when he sees her awake, relief settling easily onto his face.

“You’re up,” he says gently. “Good. I was worried you’d sleep through breakfast.”

She opens her mouth.

Nothing comes out.

He approaches without hesitation, sits beside her on the bed, close enough that his presence reshapes the air around her. He pours her a glass of water and holds it out, waiting patiently.

She takes it.

Her hands stop shaking once the glass is in her grip.

“Take your time,” he says. “Big days can be exhausting.”

Big days.

The phrase echoes uncomfortably.

She tries to search his face for answers for signs of deception, cruelty, anything sharp enough to cut through the fog. But there is only softness there. Familiar concern. The expression of someone who knows her well.

Too well.

“You don’t have to worry about anything anymore,” he continues, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I’ll handle it. You just focus on feeling better.”

Her throat tightens.

Somewhere deep inside her, a thought struggles to surface small, weak, half-formed.

This isn’t right.

But the feeling dissolves as quickly as it comes. Her body leans toward him before her mind can object. Her breathing evens out. The room feels steadier with him in it.

That is what terrifies her most.

Outside, life goes on. Her parents speak proudly of her marriage. Neighbors smile. Papers are signed. Photographs are taken.

Everything is official.

Everything is settled.

And as she sits beside him, wrapped in a life that fits too perfectly around her confusion, one truth remains unspoken, unnoticed by everyone but her trembling instincts-

Whatever she lost to get here

was something she was never meant to give away.

It doesn’t end with screaming.

It ends with compliance.

Months pass, measured not by dates but by doses. Her days soften into something manageable, colorless, smooth at the edges. She stops asking questions because the answers never stay long enough to matter.

Her body learns faster than her mind.

She learns when to sit.

When to smile.

When to swallow the pills he places in her palm without explanation.

Sometimes she catches herself staring at the mirror too long, waiting for the woman inside it to say something to warn her, to beg, to fight.

The woman never does.

The injection marks stop alarming her. The cold patches on her skin stop feeling strange. Her things stop going missing, because they are no longer hers to lose.

People say she’s better now.

Her parents say she looks peaceful.

The doctors say the treatment worked.

Her husband says he’s proud of her.

At night, she sleeps easily.

That’s the cruelest part.

Because somewhere beneath the sedation, beneath the rearranged memories, beneath the voice that tells her what to think when she rests

-something is still awake.

A small, terrified awareness trapped in a body that no longer listens.

One evening, as he brushes her hair and asks her to take her medicine, she hesitates. Just for a second. A flicker of resistance passes through her eyes.

He notices.

He always does.

“It’s okay,” he says gently, pressing the pill to her lips. “You don’t need to remember anymore.”

She swallows.

The hesitation disappears.

Years later, when someone asks how they met, she smiles and repeats the story he taught her word for word, without knowing why it feels rehearsed.

And if, on rare nights, she wakes with tears on her face and no memory of dreaming-

he holds her until she stops shaking.

Not out of love.

But possession.

And the story ends the way it was always meant to-

not with her death,

but with her disappearance,

while she is still breathing.

--

Hey it's author here. Hope you like this series.. I can't really express my feelings into this. 🤍

[gloriousstarfishcoffee]

INK, SKIN AND SIN

6. The Foolishness Of Hers.

Pairing Jeon jungkook!unknown identity x Reader!florist

MDNI🤍

Reader's POV

Hell.

I can’t move. The dosage of my anxiety pills has been doubled, and my body feels heavy like it’s sinking into something thick and invisible. The nightmare scared me enough to drag myself to my psychiatrist. She said it was just anxiety.

Just anxiety.

But anxiety doesn’t kill someone.

It was only a dream, she said. My mind playing tricks. But my brother is dead. His body was found in the river no bullet wounds, no cuts. Just his face turned blue. Water in his lungs, the doctor told us. Drowning.

My anxiety is eating me alive.

I hadn’t even seen him Jungkook. That was his name in my dream. I remember that much, at least.

The shop owner kicked me out yesterday. Said that I wasn’t taking care of the shop anymore. I wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong but the words wouldn’t come. Because the truth is… I know I don’t.

Nothing makes sense anymore.

I went to the hospital today. They suggested I get admitted, said it would help monitor me, stabilize me. I agreed. I was tired of fighting my own head.

That’s when I saw him.

Not as a patient.

Worse.

As a doctor.

White coat. ID card. Calm eyes. Familiar smile.

Jungkook.

My heart dropped, my breath caught but he didn’t do anything wrong. He didn’t look at me strangely.

The days I spent there slowly blurred into each other most of them with him.

Jungkook was always around, monitoring me, checking my vitals, speaking in that calm, reassuring tone everyone trusted without question. He offered comfort for my brother’s loss, soft words meant to steady me when grief came in waves.

But-

how did he know my brother had died?

I don’t remember telling him.

The thought lodged itself deep in my chest, sharp and unmoving.

That night, I decided to leave. I told them I wanted to go to my parents’ house. The entire staff insisted I stay just a few more days, for observation, for my own good. Their concern felt rehearsed, excessive. Wrong.

So I left anyway.

My parents lived in a village, far from the noise of hospitals and unanswered questions. The day I arrived, everything was unnaturally quiet still wrapped in grief. No one spoke much. Words felt unnecessary, heavy.

My father went out early for work, trying to outrun his sorrow. My mother kept herself busy with household chores, her movements mechanical, as if stopping would make everything collapse.

And me?

I sat there.

Watching. Thinking.

Trying to connect pieces that refused to fit.

The dream.

Jungkook.

The shop owner’s fear.

The hospital.

My brother’s death.

Every thread seemed separate yet somehow tangled together.

And the more I tried to untangle them, the more I felt the unsettling truth creeping in-

Something had followed me out of the dream.

And it hadn’t let go.

My head rested on my mother’s lap. Her shoulders were slumped, hollowed out by grief, while her fingers moved through my hair absentmindedly slow, repetitive strokes that felt more like habit than comfort. Her eyes stayed fixed on the television, though I doubted she was really watching anything.

Jungkook's POV

She doesn’t flinch when I tell her to sit.

That’s the part that still surprises me how obedience can look like relief when someone is tired enough. Her eyes are glassy, unfocused, drifting between me and the wall like she’s already halfway gone.

“Routine,” I say softly, tapping the syringe against my finger. I don’t explain what it’s for anymore. I never have to. Familiarity is stronger than consent.

She rolls up her sleeve on her own.

Good girl.

Her skin is warm. Alive. Trusting. I inject slowly, the way I always do, the way that convinces her this is care and not erasure. I watch her pupils react before her mind does.

“There,” I murmur. “This will help you sleep. You’ve been spiraling again.”

She nods, already fading, already blaming herself for what comes next.

That’s important.

People should always blame themselves.

I sit with her until her head droops forward, chin resting against her chest, breath evening out. For a moment just a moment I consider staying longer.

But I never do.

Because if I stay, I become real.

And tonight, I need her uncertain.

I clean up carefully. No marks left behind. No evidence except the faintest soreness she’ll later dismiss as stress, or a dream, or something she imagined while overmedicated.

Before leaving, I lean close to her ear.

“If you forget me,” I whisper, almost kindly, “that just means it worked.”

Then I’m gone.

Third Person POV

She woke up the way she always did.

With heaviness in her limbs and a dull ache behind her eyes—nothing unusual. She lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, letting the fog pass the way the doctor said it would.

Temporary.

She swung her legs off the bed.

The floor felt cold.

Too cold.

She frowned slightly, curling her toes, then dismissed it. Winter was setting in early this year. That was all.

In the bathroom mirror, she looked… fine. A little pale. Dark circles under her eyes. Normal for someone on medication.

She turned on the tap to wash her face.

The water made her flinch.

Ice-cold.

Her fingers lingered under the stream longer than necessary, as if checking something, though she wasn’t sure what. Her hands felt numb, stiff, like they’d been exposed to cold for hours.

She shook them and turned the tap off.

“Get a grip,” she murmured to her reflection.

Back in the room, she reached for her bag.

It wasn’t where she left it.

She paused.

She was certain she’d placed it on the chair before lying down. Instead, it sat neatly beside the bed, strap tucked in, almost arranged.

A small crease formed between her brows.

She checked inside.

Wallet.

Keys.

Phone.

All there.

Relief came too quickly.

Then she noticed the keys.

They were wet.

Just slightly.

As if they’d been rinsed and dried in a hurry.

Her heart skipped not enough to alarm her, just enough to unsettle. She wiped them on her sweater and shrugged it off. Condensation. Maybe.

When she rolled up her sleeve to adjust it, her fingers brushed something tender.

She froze.

Slowly, she turned her arm.

A faint puncture mark sat just below her elbow small, already fading, surrounded by a bruise she didn’t remember earning.

She stared at it.

Her mind offered explanations before fear could form.

Blood test.

IV line.

Maybe she scratched herself.

Yes. That made sense.

It always did.

She pulled the sleeve back down.

Her body, however, didn’t relax.

A shiver ran through her not from cold this time, but from something deeper, instinctive. The kind of discomfort animals feel before a storm.

She sat on the edge of the bed and waited for it to pass.

It didn’t.

The room felt… disturbed.

Not messy.

Not broken.

Just slightly rearranged, like someone had been careful not to leave signs.

She exhaled slowly, pressing her palms into her knees.

“You’re tired,” she told herself.

Her phone buzzed.

She glanced at the screen.

A medication reminder.

On time. Normal.

She swallowed the pill with water, like she always did.

The ache in her head eased almost immediately.

So did the questions.

The cold faded.

The unease softened.

The mark on her arm became unimportant.

By the time she stood up again, she couldn’t remember why she’d paused in the first place.

But somewhere, deep in her body-

beneath memory, beneath thought-

something stayed tense.

Waiting.

Because even if her mind forgot,

her body knew-

this had happened before.

The evening passed slowly at her parents’ house.

The ceiling fan hummed.

The television murmured news no one was listening to.

Her mother’s fingers moved through her hair in a steady, absent rhythm.

She was almost calm.

Almost.

That was when the doorbell rang.

Her mother stiffened first.

“That’ll be the doctor,” she said casually, standing up.

The word doctor made something tighten in her chest.

“What doctor?” she asked, sitting upright.

Her mother looked back, confused. “The one who’s been checking on you. He said he’d come by today.”

Her throat went dry.

“I didn’t-” she started, then stopped.

Because she wasn’t sure.

The door opened before she could finish the thought.

He stepped inside like he belonged there.

Black sweater. Neat hair. Polite posture.

The same calm presence her body recognized before her mind did.

“Good evening,” Jungkook said gently, bowing his head slightly. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

Her father smiled at him.

“No, no. Please, come in. You’ve already helped her so much.”

Her vision tunneled.

Helped her… how?

Jungkook’s eyes found hers.

There was no surprise in them.

No hesitation.

Only familiarity.

“You look cold,” he said, as if continuing a conversation they’d been having for years. “I told you villages get colder at night.”

She hadn’t told anyone she felt cold.

Her mother disappeared into the kitchen to bring tea.

Her father began asking about her progress, her sleep, her appetite things Jungkook answered smoothly, confidently, like he had charts memorized.

“She’s improving,” Jungkook said. “Still forgetful, but that’s expected. Grief disrupts memory pathways.”

Her nails dug into her palm.

“You never told me you were coming,” she said.

He tilted his head slightly, concerned. “I did. Yesterday. You asked me to.”

Her mother returned with tea and handed him a cup without question.

“Such a good boy,” she said warmly. “Coming all this way for her.”

He smiled.

That smile.

The one that never reached his eyes.

“I promised I’d look after her,” he said softly.

She stood up abruptly.

“I need air.”

Jungkook stood with her at the same time.

“I’ll go with you,” he said.

“No,” she snapped, louder than she meant to.

Everyone looked at her.

Jungkook didn’t react. He only lowered his voice so only she could hear.

“You don’t remember inviting me here,” he murmured, leaning closer, “but your body does. That’s why your hands are shaking.”

She hated that he was right.

As he stepped aside, letting her pass, his fingers brushed her wrist light, brief, deliberate.

The touch grounded her.

Too much.

When she turned back, he was already talking to her parents again, reassuring them, calming them, existing perfectly in the space she couldn’t prove he belonged in-

yet no one questioned him.

Not even her.

And that night, as she lay in her childhood bed, staring at the ceiling she’d grown up under, she realized something far worse than memory loss:

If Jungkook could walk into her parents’ home so easily-

then he hadn’t just learned her life.

He’d already rewritten it.

Because somewhere between what she forgot and what he claimed, her life had already chosen him.

[gloriousstarfishcoffee]

INK, SKIN AND SIN

6. The Foolishness Of Hers.

Pairing Jeon jungkook!unknown identity x Reader!florist

MDNI🤍

Reader's POV

Hell.

I can’t move. The dosage of my anxiety pills has been doubled, and my body feels heavy like it’s sinking into something thick and invisible. The nightmare scared me enough to drag myself to my psychiatrist. She said it was just anxiety.

Just anxiety.

But anxiety doesn’t kill someone.

It was only a dream, she said. My mind playing tricks. But my brother is dead. His body was found in the river no bullet wounds, no cuts. Just his face turned blue. Water in his lungs, the doctor told us. Drowning.

My anxiety is eating me alive.

I hadn’t even seen him Jungkook. That was his name in my dream. I remember that much, at least.

The shop owner kicked me out yesterday. Said that I wasn’t taking care of the shop anymore. I wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong but the words wouldn’t come. Because the truth is… I know I don’t.

Nothing makes sense anymore.

I went to the hospital today. They suggested I get admitted, said it would help monitor me, stabilize me. I agreed. I was tired of fighting my own head.

That’s when I saw him.

Not as a patient.

Worse.

As a doctor.

White coat. ID card. Calm eyes. Familiar smile.

Jungkook.

My heart dropped, my breath caught but he didn’t do anything wrong. He didn’t look at me strangely.

The days I spent there slowly blurred into each other most of them with him.

Jungkook was always around, monitoring me, checking my vitals, speaking in that calm, reassuring tone everyone trusted without question. He offered comfort for my brother’s loss, soft words meant to steady me when grief came in waves.

But-

how did he know my brother had died?

I don’t remember telling him.

The thought lodged itself deep in my chest, sharp and unmoving.

That night, I decided to leave. I told them I wanted to go to my parents’ house. The entire staff insisted I stay just a few more days, for observation, for my own good. Their concern felt rehearsed, excessive. Wrong.

So I left anyway.

My parents lived in a village, far from the noise of hospitals and unanswered questions. The day I arrived, everything was unnaturally quiet still wrapped in grief. No one spoke much. Words felt unnecessary, heavy.

My father went out early for work, trying to outrun his sorrow. My mother kept herself busy with household chores, her movements mechanical, as if stopping would make everything collapse.

And me?

I sat there.

Watching. Thinking.

Trying to connect pieces that refused to fit.

The dream.

Jungkook.

The shop owner’s fear.

The hospital.

My brother’s death.

Every thread seemed separate yet somehow tangled together.

And the more I tried to untangle them, the more I felt the unsettling truth creeping in-

Something had followed me out of the dream.

And it hadn’t let go.

My head rested on my mother’s lap. Her shoulders were slumped, hollowed out by grief, while her fingers moved through my hair absentmindedly slow, repetitive strokes that felt more like habit than comfort. Her eyes stayed fixed on the television, though I doubted she was really watching anything.

Jungkook's POV

She doesn’t flinch when I tell her to sit.

That’s the part that still surprises me how obedience can look like relief when someone is tired enough. Her eyes are glassy, unfocused, drifting between me and the wall like she’s already halfway gone.

“Routine,” I say softly, tapping the syringe against my finger. I don’t explain what it’s for anymore. I never have to. Familiarity is stronger than consent.

She rolls up her sleeve on her own.

Good girl.

Her skin is warm. Alive. Trusting. I inject slowly, the way I always do, the way that convinces her this is care and not erasure. I watch her pupils react before her mind does.

“There,” I murmur. “This will help you sleep. You’ve been spiraling again.”

She nods, already fading, already blaming herself for what comes next.

That’s important.

People should always blame themselves.

I sit with her until her head droops forward, chin resting against her chest, breath evening out. For a moment just a moment I consider staying longer.

But I never do.

Because if I stay, I become real.

And tonight, I need her uncertain.

I clean up carefully. No marks left behind. No evidence except the faintest soreness she’ll later dismiss as stress, or a dream, or something she imagined while overmedicated.

Before leaving, I lean close to her ear.

“If you forget me,” I whisper, almost kindly, “that just means it worked.”

Then I’m gone.

Third Person POV

She woke up the way she always did.

With heaviness in her limbs and a dull ache behind her eyes—nothing unusual. She lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, letting the fog pass the way the doctor said it would.

Temporary.

She swung her legs off the bed.

The floor felt cold.

Too cold.

She frowned slightly, curling her toes, then dismissed it. Winter was setting in early this year. That was all.

In the bathroom mirror, she looked… fine. A little pale. Dark circles under her eyes. Normal for someone on medication.

She turned on the tap to wash her face.

The water made her flinch.

Ice-cold.

Her fingers lingered under the stream longer than necessary, as if checking something, though she wasn’t sure what. Her hands felt numb, stiff, like they’d been exposed to cold for hours.

She shook them and turned the tap off.

“Get a grip,” she murmured to her reflection.

Back in the room, she reached for her bag.

It wasn’t where she left it.

She paused.

She was certain she’d placed it on the chair before lying down. Instead, it sat neatly beside the bed, strap tucked in, almost arranged.

A small crease formed between her brows.

She checked inside.

Wallet.

Keys.

Phone.

All there.

Relief came too quickly.

Then she noticed the keys.

They were wet.

Just slightly.

As if they’d been rinsed and dried in a hurry.

Her heart skipped not enough to alarm her, just enough to unsettle. She wiped them on her sweater and shrugged it off. Condensation. Maybe.

When she rolled up her sleeve to adjust it, her fingers brushed something tender.

She froze.

Slowly, she turned her arm.

A faint puncture mark sat just below her elbow small, already fading, surrounded by a bruise she didn’t remember earning.

She stared at it.

Her mind offered explanations before fear could form.

Blood test.

IV line.

Maybe she scratched herself.

Yes. That made sense.

It always did.

She pulled the sleeve back down.

Her body, however, didn’t relax.

A shiver ran through her not from cold this time, but from something deeper, instinctive. The kind of discomfort animals feel before a storm.

She sat on the edge of the bed and waited for it to pass.

It didn’t.

The room felt… disturbed.

Not messy.

Not broken.

Just slightly rearranged, like someone had been careful not to leave signs.

She exhaled slowly, pressing her palms into her knees.

“You’re tired,” she told herself.

Her phone buzzed.

She glanced at the screen.

A medication reminder.

On time. Normal.

She swallowed the pill with water, like she always did.

The ache in her head eased almost immediately.

So did the questions.

The cold faded.

The unease softened.

The mark on her arm became unimportant.

By the time she stood up again, she couldn’t remember why she’d paused in the first place.

But somewhere, deep in her body-

beneath memory, beneath thought-

something stayed tense.

Waiting.

Because even if her mind forgot,

her body knew-

this had happened before.

The evening passed slowly at her parents’ house.

The ceiling fan hummed.

The television murmured news no one was listening to.

Her mother’s fingers moved through her hair in a steady, absent rhythm.

She was almost calm.

Almost.

That was when the doorbell rang.

Her mother stiffened first.

“That’ll be the doctor,” she said casually, standing up.

The word doctor made something tighten in her chest.

“What doctor?” she asked, sitting upright.

Her mother looked back, confused. “The one who’s been checking on you. He said he’d come by today.”

Her throat went dry.

“I didn’t-” she started, then stopped.

Because she wasn’t sure.

The door opened before she could finish the thought.

He stepped inside like he belonged there.

Black sweater. Neat hair. Polite posture.

The same calm presence her body recognized before her mind did.

“Good evening,” Jungkook said gently, bowing his head slightly. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

Her father smiled at him.

“No, no. Please, come in. You’ve already helped her so much.”

Her vision tunneled.

Helped her… how?

Jungkook’s eyes found hers.

There was no surprise in them.

No hesitation.

Only familiarity.

“You look cold,” he said, as if continuing a conversation they’d been having for years. “I told you villages get colder at night.”

She hadn’t told anyone she felt cold.

Her mother disappeared into the kitchen to bring tea.

Her father began asking about her progress, her sleep, her appetite things Jungkook answered smoothly, confidently, like he had charts memorized.

“She’s improving,” Jungkook said. “Still forgetful, but that’s expected. Grief disrupts memory pathways.”

Her nails dug into her palm.

“You never told me you were coming,” she said.

He tilted his head slightly, concerned. “I did. Yesterday. You asked me to.”

Her mother returned with tea and handed him a cup without question.

“Such a good boy,” she said warmly. “Coming all this way for her.”

He smiled.

That smile.

The one that never reached his eyes.

“I promised I’d look after her,” he said softly.

She stood up abruptly.

“I need air.”

Jungkook stood with her at the same time.

“I’ll go with you,” he said.

“No,” she snapped, louder than she meant to.

Everyone looked at her.

Jungkook didn’t react. He only lowered his voice so only she could hear.

“You don’t remember inviting me here,” he murmured, leaning closer, “but your body does. That’s why your hands are shaking.”

She hated that he was right.

As he stepped aside, letting her pass, his fingers brushed her wrist light, brief, deliberate.

The touch grounded her.

Too much.

When she turned back, he was already talking to her parents again, reassuring them, calming them, existing perfectly in the space she couldn’t prove he belonged in-

yet no one questioned him.

Not even her.

And that night, as she lay in her childhood bed, staring at the ceiling she’d grown up under, she realized something far worse than memory loss:

If Jungkook could walk into her parents’ home so easily-

then he hadn’t just learned her life.

He’d already rewritten it.

Because somewhere between what she forgot and what he claimed, her life had already chosen him.

[gloriousstarfishcoffee]

INK, SKIN AND SIN

5. The Truth Came Home.

Pairing Jeon jungkook!unknown identity x Reader!florist

MDNI 🤍

Reader's POV

A choking sensation clawed up my throat.

There he was.

Minjeong.

My brother.

He was screaming not loud, not wild but shattered, like the sound itself was breaking inside him. And yet that wasn’t what destroyed me.

It was his eyes.

Shards of glass were pierced into them jagged, merciless blood trailing down his face in thin, trembling lines. He couldn’t see. He was crying blindly, head jerking in panic, hands bound and useless as broken glass lay scattered around his body like proof of something unforgivable.

“Min-”

I ran toward him, dropping to my knees, arms opening on instinct, desperation overpowering fear.

A violent tug.

I was yanked backward and slammed onto the ground, pain exploding through my spine as the air was knocked out of me.

Jungkook.

He stood there.

His breath was heavy, uneven, like he was holding himself back from tearing something apart. His eyes were dark not surprised, not guilty just irritated.

“Tch…” he scoffed softly. “Do you perhaps know him?”

The mockery in his voice was unbearable.

“Oh, don’t cry, darling.”

That’s when I realized I was already screaming.

Tears streamed down my face as I struggled to push myself up, my body shaking violently. I barely managed to prop myself on one elbow-

and then his foot came down on my stomach.

Hard.

The pressure crushed the breath from my lungs, forcing me back down, helpless and gasping beneath him. I clawed weakly at the floor, vision blurring, ears ringing.

Through it all, Minjeong kept screaming.

And in that moment, pinned under Jungkook’s weight, watching my brother suffer-

I understood something with horrifying clarity.

He didn’t hurt people because he was angry.

He hurt them because he could.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I screamed, struggling to rise. “He’s my brother, why did you do this to him?”

A searing pain tore through my stomach as his boot pressed down harder, grinding into me until the air was forced from my lungs. I gasped, vision blurring.

“Well,” he shrugged casually, as if discussing the weather, “he is your brother.”

A low chuckle escaped him. “That’s reason enough.”

He lifted his foot, and for half a second hope flared only to die instantly.

Before I could crawl toward my brother, he grabbed my arm, rolling his tongue against his cheek in sick amusement. He dragged me back and shoved me onto a nearby chair. Cold iron bit into my skin as he wrapped a heavy chain around my torso and wrists, locking me down.

I thrashed violently, metal clanking, my voice breaking as I begged my brother to stay conscious to stay alive. Blood pooled beneath him, glass shards still embedded in his eye, crimson streaks running down his cheek and soaking into the floor.

“JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP-BOTH OF YOU,” he roared, “OR I’LL SHOOT HIM.”

My voice died instantly.

Not because of the threat-

but because he opened the drawer.

The gun gleamed under the dim light as he lifted it, heavy and real. My breath caught in my throat.

Then he smiled.

Slow. Crooked. Inhuman.

“My pretty princess,” he murmured, tilting his head, “let me tell you the whole story.”

He cocked the gun, the click echoing in the room like a death sentence.

“Shall I?”

“Fuck… I really didn’t want him to end up like this,” he sighed, almost bored, running a hand through his hair. “But when I was tracking your phone, the location kept cutting out.”

He clicked his tongue softly.

“Turns out your brother was the one tracking you.”

My breath hitched.

“Why?” he continued smoothly, answering his own question. “You’re probably wondering.”

A slow smile crept onto his face. “Because his friends dared him.”

My stomach twisted.

“They dared him to make you fuck them,” he said bluntly, the words slicing through me. “You know rape.”

He shrugged again. “He was planning to kidnap you that day.”

I shook my head violently, tears spilling down my face, my sobs choking me as I struggled against the chains.

“Glad I saved you,” he added lightly, as if he were a hero in some sick fairytale. “You should be thankful.”

I cried harder not just from fear, but from disbelief.

His words clawed at my mind, tearing apart everything I thought I knew, until reality itself began to rot.

And the worst part?

A small, horrifying voice inside me whispered-

What if he was telling the truth?

I stared at my brother.

His head hung limp, neck bent at a defeated posture as if he were already surrendering to Jungkook’s words.

No, please, it couldn't be true. I knew he harboured dark, sickening kinks, but it shouldn't have gone out this far not far enough to drag me into his twisted slaughterhouse.

Jungkook gripped my brother’s hair, forcing him to look up with a harsh, demanding stare.

"Tell her" Jungkook commanded,

His voice cold and unwavering. "Tell her the truth, or the consequences of your silence will be your own making."

I searched my brother’s face for any sign of a response, but he remained motionless, caught in a heavy, suffocating silence. It was then that I heard the sharp click of the locks being released.

"This was your last chance"

His frustration boiling over as he shoved my brother aside. My brother collapsed further into himself, offering no resistance.

Before I could react, I was pulled toward the bed.

Fear-

Fear flared in my chest as I tried to pull away, my voice rising in a desperate plea. He caught my wrist, pulling me closer to stifle my protests, his movements aggressive and overwhelming. I fought against the hold, my hands grasping at anything to find leverage, but the more I thrashed, the tighter the atmosphere became, charged with a dark and volatile energy that seemed to thrive on the chaos of the moment.

The moment I wasn't awaiting for-

He kissed at my throat and then he went further to kissed on my lips.

I was thrashing around, struggling-

My screams hits his dopamine, he was moaning with murmuring praises in my lips to continue screaming.

Third person POV

"Yes i did that, now leave her."

The whole room's air got thicker.

Jungkook continued his antics, now even more violent. His breath was just hovering above her neck.

He slowly draws out an injection from nearby drawer-

Anesthesia-

She always got it, when she got anxiety attack.

Her breath hitches as a sharp sensation felt on her neck and soon everything turned black.

As her thrashing stilled, he slowly removes her clothes but one this was bothering him.

Minjeong's scream.

As she was left naked ,Jungkook got up and pick up the gun from where he'd left.

Bam.

Everything went silent-

"Finally"

He patiently removed his own clothes and climbed on bed, biting his lower lips. Eyes went down on her pussy lips

Soft, puffy. Just the way he likes.

As he parts her lower lips, he reached out for her hole, finding it extremely sensitive.

He sighed.

He enters his one finger in her soft puffy hole

"Fuck, I can't"

His dick twitches, then he came, untouched.

The cum gushes out on her thighs, painting her thigh white and wet.

Jungkook's eyes prickled with tears.

He removes his finger from her and then he parts her legs carelessly, he place his semi-hard dick on her entrance, checking her consciousness by slapping her face twice.

When no movement found, he enters her in one single thrust.

"Oh my god, who made her? Might kill her entire family so they can't make one more" he whines in her neck.

He kept his thrust steady and occasionally entering his thumb in her mouth to feel her deeply.

He placed few hickies here and there.

"Fuck, why is she so good? I might make her pregnant. She can't handle this. Oh my fucking-, no shit"

He can feel his near coming. He sped up his pace and with a whine, he came in her deeply, almost like sealing a contract with her uterus to make her pregnant.

Reader's POV

I woke with a strange, wrong heaviness in my body. His arms were wrapped around me, too tight, too familiar, his breath uneven as he murmured something I couldn’t understand. Then I felt it warmth spreading, unmistakable and horror crashed over me all at once.

My eyes snapped toward Minjeong.

He was slumped forward, head hanging at an unnatural angle. A single, dark wound marked his skull, blood dried and streaked down like a grotesque tear. My breath caught in my throat. The room tilted.

He sensed me move.

Slowly, he lifted his head to look at me, his smile soft, almost tender so horribly out of place it made my skin crawl.

“I love you.”

Love, I learned too late, can sound exactly like a death sentence.

[gloriousstarfishcoffee]

INK, SKIN AND SIN

5. The Truth Came Home.

Pairing Jeon jungkook!unknown identity x Reader!florist

MDNI 🤍

Reader's POV

A choking sensation clawed up my throat.

There he was.

Minjeong.

My brother.

He was screaming not loud, not wild but shattered, like the sound itself was breaking inside him. And yet that wasn’t what destroyed me.

It was his eyes.

Shards of glass were pierced into them jagged, merciless blood trailing down his face in thin, trembling lines. He couldn’t see. He was crying blindly, head jerking in panic, hands bound and useless as broken glass lay scattered around his body like proof of something unforgivable.

“Min-”

I ran toward him, dropping to my knees, arms opening on instinct, desperation overpowering fear.

A violent tug.

I was yanked backward and slammed onto the ground, pain exploding through my spine as the air was knocked out of me.

Jungkook.

He stood there.

His breath was heavy, uneven, like he was holding himself back from tearing something apart. His eyes were dark not surprised, not guilty just irritated.

“Tch…” he scoffed softly. “Do you perhaps know him?”

The mockery in his voice was unbearable.

“Oh, don’t cry, darling.”

That’s when I realized I was already screaming.

Tears streamed down my face as I struggled to push myself up, my body shaking violently. I barely managed to prop myself on one elbow-

and then his foot came down on my stomach.

Hard.

The pressure crushed the breath from my lungs, forcing me back down, helpless and gasping beneath him. I clawed weakly at the floor, vision blurring, ears ringing.

Through it all, Minjeong kept screaming.

And in that moment, pinned under Jungkook’s weight, watching my brother suffer-

I understood something with horrifying clarity.

He didn’t hurt people because he was angry.

He hurt them because he could.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I screamed, struggling to rise. “He’s my brother, why did you do this to him?”

A searing pain tore through my stomach as his boot pressed down harder, grinding into me until the air was forced from my lungs. I gasped, vision blurring.

“Well,” he shrugged casually, as if discussing the weather, “he is your brother.”

A low chuckle escaped him. “That’s reason enough.”

He lifted his foot, and for half a second hope flared only to die instantly.

Before I could crawl toward my brother, he grabbed my arm, rolling his tongue against his cheek in sick amusement. He dragged me back and shoved me onto a nearby chair. Cold iron bit into my skin as he wrapped a heavy chain around my torso and wrists, locking me down.

I thrashed violently, metal clanking, my voice breaking as I begged my brother to stay conscious to stay alive. Blood pooled beneath him, glass shards still embedded in his eye, crimson streaks running down his cheek and soaking into the floor.

“JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP-BOTH OF YOU,” he roared, “OR I’LL SHOOT HIM.”

My voice died instantly.

Not because of the threat-

but because he opened the drawer.

The gun gleamed under the dim light as he lifted it, heavy and real. My breath caught in my throat.

Then he smiled.

Slow. Crooked. Inhuman.

“My pretty princess,” he murmured, tilting his head, “let me tell you the whole story.”

He cocked the gun, the click echoing in the room like a death sentence.

“Shall I?”

“Fuck… I really didn’t want him to end up like this,” he sighed, almost bored, running a hand through his hair. “But when I was tracking your phone, the location kept cutting out.”

He clicked his tongue softly.

“Turns out your brother was the one tracking you.”

My breath hitched.

“Why?” he continued smoothly, answering his own question. “You’re probably wondering.”

A slow smile crept onto his face. “Because his friends dared him.”

My stomach twisted.

“They dared him to make you fuck them,” he said bluntly, the words slicing through me. “You know rape.”

He shrugged again. “He was planning to kidnap you that day.”

I shook my head violently, tears spilling down my face, my sobs choking me as I struggled against the chains.

“Glad I saved you,” he added lightly, as if he were a hero in some sick fairytale. “You should be thankful.”

I cried harder not just from fear, but from disbelief.

His words clawed at my mind, tearing apart everything I thought I knew, until reality itself began to rot.

And the worst part?

A small, horrifying voice inside me whispered-

What if he was telling the truth?

I stared at my brother.

His head hung limp, neck bent at a defeated posture as if he were already surrendering to Jungkook’s words.

No, please, it couldn't be true. I knew he harboured dark, sickening kinks, but it shouldn't have gone out this far not far enough to drag me into his twisted slaughterhouse.

Jungkook gripped my brother’s hair, forcing him to look up with a harsh, demanding stare.

"Tell her" Jungkook commanded,

His voice cold and unwavering. "Tell her the truth, or the consequences of your silence will be your own making."

I searched my brother’s face for any sign of a response, but he remained motionless, caught in a heavy, suffocating silence. It was then that I heard the sharp click of the locks being released.

"This was your last chance"

His frustration boiling over as he shoved my brother aside. My brother collapsed further into himself, offering no resistance.

Before I could react, I was pulled toward the bed.

Fear-

Fear flared in my chest as I tried to pull away, my voice rising in a desperate plea. He caught my wrist, pulling me closer to stifle my protests, his movements aggressive and overwhelming. I fought against the hold, my hands grasping at anything to find leverage, but the more I thrashed, the tighter the atmosphere became, charged with a dark and volatile energy that seemed to thrive on the chaos of the moment.

The moment I wasn't awaiting for-

He kissed at my throat and then he went further to kissed on my lips.

I was thrashing around, struggling-

My screams hits his dopamine, he was moaning with murmuring praises in my lips to continue screaming.

Third person POV

"Yes i did that, now leave her."

The whole room's air got thicker.

Jungkook continued his antics, now even more violent. His breath was just hovering above her neck.

He slowly draws out an injection from nearby drawer-

Anesthesia-

She always got it, when she got anxiety attack.

Her breath hitches as a sharp sensation felt on her neck and soon everything turned black.

As her thrashing stilled, he slowly removes her clothes but one this was bothering him.

Minjeong's scream.

As she was left naked ,Jungkook got up and pick up the gun from where he'd left.

Bam.

Everything went silent-

"Finally"

He patiently removed his own clothes and climbed on bed, biting his lower lips. Eyes went down on her pussy lips

Soft, puffy. Just the way he likes.

As he parts her lower lips, he reached out for her hole, finding it extremely sensitive.

He sighed.

He enters his one finger in her soft puffy hole

"Fuck, I can't"

His dick twitches, then he came, untouched.

The cum gushes out on her thighs, painting her thigh white and wet.

Jungkook's eyes prickled with tears.

He removes his finger from her and then he parts her legs carelessly, he place his semi-hard dick on her entrance, checking her consciousness by slapping her face twice.

When no movement found, he enters her in one single thrust.

"Oh my god, who made her? Might kill her entire family so they can't make one more" he whines in her neck.

He kept his thrust steady and occasionally entering his thumb in her mouth to feel her deeply.

He placed few hickies here and there.

"Fuck, why is she so good? I might make her pregnant. She can't handle this. Oh my fucking-, no shit"

He can feel his near coming. He sped up his pace and with a whine, he came in her deeply, almost like sealing a contract with her uterus to make her pregnant.

Reader's POV

I woke with a strange, wrong heaviness in my body. His arms were wrapped around me, too tight, too familiar, his breath uneven as he murmured something I couldn’t understand. Then I felt it warmth spreading, unmistakable and horror crashed over me all at once.

My eyes snapped toward Minjeong.

He was slumped forward, head hanging at an unnatural angle. A single, dark wound marked his skull, blood dried and streaked down like a grotesque tear. My breath caught in my throat. The room tilted.

He sensed me move.

Slowly, he lifted his head to look at me, his smile soft, almost tender so horribly out of place it made my skin crawl.

“I love you.”

Love, I learned too late, can sound exactly like a death sentence.

[gloriousstarfishcoffee]

INK, SKIN AND SIN

4. His Version Of Hers.

Pairing Jeon jungkook!unknown identity x Reader!florist

MDNI 🤍

“When did I even put the keys in the fridge…? I always hang them on the key holder.”

Her frustration was visible, slipping into her voice before she could stop it. She exhaled sharply and blamed it on the pills just like the doctor said. Temporary memory fog. Bear with it.

So she did. Even though bearing it felt heavier each day.

She stepped out of her building. The air outside was chilly, biting gently at her cheeks as she pulled her jacket closer. On her way to the flower shop, Seo-yeon crossed her mind again uninvited, as always. The thought tightened her chest. On impulse, she changed direction and went to the police station.

Nothing.

As usual.

A month had passed. One long, hollow month. And with it, every last thread of hope had quietly unraveled.

When she finally returned to the shop and pushed the door open, a hand suddenly rested on her shoulder.

She froze.

Slowly, she turned around.

It was him.

Dressed entirely in black, neat and deliberate, a friendly grin resting on his lips as if he belonged there as if this moment had been rehearsed.

“How have you been?” he asked casually.

The familiarity in his tone unsettled her. She didn’t know him that well. Not enough for this.

“Um… fine,” she replied, unsure.

His eyes swept over her taking in the way her jacket pressed her cheeks, the faint blush from the cold still lingering. It felt intrusive, like he was noticing things he shouldn’t.

They stepped inside the shop.

“Did you take your morning dosage of medicine?” he asked lightly. “And did you eat your usual boring breakfast eggs and orange juice?”

Her eyes widened before she could stop herself.

How did he know?

She had never told anyone about the medication. About the breakfast. About the routine she clung to because routines didn’t forget her.

“H-how do you know?” she asked, swallowing hard.

He chuckled softly and shook his head, amused.

“Still having that memory problem?” he said. “Did you go to the doctor like you told me?”

Her breath caught.

She hadn’t told anyone.

Her hands trembled now, barely steady at her sides. The room felt colder somehow, despite the heater humming in the corner. He noticed of course he did.

With an easy familiarity, he reached out and ruffled her hair playfully.

The gesture was gentle.

Too gentle.

And that was what terrified her the most.

The door chimed as the shop owner stepped inside.

The sound was sharp too loud in the quiet space.

His eyes immediately went to him.

“Ah,” the shop owner said, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Jungkook, are you here again to take her out for coffee? You just came yesterday.”

Jungkook.

So that was his name.

The name settled uneasily in her mind, like it had been placed there rather than remembered. But another thought followed quickly, sharp and instinctive-

We’ve never gone for coffee together… right?

She turned to look at the shop owner properly this time.

He was sweating.

In this cold weather, with his jacket still on, sweat dotted his forehead. His hands trembled slightly as he wiped them on his apron. And then she noticed the way he looked at Jungkook not annoyed, not friendly-

Afraid.

“Yes, uncle,” Jungkook replied easily, his voice smooth. “She can’t live without it, you know.”

Her stomach dropped.

She hated coffee.

The shop owner laughed nervously, a hollow sound. “Go on, take her. Just-” he hesitated, glancing at her before fixing his eyes back on Jungkook, “-just drop her back safely within an hour. No funny business.”

She stood there, listening.

It felt wrong.

The words didn’t sound like his own. They came out stiff, rehearsed like he was reading from a script that only Jungkook knew the ending to.

Before she could speak, before she could question anything-

She felt a pull.

Her arm.

Strong fingers wrapped around her wrist, firm but not rough, already dragging her toward the door.

Confusion washed over her in heavy waves. Her head felt light. The room tilted slightly, as if the floor had shifted without warning. Anxiety curled tight in her chest, her heartbeat loud in her ears.

She looked back once.

The shop owner avoided her gaze.

And then the door closed behind them, the chime ringing softly-

too softly.

as Jungkook led her away while her thoughts slipped further out of reach.

Reader's POV

The coffee wasn’t bad.

But the place was.

It felt like a rusted, haunted dungeon dim lights flickering weakly against stained walls, the air thick with the smell of old oil and something sour I couldn’t name. Every table was occupied. Only men. Dirty, old men. Their eyes lingered too long, followed too slowly, as if time moved differently for them.

My skin crawled.

I stayed close to Jungkook, my shoulders tight, my hands clenched inside my sleeves. He seemed unbothered. Too comfortable. He lifted his cup and sipped loudly, the sound of the slurp echoing in my head more than it should have.

My head started spinning.

The room felt smaller. The voices blended into a low hum, then into noise, then into nothing at all. My chest tightened painfully as air refused to come in properly. Anxiety surged without warning, sharp and sudden.

My ears began to ring.

A high-pitched sound, drilling into my skull. I couldn’t focus on anything anymore faces blurred, walls warped, lights smeared into dull streaks. Tears welled up, blinding me before I could stop them.

That’s when I felt it.

A hand on my back.

Warm. Steady. Comforting.

Jungkook leaned in, his touch slow and deliberate, rubbing small circles just like my mother used to when I was overwhelmed as a child. The familiarity of it broke something inside me. My breathing stuttered, then slowly eased, guided by his calm presence.

“It’s okay,” he murmured softly, close to my ear. “I’ve got you.”

I hated how effective it was.

How my body responded before my mind could argue.

Because coincidences don’t stack like this.

He couldn’t possibly know so many things-

how panic feels in my chest,

how grounding touch works on me,

how my mother used to calm me down-

unless he had seen it before.

Or worse…

unless he had been there all along.

He took my bag with unsettling calm, like anxiety was something that only existed for the rest of the room not for him. The others were staring now. I could feel their eyes on me, heavy and curious, pressing in from every direction.

Jungkook didn’t look at them.

He opened my bag, his movements practiced, familiar. Too familiar. His fingers found the pill bottle without hesitation. He shook one out into his palm and handed it to me along with a glass of water, already placed in front of me as if this moment had happened before.

“Do you want anything else?” he asked softly.

As I shook my head, his hand brushed against my thigh slow, grounding, deliberate. It wasn’t inappropriate. That was the worst part. It felt comforting. Familiar. Like I had felt those hands there before, during moments when the world became too loud and my body forgot how to exist properly.

My breathing steadied.

That terrified me more than the panic.

He helped me stand and guided me out, shielding me from the stares with his body as if it were instinct. The air outside hit my face, cold and dusty. The street was narrow, layered with grime and silence, the café disappearing behind us like a bad dream.

We had almost reached the end of the lane when a voice called out from behind.

“Jungkook-”

He stopped.

Just for a second.

And in that pause, with his hand still resting lightly on my arm, I felt it again-

that sharp, crawling certainty

that he knew exactly what would happen next.

He turned around.

I didn’t see his face at first, but I felt it his anger rising sharply, violently, like someone had just ruined something delicate he had been carefully arranging. His arm tightened around me, just enough to remind me I was there, just enough to warn me not to move.

The footsteps came closer. Fast. Uneven.

“Who is she?” the man demanded as he jogged toward us. His voice was strained, urgent. “Do you not know it isn’t safe for her? I’ve warned you a thousand times-”

Before he could finish, Jungkook exhaled slowly.

Not panicked.

Not surprised.

Annoyed.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” he said quietly.

The words weren’t loud, but they cut through the air like a blade. The man stopped short. For a moment, even the street seemed to hold its breath.

Jungkook loosened his hold on me, guiding me aside with calculated care, placing me near the wall—somewhere he clearly deemed safe. His hand lingered on my shoulder for half a second longer than necessary, grounding me… or claiming me.

“Stay,” he murmured. Not a request.

Then he grabbed the man by the arm.

Hard.

He dragged him toward the far corner of the street, where the shadows were thicker and the dust hung heavier. Their voices dropped low, sharp whispers slicing into each other—too far for me to hear the words, close enough for me to feel the tension vibrating through the ground beneath my feet.

I stood there, dizzy, heart pounding, watching their silhouettes blur together.

A girl came toward me.

She didn’t look scared. That was the first thing that felt wrong. In a place like this where the air itself felt unsafe fear should have been obvious. Yet she walked easily, confidently, as if she belonged here far more than I did.

It isn’t only men here… the thought flickered weakly through my mind. Then what is she doing alone?

She stopped in front of me.

“New here?” she asked, her voice light, casual.

Her hand slid to my waist.

Something in the air shifted instantly. I felt it before I could name it intent, sharp and invasive, pressing in on me. Panic surged. I shoved her with everything I had, desperation lending me strength.

She didn’t move.

Not even a step.

My chest tightened. The world felt too close, too loud, too fast. She smiled faintly, like my reaction amused her, and reached for me again. My thoughts scattered, overlapping, slipping out of order.

This was too much.

I screamed.

The sound tore out of me, raw and unfiltered. She lunged forward, her grip rough now, fingers pulling, grabbing, tearing at fabric in hurried motions. My vision blurred as terror swallowed everything else.

Then-

Footsteps.

Fast. Heavy. Rushing toward us.

In the next instant, she was shoved away violently, stumbling back with a sharp gasp as a shadow moved between us.

I collapsed against the wall, shaking, breath coming in broken sobs-

saved just seconds before something irreversible could happen.

“Out of all men… you got teased by a lesbian.”

I heard Jungkook chuckle softly as he said it, like this was some misplaced joke meant to lighten the moment. Before I could react, his coat was draped over my shoulders, heavy and warm, swallowing me whole. The fabric smelled faintly of him clean, familiar in a way I didn’t understand, and that only made my chest tighten more.

I was shaking.

Not the dramatic kind. The quiet kind. The kind that starts in your hands and spreads everywhere, until your body feels like it’s no longer fully yours. My teeth chattered, though I wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or from everything that had just happened.

Jungkook’s hands lingered as he adjusted the coat around me, careful, almost tender. Too tender for someone who had laughed just seconds ago. He positioned himself slightly in front of me, blocking my view of the street and, maybe, blocking the street from me.

“You’re safe now,” he said calmly, like it was a fact, not a promise.

I nodded, even though my mind was screaming questions my mouth couldn’t form. My legs felt weak, my thoughts tangled, the world dulled at the edges.

Safe.

The word echoed strangely in my head.

Because as his arm stayed firm around my shoulders, steadying me, one thought refused to leave-

Why did danger keep finding me…

and why did he always seem to be standing exactly where it ended?

Jungkook's POV

So easy to manipulate.

So mine.

She fit into the spaces I had already carved for her quietly, perfectly like she had been shaped by all the right fractures. My ideal type, really. Soft where she needed to be. Fragile where I could hold her together.

She kept saying she wanted to go back to the shop.

She asked me to leave her there.

I didn’t care.

Her voice was weak, uncertain easy to dismiss. I told her it was too unsafe, too dangerous. I told her she needed rest. I told her I’d take care of her.

And she believed me.

I took her home.

My home.

No one had ever been here before not like this. No one had ever crossed that threshold and stayed. She was my first muse to see it, and she would be my last. The thought made something settle comfortably in my chest.

I smiled at her as she sat down on the couch.

She was still shivering. Her eyes were red, swollen from crying, lashes clumped together with tears she hadn’t fully shed yet. Her hair was messy, fingers tangled in it as she scratched at her scalp over and over trying to calm herself down.

It was a habit.

She didn’t even realize she was doing it.

I did.

I watched her curl into herself, small and exhausted, wrapped in my coat like it belonged there. Like she belonged there. The room was quiet now, safe, controlled exactly how I liked it.

“Stay,” I said gently, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And she didn’t argue.

She never did, once she was tired enough.

After some time, her breathing evened out.

Her head tilted to the side, lashes resting against flushed cheeks as she dozed off on the couch. The pills, perhaps or exhaustion finally winning. Her fingers loosened from her hair, falling limp in her lap, like even her habits had grown tired.

I stood there for a moment longer than necessary, watching.

Then I went to take a bath.

The water was warm, steaming the mirror, blurring my reflection until I barely recognized myself. I let it run over my skin, steady and controlled, washing away the dust of the street but not the satisfaction settling quietly in my chest.

She was asleep in my house.

Safe. Contained. Unaware.

And while the water drowned out every other sound, one thought stayed perfectly clear in my mind-

She wouldn’t remember how she got here.

Third person POV

She didn’t know when she had dozed off.

She wiped the dried saliva from the corner of her mouth, embarrassment mixing with confusion as she pushed herself upright. Her head felt heavy, cottony. The room looked unfamiliar in that subtle way like a place you’ve seen before but can’t place in memory.

“Jungkook…?” she called softly.

No answer.

A sudden unease crept in. She stood up, her legs unsteady, and began looking for her phone. It was on the side table beside the couch. Relief flickered briefly.

Her fingers trembled from earlier as she unlocked her phone.

The screen glowed too bright in the dim room, making her wince. She didn’t even know what she was looking for time, signal, proof, anything that told her this was real. Or that it wasn’t.

That’s when she felt it.

A presence.

Warm. Close.

Too close.

Jungkook emerged from the bathroom, hair damp, ruffling it absentmindedly with a towel like this was an ordinary night. Like there wasn’t a locked door. Like there hadn’t been screams. Like her entire sense of reality hadn’t cracked open minutes ago.

He stopped beside her.

Beside.

Close enough that she could smell soap and steam, close enough that his arm brushed hers when he leaned in. Her body stiffened instinctively.

His gaze dropped to her phone.

Lingering.

Assessing.

Almost… checking.

“What are you doing?” he asked casually, voice light, curious in a way that wasn’t innocent.

Her screen reflected faintly in his eyes.

She angled the phone away without thinking, her heart racing. The movement was small but he noticed. He always noticed.

His smile didn’t fade.

Instead, he tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering across his face, like he’d just confirmed something he already knew.

“You don’t need that,” he said softly. Not a command. Not reassurance. Something in between.

The room felt smaller again.

And suddenly, she was acutely aware of one terrifying truth-

He was watching to make sure she didn’t remember.

Suddenly-

a rattle.

Sharp. Metallic. Repeated.

It came from his bedroom.

Her breath caught as the sound grew louder, frantic now, like something or someone was trying to break free. Then came a muffled scream, choked and distorted, pressed down by walls that had learned how to keep secrets.

Her head snapped toward Jungkook.

For the first time since she woke up, the mask slipped.

Not fully but enough.

His jaw tightened. His lips moved as he muttered something under his breath. Curses. Low. Irritated. Like a plan being interrupted.

Fear surged through her.

She ran.

Her feet carried her toward the bedroom on instinct, heart pounding so hard it hurt. But before she could reach the door, Jungkook moved.

Fast.

He turned away from her, walked calmly to the main gate, and locked it.

Click.

The sound echoed far too loudly.

He turned back around slowly.

And smiled.

Not the soft smile. Not the reassuring one-

A stupid grin wide, careless, almost amused.

“Let’s go see,” he said lightly, like he was inviting her to something trivial, “why that stupid creature is crying.”

Her stomach dropped.

The scream came again.

Closer now.

And this time-

she knew.

Whatever was behind that door wasn’t a coincidence.

And neither was Jungkook.

What frightened her wasn’t the scream behind the door, but how familiar it felt.

[gloriousstarfishcoffee]

INK, SKIN AND SIN

4. His Version Of Hers.

Pairing Jeon jungkook!unknown identity x Reader!florist

MDNI 🤍

“When did I even put the keys in the fridge…? I always hang them on the key holder.”

Her frustration was visible, slipping into her voice before she could stop it. She exhaled sharply and blamed it on the pills just like the doctor said. Temporary memory fog. Bear with it.

So she did. Even though bearing it felt heavier each day.

She stepped out of her building. The air outside was chilly, biting gently at her cheeks as she pulled her jacket closer. On her way to the flower shop, Seo-yeon crossed her mind again uninvited, as always. The thought tightened her chest. On impulse, she changed direction and went to the police station.

Nothing.

As usual.

A month had passed. One long, hollow month. And with it, every last thread of hope had quietly unraveled.

When she finally returned to the shop and pushed the door open, a hand suddenly rested on her shoulder.

She froze.

Slowly, she turned around.

It was him.

Dressed entirely in black, neat and deliberate, a friendly grin resting on his lips as if he belonged there as if this moment had been rehearsed.

“How have you been?” he asked casually.

The familiarity in his tone unsettled her. She didn’t know him that well. Not enough for this.

“Um… fine,” she replied, unsure.

His eyes swept over her taking in the way her jacket pressed her cheeks, the faint blush from the cold still lingering. It felt intrusive, like he was noticing things he shouldn’t.

They stepped inside the shop.

“Did you take your morning dosage of medicine?” he asked lightly. “And did you eat your usual boring breakfast eggs and orange juice?”

Her eyes widened before she could stop herself.

How did he know?

She had never told anyone about the medication. About the breakfast. About the routine she clung to because routines didn’t forget her.

“H-how do you know?” she asked, swallowing hard.

He chuckled softly and shook his head, amused.

“Still having that memory problem?” he said. “Did you go to the doctor like you told me?”

Her breath caught.

She hadn’t told anyone.

Her hands trembled now, barely steady at her sides. The room felt colder somehow, despite the heater humming in the corner. He noticed of course he did.

With an easy familiarity, he reached out and ruffled her hair playfully.

The gesture was gentle.

Too gentle.

And that was what terrified her the most.

The door chimed as the shop owner stepped inside.

The sound was sharp too loud in the quiet space.

His eyes immediately went to him.

“Ah,” the shop owner said, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Jungkook, are you here again to take her out for coffee? You just came yesterday.”

Jungkook.

So that was his name.

The name settled uneasily in her mind, like it had been placed there rather than remembered. But another thought followed quickly, sharp and instinctive-

We’ve never gone for coffee together… right?

She turned to look at the shop owner properly this time.

He was sweating.

In this cold weather, with his jacket still on, sweat dotted his forehead. His hands trembled slightly as he wiped them on his apron. And then she noticed the way he looked at Jungkook not annoyed, not friendly-

Afraid.

“Yes, uncle,” Jungkook replied easily, his voice smooth. “She can’t live without it, you know.”

Her stomach dropped.

She hated coffee.

The shop owner laughed nervously, a hollow sound. “Go on, take her. Just-” he hesitated, glancing at her before fixing his eyes back on Jungkook, “-just drop her back safely within an hour. No funny business.”

She stood there, listening.

It felt wrong.

The words didn’t sound like his own. They came out stiff, rehearsed like he was reading from a script that only Jungkook knew the ending to.

Before she could speak, before she could question anything-

She felt a pull.

Her arm.

Strong fingers wrapped around her wrist, firm but not rough, already dragging her toward the door.

Confusion washed over her in heavy waves. Her head felt light. The room tilted slightly, as if the floor had shifted without warning. Anxiety curled tight in her chest, her heartbeat loud in her ears.

She looked back once.

The shop owner avoided her gaze.

And then the door closed behind them, the chime ringing softly-

too softly.

as Jungkook led her away while her thoughts slipped further out of reach.

Reader's POV

The coffee wasn’t bad.

But the place was.

It felt like a rusted, haunted dungeon dim lights flickering weakly against stained walls, the air thick with the smell of old oil and something sour I couldn’t name. Every table was occupied. Only men. Dirty, old men. Their eyes lingered too long, followed too slowly, as if time moved differently for them.

My skin crawled.

I stayed close to Jungkook, my shoulders tight, my hands clenched inside my sleeves. He seemed unbothered. Too comfortable. He lifted his cup and sipped loudly, the sound of the slurp echoing in my head more than it should have.

My head started spinning.

The room felt smaller. The voices blended into a low hum, then into noise, then into nothing at all. My chest tightened painfully as air refused to come in properly. Anxiety surged without warning, sharp and sudden.

My ears began to ring.

A high-pitched sound, drilling into my skull. I couldn’t focus on anything anymore faces blurred, walls warped, lights smeared into dull streaks. Tears welled up, blinding me before I could stop them.

That’s when I felt it.

A hand on my back.

Warm. Steady. Comforting.

Jungkook leaned in, his touch slow and deliberate, rubbing small circles just like my mother used to when I was overwhelmed as a child. The familiarity of it broke something inside me. My breathing stuttered, then slowly eased, guided by his calm presence.

“It’s okay,” he murmured softly, close to my ear. “I’ve got you.”

I hated how effective it was.

How my body responded before my mind could argue.

Because coincidences don’t stack like this.

He couldn’t possibly know so many things-

how panic feels in my chest,

how grounding touch works on me,

how my mother used to calm me down-

unless he had seen it before.

Or worse…

unless he had been there all along.

He took my bag with unsettling calm, like anxiety was something that only existed for the rest of the room not for him. The others were staring now. I could feel their eyes on me, heavy and curious, pressing in from every direction.

Jungkook didn’t look at them.

He opened my bag, his movements practiced, familiar. Too familiar. His fingers found the pill bottle without hesitation. He shook one out into his palm and handed it to me along with a glass of water, already placed in front of me as if this moment had happened before.

“Do you want anything else?” he asked softly.

As I shook my head, his hand brushed against my thigh slow, grounding, deliberate. It wasn’t inappropriate. That was the worst part. It felt comforting. Familiar. Like I had felt those hands there before, during moments when the world became too loud and my body forgot how to exist properly.

My breathing steadied.

That terrified me more than the panic.

He helped me stand and guided me out, shielding me from the stares with his body as if it were instinct. The air outside hit my face, cold and dusty. The street was narrow, layered with grime and silence, the café disappearing behind us like a bad dream.

We had almost reached the end of the lane when a voice called out from behind.

“Jungkook-”

He stopped.

Just for a second.

And in that pause, with his hand still resting lightly on my arm, I felt it again-

that sharp, crawling certainty

that he knew exactly what would happen next.

He turned around.

I didn’t see his face at first, but I felt it his anger rising sharply, violently, like someone had just ruined something delicate he had been carefully arranging. His arm tightened around me, just enough to remind me I was there, just enough to warn me not to move.

The footsteps came closer. Fast. Uneven.

“Who is she?” the man demanded as he jogged toward us. His voice was strained, urgent. “Do you not know it isn’t safe for her? I’ve warned you a thousand times-”

Before he could finish, Jungkook exhaled slowly.

Not panicked.

Not surprised.

Annoyed.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” he said quietly.

The words weren’t loud, but they cut through the air like a blade. The man stopped short. For a moment, even the street seemed to hold its breath.

Jungkook loosened his hold on me, guiding me aside with calculated care, placing me near the wall—somewhere he clearly deemed safe. His hand lingered on my shoulder for half a second longer than necessary, grounding me… or claiming me.

“Stay,” he murmured. Not a request.

Then he grabbed the man by the arm.

Hard.

He dragged him toward the far corner of the street, where the shadows were thicker and the dust hung heavier. Their voices dropped low, sharp whispers slicing into each other—too far for me to hear the words, close enough for me to feel the tension vibrating through the ground beneath my feet.

I stood there, dizzy, heart pounding, watching their silhouettes blur together.

A girl came toward me.

She didn’t look scared. That was the first thing that felt wrong. In a place like this where the air itself felt unsafe fear should have been obvious. Yet she walked easily, confidently, as if she belonged here far more than I did.

It isn’t only men here… the thought flickered weakly through my mind. Then what is she doing alone?

She stopped in front of me.

“New here?” she asked, her voice light, casual.

Her hand slid to my waist.

Something in the air shifted instantly. I felt it before I could name it intent, sharp and invasive, pressing in on me. Panic surged. I shoved her with everything I had, desperation lending me strength.

She didn’t move.

Not even a step.

My chest tightened. The world felt too close, too loud, too fast. She smiled faintly, like my reaction amused her, and reached for me again. My thoughts scattered, overlapping, slipping out of order.

This was too much.

I screamed.

The sound tore out of me, raw and unfiltered. She lunged forward, her grip rough now, fingers pulling, grabbing, tearing at fabric in hurried motions. My vision blurred as terror swallowed everything else.

Then-

Footsteps.

Fast. Heavy. Rushing toward us.

In the next instant, she was shoved away violently, stumbling back with a sharp gasp as a shadow moved between us.

I collapsed against the wall, shaking, breath coming in broken sobs-

saved just seconds before something irreversible could happen.

“Out of all men… you got teased by a lesbian.”

I heard Jungkook chuckle softly as he said it, like this was some misplaced joke meant to lighten the moment. Before I could react, his coat was draped over my shoulders, heavy and warm, swallowing me whole. The fabric smelled faintly of him clean, familiar in a way I didn’t understand, and that only made my chest tighten more.

I was shaking.

Not the dramatic kind. The quiet kind. The kind that starts in your hands and spreads everywhere, until your body feels like it’s no longer fully yours. My teeth chattered, though I wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or from everything that had just happened.

Jungkook’s hands lingered as he adjusted the coat around me, careful, almost tender. Too tender for someone who had laughed just seconds ago. He positioned himself slightly in front of me, blocking my view of the street and, maybe, blocking the street from me.

“You’re safe now,” he said calmly, like it was a fact, not a promise.

I nodded, even though my mind was screaming questions my mouth couldn’t form. My legs felt weak, my thoughts tangled, the world dulled at the edges.

Safe.

The word echoed strangely in my head.

Because as his arm stayed firm around my shoulders, steadying me, one thought refused to leave-

Why did danger keep finding me…

and why did he always seem to be standing exactly where it ended?

Jungkook's POV

So easy to manipulate.

So mine.

She fit into the spaces I had already carved for her quietly, perfectly like she had been shaped by all the right fractures. My ideal type, really. Soft where she needed to be. Fragile where I could hold her together.

She kept saying she wanted to go back to the shop.

She asked me to leave her there.

I didn’t care.

Her voice was weak, uncertain easy to dismiss. I told her it was too unsafe, too dangerous. I told her she needed rest. I told her I’d take care of her.

And she believed me.

I took her home.

My home.

No one had ever been here before not like this. No one had ever crossed that threshold and stayed. She was my first muse to see it, and she would be my last. The thought made something settle comfortably in my chest.

I smiled at her as she sat down on the couch.

She was still shivering. Her eyes were red, swollen from crying, lashes clumped together with tears she hadn’t fully shed yet. Her hair was messy, fingers tangled in it as she scratched at her scalp over and over trying to calm herself down.

It was a habit.

She didn’t even realize she was doing it.

I did.

I watched her curl into herself, small and exhausted, wrapped in my coat like it belonged there. Like she belonged there. The room was quiet now, safe, controlled exactly how I liked it.

“Stay,” I said gently, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And she didn’t argue.

She never did, once she was tired enough.

After some time, her breathing evened out.

Her head tilted to the side, lashes resting against flushed cheeks as she dozed off on the couch. The pills, perhaps or exhaustion finally winning. Her fingers loosened from her hair, falling limp in her lap, like even her habits had grown tired.

I stood there for a moment longer than necessary, watching.

Then I went to take a bath.

The water was warm, steaming the mirror, blurring my reflection until I barely recognized myself. I let it run over my skin, steady and controlled, washing away the dust of the street but not the satisfaction settling quietly in my chest.

She was asleep in my house.

Safe. Contained. Unaware.

And while the water drowned out every other sound, one thought stayed perfectly clear in my mind-

She wouldn’t remember how she got here.

Third person POV

She didn’t know when she had dozed off.

She wiped the dried saliva from the corner of her mouth, embarrassment mixing with confusion as she pushed herself upright. Her head felt heavy, cottony. The room looked unfamiliar in that subtle way like a place you’ve seen before but can’t place in memory.

“Jungkook…?” she called softly.

No answer.

A sudden unease crept in. She stood up, her legs unsteady, and began looking for her phone. It was on the side table beside the couch. Relief flickered briefly.

Her fingers trembled from earlier as she unlocked her phone.

The screen glowed too bright in the dim room, making her wince. She didn’t even know what she was looking for time, signal, proof, anything that told her this was real. Or that it wasn’t.

That’s when she felt it.

A presence.

Warm. Close.

Too close.

Jungkook emerged from the bathroom, hair damp, ruffling it absentmindedly with a towel like this was an ordinary night. Like there wasn’t a locked door. Like there hadn’t been screams. Like her entire sense of reality hadn’t cracked open minutes ago.

He stopped beside her.

Beside.

Close enough that she could smell soap and steam, close enough that his arm brushed hers when he leaned in. Her body stiffened instinctively.

His gaze dropped to her phone.

Lingering.

Assessing.

Almost… checking.

“What are you doing?” he asked casually, voice light, curious in a way that wasn’t innocent.

Her screen reflected faintly in his eyes.

She angled the phone away without thinking, her heart racing. The movement was small but he noticed. He always noticed.

His smile didn’t fade.

Instead, he tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering across his face, like he’d just confirmed something he already knew.

“You don’t need that,” he said softly. Not a command. Not reassurance. Something in between.

The room felt smaller again.

And suddenly, she was acutely aware of one terrifying truth-

He was watching to make sure she didn’t remember.

Suddenly-

a rattle.

Sharp. Metallic. Repeated.

It came from his bedroom.

Her breath caught as the sound grew louder, frantic now, like something or someone was trying to break free. Then came a muffled scream, choked and distorted, pressed down by walls that had learned how to keep secrets.

Her head snapped toward Jungkook.

For the first time since she woke up, the mask slipped.

Not fully but enough.

His jaw tightened. His lips moved as he muttered something under his breath. Curses. Low. Irritated. Like a plan being interrupted.

Fear surged through her.

She ran.

Her feet carried her toward the bedroom on instinct, heart pounding so hard it hurt. But before she could reach the door, Jungkook moved.

Fast.

He turned away from her, walked calmly to the main gate, and locked it.

Click.

The sound echoed far too loudly.

He turned back around slowly.

And smiled.

Not the soft smile. Not the reassuring one-

A stupid grin wide, careless, almost amused.

“Let’s go see,” he said lightly, like he was inviting her to something trivial, “why that stupid creature is crying.”

Her stomach dropped.

The scream came again.

Closer now.

And this time-

she knew.

Whatever was behind that door wasn’t a coincidence.

And neither was Jungkook.

What frightened her wasn’t the scream behind the door, but how familiar it felt.

[gloriousstarfishcoffee]

The following story has disturbing theme:

(Ongoing)

Part-1

Part-2

Part-3

MDNI🤍

[gloriousstarfishcoffee]

INK,SKIN AND SIN

3. When Lies Get Buried.

Pairing Jeon jungkook!unknown identity x Reader!florist

MDNI 🤍

Jungkook's POV

Seo-yeon is really talkative.

She doesn’t notice my annoyance because my grin never falters never lets her see that it was never meant for her. I let her words spill, let her feel heard, important. People like her don’t realize that being listened to is sometimes just another form of being studied.

The day she introduced me to (Y/N) in a convo, she talked through the whole thing. I smiled. Nodded. Asked questions that sounded harmless enough.

Where does she live?

When does her shift end?

Does she ever mention me?

Seo-yeon answered everything. She always does. She thinks curiosity means interest. I let her think that. I didn’t want my darling to know though it wouldn’t be cheating. We’re not together. And Seo-yeon would never tell her anyway. She’s loyal in the way people become when they mistake attention for affection.

I kept visiting y/n’s shop even after she turned me down. Rejection isn’t final. It’s just a pause. Something to work around.

Seo-yeon, meanwhile, started unraveling beautifully.

She stood closer. Touched longer. Looked at me like I was something she could fall into and disappear. It excited her, the way I watched without giving too much away. It always does.

One evening at the park blurred into the next morning somewhere else. I don’t remember choosing it. She leaned in, and I let her. Her room smelled like her warm, nervous, wanting. Every sound she made felt like a confession she didn’t know she was giving.

She trembled when I held her still, when I told her to breathe, when I murmured reassurances I’d practiced until they sounded real. I told her it was just a preference. Just a thing I liked. She believed me. They always do.

After, she curled into me like I was safety itself. Her head heavy on my chest, her breaths uneven, trusting. I stroked her hair slowly, thinking about how easily people surrender when you give them softness after fear.

And the whole time, I thought of (Y/N).

This was for her.

Every touch, every lie, every moment Seo-yeon mistook for intimacy.

It isn’t cheating if the intent is pure.

It isn’t betrayal if it’s done in the name of love.

That’s what I tell myself as Seo-yeon sleeps, holding onto me like she’s finally found something that won’t leave.

And for now-

I don’t.

Reader's POV

It’s disturbing the way she always talks about her boyfriend but never says his name.

At first, I let it pass. People protect what they love. Or what they’re ashamed of. I didn’t care enough to ask. I just nodded while trimming stems, listening to another soft, breathless story about him what he likes, how he holds her, the way she feels safe.

The scissors slipped.

The stem came apart too easily, sap bleeding onto my fingers. The same scissors with the tiny carving on the handle. I noticed it then, the nick near the blade, but it didn’t matter. Nothing did. She finished her story, smiled, and left with her flowers like she hadn’t just hollowed something out inside me.

I closed the shop with the owner. He offered me a ride home. I declined. I always do. I don’t like owing people things they can remember later.

The drugstore lights buzzed as I stepped inside. Too bright. Too white. That’s when I remembered the pills.

My anxiety pills.

They make the edges soft. Blur things. Sometimes whole hours disappear, but the relief is worth it. Forgetting hurts less than remembering wrong.

I bought one bottle. I remember that clearly.

The society I live in is old 1paint peeling, stairwells smelling faintly of damp concrete and time. It’s all I can afford. It’s quiet enough that my thoughts sound louder here.

I sat down, keys still in my hand.

And then it happened.

Annie.

Her face rose up without warning, uninvited. The way her body looked when I saw her skin dulled, half-rotten, something not quite right about the angle of her neck. The smell. Sweet and wrong. I swallowed hard.

Anxiety attack, I told myself. Just that.

I stood up too fast, heart racing, and went to get the pills. My hands shook as I opened the cabinet.

That’s when I saw it.

Another bottle.

Sealed. Unopened. Sitting neatly behind the first.

I stared at it for a long time.

That’s not possible.

I’d just bought one. I was sure of it. I don’t keep spares. I don’t plan ahead like that. My chest tightened as I reached out, fingers hovering like the bottle might move on its own.

Same brand.

Same dosage.

Same pharmacy seal.

My name printed on the label.

I stepped back.

If I already had it… then where was I when I bought it the first time?

And worse-

what had I needed it for?

The room felt smaller then, walls pressing in, air thick and stale. Somewhere deep in my chest, something shifted, like a memory turning over, trying to surface.

I didn’t open the second bottle.

I couldn’t.

Because if I did, I had a feeling it would remember something I didn’t.

Third person POV

Seo-yeon screamed.

Not the sharp kind the kind that tears at the throat, turns into a wet, broken sound when the body realizes no one is coming. Her crying curled in on itself, ugly and desperate, filling the room until it felt too small to hold it.

The person above her did nothing to stop it.

She was restrained. Not roughly. Intentionally. Like the act itself mattered less than what it meant. He leaned close, close enough that his breath brushed her skin, and used the object in his hand to press letters into he slow, possessive, deliberate.

A mark.

Normal. Right?

“I loved you,” she sobbed. “Please just leave me alone. You were my everything.”

He chuckled.

Not loud. Not angry. Amused.

“So innocent,” he said. “Did you really think I’d waste my time on someone like you?”

He sighed, like she’d tired him out.

“Every time you opened your mouth, you annoyed me. Every sound you made especially when you moan my name like a slut you are I wanted it to stop.”

She shook beneath him.

“I’m grateful,” he went on casually. “Grateful I never fell for you. Don’t even think about comparing yourself to my y/n. You wouldn’t understand what kind of woman she is.”

Seo-yeon screamed again louder this time.

That was the mistake.

Something in him snapped not rage, not passion irritation. The kind you feel when something refuses to break quietly.

The movement that followed was sudden. Final. Over before the sound could finish leaving her mouth. She got stabbed three times right on her heart.

When it ended, the room went very still.

He straightened, looking down at her with visible disgust, like she’d failed him in some small, personal way.

He spat.

“Pathetic.”

Then he left without looking back qfinally satisfied with the silence.

Reader's POV

I still couldn’t comprehend who killed her. The police kept searching for evidence, but every lead seemed to dissolve the moment they touched it, like the truth itself refused to stay still. No forced entry. No clear weapon. No confirmed witness. Just a room that looked almost too untouched for what had happened inside it.

I never even saw her boyfriend not once through this entire ordeal. Not at the hospital, not at the police station, not even at the funeral. I suspected him at times, but suspicion was all I had. I didn’t even know his name, let alone what he looked like. It felt strange… like someone so important to her life had been erased before I could even notice they existed properly.

I was wearing black, standing near the headstone. The wind kept brushing past the cemetery in slow, uneven waves, making the trees creak softly, as if they were whispering something I couldn’t quite hear. She had no one. No crowd. No loud mourning voices. Just me and the coffin, lowered into a silence that felt too deliberate to be natural.

Even now, I can’t forget the image of her lying on that bed. Not dramatic, not cinematic just still. Too still. The kind of stillness that feels wrong in a room that still has air in it. There was blood, yes, but it wasn’t what haunted me the most. It was the quietness around it, like the room had swallowed every sound she could’ve made.

I sighed, tears slipping down my face without warning. I kissed the coffin one last time, my lips trembling against the cold wood.

And then they buried her.

The sound of soil hitting the coffin lid still follows me heavy, rhythmic, almost patient. Like something counting down.

I couldn’t stand anymore. My knees gave in as I bent forward and placed the flowers on her gravestone white lilies. Her forever favorite. The petals looked almost too bright against the damp earth, like they didn’t belong in something so final.

That’s when I noticed it.

Her gravestone.

It wasn’t fully set yet. Fresh engraving. Still faintly dusty from the tools.

And there, just at the edge of her name… there was a second mark. A shallow scratch, like someone had traced it with their nail before the stone had fully settled.

It wasn’t part of the design.

I stared at it longer than I should have.

Because it looked less like damage…

and more like a signature.

Soon after, the police returned for further investigation. Earlier, I had been their suspect, but the next day they cleared me without much explanation. I hadn’t given them any useful evidence, because there was nothing to give. Still, I could see it clearly in their eyes they weren’t truly searching anymore. They were just closing loops, not opening doors.

And every time the wind passed through the cemetery, I swear it sounded like something shifting behind the grave… as if the ground itself was trying not to be noticed.

I was left with nothing but silence.

And the uneasy feeling that she wasn’t the only one who hadn’t been properly seen before she died.

it felt like someone had simply learned where to hide.

--

Hey, it’s the author here 🤍

If this story moved you even a little, please consider sharing it with others who might enjoy it. Your likes, comments, and support on every part mean more to me than you know. Thank you for reading, for staying, and for giving my words a place in your time 🖤. Also recommend your names for taglist ❤️.

[gloriousstarfishcoffee]

INK,SKIN AND SIN

3. When Lies Get Buried.

Pairing Jeon jungkook!unknown identity x Reader!florist

MDNI 🤍

Jungkook's POV

Seo-yeon is really talkative.

She doesn’t notice my annoyance because my grin never falters never lets her see that it was never meant for her. I let her words spill, let her feel heard, important. People like her don’t realize that being listened to is sometimes just another form of being studied.

The day she introduced me to (Y/N) in a convo, she talked through the whole thing. I smiled. Nodded. Asked questions that sounded harmless enough.

Where does she live?

When does her shift end?

Does she ever mention me?

Seo-yeon answered everything. She always does. She thinks curiosity means interest. I let her think that. I didn’t want my darling to know though it wouldn’t be cheating. We’re not together. And Seo-yeon would never tell her anyway. She’s loyal in the way people become when they mistake attention for affection.

I kept visiting y/n’s shop even after she turned me down. Rejection isn’t final. It’s just a pause. Something to work around.

Seo-yeon, meanwhile, started unraveling beautifully.

She stood closer. Touched longer. Looked at me like I was something she could fall into and disappear. It excited her, the way I watched without giving too much away. It always does.

One evening at the park blurred into the next morning somewhere else. I don’t remember choosing it. She leaned in, and I let her. Her room smelled like her warm, nervous, wanting. Every sound she made felt like a confession she didn’t know she was giving.

She trembled when I held her still, when I told her to breathe, when I murmured reassurances I’d practiced until they sounded real. I told her it was just a preference. Just a thing I liked. She believed me. They always do.

After, she curled into me like I was safety itself. Her head heavy on my chest, her breaths uneven, trusting. I stroked her hair slowly, thinking about how easily people surrender when you give them softness after fear.

And the whole time, I thought of (Y/N).

This was for her.

Every touch, every lie, every moment Seo-yeon mistook for intimacy.

It isn’t cheating if the intent is pure.

It isn’t betrayal if it’s done in the name of love.

That’s what I tell myself as Seo-yeon sleeps, holding onto me like she’s finally found something that won’t leave.

And for now-

I don’t.

Reader's POV

It’s disturbing the way she always talks about her boyfriend but never says his name.

At first, I let it pass. People protect what they love. Or what they’re ashamed of. I didn’t care enough to ask. I just nodded while trimming stems, listening to another soft, breathless story about him what he likes, how he holds her, the way she feels safe.

The scissors slipped.

The stem came apart too easily, sap bleeding onto my fingers. The same scissors with the tiny carving on the handle. I noticed it then, the nick near the blade, but it didn’t matter. Nothing did. She finished her story, smiled, and left with her flowers like she hadn’t just hollowed something out inside me.

I closed the shop with the owner. He offered me a ride home. I declined. I always do. I don’t like owing people things they can remember later.

The drugstore lights buzzed as I stepped inside. Too bright. Too white. That’s when I remembered the pills.

My anxiety pills.

They make the edges soft. Blur things. Sometimes whole hours disappear, but the relief is worth it. Forgetting hurts less than remembering wrong.

I bought one bottle. I remember that clearly.

The society I live in is old 1paint peeling, stairwells smelling faintly of damp concrete and time. It’s all I can afford. It’s quiet enough that my thoughts sound louder here.

I sat down, keys still in my hand.

And then it happened.

Annie.

Her face rose up without warning, uninvited. The way her body looked when I saw her skin dulled, half-rotten, something not quite right about the angle of her neck. The smell. Sweet and wrong. I swallowed hard.

Anxiety attack, I told myself. Just that.

I stood up too fast, heart racing, and went to get the pills. My hands shook as I opened the cabinet.

That’s when I saw it.

Another bottle.

Sealed. Unopened. Sitting neatly behind the first.

I stared at it for a long time.

That’s not possible.

I’d just bought one. I was sure of it. I don’t keep spares. I don’t plan ahead like that. My chest tightened as I reached out, fingers hovering like the bottle might move on its own.

Same brand.

Same dosage.

Same pharmacy seal.

My name printed on the label.

I stepped back.

If I already had it… then where was I when I bought it the first time?

And worse-

what had I needed it for?

The room felt smaller then, walls pressing in, air thick and stale. Somewhere deep in my chest, something shifted, like a memory turning over, trying to surface.

I didn’t open the second bottle.

I couldn’t.

Because if I did, I had a feeling it would remember something I didn’t.

Third person POV

Seo-yeon screamed.

Not the sharp kind the kind that tears at the throat, turns into a wet, broken sound when the body realizes no one is coming. Her crying curled in on itself, ugly and desperate, filling the room until it felt too small to hold it.

The person above her did nothing to stop it.

She was restrained. Not roughly. Intentionally. Like the act itself mattered less than what it meant. He leaned close, close enough that his breath brushed her skin, and used the object in his hand to press letters into he slow, possessive, deliberate.

A mark.

Normal. Right?

“I loved you,” she sobbed. “Please just leave me alone. You were my everything.”

He chuckled.

Not loud. Not angry. Amused.

“So innocent,” he said. “Did you really think I’d waste my time on someone like you?”

He sighed, like she’d tired him out.

“Every time you opened your mouth, you annoyed me. Every sound you made especially when you moan my name like a slut you are I wanted it to stop.”

She shook beneath him.

“I’m grateful,” he went on casually. “Grateful I never fell for you. Don’t even think about comparing yourself to my y/n. You wouldn’t understand what kind of woman she is.”

Seo-yeon screamed again louder this time.

That was the mistake.

Something in him snapped not rage, not passion irritation. The kind you feel when something refuses to break quietly.

The movement that followed was sudden. Final. Over before the sound could finish leaving her mouth. She got stabbed three times right on her heart.

When it ended, the room went very still.

He straightened, looking down at her with visible disgust, like she’d failed him in some small, personal way.

He spat.

“Pathetic.”

Then he left without looking back qfinally satisfied with the silence.

Reader's POV

I still couldn’t comprehend who killed her. The police kept searching for evidence, but every lead seemed to dissolve the moment they touched it, like the truth itself refused to stay still. No forced entry. No clear weapon. No confirmed witness. Just a room that looked almost too untouched for what had happened inside it.

I never even saw her boyfriend not once through this entire ordeal. Not at the hospital, not at the police station, not even at the funeral. I suspected him at times, but suspicion was all I had. I didn’t even know his name, let alone what he looked like. It felt strange… like someone so important to her life had been erased before I could even notice they existed properly.

I was wearing black, standing near the headstone. The wind kept brushing past the cemetery in slow, uneven waves, making the trees creak softly, as if they were whispering something I couldn’t quite hear. She had no one. No crowd. No loud mourning voices. Just me and the coffin, lowered into a silence that felt too deliberate to be natural.

Even now, I can’t forget the image of her lying on that bed. Not dramatic, not cinematic just still. Too still. The kind of stillness that feels wrong in a room that still has air in it. There was blood, yes, but it wasn’t what haunted me the most. It was the quietness around it, like the room had swallowed every sound she could’ve made.

I sighed, tears slipping down my face without warning. I kissed the coffin one last time, my lips trembling against the cold wood.

And then they buried her.

The sound of soil hitting the coffin lid still follows me heavy, rhythmic, almost patient. Like something counting down.

I couldn’t stand anymore. My knees gave in as I bent forward and placed the flowers on her gravestone white lilies. Her forever favorite. The petals looked almost too bright against the damp earth, like they didn’t belong in something so final.

That’s when I noticed it.

Her gravestone.

It wasn’t fully set yet. Fresh engraving. Still faintly dusty from the tools.

And there, just at the edge of her name… there was a second mark. A shallow scratch, like someone had traced it with their nail before the stone had fully settled.

It wasn’t part of the design.

I stared at it longer than I should have.

Because it looked less like damage…

and more like a signature.

Soon after, the police returned for further investigation. Earlier, I had been their suspect, but the next day they cleared me without much explanation. I hadn’t given them any useful evidence, because there was nothing to give. Still, I could see it clearly in their eyes they weren’t truly searching anymore. They were just closing loops, not opening doors.

And every time the wind passed through the cemetery, I swear it sounded like something shifting behind the grave… as if the ground itself was trying not to be noticed.

I was left with nothing but silence.

And the uneasy feeling that she wasn’t the only one who hadn’t been properly seen before she died.

it felt like someone had simply learned where to hide.

--

Hey, it’s the author here 🤍

If this story moved you even a little, please consider sharing it with others who might enjoy it. Your likes, comments, and support on every part mean more to me than you know. Thank you for reading, for staying, and for giving my words a place in your time 🖤. Also recommend your names for taglist ❤️.

[gloriousstarfishcoffee]

INK, SKIN AND SIN

2. He Was Already There.

Pairing Jeon jungkook!unknown identity x Reader!florist

MDNI 🤍

The click of the door echoed softly as she unlocked the shop and stepped inside. A faint, unpleasant smell lingered in the air something slightly rotten, like flowers left too long in water. Withered blooms, she thought.

To shake the feeling off, she hummed her favorite song, swaying her hips absentmindedly as she made her way to the counter. Routine had always been her comfort.

She opened the cash drawer and froze.

The money was there, but not the way she had left it. Bills slightly out of place, coins shifted. Her heart skipped. That couldn’t be right. She always counted carefully before handing the register over to the shop owner. Always.

Maybe he came by earlier, she reasoned. Maybe he took some.

The bell above the door chimed.

She looked up.

The shop owner stood there, smiling warmly, as if nothing were amiss. She returned the smile automatically, relief loosening her shoulders. Without a word, he stepped forward and placed a bundle of freshly plucked flowers on the counter, droplets of water still clinging to the stems.

“Clean them and put them in their proper place,” he said casually.

Before she could respond, he turned and left, the door chiming once more behind him.

She sighed and reached for the scissors.

They weren’t where she’d left them.

She checked again. Then another drawer. Nothing.

After a few minutes of searching, she opened a lower drawer she rarely used and there they were. A pair of scissors, brand new, untouched, lying neatly inside.

It almost didn’t seem strange.

Almost.

Until she noticed the carving on the handle. Letters scratched in clumsily, uneven and unprofessional, as if done in a hurry. Perhaps a brand name, she thought but something about it felt wrong.

Too personal.

It was as if whoever had carved the letters hadn’t cared about aesthetics at all only about branding. Ownership.

Her stomach twisted violently, nausea rising sharp and sudden, as if her body had understood something her mind refused to accept. The shop grew quieter then. Not empty, never empty just unnervingly still, like a room holding its breath.

She reached for her phone, fingers trembling, desperate to hear another human voice.

That’s when her eyes landed on the bouquet.

It sat on the counter, neatly wrapped. Too neatly.

She hadn’t wrapped any flowers that morning.

Her heart began to pound as she stepped closer. Poppies. Her favorite. She hadn’t mentioned that to anyone hadn’t stocked them recently, hadn’t even thought about them out loud. The paper was folded with care, every crease deliberate, delicate, intimate.

Someone had taken their time.

The air felt heavier, pressing against her skin, and a cold awareness slid down her spine the unmistakable sensation of being watched. Not hurried. Not frantic.

Patient.

She quickly dialed her friend, the one who lived just a block away. The phone rang once. Twice. Again. No answer.

Her breathing grew shallow.

It’s the medication, she told herself, sinking into the chair behind the counter. Side effects. Paranoia. Seeing patterns where there are none.

Normal things. Harmless things.

She pressed her palms to her eyes and counted her breaths.

Then-

The bell above the door chimed.

Clear. Sharp. Indisputable.

Someone had come in.

And this time, she knew she wasn’t imagining it.

The bell’s echo hadn’t fully faded when she looked up.

He stood just inside the doorway, rainwater clinging to the edges of his coat, posture relaxed unassuming, almost courteous. The same man. The one from weeks ago. The customer who had asked for tiger lilies.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then he smiled.

Not wide. Not threatening. Just enough to be remembered.

“Good morning,” he said calmly. “I hope I’m not too early.”

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the counter.

“No-no,” she replied, forcing her voice steady. “We’re open.”

His gaze drifted briefly around the shop, slow and appreciative, as though he were seeing it for the first time. Yet something in his eyes suggested otherwise an intimacy that hadn’t been earned.

“It smells different today,” he remarked. “Cleaner.”

Her stomach dropped.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

He stepped closer, shoes barely making a sound against the floor. Close enough now that she could smell rain… and something floral beneath it.

“I’m here for flowers,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “You did such a beautiful job last time.”

Her breath caught.

“The tiger lilies,” he added helpfully, head tilting. “For the funeral.”

She nodded, though she didn’t remember telling him that much.

“What would you like today?” she asked.

He considered her instead of the flowers.

“Nothing dramatic,” he said softly. “Just something honest.” His eyes flicked, briefly, to the bouquet of poppies on the counter. “You have good taste.”

Her heart began to race.

“I didn’t-” she started.

He smiled again, apologetic this time. “I’m sorry. That sounded presumptuous.”

A pause.

“You must get tired,” he continued gently. “Standing here alone all day. Keeping things in order.”

She felt the words settle on her skin like a touch.

“I’ll take tiger lilies again,” he said at last. “If you have them.”

As she turned toward the shelves, her hands shaking just enough to notice, she felt it the certainty, sharp and undeniable.

He wasn’t looking at the flowers.

He was watching her.

And he had been for a long time.

As she wrapped the tiger lilies, he spoke without hesitation.

“It’s for someone’s birthday,” he said easily. “I’ve always thought tiger lilies make the prettiest gift. They’re my favorite.”

She nodded, saying nothing. Her focus stayed on the bouquet, fingers smoothing the paper with deliberate care, though a faint unease betrayed her too stiff, too careful, as if the flowers might bite back.

He studied her face.

His gaze moved slowly, lingering on the small fractures in her composure the way her jaw tightened, the way her eyes refused to meet his. There was fear there. Quiet. Controlled. He found it exquisite.

A soft chuckle escaped him.

Yes. She was certainly his type.

Scared. Small. Her eyes were beautiful—far too beautiful to be wasted. He imagined them watching him, alive with awareness, unlike Annie’s had been at the end.

No… he decided gently.

He wouldn’t do that to her.

Some things were meant to be kept intact.

“Happy birthday, darling,” he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips soft, almost tender, and entirely wrong.

Eight years.

His first muse.

“Maybe you’re rotten now,” he continued thoughtfully, tilting his head as if listening for a reply, “but my love for you is still fresh.” His fingers brushed the bouquet absently. “I remember how beautiful you looked in those little dresses. How easily you fit into my hands.”

He placed the flowers at the headstone with reverence.

“And now,” he sighed, almost blissful, “I truly believe I’ve found you again.”

A pause.

“That girl… she’s your reincarnation. I’m sure of it.” His grin widened, stretching too far. “Did you see her? So delicate. So perfectly mine.” His voice dropped, intimate, reverent. “As if she was born just to be broken.”

His smile deepened, anticipation flickering in his eyes.

“Hopefully,” he whispered, “my forever this time.”

Reader's POV

It couldn’t be true.

How could she be dead?

I stood among a cluster of people wrapped in thick coats, snow settling quietly on our shoulders, the world muffled and white. My eyes refused to leave the headstone beneath my feet.

Annie

1998–2026

Beside me, Annie’s mother sobbed openly, her body shaking as though grief itself was tearing her apart. She kept repeating the same thing how she never even got to see her daughter one last time. No body. No goodbye. Just a letter.

A letter sent a week ago.

It had arrived without warning, addressed to her mother, stating simply that Annie was dead and where she had been buried.

Cruel. Unforgivably cruel.

They decided to open the grave. It wasn’t right. Everyone knew it wasn’t. But Annie’s mother was inconsolable, clawing at the truth as if it might still be breathing beneath the soil.

When the coffin was pried open, the smell hit first.

Rot.

Thick, nauseating, clinging to the air until my stomach twisted violently. The sight followed half-decomposed flesh, unrecognizable, something that had once been a person. I gagged, tears blurring my vision. No one could identify her face anymore. I couldn’t look for more than two seconds.

I stumbled back, shaking.

That’s when I felt it.

A presence.

I thought it was another relative, another mourner—but then he spoke.

“It’s such a cruel way of dying,” he said calmly. “May she rest in peace.”

My blood went cold.

It was the same man.

This time, he wasn’t smiling. His face was neutral, almost respectful but his eyes were on me, not the coffin. Not Annie’s mother.

Me.

I froze.

He stepped past me and placed a comforting hand on Annie’s mother’s shoulder, murmuring words meant to soothe. I couldn’t hear them. My ears rang, my chest felt too tight to breathe.

I left the cemetery before my legs gave out.

I wasn’t strong enough for this. For the smell. For the truth. For him.

As I glanced back one last time, I saw him still standing there, consoling her gently.

But this time-

He was smiling.

And I knew.

It couldn’t be true.

…right?

Fear didn’t scream- it's settled.

[gloriousstarfishcoffee]

Post by @gloriousstarfishcoffee · 4 images

💬 1  🔁 1  ❤️ 11 · INK, SKIN AND SIN. ·  1. The Beginning of Want Pairing Jeon jungkook!unknown identity x Reader!florist To everyone who

Part-1

[gloriousstarfishcoffee]

INK, SKIN AND SIN

2. He Was Already There.

Pairing Jeon jungkook!unknown identity x Reader!florist

MDNI 🤍

The click of the door echoed softly as she unlocked the shop and stepped inside. A faint, unpleasant smell lingered in the air something slightly rotten, like flowers left too long in water. Withered blooms, she thought.

To shake the feeling off, she hummed her favorite song, swaying her hips absentmindedly as she made her way to the counter. Routine had always been her comfort.

She opened the cash drawer and froze.

The money was there, but not the way she had left it. Bills slightly out of place, coins shifted. Her heart skipped. That couldn’t be right. She always counted carefully before handing the register over to the shop owner. Always.

Maybe he came by earlier, she reasoned. Maybe he took some.

The bell above the door chimed.

She looked up.

The shop owner stood there, smiling warmly, as if nothing were amiss. She returned the smile automatically, relief loosening her shoulders. Without a word, he stepped forward and placed a bundle of freshly plucked flowers on the counter, droplets of water still clinging to the stems.

“Clean them and put them in their proper place,” he said casually.

Before she could respond, he turned and left, the door chiming once more behind him.

She sighed and reached for the scissors.

They weren’t where she’d left them.

She checked again. Then another drawer. Nothing.

After a few minutes of searching, she opened a lower drawer she rarely used and there they were. A pair of scissors, brand new, untouched, lying neatly inside.

It almost didn’t seem strange.

Almost.

Until she noticed the carving on the handle. Letters scratched in clumsily, uneven and unprofessional, as if done in a hurry. Perhaps a brand name, she thought but something about it felt wrong.

Too personal.

It was as if whoever had carved the letters hadn’t cared about aesthetics at all only about branding. Ownership.

Her stomach twisted violently, nausea rising sharp and sudden, as if her body had understood something her mind refused to accept. The shop grew quieter then. Not empty, never empty just unnervingly still, like a room holding its breath.

She reached for her phone, fingers trembling, desperate to hear another human voice.

That’s when her eyes landed on the bouquet.

It sat on the counter, neatly wrapped. Too neatly.

She hadn’t wrapped any flowers that morning.

Her heart began to pound as she stepped closer. Poppies. Her favorite. She hadn’t mentioned that to anyone hadn’t stocked them recently, hadn’t even thought about them out loud. The paper was folded with care, every crease deliberate, delicate, intimate.

Someone had taken their time.

The air felt heavier, pressing against her skin, and a cold awareness slid down her spine the unmistakable sensation of being watched. Not hurried. Not frantic.

Patient.

She quickly dialed her friend, the one who lived just a block away. The phone rang once. Twice. Again. No answer.

Her breathing grew shallow.

It’s the medication, she told herself, sinking into the chair behind the counter. Side effects. Paranoia. Seeing patterns where there are none.

Normal things. Harmless things.

She pressed her palms to her eyes and counted her breaths.

Then-

The bell above the door chimed.

Clear. Sharp. Indisputable.

Someone had come in.

And this time, she knew she wasn’t imagining it.

The bell’s echo hadn’t fully faded when she looked up.

He stood just inside the doorway, rainwater clinging to the edges of his coat, posture relaxed unassuming, almost courteous. The same man. The one from weeks ago. The customer who had asked for tiger lilies.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then he smiled.

Not wide. Not threatening. Just enough to be remembered.

“Good morning,” he said calmly. “I hope I’m not too early.”

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the counter.

“No-no,” she replied, forcing her voice steady. “We’re open.”

His gaze drifted briefly around the shop, slow and appreciative, as though he were seeing it for the first time. Yet something in his eyes suggested otherwise an intimacy that hadn’t been earned.

“It smells different today,” he remarked. “Cleaner.”

Her stomach dropped.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

He stepped closer, shoes barely making a sound against the floor. Close enough now that she could smell rain… and something floral beneath it.

“I’m here for flowers,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “You did such a beautiful job last time.”

Her breath caught.

“The tiger lilies,” he added helpfully, head tilting. “For the funeral.”

She nodded, though she didn’t remember telling him that much.

“What would you like today?” she asked.

He considered her instead of the flowers.

“Nothing dramatic,” he said softly. “Just something honest.” His eyes flicked, briefly, to the bouquet of poppies on the counter. “You have good taste.”

Her heart began to race.

“I didn’t-” she started.

He smiled again, apologetic this time. “I’m sorry. That sounded presumptuous.”

A pause.

“You must get tired,” he continued gently. “Standing here alone all day. Keeping things in order.”

She felt the words settle on her skin like a touch.

“I’ll take tiger lilies again,” he said at last. “If you have them.”

As she turned toward the shelves, her hands shaking just enough to notice, she felt it the certainty, sharp and undeniable.

He wasn’t looking at the flowers.

He was watching her.

And he had been for a long time.

As she wrapped the tiger lilies, he spoke without hesitation.

“It’s for someone’s birthday,” he said easily. “I’ve always thought tiger lilies make the prettiest gift. They’re my favorite.”

She nodded, saying nothing. Her focus stayed on the bouquet, fingers smoothing the paper with deliberate care, though a faint unease betrayed her too stiff, too careful, as if the flowers might bite back.

He studied her face.

His gaze moved slowly, lingering on the small fractures in her composure the way her jaw tightened, the way her eyes refused to meet his. There was fear there. Quiet. Controlled. He found it exquisite.

A soft chuckle escaped him.

Yes. She was certainly his type.

Scared. Small. Her eyes were beautiful—far too beautiful to be wasted. He imagined them watching him, alive with awareness, unlike Annie’s had been at the end.

No… he decided gently.

He wouldn’t do that to her.

Some things were meant to be kept intact.

“Happy birthday, darling,” he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips soft, almost tender, and entirely wrong.

Eight years.

His first muse.

“Maybe you’re rotten now,” he continued thoughtfully, tilting his head as if listening for a reply, “but my love for you is still fresh.” His fingers brushed the bouquet absently. “I remember how beautiful you looked in those little dresses. How easily you fit into my hands.”

He placed the flowers at the headstone with reverence.

“And now,” he sighed, almost blissful, “I truly believe I’ve found you again.”

A pause.

“That girl… she’s your reincarnation. I’m sure of it.” His grin widened, stretching too far. “Did you see her? So delicate. So perfectly mine.” His voice dropped, intimate, reverent. “As if she was born just to be broken.”

His smile deepened, anticipation flickering in his eyes.

“Hopefully,” he whispered, “my forever this time.”

Reader's POV

It couldn’t be true.

How could she be dead?

I stood among a cluster of people wrapped in thick coats, snow settling quietly on our shoulders, the world muffled and white. My eyes refused to leave the headstone beneath my feet.

Annie

1998–2026

Beside me, Annie’s mother sobbed openly, her body shaking as though grief itself was tearing her apart. She kept repeating the same thing how she never even got to see her daughter one last time. No body. No goodbye. Just a letter.

A letter sent a week ago.

It had arrived without warning, addressed to her mother, stating simply that Annie was dead and where she had been buried.

Cruel. Unforgivably cruel.

They decided to open the grave. It wasn’t right. Everyone knew it wasn’t. But Annie’s mother was inconsolable, clawing at the truth as if it might still be breathing beneath the soil.

When the coffin was pried open, the smell hit first.

Rot.

Thick, nauseating, clinging to the air until my stomach twisted violently. The sight followed half-decomposed flesh, unrecognizable, something that had once been a person. I gagged, tears blurring my vision. No one could identify her face anymore. I couldn’t look for more than two seconds.

I stumbled back, shaking.

That’s when I felt it.

A presence.

I thought it was another relative, another mourner—but then he spoke.

“It’s such a cruel way of dying,” he said calmly. “May she rest in peace.”

My blood went cold.

It was the same man.

This time, he wasn’t smiling. His face was neutral, almost respectful but his eyes were on me, not the coffin. Not Annie’s mother.

Me.

I froze.

He stepped past me and placed a comforting hand on Annie’s mother’s shoulder, murmuring words meant to soothe. I couldn’t hear them. My ears rang, my chest felt too tight to breathe.

I left the cemetery before my legs gave out.

I wasn’t strong enough for this. For the smell. For the truth. For him.

As I glanced back one last time, I saw him still standing there, consoling her gently.

But this time-

He was smiling.

And I knew.

It couldn’t be true.

…right?

Fear didn’t scream- it's settled.

[gloriousstarfishcoffee]

INK, SKIN AND SIN.

1. The Beginning of Want

Pairing Jeon jungkook!unknown identity x Reader!florist

To everyone who takes a moment to read my fics,thank you. Truly, Whether you’re here for the quiet moments, the darkness, the emotions, or just curiosity, your time means more than you know. Every read, every like, every silent pause where you stay till the end reminds me that these words didn’t exist only in my head they found a place with you. I’m still learning, still growing, and knowing that someone chose to step into my world makes all the uncertainty worth it. Thank you for being here, for feeling alongside me, and for giving my stories a chance 🤍

MDNI 🤍

“Welcome, mister,” she said for the eighth time that day.

The man standing opposite the booth inclined his head in a brief bow, his eyes lingering on the florist with unmistakable doubt. His presence felt heavy, as though the air itself had thickened around him.

“Where did Annie go?” he asked, his voice hoarse and low, worn down by something unspoken.

Instead of seeking for answer immediately, he reached out to the flowers. His fingers brushed the petals with a feather-light touch, reverent, almost intimate like someone who could smell through skin alone.

“She left her job,” the florist replied carefully. “Found a better one.”

For a moment, his brows furrowed, the sharp lines of suspicion cutting deeper into his face. Then, just as quickly, the tension eased. A slow, skeptical smile curved his lips, unsettling in its quiet certainty.

“Did she?” he said softly.

The florist looked at him with a hint of uncertainty lingering in her eyes.

“Um… are you perhaps looking for her,” she asked hesitantly, “or would you like to buy something?”

He smiled at her then slow, knowing almost as if he could smell her doubt in the air.

“Oh, darling,” he replied softly, the word slipping from his lips with unsettling ease. “I want flowers. It’s for someone’s funeral.”

The florist swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.

“Anything specific?” she asked, forcing professionalism into her voice.

“Tigers lilies,” he said.

She nodded at once and reached for the wrapping paper, her hands moving on instinct even as a quiet unease settled beneath her skin.

The man watched her as she wrapped the flowers, a small, unreadable smile resting on his lips.

“What’s your name,” he asked gently, “if I may?”

She placed the bouquet black paper folded neatly around the tiger lilies onto the counter before answering.

“It’s (Y/N), mister,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “That’ll be three dollars.”

His fingers brushed the edge of the counter as if reluctant to take the flowers , his gaze never quite leaving her face.

The sobbing was quiet almost comforting to him. It was the kind of sound that settled deep in his chest, the kind that made him urge to moan instead of recoil. Especially when it came from someone as beautiful as her.

She was another of his muses. The fourth, to be precise. Yet there was something about her that set her apart something raw in the way she cried, in the way she still struggled against him even as her strength gave out. Her hands thrashed weakly against his chest, but he only chuckled softly, unbothered, patient.

“Careful,” he murmured, his voice gentle, almost affectionate. “You’ll make me slip.”

He leaned closer, focused, deliberate, marking her skin as though it were paper meant only for his name. Two letters. Permanent in intention, if not yet in form.

She resisted, ungrateful for the honor, and that more than anything amused him.

“Stop moving,” he said calmly, a quiet warning wrapped in concern. “You don’t want me to get hurt, do you?” His head tilted, faux sympathy in his tone. “If something happens to me… who will take care of your body?”

A pause. Then softer, sweeter:

“Tell me, darling.”

Annie's POV

The sharp sensation against my skin was unbearable. It stole the air from my lungs, leaving me gasping, chest tight as panic closed in. I couldn’t breathe not properly, not with him so close. His breath brushed my neck, steady and calm, a cruel contrast to the misery unraveling inside me.

I couldn’t see him, but I could feel him his presence pressing in, surrounding me, impossible to escape. My tears slipped down silently, each one heavy with regret, as if my body was finally confessing what my mouth never had.

I should have turned him down.

Should have pushed him away the first time he reached for me.

Should have slapped his hand aside and walked away while I still could.

Now all I could do was lie there, drowning in the weight of choices I hadn’t made.

Then I heard his whisper, warm and cruel against my ear.

“Does your new coworker make you feel replaced?” he murmured, amusement lacing every word. “I wonder if she knows how fragile she looks. So untouched by men.” A soft chuckle followed. “She has that brightness people lose with time. It’s almost tempting.”

My stomach twisted as he continued, his voice lowering, savoring each thought.

“She was nervous when she first saw me,” he added. “That hesitation… it makes things interesting. I think she’ll run.” His smile widened, unmistakable even without seeing it. “And I do enjoy a long chase.”

He leaned closer, closing the distance until his breath brushed my lips, close enough to steal air but not quite touch.

Third person POV

The rain poured relentlessly, as though the sky itself were mourning the body before him. There he stood, unmoved beneath the downpour, a wide grin carved across his face as if grief were a private joke meant only for him.

Another muse lay still inside the coffin.

“You were with me for such a short while,” he murmured softly, tilting his head in mock sympathy. “But I suppose it was God’s plan.”

A quiet chuckle escaped him as he placed the tiger lilies atop the coffin petals wilted, their beauty drained after lingering too long in his care. The flowers suited the moment perfectly.

He straightened, eyes gleaming as his thoughts drifted elsewhere.

“Now,” he said to no one at all, “my pretty girl must be waiting for me sitting at her desk, the rain pounding down just outside.”

His smile widened as the rain continued to pour.

The rain hid his footprints, but not his intentions.

[gloriousstarfishcoffee]

INK, SKIN AND SIN.

1. The Beginning of Want

Pairing Jeon jungkook!unknown identity x Reader!florist

To everyone who takes a moment to read my fics,thank you. Truly, Whether you’re here for the quiet moments, the darkness, the emotions, or just curiosity, your time means more than you know. Every read, every like, every silent pause where you stay till the end reminds me that these words didn’t exist only in my head they found a place with you. I’m still learning, still growing, and knowing that someone chose to step into my world makes all the uncertainty worth it. Thank you for being here, for feeling alongside me, and for giving my stories a chance 🤍

MDNI 🤍

“Welcome, mister,” she said for the eighth time that day.

The man standing opposite the booth inclined his head in a brief bow, his eyes lingering on the florist with unmistakable doubt. His presence felt heavy, as though the air itself had thickened around him.

“Where did Annie go?” he asked, his voice hoarse and low, worn down by something unspoken.

Instead of seeking for answer immediately, he reached out to the flowers. His fingers brushed the petals with a feather-light touch, reverent, almost intimate like someone who could smell through skin alone.

“She left her job,” the florist replied carefully. “Found a better one.”

For a moment, his brows furrowed, the sharp lines of suspicion cutting deeper into his face. Then, just as quickly, the tension eased. A slow, skeptical smile curved his lips, unsettling in its quiet certainty.

“Did she?” he said softly.

The florist looked at him with a hint of uncertainty lingering in her eyes.

“Um… are you perhaps looking for her,” she asked hesitantly, “or would you like to buy something?”

He smiled at her then slow, knowing almost as if he could smell her doubt in the air.

“Oh, darling,” he replied softly, the word slipping from his lips with unsettling ease. “I want flowers. It’s for someone’s funeral.”

The florist swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.

“Anything specific?” she asked, forcing professionalism into her voice.

“Tigers lilies,” he said.

She nodded at once and reached for the wrapping paper, her hands moving on instinct even as a quiet unease settled beneath her skin.

The man watched her as she wrapped the flowers, a small, unreadable smile resting on his lips.

“What’s your name,” he asked gently, “if I may?”

She placed the bouquet black paper folded neatly around the tiger lilies onto the counter before answering.

“It’s (Y/N), mister,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “That’ll be three dollars.”

His fingers brushed the edge of the counter as if reluctant to take the flowers , his gaze never quite leaving her face.

The sobbing was quiet almost comforting to him. It was the kind of sound that settled deep in his chest, the kind that made him urge to moan instead of recoil. Especially when it came from someone as beautiful as her.

She was another of his muses. The fourth, to be precise. Yet there was something about her that set her apart something raw in the way she cried, in the way she still struggled against him even as her strength gave out. Her hands thrashed weakly against his chest, but he only chuckled softly, unbothered, patient.

“Careful,” he murmured, his voice gentle, almost affectionate. “You’ll make me slip.”

He leaned closer, focused, deliberate, marking her skin as though it were paper meant only for his name. Two letters. Permanent in intention, if not yet in form.

She resisted, ungrateful for the honor, and that more than anything amused him.

“Stop moving,” he said calmly, a quiet warning wrapped in concern. “You don’t want me to get hurt, do you?” His head tilted, faux sympathy in his tone. “If something happens to me… who will take care of your body?”

A pause. Then softer, sweeter:

“Tell me, darling.”

Annie's POV

The sharp sensation against my skin was unbearable. It stole the air from my lungs, leaving me gasping, chest tight as panic closed in. I couldn’t breathe not properly, not with him so close. His breath brushed my neck, steady and calm, a cruel contrast to the misery unraveling inside me.

I couldn’t see him, but I could feel him his presence pressing in, surrounding me, impossible to escape. My tears slipped down silently, each one heavy with regret, as if my body was finally confessing what my mouth never had.

I should have turned him down.

Should have pushed him away the first time he reached for me.

Should have slapped his hand aside and walked away while I still could.

Now all I could do was lie there, drowning in the weight of choices I hadn’t made.

Then I heard his whisper, warm and cruel against my ear.

“Does your new coworker make you feel replaced?” he murmured, amusement lacing every word. “I wonder if she knows how fragile she looks. So untouched by men.” A soft chuckle followed. “She has that brightness people lose with time. It’s almost tempting.”

My stomach twisted as he continued, his voice lowering, savoring each thought.

“She was nervous when she first saw me,” he added. “That hesitation… it makes things interesting. I think she’ll run.” His smile widened, unmistakable even without seeing it. “And I do enjoy a long chase.”

He leaned closer, closing the distance until his breath brushed my lips, close enough to steal air but not quite touch.

Third person POV

The rain poured relentlessly, as though the sky itself were mourning the body before him. There he stood, unmoved beneath the downpour, a wide grin carved across his face as if grief were a private joke meant only for him.

Another muse lay still inside the coffin.

“You were with me for such a short while,” he murmured softly, tilting his head in mock sympathy. “But I suppose it was God’s plan.”

A quiet chuckle escaped him as he placed the tiger lilies atop the coffin petals wilted, their beauty drained after lingering too long in his care. The flowers suited the moment perfectly.

He straightened, eyes gleaming as his thoughts drifted elsewhere.

“Now,” he said to no one at all, “my pretty girl must be waiting for me sitting at her desk, the rain pounding down just outside.”

His smile widened as the rain continued to pour.

The rain hid his footprints, but not his intentions.