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WC: 20k, unprotected sex, riding, wall sex, dirty talk, hair pulling, restrained during sex (all consensual), dark Jungkook (seems cruel at first but he gets much better)
The cruel prince who fell in love with his most prized possession: his siren
This is the same as my Jaehyun story, I made this a BTS ver! This is part 1, the rest is linked at the end
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The royal fleet glittered across the horizon, sails trimmed in gold, banners snapping in the salty wind. Every siren knew to hide when those ships came hunting—when the House of Jeon spread its nets across the sea. Their bloodline was feared, despised, for no siren’s song could bend them. Centuries of slaughter had bred immunity into the royal family veins. They hunted not for survival, but for sport, trophies of beauty stolen from the ocean’s daughters.
And today, they had caught one.
Y/N’s lungs burned as she sliced through the water, her heart thundering. She broke the surface just in time to hear the shouts of triumph, to see her younger sister tangled in enchanted nets that glowed with cruel runes. The girl thrashed, sobbing, her tail cut and raw from the rope’s bite.
“No!” Y/N’s scream tore from her throat, half-human, half-siren wail. She surged toward the massive flagship, claws ready to rend, but soldiers lined the rail, spears glinting, crossbows trained on her heart. And above them all—standing tall in his coat of deep navy trimmed with gold, a crown glinting faintly in the sun—was Prince Jungkook.
The Prince of the Seven Seas. Every tale had painted him as untouchable, cold as the steel he carried, with eyes that saw sirens as prey, not people.
Yet when Y/N’s gaze locked on him, she felt a jolt she couldn’t name. He was… devastating. Chestnut hair damp from sea spray, broad shoulders braced against the wind, lips curved in a smirk that was as lethal as the blade at his hip.
Jungkook lifted a hand, and his men fell back into silence. He regarded the caught siren as one might regard a rare jewel. “Beautiful,” he murmured, just loud enough to carry. “You creatures never cease to fascinate me.”
“Let her go!” Y/N cried, voice cracking, salt stinging her eyes. She swam closer, ignoring the spears that lowered to meet her. “Please—she’s young. She’s done nothing to you. Take me instead.”
Her sister gasped, struggling against the net. “Y/N, no! Don’t—don’t you dare—”
Jungkook’s smirk deepened. “How interesting.” He leaned over the railing, one hand braced against the polished wood, studying Y/N with a predator’s calm. “Two sirens. Offering themselves willingly. Why should I not take both?”
The soldiers laughed low, but the sound died when Jungkook’s smile faltered. For the first time, his expression shifted—not mocking, not cold, but… startled. Because Y/N’s face was raw with emotion, her eyes shimmering with worry, terror, love. Not the hollow seduction every siren was known for. Not the mask of temptation they wore when they lured men to their deaths.
Something human.
Something he’d never seen before.
Jungkook straightened, voice colder now. “No… not both.” His gaze lingered on her, unreadable. “Just you.”
The order rang like a sentence. The net around her sister loosened, glowing threads slipping back into the water. The girl fell into the sea with a gasp, coughing, clutching her arms around herself.
“No!” she screamed, thrashing toward Y/N. “No, no, no! Don’t do this! Don’t you dare leave me!”
Tears blurred Y/N’s vision as soldiers lowered a rope ladder into the waves beside her. Jungkook’s eyes stayed locked on hers, sharp as blades, unyielding as stone.
“Climb,” he said softly. “Or my mercy ends here.”
And as her sister sobbed, begging, clawing at the waves, Y/N placed a trembling hand on the ladder. For her sister. For love.
Even if it meant walking straight into the lion’s den.
The deck was silent save for the ocean’s hiss against the hull. Y/N stood dripping in the center, shoulders squared despite the trembling in her chest. Her sister’s sobs echoed faintly over the waves, carried farther and farther away as the ship pulled from her reach.
Jungkook circled her slowly, boots tapping against wet planks. His eyes roamed her as if she were a treasure unearthed—gleaming, priceless, his by right. The smile that tugged at his mouth was sharp, a boyish cruelty tempered by curiosity.
“Yes…” His voice was low, velvet wrapping steel. “You’re just my type.”
Y/N glared at him through her tears, every muscle tight with rage. If only my charms could reach you, I’d drag you into the sea myself.
He smirked at her defiance, stepping closer until she had to tilt her chin up to hold his gaze. “I think I’ll keep you.”
She hissed under her breath, but before she could spit words at him, Jungkook snapped his fingers. His men moved like clockwork. “Take her to a guest quarter,” he ordered, voice carrying the weight of command. “And set sail for home.”
The word home sent a shiver down her spine. His home—the place where he would cage her.
The journey was blurred, the sea stretching endless around them. And then, towering on the horizon, she saw it: his private castle, perched on a jagged cliff, its black stone walls jutting against the sky. It loomed like a predator’s den, unreachable by land, guarded by fleets. A prison fit for royalty.
She was led inside under heavy guard, her bare feet echoing against the marble floors. No one dared meet her gaze; every servant bowed their head, fearful of what she was. They all knew a siren’s song could undo them.
But Jungkook? He was immune.
And he reminded her of it with every step.
When the doors to his private chambers shut, silence pressed down, thick as chains. He leaned against the carved bedpost, arms folded, watching her like a puzzle he was eager to solve.
“Well,” he drawled, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “Since I’m the only one who can’t fall under your spell… looks like I’ll be the one to take care of you. Can't have you slaughtering my staff with your song.”
Y/N’s breath hitched, fury and despair tangling in her chest. “Why?” she demanded, her voice raw. “Why aren’t you killing me? Why drag me here—why not just end it and be done?”
For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Then Jungkook pushed off the post and crossed the space between them. His hand lifted—slow, deliberate—and brushed against her damp cheek.
The warmth of his palm was shocking, almost gentle. Y/N flinched, leaning away, but he followed the movement, fingers grazing her skin as if committing her to memory.
“Kill you?” he murmured, dimples flashing in a smile that held no mercy. “No. That would be too easy and boring.”
Her heart pounded, each beat screaming against her chest as his thumb lingered beneath her jaw.
“I have bigger plans for you,” Jungkook said softly. “Much bigger.”
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The chamber door creaked open, and Y/N’s shoulders stiffened though she didn’t lift her gaze. She sat perched on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped tight across her chest, staring at the wall as though it could carry her back to the sea.
A tray clinked softly as Jungkook set it down on the table—roast pheasant, bread still steaming, goblets of wine catching firelight. The scent filled the room, but Y/N didn’t so much as glance at it.
“You should eat,” he said, settling into the chair across from her with the ease of a man perfectly at home. He carved into his meal with slow precision, the scrape of knife on plate loud in the silence.
Y/N kept her eyes fixed stubbornly away, jaw tight.
Jungkook took a leisurely bite, chewed, swallowed. “Suit yourself.”
Minutes dragged, filled only with the sound of him eating. Finally, Y/N’s lips moved, the word low, venomous, but he heard it.
“Creep.”
The knife paused mid-air. Then, to her shock, a laugh burst from him—deep, rich, amused. His dimples carved into his cheeks as he shook his head.
“I knew there was something about you,” he said, eyes glinting. “Fire, even in chains.”
Her glare cut toward him at last, but he only leaned back, drinking her in like she was far finer than any wine in his cellars. Then he stood, brushing his hands clean.
“Eat before it gets cold,” he said, smirk tugging at his lips. “You’ll need your strength.”
The door shut behind him, leaving the tray untouched.
By morning, the meal still sat on the table, cold and congealed. Y/N was curled on the bed, finally surrendered to exhaustion, her breath soft and even.
Jungkook entered quietly, expecting defiance—but instead he was met with the sight of her in repose. The light spilling through the tall windows caressed her skin, making it glow like pearl. Her long lashes rested against her cheeks, lips parted slightly in sleep, full and temptingly soft. The rise and fall of her chest drew his gaze lower—to the swell of her breasts beneath thin fabric, the curve of her waist, the line of her hips that spoke of sin.
Heat coiled low in his gut. His jaw tightened, teeth grinding as his trousers grew uncomfortably tight.
He dragged his eyes away, every muscle wound taut.
Damn her.
Without a word, he turned on his heel and left the chamber, the door shutting hard behind him.
But even as he walked away, the image of her lingered—burning, relentless.
The next day, Y/N was led to a different chamber. The moment the doors swung open, she froze.
It was vast, sunlight streaming through glass domes high above. In the center stretched an enormous pool carved from marble, water shimmering like liquid sapphire. It wasn’t the open sea, but it was deep enough, wide enough, that her legs twitched involuntarily at the sight of it, already wanting her tail to emerge.
Her heart clenched.
A tank.
Jungkook appeared at her side, hands clasped behind his back as though unveiling some priceless treasure. “You’ll want your strength back,” he said smoothly. “Thought you might prefer something… familiar.”
Her throat tightened. For a moment—just a moment—she wanted to throw herself into the water, to forget the stone walls, the chains, the fact that she was still his prisoner. But the reminder came sharp and fast: He’s cruel. He hunts your kind. He doesn’t give without reason.
She turned her glare on him. “I hope you don’t expect a thank you.”
Jungkook’s lips curved into that insufferable smirk. “I don’t need one.”
But when he gestured, guards stepped aside, and she slid into the pool, her body relaxed against her will, legs morphing into her tail. The water cradled her, cool and soothing, and for the first time since capture, her muscles eased. She swam—fast, graceful arcs, hair streaming behind her, scales catching the light.
It felt almost like freedom.
Until she noticed him.
Jungkook had made himself comfortable in a chair at the water’s edge, legs spread in a display of lazy authority. One hand held a crystal glass, the other propped beneath his chin. He wasn’t speaking, wasn’t taunting—just watching. Watching her.
Her strokes faltered. She had seen many looks in men’s eyes—hunger, greed, fear—but never this one.
Lust.
Heat rose in her cheeks before she could smother it. She ducked beneath the surface, but the moment she surfaced again, his gaze was still locked on her, darker, hungrier. She wrapped her arms around herself, the sudden weight of awareness pressing down on her.
Remember where you are, she told herself fiercely. Remember what he is. He’s cruel. He didn’t give this to you out of kindness. You’re an object to him—nothing more.
But her body betrayed her. Her pulse raced, her skin flushed, and her fangs slid down unbidden with the surge of emotion she couldn’t cage.
A small sound left her throat—half warning, half shame.
Jungkook’s lips curved, slow and dangerous. He set his glass aside, stood, and stepped closer to the pool.
The smirk said everything: he had seen it too.
And though she hated him, though every fiber of her soul screamed that she despised him, her body burned with a response she couldn’t deny.
The water rippled as Y/N pulled herself from the pool, droplets sliding down her bare skin. Her tail shimmered, splitting, reshaping until legs replaced scales, slick and perfect beneath the dim light. She stood tall, chin lifted, hair dripping down her shoulders like a dark waterfall.
Jungkook’s gaze lingered, and she felt the heat of it like a touch. Too much. Too close. She needed to remindhim who she was—not some caged pet.
Her lips parted, and the sound began, low and melodic. A siren’s song, honey and venom, a melody meant to unravel men at their core. Her voice curled through the air, shimmering like silk.
Jungkook’s lazy smile widened, and he stepped forward, unhurried, as if savoring her desperation. “You know that pretty little song won’t work on me,” he murmured, voice dipping into a taunt. His eyes gleamed, chestnut and dangerous. “It never will.”
Her chest heaved with rage, humiliation burning her throat. Before he could smirk another word, she lurched forward.
Her fangs sank into his bottom lip.
Jungkook hissed, a sharp groan tearing from his chest as her teeth pierced flesh, the copper taste of his blood mixing with the salt of the sea still clinging to her. He staggered back, hand flying to his mouth, crimson smearing across his knuckles.
For a breath, his eyes blazed with fury. And then—slowly, shockingly—that fury bled into something darker. Something hungry.
His tongue swept across the split in his lip, tasting his own blood, and the sound that left him was not anger. It was a low, guttural groan that made her stomach twist.
The door slammed open. A guard stormed in, spear raised, his face pale. “Your Highness!” His weapon leveled at Y/N, ready to strike.
“OUT!” Jungkook’s roar shook the chamber. His eyes snapped to the soldier, murder in his voice. “Do not touch her. GET OUT!”
The man faltered, grip tightening on his weapon. And that’s when Y/N’s smile finally returned.
Her song spilled out again, softer this time, curling around the guard like smoke. His eyes glazed, muscles slackening as the melody took hold. Slowly—inevitably—his spear turned.
Toward Jungkook.
Y/N’s smirk widened, satisfaction sweet on her tongue. Finally, power.
Finally, a reminder that she wasn’t helpless.
And the way Jungkook looked at her in that moment—blood on his lips, chest rising with sharp breaths, eyes alight with fury and desire—made it terrifyingly clear:
He liked it.
The guard’s spear remained fixed on Jungkook’s chest, his eyes glassy beneath Y/N’s thrall. For the first time since her capture, she tasted victory, tasted the sweet burn of power returning to her veins.
Jungkook didn’t flinch.
Instead, he lowered himself back into his chair, legs spreading wide, his posture dripping with arrogance. He leaned an elbow against the armrest, lips tugging into a half-smirk despite the blood drying on his mouth.
“Go ahead,” he drawled, utterly unbothered. “Put him to work. Drive the blade through me.” His eyes glinted darkly. “But the moment you do, my fleet has orders to find your sister. Who knows what they'll do to her? I don't think they'll be as nice as I was.”
Y/N’s breath caught, her smirk faltering. The triumphant high drained from her face, leaving her pale, trembling.
He saw it. He savored it.
Jungkook rose slowly, closing the distance between them with deliberate steps. She backed away, but he only reached out, fingers weaving through her wet hair. His touch was almost tender, almost human. Almost.
A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it.
“Let him go, gorgeous,” he whispered against her ear, the warmth of his breath crawling down her skin. His tone was coaxing, intimate—like a lover’s plea instead of a command. “Let’s not get messy.”
Y/N’s chest heaved, every part of her screaming not to give in. But the thought of her sister—her only family left—shattered what strength she had. With a broken sound, she released her grip on the guard’s mind.
The soldier blinked, confused, and Jungkook’s voice snapped like a whip: “Get out.”
The door slammed shut behind him, leaving silence thick as tar.
Y/N shoved Jungkook with all her strength, her voice cracking into a shriek. “I hate you!”
He didn’t stumble, only let the push glance off him. His eyes narrowed, but his smirk returned. “I’ll bring you lunch,” he said smoothly, as if she hadn’t just tried to bite him, as if she hadn’t just sobbed in front of him. “And you’d better eat it.”
Then he turned and left, the lock clicking in place.
Y/N collapsed to the floor, knees giving out beneath her. The sobs tore free, loud and raw, her tears spilling into her hands. For all her strength, all her fire, she had never felt so powerless.
Not against nets. Not against hunters.
But against him.
The heavy oak door clicked shut behind him, muffling her sobs. For a moment, Jungkook stood in the corridor, knuckles flexing at his sides. He should have been furious—he wasthe crown prince, heir to a fleet that spanned seas, and she’d dared to sink her fangs into his skin like he was prey.
Instead, he walked into the marble-tiled washroom and caught sight of himself in the mirror.
A smear of crimson glistened at the corner of his mouth, dripping from the neat puncture her fangs had carved into his bottom lip. He dragged his thumb across it, smearing the blood, testing the sting. The coppery taste lingered on his tongue when he licked it away.
He should have been angry. He should have stormed back into that chamber and taught her what it meant to wound royalty.
But all he could do was laugh under his breath, low and sharp.
Her. That infuriating, dangerous, gorgeous creature.
She didn’t listen—but she did. She bent, she broke, but only when he pressed exactly right. She’d risked her own life just to see him bleed, and yet, when he threatened her sister, she folded instantly.
The contrast thrilled him.
He leaned closer to the mirror, tilting his head to admire the wound. His lips curved into a dark smile. Every defiance of hers only made him want her more. He loved the control he had, the way her spirit buckled under his will. But the truth that twisted deeper, that unsettled him more, was this: he also loved when she didn’tobey. When she struck, when she bared her teeth, when she glared at him as though she’d rather tear out his throat than let him touch her.
He knew capturing a siren would be entertaining. He hadn’t expected this.
And of all the myths about her kind—beauty, allure, danger—nothing could have prepared him for her. She was the most stunning thing he’d ever laid eyes on. A goddess dragged out of the sea and caged just for him.
When she had offered herself to him willingly that first night, voice trembling but body yielding, he’d felt like a king already. Like he had struck gold in the deepest trench, claimed something no other man had ever dreamed of holding.
But he couldn’t let himself be distracted. Not entirely. There was more at play than his fascination, than his desire clawing hotly at the edges of his restraint.
She hadn’t come onto his ship by accident.
She was here for a reason, she had a purpose to serve for him.
Jungkook dabbed at his lip with a cloth, smirk still fixed.
“Oh, gorgeous,” he muttered to the empty room, voice thick with amusement. “You’ll be the death of me.”
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The clink of silver on porcelain echoed in the room as Jungkook set the dinner tray down on the small table beside her tank. His eyes flicked once to the untouched plate from lunch—meat going gray, bread gone stiff—before landing squarely back on her.
“You’re still not eating,” he said, voice soft, but heavy with unspoken warning.
Y/N lay draped along the curve of the tank’s glass, legs instead of a tail tonight, wet hair clinging to her shoulders. She didn’t bother looking at him, only picked at the seam of the cushion beneath her fingernails.
He should’ve been furious. Instead, Jungkook smirked and leaned his hip lazily against the table.
“There’s going to be a celebration,” he said, watching her carefully. “My family’s idea, not mine. Word spreads fast when the crown prince captures his first siren.”
That got her attention. Her eyes snapped to his, burning.
“A celebration?” she repeated, her voice sharp enough to cut. “What are you going to do—parade me around like some… some animal in a cage?”
Jungkook’s smile widened, dimples flashing, though there was no humor in his gaze. “Exactly that. The court is thrilled. Most of them have never seen a siren in the flesh. They’re eager.”
Y/N scoffed, rolling her eyes, but her voice dripped venom. “I’ll kill them all with my song before they get a chance.”
For a moment, Jungkook only stared at her, as if daring her to follow through. Then, slowly, his tongue brushed his lower lip—right over the faint scab where her fangs had pierced him.
“Alright,” he said, almost casually, like it amused him. “Then I’ll gag you. Shackle you to me.”
He leaned just close enough that she caught the warmth of his breath against her damp skin. His voice dropped low, dangerous and intimate.
“Can’t say I haven’t imagined that.”
And then he straightened, turned on his heel, and strode out, boots striking the stone floor with calm finality. The door shut behind him with a heavy thud.
For a long moment, Y/N sat frozen, her heart slamming against her ribs. Her mind screamed at her to push away the heat that flushed across her cheeks, to ignore the shiver that had chased down her spine at his words.
But she knew exactly what he meant.
And she hated—hated—the way her body betrayed her for even a second.
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The hall glowed with golden light, chandeliers spilling fire across the polished stone floor. Music played low, drowned by the murmurs of nobles gathering, each eager to glimpse the prize their prince had brought home.
Y/N sat bound, gagged, cuffed behind her back, the chains biting into her wrists as she squirmed against them. She moaned low in her throat, testing the strength of the cuffs. Solid. Unyielding. She was stuck.
Her seat had been set beside Jungkook’s at the head of the long table, as if she were some decorated consort. But when his eyes flicked to her, he frowned. He didn’t like how it looked—her on display, too separate, too distant.
Without hesitation, he slid a strong hand around her waist and hauled her across the narrow space, settling her firmly on his lap.
Y/N gasped, jerking her head toward him in shock. Her wet hair brushed his jaw, her eyes wide, fury and fear swirling inside them. Jungkook only pressed her hips down harder against him, both hands firm, anchoring her in place.
“Shh,” he murmured, voice low enough for only her to hear. “Relax. We’ll be here for hours—you’d better get comfortable.”
She wriggled, moaning angrily behind the gag, testing every angle of resistance. But his grip didn’t budge. He was warm beneath her, solid in a way that made her too aware of his body—his chest rising steady against her back, his thighs beneath her, the faint scent of sea salt and steel clinging to him.
Finally, with no point left in fighting, she slumped against him. Defeated for now, but burning inside.
Jungkook’s eyes flickered down at her as she settled unwillingly against him. She felt too much. The shape of her pressed to him, the heat of her skin, the way her breath caught when she realized there was no escape. He cleared his throat roughly, dragging his gaze to the doors as they opened.
His parents were the first to arrive.
The queen glided in first—young-faced, ageless in a way that chilled more than charmed, her eyes flat, devoid of warmth. The king followed, older, weariness etched into the lines of his face. Sovereignty had softened him and wore him down more than it sharpened him.
They stopped before their son, surveying the bound siren on his lap.
“Well done,” the king said, voice hoarse but regal. “Your first capture.” His eyes lingered on Y/N’s flushed face. “And a beautiful one, at that.”
Y/N’s nostrils flared, eyes flashing as a low hiss tore through the gag.
The queen laughed, delighted. “Feisty, just like her kind.”
Jungkook smirked faintly, resting his chin close enough to her damp hair that only she felt the brush of it. “Feisty, yes,” he echoed, squeezing her hip when she jerked against him.
His parents nodded approvingly, their gaze more on him than her. “Enjoy your night, son. We’ll be mingling with the others,” the queen said, her voice trailing like silk before they turned away.
The moment they left, Y/N twisted her head, glaring up at Jungkook. His grip stayed firm, the smirk lingering at the corner of his mouth.
She could feel his heart beating against her spine. Too steady. Too calm.
And worst of all—too close.
The room had blurred into a sea of faces, laughter, and clinking goblets. Y/N sat on Jungkook’s lap like an ornament, zoning out as yet another guest leaned in, congratulating the prince on his prize. She tuned it all out—their gawking stares, their whispered fascination. All she heard was his deep voice rumbling just behind her ear, too close, too steady. All she felt was the weight of his body pressed solidly against hers.
Until she arrived.
A young woman glided forward, painted lips parted in a smile, her gaze locked onto Jungkook with shameless intent. She didn’t spare Y/N so much as a glance. Her hand brushed Jungkook’s arm as she leaned closer, laughter soft and flirty.
Y/N sat perfectly still. Unbothered. Until she caught the way the woman’s eyes lingered on him—hungry, bold. Something hot and violent snapped inside her chest.
Before she could think, Y/N lunged forward with a sharp hiss, eyes blazing, the gag muffling her growl. The woman shrieked and stumbled back.
In an instant, Jungkook’s hand clamped around Y/N’s neck, hauling her back against him, holding her firm.
“Forgive her,” he chuckled smoothly, dimples flashing as though nothing had happened. “Harmless.”
The woman’s frightened smile faltered, and she quickly disappeared back into the crowd.
The second she was gone, his lips brushed against Y/N’s ear, his voice a harsh whisper. “What the fuck was that?”
Y/N sighed through her nose and slumped against him again, refusing to answer.
Jungkook’s hands slid slowly down to her hips, his thumbs stroking absent circles over the thin fabric clinging to her body. His restraint slipped. She heard it in the way his voice cracked low, under his breath—raw and unguarded.
“Fuck.”
Her head turned, eyes flicking to his face. His gaze wasn’t on her. It was lower—fixed where her body pressed hard into his lap.
His jaw clenched, but his voice came out cool, collected, even as his grip tightened. “Stop fucking moving… unless you want me to take you to my bedroom.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. She froze instantly, body stiff, chest rising quick against his.
And right then, another guest approached, smiling wide, oblivious. Jungkook pasted on his charming grin like a mask, answering smoothly as though his blood wasn’t burning beneath the surface.
Y/N adjusted her legs slightly, trying to sit more comfortably—but then it hit her. A pulse, hot and undeniable, between her thighs. Her body betrayed her, pussy throbbing against the hardness beneath her.
She froze again, mortified.
And then she felt it—the way he froze too. The slight hitch in his breath. His hands clamped down on her hips, no longer stroking gently but holding tight, unyielding.
The air between them grew molten, every second stretched taut as a bowstring.
She didn’t dare move again. Neither did he.
But they both knew.
The party ended with a crack of his voice, low and sharp across the hall.
“That’s enough. Out.”
Gasps rippled, murmurs swelling as nobles glanced nervously at one another. Jungkook didn’t explain further, only added, “I’m not feeling well.”
Concerned words chased him—“Your Highness, rest well,” “We’ll pray for your health”—but no one dared protest. One by one, velvet skirts and polished boots swept out of the chamber. When the last guest was gone, Jungkook turned to the staff, his expression stony.
“Leave us.”
They scurried out. The heavy doors slammed shut. Silence fell.
It was only them now.
He leaned back in his chair, gaze piercing into her bound form. “Don’t try anything,” he warned softly, “for your sister’s sake.”
Then his hand shot forward, ripping the gag away.
Y/N coughed hard, spittle dripping from her lips, trailing down her chin and onto his thighs where she still straddled him. She wiped at her mouth with her shoulder, glaring at him through glassy eyes.
Jungkook stood abruptly, gripping her as though she weighed nothing. He set her down on the long table where moments ago nobles had dined. Their faces were close now, level, her wrists still cuffed behind her.
His eyes burned into hers. “What the fuck are you up to?”
“Nothing.” Her voice was hoarse, but her glare sharp enough to cut.
He leaned closer, nose almost brushing hers. “Do you feel it too?”
Her breath hitched. “What?”
“The heat,” he murmured, eyes dipping lower. “Between your legs. Between us.”
Her spine stiffened, shame and anger colliding inside her. “I have no clue what you’re talking about. You’re crazy.”
Jungkook chuckled, deep and rumbling in his chest, vibrating through her bones. His gaze swept down the line of her body, lingering where she pulsed against the thin fabric. “Mhmm.”
The sound made her dizzy. Also maybe the lack of food she's had lately. Her knees wobbled, and before she could stop herself she was clutching at his shoulders for balance, his warmth steadying her.
“You need to eat something,” he said, quieter now, almost gentle.
He reached behind her, snatching his plate from where it still sat cooling. Dipping a piece of bread into his soup, he held it up. She blinked at him, dazed, like she didn't really know what was going on. Then she parted her lips enough to take the bite. The taste was warm, unfamiliar.
She leaned against his shoulder, exhausted, while he fed her slowly, bite after bite.
Jungkook looked down at her and froze. Her lashes brushed her cheeks, eyes fluttering shut as she chewed sluggishly, her body slumping further into him like she couldn’t fight the pull of sleep.
Something inside him clenched. He had never done anything like this—feeding someone, especially from his plate, holding them close not as a trophy, but as… something else.Something far more dangerous.
He didn’t stop until her breathing evened, her body gone slack with exhaustion. Carefully, he scooped her up into his arms. She nestled unconsciously against his chest as he carried her back to her chamber.
When he laid her down, her hair fanned across the pillow, lips parted slightly in sleep. He stood there for a moment, watching her chest rise and fall, before retreating to his own room.
The shower scalded his skin, steam filling the chamber. He braced one arm against the wall, water beating down on his broad shoulders. His other hand wrapped around himself, stroking hard and fast as he bit his already wounded lip.
He remembered her squirming in his lap, the way she hissed at the noblewoman, the sound of her muffled moans. He remembered the pulse of her pussy against him, undeniable, and the raw hunger in himself when she bit him.
His jaw locked as he came hard, groaning low, forehead pressed to the tile. The steam carried his ragged breaths, the taste of her still fresh on his tongue.
And when it was over, the thought hit him, sharp and unwelcome—
He wanted her. Not just to own. Not just to tame. He wanted all of her.
-----------
Y/N woke to the soft golden light streaming through the tall windows. For the first time since she’d been dragged here, her body felt rested. Fed. Stronger. She stretched slowly on the silken sheets, but the memory came rushing back—her legs trembling, her vision blurring, and Jungkook’s hand holding bread to her lips, his shoulder steady beneath her cheek.
Her heart fluttered in betrayal. She clenched her fists. No. He was cruel. A prince raised on the suffering of her kind. She could not forget that. Her body might react, but her heart and mind would not bend.
Slipping from the bed, she let her legs give way to water again, diving into the tank with relief. The cool embrace soothed her skin. She closed her eyes, imagined the endless expanse of the open sea, her sister’s laughter echoing nearby. For a few blissful moments, she could almost forget the cage of stone and glass around her.
The heavy door creaked open.
She surfaced, water dripping down her hair and cheeks. Jungkook stepped in, setting a tray down on the table. He looked different this morning—tired, shadows under his eyes, his jaw tight.
Y/N hooked her arms over the edge of the tank, chin resting on her wrist as she watched him. Her gaze followed his every move, unblinking.
He raised a brow, meeting her stare. “What?”
Instead of answering, she pushed herself up and climbed out. Water cascaded down her legs as they formed, droplets running down her skin. She walked slowly toward him, her steps deliberate.
Jungkook didn’t move. He only stood there, watching her approach, like a storm he chose not to dodge.
“How long do you plan on keeping me?” she asked finally, her voice low but sharp. “A couple months? Years? Forever? Until you get bored?”
He shrugged, casual in a way that infuriated her. “When I feel like it.”
Her lip curled as she scoffed. “You're so...heartless. Cruel. Keeping me here like this… You have no idea what it means to love someone. To protect them.”
For the first time, his expression cracked. His eyes darkened, the muscles in his jaw flexing.
“You have no clue what you’re talking about,” he snapped.
And without another word, he spun on his heel and stormed out, the heavy slam of the door rattling the walls.
Y/N stood there dripping, her chest heaving.
For once, she wasn’t sure if she had struck a nerve… or if she had just uncovered one.
-------------
Jungkook sat in the dining hall, untouched cutlery resting against porcelain, his gaze distant. He pushed food around his plate more than he ate it, thoughts circling like vultures.
“Your Highness?” a timid voice interrupted. One of the staff hovered near, concern etched on her face. “Are you… quite alright?”
“I’m fine,” he said flatly, lifting his glass, though his mind was anything but.
The storm outside grumbled faintly, a warning in the distance. “If you were planning to visit the King as you usually do today” the staff added carefully, “I would advise against it. The weather looks ready to break.”
Jungkook’s jaw ticked. He nodded once. “I’ll be in my chambers all day. No interruptions.”
But as soon as she left, his chair scraped back sharply against the floor.
He wasn’t staying.
Still, he didn’t trust Y/N. Not alone, not even with her tank. He’d seen the fire in her eyes, the stubborn will coiled beneath her skin.
So he went to her room.
She surfaced at the sound of the door, wary, dripping as she leaned over the tank’s edge. Her lips parted, a retort on her tongue, but Jungkook pressed a finger to his own.
“Quiet,” he ordered. “We’re going on a trip.”
Her brows furrowed in alarm, climbing out of the tank to dry herself. But before she could speak, the cold metal of cuffs snapped around her wrists behind her back. His grip slid to her waist, firm and unyielding, guiding her out through the hidden side passage of the palace.
The air outside was heavy, clouds bruised and low.
At the stables, Jungkook’s hand brushed along the flank of his favorite stallion. “Misty,” he murmured. The horse nickered, his breath warm and damp against Y/N’s bare arm as Jungkook fetched the saddle.
She froze—stiff as coral—eyes wide.
Misty pressed closer, brushing his nose against her ribs with unusual gentleness. Y/N’s head turned, meeting the animal’s dark gaze. Her breath hitched. Something passed between them—recognition, kindred strangeness. Both bound to serve the whims of humans. Both powerful in their own right.
Jungkook returned, clearing his throat sharply at the sight. “Enough.” His voice was rougher than usual. He fitted the saddle quickly, then caught Y/N around the waist. She gasped when he lifted her effortlessly, placing her astride Misty as though she weighed nothing.
Her bound hands clutched uselessly behind her, body tense.
Jungkook swung up behind her, the heat of his chest pressing firm into her back. His lips brushed close to her ear.
“Don’t mess with me. Stay still”
The stallion shifted beneath them. The storm cracked in the distance. And together, they rode out.
The ride turned into torture.
Jungkook’s arms bracketed her tightly, one hand on the reins, the other keeping her steady. But she jostled against him with every stride of Misty’s hooves. Her bound wrists pressed into his ribs, her body bouncing against his lap.
He clenched his jaw, eyes dropping despite himself. Her breasts moved with each shift, the soft rise and fall pulling at his focus until his grip tightened involuntarily. Worse—her hips rolled back with every stride, her ass grinding against the very part of him he least wanted her to touch.
A curse burned his tongue.
Jungkook dipped his head before he could think better of it, his lips hovering at the delicate curve of her neck. He inhaled deeply, drowning in her salt-sweet scent, something wild and untamed beneath it all.
Y/N gasped. He felt it tremble through her throat. And then—damn her—her body leaned, tilting her head, offering him more space as though it were instinct.
His pulse thundered.
Then a cold raindrop hit his cheek. Another. The drizzle snapped him out of it.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, yanking the reins. Misty surged forward into a gallop, wind whipping past them.
Ten minutes later, the towering silhouette of his parents’ castle rose from the mist, the storm pressing at their heels. By the time they reached the stables, both were damp but not soaked, stray strands of hair sticking to their temples.
Jungkook swung down first, boots crunching against stone, then seized Y/N by the waist, dragging her down with him. Her legs wobbled from the ride, but his hand didn’t release until he shoved her ahead of him through the castle corridors.
“Behave,” he ordered in a low growl, steering her into his childhood chamber.
The heavy oak door slammed shut. The key scraped. She was locked inside.
Jungkook exhaled once, hard, trying to steady himself before going to face his father.
Y/N prowled around the room as best she could with her wrists still bound behind her. Jungkook’s chambers were larger than she expected—rich carpets muffling her steps, polished wood gleaming, the faint smell of sea salt and steel clinging to the air. She leaned against shelves, nudging objects closer with her shoulder until something caught her eye.
A framed portrait.
She shuffled closer and bent awkwardly, squinting at the image. A family, stiff and regal, but her gaze fixed on the boy in the middle. Jungkook—years younger, barely more than a toddler, his grin all dimples and crooked teeth, a light in his eyes that made him look… pure. Unspoiled.
Her chest tightened. How had this sweet child grown into the cruel, arrogant prince who bound her wrists and kept her like a prize?
Annoying. Arrogant. Sexy.
The thought struck her like lightning, heat rising to her face. She shook her head violently. No. She needed to come to her senses.
Exhaling sharply, Y/N backed away and climbed onto his bed. The sheets smelled like him—clean linen and something darker, richer. She closed her eyes, telling herself it was only to rest, only to shut out the ache in her chest.
Down the hall, Jungkook sat across from his father. The older man looked weary, lines etching his once-proud face, but his eyes still held a gleam when Jungkook asked quietly,
“What did you do with your first siren?”
A laugh rumbled from the King’s chest. “Don’t tell your mother, but she was almost like my first love. Obsessed, I was. Couldn’t stop thinking about her. But… eventually you grow bored. You’ll want a new one. Or a few more, to add to the collection.”
Jungkook forced a smile, weak and hollow. He couldn’t imagine boredom—not with her.
He rose, bowing respectfully. “I bid you good health, Father. How do you feel lately?"
"I'm fine son, don't worry about me. Same old Same old." The King smiled at him.
When he finally returned to his chamber, the sight stopped him cold. Y/N lay curled in his bed, wrists still bound, her face softened by sleep. Vulnerable. Trusting, even if it was only exhaustion dragging her under.
He leaned against the doorframe, eyes tracing the gentle rise and fall of her chest, then tipped his head back to stare at the carved ceiling beams.
Why did the thought of letting her go already feel unbearable, when he had only just taken her?
He could keep her forever, lock her away until her song belonged only to him.
But if he did… would she hate him forever?
He wasn’t so sure.
-------------
The rain was relentless now—sheets of water lashing against the trees, the sky cracking with thunder. Misty whinnied, jerking beneath the reins, and Jungkook’s voice cut through the storm, low and steady.
“Easy, boy. Easy.”
But the stallion wouldn’t settle, eyes wild with fear. With no choice, Jungkook pulled them toward the nearest shelter: a weathered cabin tucked in the woods, its roof sagging but sturdy enough to keep out the downpour. He slid off, tying Misty to the post under the covered awning until the horse finally stilled.
Then he turned, reaching up with strong hands to lift Y/N down. She landed against him, her wrists still bound behind her, her body trembling from the cold rain soaking her skin through one of Jungkook's button up shirts.
Jungkook’s white silk shirt clung to him, nearly translucent, revealing the hard planes of his chest beneath. His dark hair dripped down his sharp jawline, his expression unreadable.
Inside, the cabin was almost bare—just a table, a single sofa chair, and a counter lined with cobwebs. It smelled of dust and wood rot, a place abandoned long ago.
Jungkook sighed, running a hand through his wet hair before sinking into the lone chair. He stretched his legs, water dripping from his clothes onto the floorboards.
Y/N stood there, shivering, arms tense behind her. She scoffed, her voice sharp despite the tremor in it.
“Of course. The prince takes the only seat. Why am I not surprised?”
His gaze lifted, dark and heavy, pinning her where she stood. “Not now.”
But she didn’t stop. She never stopped. “You’ve always had everything, haven’t you? The ship, the castle, the staff to wait on you hand and foot. You don’t know a thing about the world. About—”
In one sudden motion, he leaned forward, grabbed her waist, and pulled her down onto his lap.
She gasped, her body going rigid as she landed across his thighs. His arm wrapped around her middle, holding her steady.
“What the hell are you doing?” she hissed, twisting against him.
“You complained there was nowhere to sit,” Jungkook murmured, voice low against her ear. “Now you’re sitting. So be quiet.”
“I—You can’t just tell me to be quiet,” she snapped, glaring at him.
He let out a groan, leaning his head back against the chair, eyes closing like she was driving him insane. The muscles of his jaw ticked as her weight shifted in his lap, the damp heat of her body pressed close against him.
Y/N’s pulse hammered in her throat. She should’ve been seething. She should’ve been clawing to get away. But the sight of him like this—drenched, silk plastered to his skin, dark lashes lowering over eyes gone heavy-lidded—stirred something dangerous inside her.
Every second sitting on him, feeling the flex of his thighs beneath her and the steady burn of his grip at her waist, pulled her deeper into the very tension she swore she’d never give into.
And Jungkook… he felt it too.
His hand shot out like lightning, fingers biting into her hip. His eyes snapped open, black fire flashing as he growled,
“Stop fucking moving.”
But Y/N was done. Done with his orders, his rules, his smirk that always said he had the upper hand. Done with him thinking he could cage her, command her, control her.
Her gaze locked into his, daring, unblinking. And then—deliberately, sensually—she rolled her hips again, slow and taunting, dragging against the hard line beneath her.
Jungkook’s jaw clenched, and before she could even blink, his fist curled around her collar. He yanked her forward so hard her breath hitched, her mouth crashing dangerously close to his. Their noses brushed, lips a breath apart when he hissed,
“You think this is fucking funny? You think this is a joke?”
Her breaths came hot, shallow, brushing against his mouth. “No,” she whispered, voice trembling with fury and heat all at once. “This isn’t a joke. The way you treat people isn’t a joke. You’re arrogant. You’re spoiled. You’re full of yourself. You demand and demand and never give a damn about anyone but you.”
Her words were venom, but her body betrayed her—hips pressing down harder, fire sparking low in her stomach, a hunger she couldn’t smother no matter how much she wanted to. Her voice broke, raw:
“But fuck—my body wants you. And if I can’t have anything else, no freedom, no life… then fine. I’ll take this.”
And before he could reply, she crushed her lips to his, savage and desperate.
The kiss was war—her mouth devouring his, her hips grinding against his lap like she meant to destroy him. Her bound hands strained against their restraints.
For a heartbeat Jungkook let her take control. Then his hand clamped around her throat, strong and unyielding, forcing her head back. He shoved her away just enough to break the kiss, her lips swollen, breath ragged, his grip tightening possessively around her neck.
He stared at her, long and dark, his eyes raking shamelessly down her rain-slick body, every curve outlined through drenched fabric, before dragging back up to meet her wild gaze. His teeth sank into his lip, still bruised from her bite.
And then, with a growl that vibrated deep in his chest, he pulled her back down. Their mouths collided again, rougher this time, hungrier.
Her back arched as he shoved his soaked shirt off his shoulders, tossing it to the floor without care. Heat radiated off his skin despite the storm around them. His mouth tore away from hers, trailing down her jaw, then lower, biting at the delicate skin of her neck until she gasped, head tilting back against his hand. He then ripped open her buttoned shirt, falling at the shoulders.
Her body writhed, powerless against the cuffs, powerless against him—but still she pressed closer, as if every nerve screamed for more.
The storm raged outside, thunder rattling the cabin walls, but the heat between them drowned it all out.
Jungkook’s hands were everywhere—one still curled tight around the chain of her cuffs, tugging until her arms strained back and her chest arched, breasts heaving right against his mouth. The other gripped her hip, dragging her down hard onto his lap as their mouths crashed together again and again, teeth and tongues clashing.
He tore his lips away just long enough to rasp against her skin, “You gonna ride me good, sweetheart? Even without your hands?”
Her breath caught, but she didn’t stop grinding against the hard, throbbing length pressing through his soaked trousers. He gave the chain a sharp tug and she cried out, arching more, her breasts pushing into his face. He leaned down, biting one, then sucking hard until her head fell back with a gasp.
His patience snapped. He shoved his wet trousers open, his cock springing free, thick and flushed. Her flimsy garments clung to her like a second skin, but he pushed them aside roughly, the cool air meeting her heat.
Their mouths never parted for long, each kiss more frantic than the last, both of them aching, waiting far too long for this to finally break. She shifted, hips trembling as she positioned herself, the blunt head of him sliding against her slick folds.
“Do it,” he growled into her mouth, his grip bruising her hips.
And finally—finally—Y/N lowered herself onto him.
The stretch stole her breath, her lips tearing from his as a strangled moan spilled free. His head fell back against the chair, teeth clenched, a guttural groan leaving him as he felt every inch of her sink down around him.
“Fuck…” he hissed, snapping his eyes back to her. “Look at you. Taking me so damn well.”
Her bound hands twisted uselessly behind her, but her body moved, hips circling, rising and falling in a desperate rhythm. Every sound she made, every squeeze of her heat around him, every flicker of defiance and want in her eyes—he devoured it all, biting at her neck again, sucking her skin raw while pulling her down harder, deeper.
Outside, the storm howled. Inside, thunder had nothing on the sounds of them.
Y/N’s eyes rolled back, her mouth falling open as pleasure tore through her. Every push, every drag of him inside her was unlike anything she’d ever known—like fire lit in her veins.
Jungkook lost control the second he felt her tighten around him, his mouth worshipping her skin like a man starved. He bit and licked at her breasts, groaning as she arched into his mouth, leaving wet trails across her neck, her collarbone, sucking bruises into her delicate skin.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he rasped against her ear, voice low and ruined, “you were made for this—made for me.”
His hand tangled into her soaked hair, yanking her head back, baring her throat to him as he snapped his hips upward, pounding into her with reckless rhythm. The sound of their bodies colliding, the storm hammering outside, her breathless cries—it all melted into one fevered blur.
Y/N clung to him with bound arms, nails digging into her own skin as she tried to hold on. She’d wanted to hate him. She did hate him. But gods, the way her body gave in to him… she shattered with him, screaming against his mouth as her release tore through her.
He followed, grinding deep into her, a guttural groan ripping from his chest as he spilled inside her, his jaw clenched and body trembling with the force of it.
Panting, he fumbled for the cuffs and released her wrists. Her arms fell weakly to her sides before she immediately wound them around his shoulders, pulling herself against him. She slumped into his chest, kissing him without thinking, needy, desperate, her fingers tangling into his damp hair.
Jungkook groaned against her lips, deepening the kiss at once, his hands roaming her back, her hips, her thighs like he couldn’t get enough. She clung tighter, their mouths slanting together, every breath stolen between them.
If anyone had walked in right then, they wouldn’t have seen a prince and his captive, predator and prey. They would’ve seen two people starved for each other—lovers finally reunited after years apart, their passion blazing hot enough to rival the storm outside, hot enough to burn a thousand suns.
The storm raged on, thunder booming over the cabin roof, but inside the air was thick with something hotter, heavier.
Y/N slid down slowly, her palms dragging over his thighs, knees on the floor. Jungkook’s breath hitched, his head falling back when she wrapped her lips around him.
“Fuck,” he groaned, the word breaking raw from his chest. His hand flew into her hair, fingers threading through the wet strands, tugging just enough to guide her pace. He couldn’t stop himself. Couldn’t stop the way his hips twitched as she sank lower, her mouth taking him deeper, slower, driving him insane.
She liked this. She liked the power thrumming in her veins as his perfect composure crumbled, his control slipping right through his fingers. For once, the prince wasn’t the one in command—his body betrayed him, jerking and trembling, his breath shuddering each time she swallowed around him.
“Shit—” he hissed, eyes screwing shut, sweat beading across his forehead despite the chill. “You’re… you’re gonna fucking kill me, sweetheart.”
Her lips curved faintly around him as she dragged the length of him deep, slow, then pulled back to taste the salt of his skin, taking her time. Every movement wrung another groan from his chest, another curse, another helpless grind of his hips.
By the end, his knuckles were white in her hair, his head thrown back against the chair, chest slick with sweat and rain. His voice broke apart in a guttural moan as he came undone in her mouth, his whole body seizing, hips jerking despite himself.
Y/N swallowed, then crawled back up his body, her bound hair falling loose around her face. His breaths came harsh and ragged, eyes still heavy, as if he’d been undone completely. She caught his mouth with hers anyway, kissing him hard even as he struggled to catch his breath.
For a moment, Jungkook kissed her back with everything he had left, like he needed her more than air.
The rain softened to a steady patter against the cabin roof, thunder rolling further and further into the distance. Inside, the storm was quieter but no less potent—the heat of their bodies pressed together, limbs tangled, breath mingling in the still air.
Y/N lay slumped against him, her cheek pressed to the damp silk clinging to his chest. His arms remained firm around her, as though letting go would undo everything they’d just set aflame. Each rise and fall of his chest coaxed her own breaths to slow, to match him.
In theory, this was the perfect moment. His guard was down, muscles loose, body sated and weak. If she pushed off his lap, slipped from his arms, maybe—just maybe—she could run. But where? The storm had swallowed the forest, the cabin sat like an island in the middle of nowhere, and she didn’t even know which direction the sea lay.
And worse—if she left him here, her sister was still vulnerable. What if he turned his men toward her instead? What if her desperate escape sealed her sister’s fate?
The thought twisted in her chest until she almost hated herself for even considering it.
She closed her eyes tighter, forcing the thoughts away. No good choices, no clear path. Only this: she didn’t regret kissing him. Didn’t regret the heat of his mouth, the way his hands had trembled on her skin, the way she’d felt alive—truly alive—for the first time since her capture.
Her lashes grew heavy. She breathed in the faint scent of rain and salt clinging to him, and before she could decide anything more, sleep overtook her.
Jungkook shifted, glancing down at the siren curled into him. Her lips parted slightly, her face finally unguarded, peaceful in a way he hadn’t seen before. Something deep and unwelcome twisted in his chest. He should feel triumphant, victorious. Instead, he felt… undone.
Outside, the storm began to break, but inside, another one was only beginning.
-------------
The morning light spilled through the narrow cabin window, soft and golden against Y/N’s face. She stirred awake, the memory of heat and tangled limbs flashing across her mind before she blinked, finding herself alone on the worn sofa chair.
Through the warped glass, she caught sight of Jungkook outside. His broad frame moved with practiced ease as he secured Misty’s saddle, every motion sharp but weighed down, like even the morning air was pressing against him.
He came back inside a moment later, damp hair falling into his eyes, his shirt wrinkled, lips set in a tight line. “Good. You’re awake,” he said flatly. He didn’t reach for the cuffs this time—just stepped forward, gripped her wrists in his hand, and held them together as though daring her to resist. “Don’t try anything.”
Y/N smirked despite herself, rising with a deliberate slowness. If I really wanted to hurt you, the cuffs never mattered. She thought of how easy it would’ve been to bare her fangs, sink them into his throat, feel the hot rush of his blood. But she hadn’t. Not because of the cuffs. Because of her sister. Always her sister. That tether kept her bound tighter than any chain he could forge.
She let him guide her outside, her lips curling faintly. It’s almost funny he thinks he’s the one keeping me in check.
Back at the palace, Misty whinnied softly when Y/N’s hand brushed over his muzzle. For a moment she forgot everything—the walls, the chains, the storm still lingering inside her—and simply stroked the warm velvet of his nose. Misty leaned into her palm, nestling with quiet trust.
Something shifted at her side. She turned to see Jungkook watching, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable. His eyes softened just a fraction before he looked away, tugging her closer and linking their hands firmly as if to remind them both of the reality between them.
They slipped through his private door into the palace, the hush of stone walls swallowing them whole. At her chamber door, he finally released her, his voice rough. “I’ll bring your breakfast.”
She studied him in the dim corridor light. The dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes betrayed him, making his beauty sharper, almost fragile. He looked human. Mortal. Worn. And the worst part? He still looked devastatingly good.
Y/N clenched her fists as he turned away. She hated it—hated that part of her wanted to pity him, to reach for him instead of pulling back. Hated that sometimes his cracks made him seem less like her captor and more like a man.
Almost.
-----------
The water cooled her skin, calming the storm inside her, but Y/N couldn’t silence the question circling in her head: Why is he so…off? He’d been sharp before, arrogant, demanding—but never this distant. She told herself she didn’t care, that it didn’t matter what mood her captor was in. Lies. Every last one.
The door creaked open, and she lifted her head, droplets running down her hair. Jungkook strode in with a tray, his movements deliberate but distracted, like his mind was elsewhere. He set the food on the table without a word.
Then he turned, already halfway gone.
Before she could stop herself, the word slipped out, too soft, too vulnerable. “Wait.”
His body stilled. Slowly, he glanced back, and just like that, her throat closed up. His eyes pinned her where she stood, bare and dripping by the tank. “You’re not going to… stay?”
A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve got a lot going on.” Then he left, the door shutting behind him with a quiet finality.
She hated herself for it—the way her chest tightened, the way it felt like disappointment instead of relief. Shaking her head, she slid back into the water, letting it close over her ears, drowning out the silence.
When the door opened again at lunch, she surfaced lazily. Jungkook’s gaze went first to the untouched tray still sitting there, cold and forgotten. His jaw ticked, and he exhaled through his nose. “Why aren’t you eating?”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
His hand pinched the bridge of his nose, an uncharacteristic gesture of strain. “I don’t care. You have to eat.”
“No.”
That single syllable hung in the air, sharper than any blade.
Jungkook’s tongue darted over his lower lip, slow, calculating. He stepped forward, the distance between them shrinking until he stood at the edge of the tank. Then, without hesitation, he plunged his arm into the water, fingers closing around her wrist. He yanked her forward, dragging her halfway out, his silk sleeve soaking through instantly.
Her breath caught, not from fear but from the way his face hovered close, eyes burning, jaw tight.
She didn’t fight him. Not today. Something told her pushing him now would break something she wasn’t ready to see break.
“Does the prince have troubles?” she asked, voice deceptively light.
His glare sharpened, and then—abruptly—he let go of her, water dripping down his arm, darkening the fabric. He stepped back, shutting himself off again, his voice clipped. “Eat. Rest up. We’re going on another little trip tomorrow.”
The door shut behind him before she could ask anything else.
Y/N stared at the ripples where he had been, her skin tingling where his fingers had wrapped around her.
Y/N couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him—the man who chained her, who shackled her voice and her freedom, yet who looked at her with something that made her chest ache. She’d never known anyone like him. His moods, his voice, the shape of him in the dark… it was all brand new, all overwhelming, and her body didn’t know how to quiet itself.
The door burst open with the first pale wash of dawn. Jungkook tossed a coat her way without ceremony. “We’re leaving. Now.”
She pulled it on reluctantly, confused, but followed as he led her across the palace grounds. There were no guards, only the sound of gravel crunching under their boots until they reached a small shack tucked against the trees.
When she stepped inside, the scent of herbs and something sharp hit her nose. On the counter, gleaming steel. Needles. Her breath hitched, and instinct made her recoil.
“Easy.” His hands closed around her arms, firm but not rough, and for once there was no command in his voice, only low reassurance.
Her wide eyes snapped to his, and he held her there. “He’s a doctor. His job is to make sure you’re healthy. He needs your blood to check that you’re eating right, that the water in your tank won’t harm you long-term.”
Long-term. The words struck her like stones. Her body sagged, breath shuddering out, because long-termmeant he wasn’t letting her go anytime soon. Maybe ever. She didn’t know why her chest burned at the thought—it should have been anger, but something heavier lingered too.
The doctor was polite, clinical, asking about her diet, how much she swam, how active she was. She answered stiffly, voice clipped. But then—
“Are you sexually active?”
Her jaw dropped, heat rushing up her neck. “That’s not— that’s not appropriate!”
And of course, from behind the doctor, Jungkook’s lips quirked, his gaze dropping to the floor to hide it, dimples threatening.
She cleared her throat, spine straightening with false composure. “…Yes.”
The doctor only hummed, jotting it down without reaction. But Y/N saw the glance flick between her and Jungkook before he set his pen aside.
“Two vials,” the doctor said.
“No.” Her voice cracked, panic crawling up her throat.
Jungkook stepped forward, eyes shadowed. “Just sit still. Relax. It won’t hurt.”
She turned her face to him, eyes glassy, whispering, “Jungkook… please, no. I don’t want this.”
For a long moment, he looked at her like something inside him was tearing apart. Then he cupped her cheek, thumb brushing her damp lashes. His voice was quiet, almost pleading. “I’m right here. It won’t hurt. I promise.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. And he was right—it was over in a blink, just a small pinch, far less than the torment she imagined. Still, the ache inside her didn’t fade. It wasn’t the needle she hated. It was this: being trapped, being kept.
“You did a great job,” the doctor said warmly, setting the vials aside. “I’ll notify the prince of your results, but you seem healthy.”
Y/N didn’t look at Jungkook again as she stood. Didn’t say a word as they left the shack. Her silence followed them all the way back to the palace, heavy as iron chains, while Jungkook walked with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, eyes fixed on the ground as though the weight in his chest was just as unbearable.
They walked in silence, the wet grass hissing under their boots, the storm still growling faintly in the distance.
“It was for your own good,” Jungkook muttered again, like repeating it enough times might make it true.
Y/N stopped dead in her tracks, spinning on her heel. The dripping ends of her hair slapped against her cheek as she glared at him.
“My own good?” Her voice cut through the air sharp as broken glass. “I shouldn’t even be here. I shouldn’t need your doctors, your needles, your rules. I should be in the sea—with my sister.”
His jaw tightened, but she wasn’t finished. A hollow laugh slipped from her lips, empty and raw. “Some people might think you’re the beauty and I’m the beast. But we both know it’s the other way around.”
She turned, marching toward the palace, leaving him rooted to the spot.
“Y/N—” he called, his voice cracking.
But then—rustling. A thud against the stone.
They both froze, heads snapping toward the outer wall. Three ropes dangled over it, three men dropping down with the silence of practiced assassins.
Jungkook’s blood iced over. “Run. Back to the palace, now.”
But Y/N only stood there, wide-eyed, her bare feet pressing into the wet earth. She couldn’t move.
The intruders spotted them instantly. The leader grinned, his teeth a flash of white under the moonlight.
“Ah, Prince Jungkook. The heir himself. Parading around with his little siren prisoner. You’ve got it all, don’t you?”
He drew a sword, steel glinting cruel.
“Your time has come. It’s time for a new family to lead.”
He charged.
Jungkook braced himself, reaching for the dagger at his hip, but then—
The man’s body spasmed mid-stride. His sword clattered to the dirt, his knees buckling as if yanked by invisible strings. His face contorted in silent agony, limbs jerking like a puppet’s.
Jungkook’s gaze whipped sideways—and saw her.
Y/N’s lips didn’t move, but her eyes… her eyes glowed. The unnatural shimmer of the siren song, though soundless.
The other two men faltered, swords raised. Then, as if possessed, they turned on their leader, steel biting into flesh. His scream was cut short as blood sprayed across the grass. Without hesitation, they pressed their own blades to their stomachs, dragging them across in a single, brutal line.
The glow left Y/N’s eyes as abruptly as it came. She blinked, her chest heaving, confusion washing over her expression. For a second she looked lost, like she didn’t know where she was, what she’d done.
Jungkook stared at her, heart pounding so hard it hurt.
Three men lay dead at their feet. And she had been the one to end it.
But the question tore through him like lightning, hotter than fear:
Had she done it to protect herself…or him?
His hand was still gripping her arm, knuckles pale with the adrenaline of the attack, his chest heaving as he all but dragged her into the safety of the palace. Guards scrambled at his sharp commands, steel flashing in the torchlight as they fortified the grounds.
The moment the door shut behind them, Jungkook spun her, pinning her against the stone wall. His body loomed, his voice a low growl, lips grazing hers with every furious word.
“When I tell you to run, I mean you better fucking run.”
Y/N shoved at his chest, fire burning in her eyes. “I can handle myself. And as you just saw, I proved it.”
“That’s not the point—”
“Then what is the point?” she snapped, cutting him off, her voice shaking with rage and the echo of what she had just done. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you don’t actually care. You just want your little siren safe in a gilded cage. If I die, you’ll just hunt down another poor soul to chain up in my place.”
The words sliced through him, sharper than any blade the assassins had drawn. Another siren? As if he could even imagine.
His throat tightened, his hand still braced against the wall beside her head. He stared at her—her trembling chest, the faint shimmer of her eyes that had glowed moments ago, the siren who had stopped death itself in its tracks for him.
“You don’t get it,” he rasped, softer now, almost broken. “I don’t want another. I couldn’t. You’re—” His jaw flexed as if the words were too dangerous to release. “You’re mine.”
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. For a moment, the storm inside him cracked open for her to glimpse—the duty-bound prince and the man who was losing control, both clawing for dominance.
And for the first time, Y/N wasn’t sure which was more dangerous: the men with swords outside… or the truth in Jungkook’s eyes when he said she was his.
“I’m not yours,” Y/N choked out, her voice breaking as tears streaked down her face. “I don’t know what this is, but I can’t bear it. I’m a prisoner here, and yet the way I feel…” She shook her head, hands clenching at her sides. “I’ve never been so conflicted in my life.”
Her voice wavered, but her eyes never left his. “Please let me go. Please let me live my life. It’s killing me—being here is killing me. I wasn’t meant to be chained up like some prize or to swim in a tank for your amusement.”
Jungkook’s jaw tightened, his whole frame trembling as though holding himself together cost him everything. His head screamed one thing, his chest another—two forces tearing him apart. “I wasn’t meant to feel this way about you,” he said hoarsely.
Her breath caught.
“For generations, my family has hunted your kind. It’s tradition. It’s duty. I was raised to see sirens as weapons, not people. So I followed tradition.” His eyes darkened, voice dropping lower. “But I’m the first royal to kidnap a siren and feel guilty about it.”
He stepped closer, each word weighted, as if dragging them from the depths of himself.
“The first one to care for their siren.”
Y/N’s throat constricted, her tears hot and fast.
Jungkook closed the space between them, his lips hovering just shy of hers, his breath mingling with hers in the silence that followed.
“The first one to fall in love with his siren.”
Her eyes widened, her entire body trembling under the force of his confession. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.
“But—” His voice cracked, his control unraveling as his forehead nearly touched hers. “I can’t let you go. Not yet.”
“Why?” she whispered, her voice breaking like the waves of her home.
His eyes glistened with something close to desperation. “Because I need you. And I’ve never needed anything in my life. I was born with everything—power, wealth, control.” His hand brushed her cheek, trembling. “But you can do something I can't. I need you…to save my father.”
------------
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Duke Jungkook and Lady y/n do not think highly of each other, tension is thick when he starts courting her best friend thinking she's perfect for him, but the tension might be laced with something more underneath...
This is the same as my Jaehyun Bridgerton story, this is a BTS ver!
Full ver includes: 8.9k, Dirty dreams, unprotected sex, oral sex, dirty talk, table sex, riding, Jungkook seems like an assh0le at first who doesn't like women but gets better I promise
----------
The Duke of Aelridge was holding court beneath the wisteria-covered terrace, surrounded by gentlemen whose laughter echoed across the lawn. From her vantage by the rose hedges, Lady Y/N had not intended to eavesdrop—only to escape the cloying conversation of Lord Pembroke, who had insisted she "smiled too little for a woman of her breeding."
But what she overheard was far worse.
“Women of the ton want scandal until they suffer it,” came the smooth, idle voice of the Duke. “They crave attention until it costs them their virtue—or their prospects.”
A ripple of laughter. Another lord chimed in, “And you’d know, wouldn’t you, Jeong?”
Jungkook chuckled, deep and unbothered. “I’ve only ever taken what’s freely offered. If they wish to gamble their reputations, I simply play the part expected of me.”
Y/N stiffened. Expected of me, he’d said. As if it were a performance. As if women were nothing but bored creatures desperate for his attention.
A scoff escaped before she could contain it. Sharp, unmistakable. She turned on her heel, skirts snapping, heels clicking in rapid retreat across the gravel path. She didn't hear the footsteps behind her.
“Not a fan of the truth, Lady…?”
She cursed under her breath. He’d heard her.
“I wasn’t aware that hypocrisy counted as truth,” she replied without turning.
“Ah, so you were listening.”
She stopped. Slowly turned. He stood a few paces behind, one brow raised, arms folded leisurely across his broad chest. Even lounging, the Duke of Aelridge looked like he was used to being obeyed.
“I wasn’t listening. I was cringing,” Y/N said. “It’s astounding how men can twist self-congratulation into philosophy.”
His smile was all bite. “Would you rather I pretend otherwise? That these parties aren’t a performance? That everyone here doesn’t play their part—yourself included?”
“At least I don’t speak as though I’m above it.”
“But you act like you are.”
Her eyes flashed. “Perhaps I simply hold myself to a standard you clearly lack.”
For a moment, they just stared—neither yielding, both assessing.
Then she swept past him.
Jungkook watched her go, the irritation simmering just beneath his smooth exterior. So she thought herself untouchable? Morally superior?
Interesting.
He had no idea who she was, but later that afternoon, as he observed her walking arm in arm with the ever-charming Lady Amelia Hargrave, the dots began to connect.
Amelia—the darling of the ton. Gentle, sweet, and completely unaware of her friend’s sharp tongue and barbed opinions.
A small, amused smirk played at Jungkook’s lips.
If Lady Y/N thought him so awful, so predictably rakish—well, perhaps he’d give her a reason to think so. After all, what better way to irritate a proud woman than by charming the dearest thing to her?
And Amelia Hargrave looked perfectly delightful.
------------
“I cannot believe it,” Amelia whispered, clutching Y/N’s arm as they strolled through the rose gardens of the Hargrave estate. “The Duke of Aelridge has called on me twice this week. Twice.”
Y/N arched a brow. “And the world still turns?”
“Y/N.” Amelia playfully swatted her arm. “You’re being impossible. You know what it means when a duke calls on a lady twice in the same week. Mother nearly fainted.”
“He’s a rake, Amelia.”
Amelia laughed, waving her hand. “You say that like it’s a confirmed diagnosis.”
“It is,” Y/N said flatly. “I overheard him bragging about his conquests not three days ago. He spoke of women as if they were games to be played, reputations to be wagered.”
“Oh, but you don’t like him, do you?” Amelia grinned. “You’re always so terribly fair, but the moment someone rubs you the wrong way, they might as well be declared villain of the realm.”
Y/N stiffened, then forced a smile. “I just don’t want you hurt.”
Amelia squeezed her hand. “He’s different with me. Gentle. Thoughtful.”
That was precisely the problem.
So Y/N made it her mission to supervise their every interaction, whether invited or not.
She “accidentally” appeared at tea the next morning, sliding into the seat beside Amelia just as the Duke arrived with his signature smirk and a bouquet of pale blue hyacinths.
“Lady Y/N,” he drawled. “How...surprising.”
Y/N offered her most innocent smile. “Isn’t it just?”
He said nothing, though his eyes lingered a fraction too long, jaw tight.
At the opera, when Amelia and Jungkook shared a box, Y/N insisted on accompanying them, claiming Amelia’s mother had asked her to. She spent the entire first act loudly offering commentary on the soprano’s pitch, just to drown out their whispered conversation.
When Jungkook tried to escort Amelia to her carriage, Y/N intercepted them with a feigned concern over a “lost glove.” When he reached for it, she let it fall again.
“Oh dear,” she murmured, eyes wide with mock dismay. “So clumsy of me.”
He bent to retrieve it with a barely contained sigh.
“You do know what you’re doing,” he muttered under his breath as he handed it back.
“I beg your pardon?” she asked sweetly, eyes wide.
He said nothing, only glared, then turned back to Amelia with a forced smile.
But by the third event—a garden luncheon at the Granthams—he broke.
Y/N was leaning against a tree, nibbling on a biscuit, her gaze flickering toward the pair seated across the lawn. Amelia looked radiant in lilac silk, head tilted toward Jungkook, who was clearly trying to focus. But his eyes kept drifting. To the edge of the clearing. To her.
She caught his eye. Raised her biscuit in mock salute. Smiled.
And he rose.
“Excuse me, Lady Amelia. There’s something I must attend to.”
He stalked toward Y/N, who arched a brow without moving.
“Have you nothing better to do, Lady Y/N?” he asked, low and sharp.
“Than what?” she asked. “Enjoy a biscuit? Observe the flora? Ensure the safety of a friend?”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet here you are. Again.”
He stepped closer. She didn’t move.
“What do you want from me?” he asked, voice low.
“Nothing,” she replied, too smoothly. “But I do wonder… is it difficult, pretending to court someone just to annoy me?”
His eyes narrowed. “So you admit it’s worked.”
She took a slow bite of her biscuit. “Oh, Your Grace. I never said that.”
And then she walked away, hips swaying ever so slightly, leaving the Duke of Aelridge standing beneath the trees, utterly unamused and—far more troubling—utterly intrigued.
---------
“It’s terribly kind of him, don’t you think?” Amelia beamed, folding the invitation with careful fingers. “He’s invited us both to his country estate. The Duke! I never imagined I’d see Aelridge Manor, let alone bepersonally welcomed there.”
Y/N hummed, her smile pleasant and entirely false. “Yes. How generous of him.”
She didn’t need to read the cream-colored parchment to know exactly what it said. The Duke was being clever—throwing open the gates of his secluded estate, inviting his would-be courtship and her ever-watchful chaperone in one move. A perfect opportunity to display his supposed charm and moral reform.
He wants my approval, she realized. As if that’s something easily earned.
Still, refusing would only make her look more suspicious, and Amelia—sweet, trusting Amelia—was already flushed with hope. So, with a tight smile and a measured nod, Y/N agreed to the trip, tucking the invitation into her reticule like a warning bell.
Aelridge Manor was, of course, beautiful.
Golden light filtered through high windows. Ivy crept across stone walls in elegant twists. The surrounding countryside seemed plucked from an oil painting: fields that rolled into the distance, a lake that glittered like glass, horses that galloped with untamed grace.
And the Duke of Aelridge stood in the doorway, smiling like a man thoroughly pleased with himself.
“Ladies,” he said warmly. “Welcome. I hope the journey wasn’t too difficult?”
“Not at all,” Amelia said with a curtsy. “It’s breathtaking here, Your Grace.”
Y/N curtsied after her, meeting his eyes evenly. “Charming, truly. Like a stage set. I’m curious to see the performance.”
Jungkook’s smile didn’t falter, but something in his jaw ticked.
Over the next few days, he was everything a mother would dream of for her daughter.
He rode beside Amelia during morning gallops, handed her down from carriages with a steady hand, laughed at her cleverest comments and listened with devoted attention to the most mundane observations. He took them on nature walks, invited them to private music recitals, arranged picnics on the lawn where the servants appeared just as the sunlight turned golden.
And Amelia, to Y/N’s increasing unease, was beginning to melt.
“He’s not what I expected,” she confided one evening, cheeks warm. “He’s thoughtful. And quiet when he thinks no one’s listening. There’s more to him, I think.”
Y/N tried not to bristle. “Yes, well. He’s a man accustomed to managing his image.”
Amelia looked at her. “Why do you dislike him so much?”
Y/N faltered. “I don’t dislike him. I simply...don’t trust him.”
“You think he’s pretending?”
Y/N hesitated. “I think men like him only reveal their sincerity when they believe no one’s watching.”
Unfortunately, Jungkook had taken that as a challenge.
She began catching him alone more often—waiting at stairwells, lingering by the garden path.
“Enjoying yourself, Lady Y/N?” he asked one morning as they crossed paths in the orchard. He held a single plum in his hand, turning it slowly between his fingers.
She tilted her head. “Do you ever tire of pretending to be perfect?”
He chuckled, tossing the fruit up and catching it. “I’m not pretending. I’m trying. There’s a difference.”
“Trying to convince me or her?”
His expression sobered slightly. “Both.”
She blinked.
“I meant what I said,” he continued. “About wanting your approval. I realize I may not deserve it—but I’m not playing a game with Amelia. I don’t have a game to win anymore.”
Y/N didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Because for a moment—just a moment—he looked sincere.
And that terrified her more than any rake’s smirk ever could.
-----------
The manor was silent.
Outside, the wind whispered through the hedges, but within Aelridge’s grand halls, not a sound stirred. The moonlight spilled in pale strips through the tall windows as Lady Y/N padded barefoot through the kitchen, her silk nightdress trailing just above the cool tile. She clutched her shawl around her loosely, careful not to wake the maids.
She hadn’t meant to wander, but sleep had evaded her for hours—her mind a whirl of half-formed worries and something else she didn’t care to name. The cool air offered some relief, though she still felt vaguely flushed.
She found a jug of water and began searching the darkened cupboards for a glass.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
She froze.
The voice came from the doorway, deep and smooth and unmistakably male.
The Duke.
He stood in the threshold, backlit by moonlight, the crisp lines of his shirt unbuttoned at the top, revealing a sliver of chest. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, forearms crossed loosely. He looked... softer somehow. Less polished. Less performed.
“Apparently neither could you,” Y/N replied, straightening.
His eyes dragged over her, lingering—just for a second—on the delicate silk of her dress, the way it clung to her curves, her arms bare in the dim light, the hollow of her collarbone catching the moon.
“I didn’t expect company,” he said with a slight smirk, walking toward her.
“I didn’t want to wake the staff,” she murmured, moving aside.
Without speaking, he reached around her, their arms brushing as his chest pressed ever-so-slightly against her back. He pulled down a crystal glass from the shelf with casual ease.
The contact was brief, but it seared.
She could feel the warmth of his body even after he stepped away to fill the glass at the basin. He handed it to her, their fingers not quite touching.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
They stood side by side, the silence stretching. She sipped, not looking at him.
“Are you uncomfortable here?” he asked, voice lower now. “You haven’t looked like yourself.”
She shook her head. “I’m fine. Just thirsty.”
He gave a small nod, but he didn’t move away. Neither did she.
A pause.
Then Y/N turned slightly, her voice quiet but firm. “What are your intentions with Amelia?”
That caught him.
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned and leaned back slightly against the edge of the counter, hands braced on either side, exhaling through his nose.
“I’m getting older,” he said finally. “Eventually, even a man like me must think of family. Stability.”
Y/N stared at him. “So you chose Amelia because she’s… convenient?”
“No,” he said, sharply. “Because she’s kind. Loved by society. Graceful. A good match.”
“Do you like her?”
“I respect her,” he said carefully.
Y/N frowned. “That wasn’t the question.”
His eyes met hers then, and the air between them shifted.
“No,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t... feel for her the way she might feel for me. But I could learn to. She deserves someone who can give her peace.”
“And you think that’s you?” she asked, her voice softer now, a tremor of something else beneath it.
“I thought it might be,” he said. “Until you started looking at me like that.”
Her breath caught.
“Like what?”
“Like you already know I’m lying.”
They were far too close now. Her hand still held the half-empty glass, but her gaze was locked on his, the weight of his words crackling between them.
She didn’t deny it.
Because she did know.
And suddenly, the kitchen didn’t feel so cold anymore.
--------------
They didn’t touch.
They didn’t speak further.
After a long, simmering silence, Jungkook finally straightened and nodded once. “Goodnight, Lady Y/N.”
Her name sounded different in the dark. Warmer. Unpolished.
“Goodnight, Your Grace,” she murmured.
And then they went their separate ways—he toward the east wing, she to the west—each haunted by the same question neither dared ask aloud.
Morning came far too brightly.
Y/N sat with Amelia beneath the pergola, sunlight filtering through the climbing vines above. The scent of early summer hung in the air—peonies and warm bread and something almost sickeningly sweet.
Amelia stirred her tea, humming softly. “He’s joining us for a ride this afternoon. He said I could take Bramble—the chestnut mare he brought back from Italy.”
Y/N blinked. “He’s letting you ride Bramble?”
Amelia grinned. “He said I had a good seat.”
Y/N nearly choked on her tea.
“I mean on a horse, obviously,” Amelia said quickly, cheeks flushing.
Y/N set her cup down with care, then folded her hands in her lap.
“Do you… really like him?”
Amelia blinked. “Of course I do.”
“No, I mean… truly. As a person. Not just as the Duke of Aelridge.”
Amelia’s smile faltered.
Y/N kept her voice light but steady. “You’ve known him for two weeks, Amelia. Do you actually know him?”
Amelia sighed. “You think I’m being foolish.”
“I think you’re being charmed. Which isn’t the same.”
“I’m not chasing a title, Y/N,” Amelia said quietly. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“But you said it would be a dream—to be a duchess.”
“It would,” Amelia admitted. “Not for the gowns or the balls, but for the life it offers. Security. Freedom, in a way. Choice.”
Y/N softened, but only slightly.
“And Jungkook? Does he make you feel something real? Something personal?”
Y/N thought of last night—the quiet in the kitchen, his voice when he said, I don’t feel for her the way she might feel for me.
“He respects you,” Y/N said slowly. “But that’s not the same as wanting you.”
Amelia blinked at her. “Are you saying he doesn’t?”
“I’m saying… just be sure. Before you lose your heart to a man who doesn’t know how to give his.”
They sat in silence for a moment, birdsong echoing in the trees.
“I didn’t think you cared for him at all,” Amelia said softly. “But you sound like you understand him better than anyone.”
Y/N looked away, heart beating a little too fast. “Understanding someone doesn’t mean you trust them.”
----------
The morning was soft with warmth, a gentle breeze stirring the leaves as the horses’ hooves crunched down the path toward the pond. Y/N rode with ease, back straight, curls loose beneath her bonnet, the basket of stale bread nestled in her lap. Amelia hummed beside her, cheeks pink with the glow of summer.
Jungkook, riding just behind, was trying very hard not to stare.
But every time Y/N shifted slightly in the saddle, the silk of her riding habit pulling tight across her bodice, the gentle bounce of her body moving with the horse—
He cleared his throat. Hard.
It was shameful, really. He’d invited them here to prove himself a reformed man. To show he was no longer a rake consumed by fleeting pleasures.
And yet the sight of her, graceful and unbothered, hips rocking with every stride—he could barely think straight, just picturing her on his lap doing the same movements. His clothes felt too tight. His jaw clenched.
It’s not just desire, he told himself. It’s her. All of her. That maddening mouth and those eyes that see straight through me.
As they approached the pond, sunlight glittering off the water and ducks quacking greedily along the banks, Amelia suddenly slowed her horse.
“I feel faint,” she said softly. “I think I rode too fast earlier.”
Y/N was instantly concerned. “Do you want to rest? We can turn back.”
“No, no,” Amelia waved a hand. “Truly, it’s nothing. You’ve the bread—go on. Feed the ducks. I’ll wait in the shade just here.”
She guided her horse to a willow tree nearby, already reaching for her water flask.
Y/N hesitated, but Jungkook was already dismounting.
He moved to her horse and looked up, hand outstretched. “May I?”
Y/N paused and then nodded, letting him lift her.
Their hands met, his palm warm and strong around hers, her waist held steady as she slid down. Her body brushed his chest just briefly. Neither spoke. When she landed, neither let go—not immediately.
Then, as if remembering themselves, they both dropped their hands at once.
Wordlessly, they walked to the pond, tearing bits of bread and tossing them into the water. The ducks surged forward with flapping wings and greedy beaks.
Y/N tossed a piece, smiling faintly. “They’re relentless.”
Jungkook chuckled. “Like some people I know.”
She glanced sideways. “I thought you were trying not to be relentless.”
“I am,” he said, tone softer now. “Believe me.”
They stood for a moment in comfortable silence, the kind that felt strange between them. The water rippled gently, the ducks squabbling, but neither spoke—until Jungkook did.
“I’ve spent years chasing… pleasure. Distraction. Anything to keep from feeling too much.”
Y/N turned to him.
He kept his gaze on the water. “But it never lasts. And it never fills the quiet. My parents loved each other so much and even that ended in tragedy. I wanted to avoid love and commitment for as long as I could remember to avoid that potential pain.”
She didn’t interrupt.
“But I want something more now. Something better. I want to set a good example for my sisters. They deserve to see what a real partnership looks like, the same way I did.” He finally looked at her. “Not scandal and bitterness. But respect. Warmth. A home.”
Y/N studied him, her brow furrowed. There was no smirk. No arrogance. Just quiet, steady honesty.
“You lost your parents young,” she said gently.
He nodded. “I was seventeen. They died within a year of each other. It turned everything upside down. My sisters needed comfort and I…” he shook his head. “I didn’t know how to be anyone’s safe place.”
Y/N’s chest tightened.
“And now?” she asked.
He looked at her, eyes searching.
“Now I want to be someone they can trust. Someone she can trust,” he added softly.
She didn’t ask who she was. She wasn’t sure she wanted the answer.
But for the first time since their unfortunate meeting beneath the wisteria, she saw something in him that couldn’t be faked.
A man who wanted to be better.
Not for pride. Not for power. But for the people he loved.
She dropped another piece of bread into the water. “You should tell Amelia that.”
“I will,” he said.
But his eyes stayed on Y/N just a little too long.
-----------
It started innocently—her laugh, somewhere in the back of his mind. The way she’d looked yesterday in the sun, cheeks warm, neck glistening with a single droplet of sweat he’d wanted to trace with his tongue.
Then it shifted.
Y/N was on top of him, riding him slow and deep in the moonlight. Her silk dress was bunched at her waist, breasts bouncing freely in front of him, hair wild around her flushed face as she gasped his name.
His hands gripped her hips, fingertips digging in, his head thrown back as her slick heat squeezed around him. She leaned down, mouth brushing his ear.
“Do I still look like I’m judging you now, Your Grace?”
He groaned in his sleep.
His hips bucked into nothing.
He woke with a jolt, sheets tangled, chest heaving.
Sweat dampened his collarbone, and his cock was painfully hard beneath the thin linen of his sleepwear. He swore, dragging a hand over his face.
This is madness.
He couldn’t keep doing this. Dreaming of her. Of Y/N. Not when Amelia was so close, not when he was so close to doing the right thing.
He needed to move forward. Fast.
So that morning, Jungkook summoned a carriage. He had the perfect plan: introduce Amelia to his younger sisters. The final test. If she was to be his duchess, she would need to love what he loved. And Miri and Yuri were the center of his heart.
The girls arrived by noon—twelve-year-old twins with matching braids, bright grins, and too much energy for any one estate to contain.
He watched with fondness as they tumbled out of the carriage, clutching books, sketch pads, and one lopsided stuffed rabbit that looked like it had survived a war.
“Yuri, Miri,” he greeted, crouching slightly as they ran to him.
“Jungkook!” they shrieked, throwing their arms around his neck.
Y/N and Amelia emerged from the drawing room, and he turned to them, smiling. “Surprise. I thought today might be… instructive.”
Amelia blinked. “They’re your sisters?”
Y/N, beside her, smiled warmly. “Hello, I’m Y/N.”
“Are you the lady Jungkook’s going to marry?” Miri asked instantly.
Y/N laughed. “Goodness, I hope not. We’d drive each other mad.”
Jungkook coughed, not meeting her eyes.
Amelia’s laugh was thin. “Well, I—children can be so... lively.”
“Do you want to read with us?” Yuri asked her, holding up a dog-eared copy of The Secret Garden.
“Oh, I’m not very good with… young books,” Amelia said awkwardly.
Yuri then turned to y/n, "will you read with us?"
Y/N smiled and stepped in smoothly. “I used to read that under my blankets with a candle. Let’s find a shady tree.”
She took the girls by the hand and led them outside, their voices already animated—talking about secret places and garden walls and what sort of flowers a princess would plant.
Jungkook stood beside Amelia, watching them.
Y/N sat cross-legged in the grass, skirt spread beneath her, unbothered by the sun or her posture, listening with genuine interest as Yuri explained the entire plot of a fantasy book she loved.
Miri tugged at her braid absentmindedly and leaned her head against Y/N’s shoulder, and Y/N didn’t flinch. She wrapped an arm around the girl with ease, as if she’d done it a hundred times before.
Amelia, still standing stiffly, shaded herself beneath the veranda.
“Are they always so… loud?” she asked.
“They’re twelve,” Jungkook said, keeping his tone neutral.
“They’re sweet,” she added quickly. “I just never had much experience with children, I don't really know how to talk to them.”
He nodded, but his eyes stayed fixed on the scene beyond the glass.
Y/N was laughing at something Miri said, throwing her head back in a way that made his chest ache. Her hands were expressive, her posture relaxed, her interest sincere.
She wasn’t performing.
She was just being.
And the realization hit him like a punch to the gut.
The woman he thought he should want was standing next to him.
But the woman he couldn’t stop dreaming about—the woman who looked so natural in the role he thought Amelia was perfect for—was playing tag with his sisters in the sun.
And he’d never wanted anything more in his life.
------------
Amelia had always been the picture of calm decorum. She knew how to accept compliments with a blush, how to speak without offense, how to exist within the bounds of what society called admirable.
She knew how to be the kind of woman a Duke could marry.
So she had been patient—watchful, even—since the twins arrived.
At first, she thought she was imagining it: the way Jungkook’s eyes followed Y/N across the lawn as she chased Miri with a bundle of wildflowers in her hands, how his smile pulled wider when Y/N’s voice entered a room, louder and unfiltered. He never smiled like that with her. Not even once.
Then she began to notice subtler things.
How Jungkook’s throat bobbed slightly whenever Y/N got too close, how his fingers flexed at his sides when Y/N tossed a teasing comment his way. How he never interrupted her when they argued—in fact, he seemed to like it. Almost like he craved that friction, needed the bite of her words to stay engaged.
When Amelia spoke, he listened politely, nodded, sometimes even complimented her.
But he never reacted to her.
Not like that.
Not the way he looked at Y/N as if she were something untameable and beautiful, something dangerous and necessary all at once.
And then came the evening.
The sun was setting low, brushing gold across the countryside. They were walking together—Amelia on Jungkook’s left, Y/N on his right. The twins had been sent inside for bath time, the air warm and pleasant, filled with the scent of honeysuckle and fresh grass.
Amelia had just turned to ask a question when she heard it—the thunder of hooves.
A horse. Untethered. Racing toward them down the path, eyes wild, panic in its gait.
There wasn’t time to scream. Barely time to think.
Jungkook moved instantly.
One arm wrapped around Amelia’s waist, yanking her backward. The other slammed into Y/N’s side, dragging her down with him, twisting his body so that he landed hard in the dirt—not her.
Then he rolled them over and shielded her completely. His hand cupped the back of her head, the other braced near her hip, keeping her pinned beneath him but unhurt.
Dust swirled around them, the horse galloping past with a furious cry before disappearing into the trees.
Silence.
Then: heavy breathing.
Y/N’s chest heaved beneath him, her eyes wide, her fingers tangled in the folds of his shirt where she must’ve grabbed him on instinct.
Their faces were close. Too close.
His breath fanned over her lips, his gaze flickering from her mouth to her eyes and back again. She didn’t move.
Neither did he.
The world slowed.
And then—
Jungkook cleared his throat roughly and pushed up off her.
“S-sorry,” he muttered, offering a hand.
She took it, her cheeks flushed.
He helped her up, then turned to Amelia, who was brushing herself off more shakily.
“Are you both alright? We got lucky the wild thing didn't trample us” he asked, voice low and tight.
Amelia nodded, but her heart wasn’t in her chest anymore—it was somewhere far away, aching, already grieving.
The walk back to the manor was quiet.
Y/N glanced at Jungkook once. He didn’t meet her eyes.
Amelia didn’t speak until they reached the terrace steps.
“Your Grace,” she said softly, “May I speak with you?”
He turned to her, brow furrowed. “Of course.”
She gave a small nod, but her eyes were distant, and her smile—so practiced—wobbled for the first time.
Because in that moment, all the little signs weren’t little anymore.
They were loud.
And she finally understood the one thing Jungkook wouldn’t say out loud.
He didn’t want her. He never had.
The sitting room was dim, lit only by the flicker of a low-burning lamp. Amelia stood near the window, arms crossed loosely, her posture calm—but her voice held a quiet intensity.
“You covered her with your body,” she said softly, not looking at Jungkook. “You didn’t even think twice.”
Jungkook froze in the doorway, guilt bleeding through his expression.
“I—I just acted,” he said weakly.
“No,” she said, finally turning to face him. “You instinctively acted. And your instinct was to protect her.” She let out a soft breath. “It just confirmed what I’ve been trying to ignore.”
His silence was louder than anything he could’ve said.
“You’re in love with her.”
Jungkook didn’t respond. He didn’t move. But his face said everything.
Her voice wavered, just slightly. “I need you to be honest with me, not sorry for the truth. Was any of it real? Any of this?”
Jungkook lowered his eyes. “In the beginning… yes. I meant to court you. Marry you. I thought you were the right choice. That it would be simple. Good.”
“And now?”
He looked up at her, pain evident. “It didn’t work out that way.”
Amelia gave a sad smile. “No. It didn’t.”
She paused, then turned toward the hallway.
“Y/N?” she called out.
Y/N appeared hesitantly, fingers still slightly dusted with flour from helping the twins bake. Her eyes flicked between them, alarmed.
“Is everything alright?” she asked, stepping inside slowly.
Amelia looked at her—really looked. And for the first time, saw clearly what had been there all along.
Not scandal. Not betrayal.
Just chemistry. Depth. Longing that had been hiding behind every jab and bicker and sideways glance.
Amelia smiled. It didn’t quite reach her eyes, but it was full of warmth nonetheless.
“I’m leaving.”
Y/N blinked. “What? Why?”
“I don’t belong here,” Amelia said gently. “And it’s time I stopped pretending I did.”
Y/N shook her head, rushing forward. “Amelia—no. Please. This isn’t—he and I—we’re not—”
“You are,” Amelia interrupted, her tone soft but unwavering. “You just haven’t admitted it yet.”
Y/N faltered, her eyes wide with guilt and confusion.
“I should’ve seen it sooner,” Amelia continued, brushing a hand gently down her friend’s arm. “But I see it now. And I’m not angry. I’m just… stepping aside.”
Tears threatened behind Y/N’s eyes. “You don’t have to—”
“I do,” Amelia said firmly. “Because I believe in love, Y/N. And you two—whatever this is between you—it’s not ordinary. It’s real.”
She turned toward Jungkook, nodding once.
“Be better than your reputation,” she said. “She deserves that.”
Then she kissed Y/N’s cheek, offered them both a last kind smile, and quietly walked out of the room.
The door shut softly behind her.
Leaving Jungkook and Y/N alone.
In silence.
In tension.
In something far too big to name yet.
Y/N’s eyes snapped open, sharp and furious.
“What did you say to her?” she demanded, voice rising as she rounded on Jungkook.
He met her glare evenly but sighed. “It’s not my fault.”
She scoffed, stepping back, tension crackling in every inch of her frame. “No, it’s not. She saw through everything. She's the first person of the three to be honest.”
Jungkook’s jaw tightened but he said nothing.
Y/N shook her head, the anger boiling just beneath the surface. “I’m leaving.”
She turned on her heel, intent on storming out of the room.
But before she could get far, a strong hand caught her wrist.
He pulled her back until she crashed into him, breath hitching at the closeness, her pulse thunderous.
His voice dropped to something softer, more vulnerable. “Please… just give me a chance.”
--------------
Wanna read the rest (smut + happy ending)? Subscribe to my BTS Patreon here OR access the FULL story here!
Jungkook comes back after two years abroad and things heat up between him and his best friend's little sister who's all grown up. The harmless flirting quickly turns into something more...
7.4k, unprotected sex, dirty talk, oral sex, shower sex, kissing in the rain, humping, road head, sneaking around
PSA: This is the same as my NCT Jaehyun story, this is a BTS ver!
-----------------
It started the day Jungkook walked back into her life.
Two years away. Two years without his lazy smirks, his low voice, his teasing comments that always seemed to toe the line between playful and absolutely filthy. But when he strolled into his and Namjoon’s kitchen—sun-kissed, hair messy, tattoo just barely peeking from under his sleeve—Y/N swore her knees nearly gave out.
And Jungkook noticed.
Of course he noticed.
“Look who grew up,” he murmured, eyeing her up and down shamelessly. “You always this pretty, or is it just fucking with my head today?”
Y/N flushed scarlet. She hadn’t her brothers best friend in two years and that’s the first thing out of his mouth? Moving back in with her brother and Jungkook was gonna be tough.
“You’re one to talk,” she mumbled, trying to look away.
But he stepped closer, eyes locked on hers, smirk playing on his lips. “Say that again, angel. I liked how that sounded.”
She scurried off, cheeks burning.
It only got worse after that.
Every time they crossed paths—Jungkook alone in the hallway, shirtless in the kitchen, sprawled on the couch with that stupid smug smile—he’d say something.
“You know your skirt’s riding up, right?”
“Careful looking at me like that, baby. Someone might think you want something.”
“You keep biting your lip like that and I’m gonna start wondering what else that mouth’s good for.”
Each time, her throat dried, her heart raced, and her body responded way too fast.
But Jungkook never touched her. Never crossed the line. He'd crowd her into a wall, whisper things into her ear, and back off with a lazy wink—just enough to ruin her for the rest of the day.
And she kept letting him. Kept loving it.
The Party
She wasn’t even supposed to be going. Namjoon had said it was mostly older friends, college guys, exes—“boring,” he’d told her.
But when she heard Jungkook would be there, Y/N made a choice.
A tight black dress. Strapless. Short. Paired with heels and gloss and a teasing perfume she hoped he’d notice. The moment she walked into the apartment, she saw the way heads turned—and more importantly, she felt his eyes on her.
Jungkook was leaning against the wall with a drink in hand, laughing with someone. But the second he saw her, his jaw went slack. His gaze dragged over her—slow, dark, deliberate.
And he didn’t look away.
He didn’t approach her all night. He didn’t say anything. But she felt him everywhere—watching, pacing like a predator, drinking her in from across the room.
And finally, when she slipped into the kitchen for air, he followed.
“You wore that dress for me.”
Y/N spun around. Jungkook stood in the doorway, shirt open at the collar, hair wild like he’d run his hand through it too many times. His voice was low, rough, already half-wrecked with frustration.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she whispered, clutching her cup.
He stalked closer. “You knew I’d be here. You knew what that dress would do to me.”
“I didn’t think you’d even notice.”
“Bullshit.” His eyes dragged down her body again. “You wanted me to notice. You want me to look at you and forget all the reasons I shouldn’t bend you over this counter right now.”
She swallowed, heart hammering. “We’re not doing this.”
His jaw ticked. “You think I want to want you?” He stepped closer. “You think this is easy for me? Knowing every inch of you is off-limits? Knowing I can’t fucking touch you because your brother would bury me alive?”
Y/N gasped as his hand flattened on the counter beside her hip, boxing her in without touching.
“You walk around like you don’t know what you’re doing,” Jungkook growled. “Like you don’t see how I stare at your legs. Your lips. How I can’t stop thinking about the sounds you’d make if I had my mouth between your thighs.”
“Stop,” she whispered.
“Why?” His face was inches from hers now, voice ragged. “Because if I say one more filthy thing, you’re gonna let me pull that dress up and show you exactly how long I’ve been waiting to fuck you?”
“Jungkook—”
“You want me to stop?” he asked, chest rising and falling fast. “Say it. Say you don’t think about it too. Say you haven’t imagined me fucking you so hard you forget your own name.”
She couldn’t speak. Her body was shaking.
But then she whispered, “We can’t…”
His forehead touched hers for a second, hot and desperate.
“I know we can’t,” he breathed. “But don’t lie to me, baby. Don’t lie to yourself.”
A pause. Their lips almost brushed. So close it hurt.
“I want you,” she admitted, barely audible. “So fucking bad.”
He let out a rough, broken sound—half a groan, half a curse—and stepped back like it physically hurt to leave her.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Me too.”
Another beat of silence. Then he looked her over one last time, hunger still sharp in his eyes.
“This tension’s gonna kill us.”
She nodded. “I know.”
They didn’t kiss. They didn’t touch.
They just stood there, burning alive, trying not to destroy everything.
Later that night...
Jungkook hadn’t moved in twenty minutes.
He leaned back in a chair on the balcony, nursing the same drink while the rest of the guys hollered over some drinking game inside. His jaw was tight. His eyes tracked every shadow that passed near the kitchen—her. He hadn’t seen Y/N since she slipped out, cheeks flushed and lips parted like she wanted him to ruin her right there.
And fuck, he wanted to.
But he couldn’t.
“Bro,” one of the guys nudged him. “You good?”
“Hm?” Jungkook looked up.
“You haven’t flirted with anyone all night. Usually by now you’re halfway into someone’s pants.”
Jungkook gave a lazy smirk. “Guess I’m just not in the mood.”
But his voice lacked its usual cocky bite. His mind was still in that kitchen—her body inches from his, breath catching when he told her how much he wanted her.
“Not like you,” the guy muttered, squinting at him. “You’re not sulking over a girl, are you?”
Jungkook rolled his eyes. “Relax.”
But the guy didn’t drop it. “Wait... are you—”
A sudden commotion cut him off.
Shouting. From the front lawn.
Voices raised, sharp. A girl’s voice.
Jungkook was already standing before the others processed what was happening. He recognized it immediately—hervoice. Her angry voice.
By the time he pushed through the door and onto the porch, a small crowd had already formed near the edge of the lawn.
There she was—Y/N, flushed and furious, backing away from some drunk asshole with slick hair and a cocky stance.
“I said no,” she snapped, voice shaking. “Don’t touch me.”
“Come on,” the guy slurred. “You’ve been giving me looks all night.”
Jungkook didn’t hesitate.
He was down the steps in two strides, pushing through the crowd, voice sharp and deadly.
“She said no. Back the fuck off.”
The guy blinked at him, confused. “Who the hell are you?”
Jungkook stepped between them, towering over him now. “The last person you want to piss off tonight.”
The guy scoffed, tried to square up—drunk and dumb.
And Jungkook didn’t give him the chance.
He punched him—clean, hard, right in the face.
The guy hit the ground like a sack of bricks, groaning, hands clutching his nose.
The crowd gasped. Someone laughed. Someone cheered. And Jungkook just stood there, chest heaving, teeth clenched, fists still curled like he wanted to throw another.
Y/N stared at him, breathless. Eyes wide. Lips parted. She grabbed his hand and he unclenched his fists and gave her a soft look.
Namjoon came out seconds later, saw the scene, and rushed over, both of them quickly letting go.
“What the hell happened?”
Jungkook didn’t even look at him. “Your sister was dealing with some creep who didn’t know what no meant.”
Namjoon looked between the guy on the ground and Y/N—who was visibly shaken—and then back at Jungkook.
His expression softened.
“Thanks for stepping in, man,” Namjoon said, clapping a hand on Jungkook’s shoulder. “Seriously.”
Jungkook nodded once, barely. “Anytime.”
But he wasn’t thinking about the fight anymore.
He was thinking about the way Y/N looked at him just now—like she wanted to fall into his arms and never come out.
Later That Night – Jungkook’s Room
It was quiet.
The party had died down. Most people had left. Namjoon was still out back finishing drinks with a few stragglers.
Jungkook lay on his bed, shirt off, muscles tense, replaying that moment over and over. Her voice. The way her eyes had found his. The heat still thrumming in his chest.
Then a soft knock.
He sat up fast. “Yeah?”
The door cracked open. Y/N slipped in.
Short shorts. A thin tank top. No bra. Hair down. Barefoot.
Every nerve in Jungkook’s body snapped awake.
“I… just wanted to thank you,” she whispered, stepping in and closing the door behind her. “For earlier.”
He swallowed hard, trying to keep his eyes on hers. “He shouldn’t have touched you.”
“I was handling it,” she said, a smile playing on her lips.
“Not fast enough.”
They both laughed softly. The air between them buzzed.
Then she walked closer.
So close.
He sat on the edge of the bed, and she stopped in front of him. Her fingers brushed his knuckles—light, unsure. Then her other hand cupped his cheek, gently, tenderly.
Her lips pressed against his cheek. A soft kiss. A thank-you.
But then she lingered. Just a second too long.
And when she pulled back, their lips brushed.
Soft. Barely-there. But real.
Jungkook didn’t move.
Neither did she.
Her breath trembled. “Jungkook…”
Then—
SLAM.
The front door opened. Namjoon’s voice echoed through the house.
“Yo! Anyone still awake?”
They froze.
Y/N stepped back quickly, cheeks flushed, heart pounding.
Jungkook stood too, tension radiating off him in waves.
“We shouldn’t…”
“No,” he agreed, voice tight. “We shouldn’t.”
But their eyes said everything else.
She slipped out of the room a second later, heartbeat still in her throat.
And Jungkook sat back down, fists clenched in his lap, jaw tight, cursing every goddamn reason he couldn’t have her.
The Next Day
The backyard smelled like grilled meat, sunscreen, and summer sweat. The gang was loud—music playing, beers clinking, people laughing too hard at nothing. Y/N sat on a bench under the umbrella, trying to pretend she was listening to Namjoon talk about some dumb lawn game.
But she couldn’t focus. Not with him there.
Jungkook.
Laid back in a white tank top that clung to his chest, golden skin glowing under the sun, hair pushed back lazily as he nursed a beer. He looked like sin in human form. And every time he glanced at her—every slow drag of his eyes—her thighs pressed tighter together under the table.
He hadn’t said a word to her all afternoon.
Not a single filthy whisper. Not a single cocky smirk.
Which made her want it more.
And he knew it.
Later, she slipped inside to grab napkins from the kitchen—and the second the screen door shut behind her, she felt it.
His presence.
She turned, startled, just as Jungkook’s hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, pulling her down the hallway.
“Jungkook—what are you—”
“Shhh,” he muttered, glancing over his shoulder. No one noticed.
And then they were in the narrow hallway, alone, hidden from the windows.
He backed her into the wall—crowding her in. One hand on the wall beside her head, the other gripping her chin, thumb grazing her lower lip.
“Wearing those little shorts again,” he murmured, voice low and deadly. “Trying to make me lose my mind in front of all our friends?”
Y/N couldn’t breathe.
“You haven’t even looked at me all day,” she whispered.
His eyes darkened. “Because if I looked at you too long, I’d drag you inside and make you scream my name.”
Her knees buckled.
“You want that, don’t you?” he murmured, leaning closer—his breath hot on her ear. “You want me to take you right here. Up against this wall. My hand over your mouth so they don’t hear you moan.”
Y/N whimpered.
Jungkook groaned, deep in his throat. “You’d be so fucking loud for me.”
Before she could stop herself, her hands slid up his chest. Her thighs pressed together. And then she ground herself on his leg—slow, needy, shameless.
“Fuck, baby…” he hissed, thigh flexing under her. “You’re dripping for me, aren’t you?”
Her fingers gripped his shirt. Her hips kept moving, grinding up the length of his thigh like she couldn’t help herself.
His forehead touched hers. Their lips brushed.
Barely.
She let out a breathy, desperate moan straight into his mouth.
And Jungkook snapped.
Not all the way.
But enough to shove his hand over her mouth, breathing hard as he held her there, both of them trembling.
“Stop,” he panted. “Y/N, stop—fuck—”
She slowed.
But she didn’t back away. Her eyes were glassy. Her cheeks flushed. Her body buzzed with the tension still thick between them.
He leaned in, whispering against her ear again, voice wrecked. “You do that again and I won’t stop next time.”
A beat passed. Her thighs clenched.
Then—voices.
“Where’s Y/N?”
“Didn’t she go inside?”
“Yo, Jungkook! You seen her?”
They froze.
Jungkook exhaled sharply, composed himself. Dropped his hand from her mouth. Straightened his shirt. Ran a hand through his hair.
Y/N looked equally wrecked.
They took a breath.
And then they walked out together—calm, casual, like nothing had happened.
“Oh,” Jungkook said easily, slinging an arm around Y/N’s shoulders. “She spilled juice in the kitchen. We were cleaning it up.”
Namjoon blinked. “You cleaned a spill?”
Jungkook smiled lazily. “What can I say? I’m helpful.”
Y/N laughed—too high-pitched. “So helpful.”
And no one questioned it.
But under the table, Jungkook’s hand brushed her thigh. Just once.
A silent promise.
When they had a moment alone later Jungkook thought it over. They can't keep going like this. He was too attracted to her and it wouldn't end well. Even a little bit isn't enough. He had to cut her off.
"We can't be friends." Jungkook said guiltily when they were alone.
"What?" Y/n looked in shock.
"I can't be your friend. Because I'll never think of you or see you as my friend. And every time we have a normal interaction I'm just thinking about everything I wanna do to you and how your brother would kill me if he found out."
Y/n scoffed offended. "You don't even wanna be friends? That's a lame excuse Jungkook, even from you. But fine. You got it, we're no longer friends."
Over the next few days tensions grew with their constant bickering and y/n wearing more revealing clothing around the house.
It started with another fight.
Jungkook had been moody all day—gruff responses, tense jaw, barely speaking to anyone. Y/N finally snapped after he gave her yet another cold stare when she passed him in the hallway.
“What the hell is your problem?” she hissed, arms crossed tight.
“You,” he bit out. “You’re my fucking problem.”
Her heart stuttered.
“You don’t want me. You don’t want to be friends. So what do you want from me, Jungkook? We both live in this house so suck it up.”
“I want to stop thinking about you every time you breathe in the same damn room!” His voice cracked. “I can’t—fuck—I can’t pretend this is normal. I can’t act like I’m not dying to touch you every second.”
Y/N stared at him, chest heaving. Her cheeks burned with anger and something else. “Fine,” she snapped, voice cold. “You don’t want to deal with me? Then don’t.”
That night, she went on a date with someone else.
Later That Night
The restaurant was awful. The guy was worse. He talked over her, laughed at nothing, stared at her chest the entire time.
And when he leaned in, trying to kiss her outside by her Uber, she shoved him away and ran.
Tears burned in her eyes as she called the only person she knew would come.
“Jungkook…” she whispered when he answered. “Can you… can you pick me up?”
He didn’t hesitate. He picked her up and drove her back to their place, the car ride thick with silence.
It was pouring.
The sky cracked open above them, rain spilling like it had been waiting for this moment—just like them.
Y/N got out of the car and stood at the edge of the driveway, soaked and seething, arms crossed under her chest as thunder rolled in the distance. Her white tank clung to her breasts like second skin, completely see-through, nipples clearly visible. Her tiny denim skirt was soaked and hitched up high, the hot pink waistband of her panties teasing just above the fabric.
And Jungkook—black shirt plastered to his chest, cargo pants hugging his hips, tattoos glistening in the storm—stood there with his jaw clenched, looking like he was on the verge of tearing something apart.
He was.
“What the hell are you doing calling me?” he snapped, stepping into the rain. “Didn’t you run off to your perfect little date?”
She spun around, drenched hair whipping over her shoulder. “Don’t start.”
“Don’t fucking start?” His laugh was humorless. “You go out, dressed like that, trying to pretend I don’t exist, then cry for me to come save you like I’m still the good guy?”
“I called you because it's your fucking fault I went on that date in the first place. I didn’t know who else to—!”
“No,” he growled, stepping closer, “you called me because even when you’re pissed at me, you still want me.”
Her breath caught.
Jungkook's eyes dragged down her body, tongue darting out over his bottom lip. “You really think I didn’t notice that tiny little skirt, that wet tank, those bright fucking panties begging to be pulled down?”
Her eyes widened, but he wasn’t done.
“You walk around dripping wet, tits out, skirt barely covering your ass—and I’m supposed to keep pretending I don’t want to bend you over every surface I see?”
Y/N’s lips parted in shock.
“You think I haven’t pictured it?” he hissed. “Your legs spread in my backseat, you wrapped around me while my tongue is down your throat? Or your mouth gagged on my cock, crying while I throat fuck every thought of every other guy out of your head?”
Her knees buckled slightly. He saw it—and grinned. Dark. Filthy.
She shoved at his chest. “You're such a—”
But he grabbed her.
Fisted her skirt and panties, yanking her flush against him. Her gasp was swallowed by the sound of rain, her breath catching when she felt how hard he was through his pants.
“I’ve had enough of pretending,” he rasped. His lips brushed hers. “I’m fucking done.”
Then his voice dropped, hot and filthy against her mouth:
“Fuck it.”
And then he took her mouth.
It was wild. Open. Tongues colliding. His lips crushed hers, tongue shoving into her mouth like he was claiming it—like he’d been waiting years to taste her. His hand stayed tight on her panties, holding her body against his while he devoured her, spit and rain mixing between them.
Y/N moaned into it—helplessly—gripping his shirt like she needed something to hang on to.
Jungkook groaned, deep and rough, sucking on her tongue before biting her bottom lip just to hear her whimper.
“You feel that?” he growled between kisses, grinding into her soaked skirt. “That’s what you fucking do to me.”
She was panting, dazed, lips swollen.
And he wasn’t done.
“I swear to god, if Namjoon wasn’t your brother—” he shoved her back against the wall of the house, kissing her again, even harder this time— “I’d have fucked you right here. In the rain. With your panties still on.”
When they finally broke apart, both wrecked and breathless, her voice trembled.
“I want you.”
He wiped the rain from her cheek, staring at her like she was his breaking point and salvation at once.
“You’ve got me,” he whispered. “Now I’m done hiding it.”
The kiss didn’t stop.
Even as Jungkook dragged her back into the house, their mouths stayed fused—wet, frantic, tongues tangling while their soaked bodies bumped into walls and doorframes. His hand stayed tight on her waist, the other sliding up under her clingy, dripping tank, fingers kneading over bare, slick skin.
He kicked his bedroom door shut and slammed her against it, lips pressing into her jaw, her throat, her collarbone. He groaned when he felt the heat of her body through the thin fabric, both of them soaked to the bone and breathless.
“Clothes,” he growled against her mouth, tugging hard at the hem of her top. “Off. Now.”
She whimpered as he peeled the wet fabric off her—tank top first, tossed somewhere on the floor. Her skirt followed with a harsh tug, panties bunched with it. His black shirt clung to his abs, tattoos snaking over soaked muscle as he pulled it off over his head.
She barely had a second to breathe before his lips were on her again—hot, hungry, starved—pushing her backward until her thighs hit the edge of his shower.
Jungkook spun the handle.
Steam rushed out as hot water poured down from above.
He walked her straight into it, fully naked, his mouth still locked on hers. Their bodies collided under the stream, her back hitting the tile wall with a wet slap.
He didn’t let up.
His hands roamed—fisting her ass, dragging her against his thick length, sliding over her hips and ribs and chest, palms rough and greedy. His mouth dipped to her neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks, biting just below her jaw before kissing her again—deep and messy, with his tongue shoved so far into her mouth she could barely breathe.
“You feel that?” he growled, grinding into her under the water. “That’s what I’ve been hiding. Every night. Every time you walked past me looking like a fucking dream.”
“Jungkook—” she gasped, nails digging into his back.
“You don’t even know what you’ve done to me,” he snarled, grabbing her thighs. “But I’m about to show you.”
--------------
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Y/N stirred her tea withboth hands, cheeks pink from the sun and her soft cardigan slipping off one shoulder.
“Aw, you’re so cute,” Jimin cooed from across the table, snapping a picture before she could protest.
She giggled, flustered, hiding her face behind her mug.
“I’m not that cute,” she mumbled.
But no one believed her.
Y/N was the one who always offered to drive people home. Who cried at sad commercials. Who baked cookies for birthdays. The one you introduced to your mom because she’d call her Mrs. Lee and bring her flowers.
She wore soft pastels. Pink gloss. Sweet perfume. She blushed when someone flirted too hard.
Of course, no one would ever suspect what she really liked.
What she really needed.
That night, she was on her knees in Jungkook’s apartment, throat full of him, eyes glassy with tears and spit dripping from her chin.
“Look at you,” Jungkook snarled, hand wrapped in her hair, forcing her deeper until her nose was buried against his abs.
She moaned around him.
He pulled her off with a wet pop, grabbing her jaw in one hand and dragging her mouth open. Her tongue lolled out automatically—trained—and he spat straight onto it.
“Swallow.”
She obeyed, cheeks burning, thighs clenching from nothing more than the sound of his voice.
“Get on the bed.”
The mattress creaked under her knees as she climbed up, heart pounding, soaking through the cotton of her panties.
Jungkook didn’t waste time. He grabbed her by the hips, ripped the panties down, and drove into her in one quick motion.
Y/N screamed.
He stretched her. Made her feel full, like none of those “nice guys” ever had. Her nails clawed the sheets, mouth wide open in a moan as Jungkook pounded into her from behind, rough and fast, no mercy.
“You let all those boring, soft little boys touch you?” he growled, leaning down, fingers bruising into her hips. “Bet they asked if this was okay every time they moved. Bet they couldn’t even make you cum.”
She whined. “They didn’t—I didn’t—I couldn’t…”
Jungkook chuckled darkly, thrusting harder. “Of course not. You needed someone to ruin you.”
She gasped as he spanked her hard, once, then again, the sting blooming instantly.
“You needed someone to fuck you stupid, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” she sobbed, eyes fluttering shut, spit glistening on her lips. “Yes, Jungkook—please—don’t stop—”
He grabbed her hair and yanked, forcing her arch back sharper. Her back bowed, breasts bouncing with every thrust as his pace turned savage.
“That’s my girl,” he muttered into her ear, biting the shell of it, then dragging his teeth down her neck. “My filthy little angel.”
Her eyes rolled back. “I can’t—I’m gonna—”
“Cum for me,” he ordered. “Right now. Make a mess for me.”
She shattered with a scream, clenching hard around him as her body convulsed. He didn’t stop, even as she trembled violently under him, whimpering from overstimulation. He fucked her straight through it, his hand coming down again to leave a red palm print on her ass.
When he came, he was grunting curses into her skin, spilling deep inside with one final hard thrust before collapsing over her.
They lay there for a beat, tangled and breathless, her face buried in the sheets and his teeth gently grazing her shoulder as he pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses over the bite marks he left.
“You’re mine now,” he murmured into her skin.
She nodded weakly, blissed out and ruined.
And all the while, her phone buzzed on the nightstand with a new message from Jimin.
hey yn! dinner next week? my mom’s in town, i told her about you :) hope you’re free!
Y/N stared at the screen for a moment before giggling quietly.
No one had a clue.
————————
It was supposed to be a regular group hangout—loud music, cheap beer, someone rolling joints in the back room, and everyone crammed into Jins’s place like always.
Y/N was perched on the armrest of the couch between Hobi and Jimin, giggling softly at something they said, sipping from a cherry-flavored drink with her legs tucked up.
Then Jungkook walked in.
A few cheers went up. "Finally!" "Where the hell were you?" "Late as always."
But Y/N’s drink nearly slipped from her hand.
Because there it was—a fresh black tattoo crawling up the side of his neck, bold and sleek, inked right over the tendon like it owned him. Like he owned it.
He said he got it on impulse. Shrugged it off.
The group swarmed him, admiring it, hyping him up. “Dude, that’s hard.” “Badass as fuck.” “Did it hurt?”
Y/N said nothing.
Because she was too busy crossing her legs tighter, breath caught in her throat, heart pounding in her ears.
And Jungkook knew it.
He felt her staring.
And when his gaze finally dragged across the room and landed on her—slow and cocky—he smirked.
Like he already knew she was soaked.
That night, she was crawling toward him in nothing but soft white lingerie—delicate lace cupping her tits, thin straps sliding off her shoulders, the tiniest bow between her thighs.
“Jungkook,” she whispered, looking up at him with big, pleading eyes. “Please.”
“Use your words, angel.”
“I need you,” she breathed. “Need your cock—need to feel you. Can I ride you?”
He didn’t even speak. Just dropped onto the couch, jeans halfway undone, cock already hard and heavy against his stomach.
Y/N straddled him, needy hands guiding him inside her inch by inch, her mouth falling open in a broken gasp.
“Fuck,” she whimpered, rolling her hips. “You feel so good—so full…”
Jungkook grabbed her ass in both hands, slapping it hard, making her jolt with a cry.
“Yeah? You love this cock, don’t you?” he growled, thrusting up into her. “Love how I fuck you open like no one else ever did?”
“Yes—yes, Jungkook—only you.”
She raked her hands through his hair, pulling his face toward her neck, and then she bit him—hard, teeth sinking in as she rode him faster.
Then her lips were on his neck, licking, sucking, worshipping the ink she’d been fantasizing about since the moment she saw it. Her tongue traced the edges of the new tattoo as her hips snapped down faster.
Jungkook groaned, slamming his hips up into her. “Yeah, suck it, angel. You love this shit, huh? Love my tattoos, my piercings, my fuckin’ hands on your ass.”
“I love everything about you,” she babbled, out of breath and cock-drunk. “Your tattoos, your voice, your hands—your hair, your fucking mouth—”
“Then cum on it,” he hissed, voice ragged. “Ride it like you mean it.”
And she did.
Head thrown back, hips grinding wildly, eyes fluttering shut as she moaned his name like a prayer, cumming hard around him with a sob. He followed with a groan, grabbing her hips and holding her down as he filled her deep.
They kissed through it—sloppy, desperate, messy—and she stayed on his lap for a moment, trembling, hearts pounding together.
Jungkook pressed a kiss to her temple. “Fuck, angel…”
She smiled against his shoulder. “Carry me to bed?”
He scooped her up with ease, still half-hard, walking them to the bedroom like he couldn’t bear to let her go.
Sometime later, when the world had quieted and their bodies were tangled in soft sheets, Y/N reached into her bag and pulled out a tiny tin.
“What’s that?” Jungkook asked, voice thick with sleep and sex.
She straddled his waist gently, soft thighs pressing against his hips, her hands warm.
“Tattoo balm,” she said with a shy little smile. “Saw it at the store. I figured you’d forget to take care of it properly.”
He blinked, speechless, as she opened it and dipped her fingers inside.
Then, carefully, she leaned down and began rubbing the soothing cream into his neck with slow, tender circles. Her touch was gentle—nothing like the way she fucked.
“Don’t scratch it,” she murmured. “Even if it itches.”
He watched her. Silent.
No one had ever done this. Not for him.
The way she touched him—like he was something worth caring for—made something tighten in his chest.
She looked up then, fingers still gently massaging balm into his skin. “What?”
Jungkook didn’t answer.
He just pulled her down and kissed her.
And this time... it wasn’t rough.
It wasn’t even about sex.
It was soft. Slow.
Maybe even a little dangerous.
Because Jungkook realized something as she curled up against his chest after:
This might not be just a hookup anymore.
——————————
The party was already loud when Y/N walked in, the soft shimmer of her dress catching the light and her sweet little smile lighting up the room more than the string lights ever could.
Jungkook saw her the second she stepped through the door.
He was leaned against the kitchen counter, drink in hand, talking to Jin, but his eyes never left her. Not when she hugged people. Not when she laughed. Not when she slipped off her coat and revealed the bare skin of her shoulders, that smooth glow he’d had his mouth on too many times to count.
He was just about to go to her when he showed up.
The guy in the leather jacket.
Tall. Tattooed. Cocky. Just like Jungkook.
Y/N was leaning against the wall, smile soft, drink cradled between her hands as Leather Jacket started talking to her. Something about music. Or her dress. Whatever it was, it made her laugh.
Jungkook’s jaw tightened.
The guy stepped closer.
Y/N didn’t push him away—of course not. She was sweet, she was polite. She was herself. But it didn’t matter.
Jungkook slammed his cup down, already walking.
“Yo,” he said, tone calm but eyes sharp as he stopped next to them. “Back off.”
The guy raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, didn’t realize she was taken.”
“She is.”
Y/N blinked up at him, confused. “Jungkook?”
He didn’t answer her. Just slid his hand into hers—warm, firm—and pulled her away from the crowd without another word.
The hallway was quieter. Dimmer.
Her heels clicked softly against the wood as he backed her into the wall, but this time he didn’t pin her.
He didn’t growl or bark orders or rip anything off.
He just leaned down and kissed her.
Slow. Deep. Desperate.
Y/N melted instantly, her arms sliding around his shoulders, mouth opening for him as their lips moved like they were trying to memorize each other.
“Jungkook,” she whispered when they broke apart. “What was that about?”
His forehead pressed to hers, breath shaky.
“I don’t like people flirting with you,” he muttered, kissing her jaw. “Don’t like the way he looked at you like you’re available.”
Her breath hitched as his hands gripped her hips.
“You’re not. You’re mine.”
She blinked, wide-eyed. “Jungkook…”
Another kiss, slower this time. A thumb brushing under her eye like she might cry. His voice came low and honest against her mouth.
“I don’t wanna fuck around anymore,” he said. “I want you. Just you. Be mine, angel. Be with me.”
Y/N smiled, soft and glowing, her heart pounding as she kissed him again and again between her words.
“I already am.”
He smiled too—grin lazy and a little stunned—and kissed her until the noise of the party faded into nothing.
They didn’t have sex in that hallway.
Not that night.
But the kiss?
It was the dirtiest, most tender thing Jungkook had ever done.
And for the first time, it meant everything.
——————————
Being his girlfriend didn’t change a thing.
Jungkook still kissed like he wanted to own her soul. Still fucked like he didn’t believe in mercy. Still looked at her like she was his favorite sin.
But now?
Now he did it with even less restraint.
They barely made it through the door.
Her back hit the wall of his apartment with a dull thud, dress already shoved halfway up her thighs, lips swollen from how long he'd been kissing her—at the bar, in the Uber, now here, pressing her against the wall like she’d dare think of anyone else.
“Mine now,” he whispered against her lips, fingers gripping her jaw tight. “No more sneaking around. No more hiding. You belong to me.”
“I do,” she breathed, already dizzy. “Jungkook, please—”
His mouth crushed hers in a filthy, open-mouthed kiss, tongue pushing past her lips like he owned the space. And he did. She let him. She wanted it.
He bit her bottom lip, pulled, made her whimper.
Then his hand wrapped tight around her throat—not choking, just claiming.
“I want you ruined,” he growled. “Want you to forget your name. Just remember mine.”
He dragged her into the bedroom, kicked the door shut, and had her on the bed in seconds—panties ripped off and thrown somewhere behind him, her thighs spread wide as he knelt between them.
One long finger slid into her dripping pussy.
Then another.
Then his thumb found her clit.
“Oh—oh my God—” she gasped, hips jerking, already clenching. “Jungkook—fuck—”
“That’s right,” he smirked, watching her squirm. “Say it again.”
“Jungkook—Jungkook—please—”
He kept rubbing harder, faster, curling his fingers just right until she came once, then again, body arching and twitching as tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.
“Too much—”
“You can take it,” he said, voice calm, confident, cocky. “You’re my good girl, right? My dirty, perfect girl?”
She nodded frantically, already overstimulated, but when he unzipped his jeans and pulled his cock out, she was already reaching for him.
“Please,” she begged. “I need you—I need—”
“You have me,” he snarled, dragging her to the edge of the bed and slamming into her with one brutal thrust.
Y/N screamed.
He didn’t give her time to adjust. Just started fucking her hard, one hand pressing into the bruises already forming on her throat, the other tangled in her hair.
“Look at you,” he groaned. “So fucking wet. You love this, huh? Love when I wreck you? Make you forget everything but this dick?”
“Yes—yes, Jungkook, fuck—!”
Her legs were shaking, heels digging into the mattress, mouth open and eyes rolled back as he hit that perfect spot again and again, fast and deep, balls slapping against her soaked pussy.
“Say it again,” he growled, biting her neck hard enough to leave a mark. “Say my name while I fuck the thoughts out of you.”
“Jungkook—Jungkook—JUNGKOOK—”
“That’s it, angel,” he breathed. “Only word in that pretty little brain. Just me. That’s all I want.”
He pulled out suddenly, flipping her onto her hands and knees like she weighed nothing, and slammed back in. She cried out, body wrecked and trembling, but still took every thrust like she was made for him.
He grabbed a fistful of her hair, tugging her head back, mouth pressed to her ear.
“Mine,” he whispered, slower now but deeper. “My pussy. My girl. My fucking everything.”
“Yes,” she sobbed. “Yours, yours, yours—!”
She came again, choking on a scream, her walls fluttering around him so tight he could barely move.
He didn’t last much longer.
“Open,” he panted, pulling out just in time to shoot hot over her tongue, her lips already open like she knewwhat he wanted.
She swallowed every drop with a blissed-out smile, completely and utterly drunk on Jungkook.
And that’s exactly how he wanted her.
They laid there in silence after, tangled and sweaty, her body marked up in bites and bruises and his name echoing in her head like a prayer.
And when she curled into his chest, still naked, he kissed her temple and whispered—
“Next time? I’m putting a ring on your finger before someone else tries to flirt with you again.”
Y/N smiled against his skin, lips brushing a new mark on his throat.
“Good,” she whispered back. “I want everyone to know I’m yours.”
-----------
Hope you enjoyed! Subscribe to my BTS Patreon here for early and FULL access to all of my stories!
Hi I just discovered your account and you are an amazing writer. Just want to ask if all your stories will always be locked in patreon or do you usually post them full here after a while? I can’t afford the fees yet as the exchange rate is so high 🥲
This is so sweet tysm, I have always said that eventually certain stories I will post on here months after I post on patreon but I just need to figure out a schedule and which ones! And my local currency is weak too so I feel you </333
Y/n has the best most filthy hookup of her life with a mysteriously hot guy, only realizing he's a criminal weeks later when she hears his voice on the news...too bad he comes back for more...
This is the same as my criminal Haechan story, this is a BTS ver!
Full ver: 7.2k, unprotected sex, rough sex, dirty talk, degradation, oral sex, semi-public oral sex
-------------
The bar was alive in that kind of way it only got on weekends—dim lighting, low bass thrumming through the floorboards, bodies pressed together in slow, lazy movements on the dance floor. Y/N sat at the counter, one leg crossed over the other, nursing a drink she didn’t even like. The ice clinked softly every time she swirled the glass, her eyes lazily scanning the crowd, pretending she wasn’t bored out of her mind.
She didn’t notice him at first.
Not until the air seemed to shift—subtle, but undeniable—like someone had just entered the room and taken up more than their fair share of it. Her gaze flicked toward the door, and that’s when she saw him.
He didn’t move like the others. Didn’t shove his way through the crowd, didn’t glance around to see who was watching. He knew people were watching. He was tall, lean, dressed in all black—dark jacket over a fitted shirt that did nothing to hide the cut of his frame. His hair was dark, messy in a way that looked intentional, and his eyes… sharp, unreadable, scanning the room until they landed right on her.
It was like being hit with a jolt of static.
She looked away first. She didn’t know why. But a few moments later, she felt the empty barstool beside her shift.
“You always look this bored,” he asked, voice low and smooth, “or is tonight special?”
She turned her head, finding him much closer than she expected, his arm resting casually on the counter, his eyes locked on hers like he already knew her answer.
“Depends on who’s asking,” she said, matching his tone.
His mouth curved into something between a smirk and a dare. “Taehyung.”
He didn’t offer a hand. Just a name, like it was enough.
The bartender appeared, and without looking away from her, Taehyung ordered something—something expensive, judging by the slight raise of the bartender’s brow. Then he turned the glass toward her instead of himself.
“You strike me as someone who could use something stronger than… whatever that is,” he said, nodding at her drink.
Normally, she would have bristled. But there was something about him that made her lean into it instead of away.
One drink became two. Two became three. By the time they were leaning in close, shoulders brushing, his hand resting dangerously near her thigh, she’d stopped wondering why her pulse wouldn’t slow down.
When he finally said, “Wanna get out of here?” it wasn’t even a question.
They didn’t speak much on the walk to the hotel. The silence wasn’t awkward—if anything, it was charged. Y/N’s heels clicked against the pavement in quick rhythm, but Taehyung’s steps were slower, confident, like he knew exactly where this night was going and didn’t need to rush.
By the time the elevator doors slid shut, his hand was already at her waist, pulling her in until her back met the mirrored wall. His breath was warm against her ear when he spoke.
“You’ve been looking at me like you want me to ruin you all night,” he murmured, his tone low, dangerous.
Her lips parted, but she didn’t get the chance to answer—his mouth was on hers, hard and hungry. His hands roamed like he had every right to touch her, sliding over her hips, gripping the curve of her ass through her dress. She gasped into the kiss when he squeezed, and he used the opening to lick into her mouth, deep and claiming.
When the elevator dinged, he pulled back just enough to smirk at her swollen lips. “Room 804. Move.”
She barely remembered the walk down the hall before they were inside, the door slamming shut behind them.
Taehyung was on her instantly, spinning her so her back hit the door, his hands braced on either side of her head. “You like giving control away, sweetheart?”
Her pulse jumped. “Maybe.”
“That’s not an answer.” His hand slid up her thigh, dragging the hem of her dress with it. “Say yes.”
“Yes,” she breathed, and his grin widened like he’d been waiting for it.
The dress was gone before she could think about modesty, pooling at her feet while he drank in the sight of her. He didn’t bother hiding the hunger in his eyes as he pressed her against the door again, his thumb grazing her already-damp panties.
“Look at you,” he said, voice dripping with amusement. “So wet for me already. You want me to fuck you?”
“Yes,” she said again, her voice breaking slightly.
“Not good enough.” He hooked a finger under her chin, tilting her face up until their eyes locked. “Say it like you mean it.”
“I want you to fuck me.”
That earned her a kiss so deep it stole the air from her lungs. He pulled her toward the bed, stripping off his own jacket and shirt on the way. His body was lean, toned, and every movement screamed cocky self-assurance.
When she reached for his belt, he caught her wrists, pushing her down onto the mattress. “Uh-uh. You don’t touch unless I say you can.”
He knelt between her thighs, dragging her panties down slowly, like he wanted her to squirm. When he tossed them aside, he spread her knees wide, his gaze dark and heavy as it roamed over her.
“Open up for me, sweetheart.”
The words made heat pool low in her belly. She obeyed, and he smirked like she’d just handed him the win. His fingers were on her first—slow at the start, teasing—then rougher, curling deep until her back arched off the bed.
“Such a good little thing,” he murmured, watching her writhe. “You take my fingers so well. Can’t wait to feel you wrapped around my cock.”
When she was a mess beneath him, he finally freed himself, the sight of him making her mouth go dry. He didn’t rush, just stroked himself lazily while looking her over like she was something he owned already.
Then he was over her, one hand braced beside her head, the other guiding himself to her entrance. “This is going to ruin you for anyone else.”
And he was right. The thrust was deep, hard, making her cry out. He fucked her like he had something to prove, his hips snapping against hers, each thrust punctuated by filthy praise and taunts—telling her how tight she was, how perfect she felt, how she was made for him to use.
When she clawed at his back, he caught her wrists again, pinning them above her head. “Stay still. Take it. That’s all you have to do.”
Her moans filled the room, mixing with the slap of skin and his ragged breathing. He bent down to bite her neck, licking over the mark after. “Gonna cum for me, sweetheart?”
“Yes—oh god—”
“Do it. I want to feel you fall apart around me.”
When she did, it was intense, shattering, her body tightening around him in pulsing waves. He fucked her through it, groaning when he spilled inside her, his thrusts finally slowing.
He kissed her once more—slow this time—before pulling back, that smirk returning. “Told you. Ruined.”
Y/N woke to an empty bed.
For a moment, she just lay there, staring at the dent in the pillow where his head had been. The sheets smelled like him—clean soap, faint cologne, and something darker she couldn’t quite place. The memories from last night flashed back in sharp, heated fragments: the elevator, his hands, his voice in her ear telling her exactly what to do.
Her thighs ached in the best way.
Rolling onto her back, she caught sight of the clock. Late. She groaned, dragging herself up and finding her dress crumpled on the floor. There was no note. No phone number. Just the echo of his smirk burned into her brain.
By the time she slid into a booth at the little café near her apartment, her best friend, Mina, was already there—iced coffee in hand and a knowing grin on her face.
“You’re late,” Mina said, eyes dropping to Y/N’s oversized hoodie and messy hair. “And… you look like you just rolled out of bed. From someone else’s bed.”
Y/N bit her lip, sliding into the seat. “Okay, so… I might have had a night.”
Mina’s eyes widened. “Tell me everything.”
Y/N leaned in, lowering her voice even though the café wasn’t crowded. “Met him at the bar. Tall, hot, this stupid cocky smirk that should have been illegal. He bought me a drink and—” She stopped, heat rushing to her cheeks. “Mina, it was… the best sex of my life.”
“Oh my god.” Mina covered her mouth, then dropped her hand. “Details. Now.”
Y/N looked around once more before continuing. “He was… rough. But perfect. Said all the right things, like he could read my mind. At one point—” She paused, shivering at the memory. “At one point he looked at me and said ‘open up for me, sweetheart’. And I did. Like instantly. I didn’t even think.”
Mina fanned herself dramatically. “Okay, keep going.”
“He wouldn’t let me touch him unless he said so,” Y/N admitted, smirking a little. “And when I came, he—god—he told me he wanted to feel me fall apart around him. It was filthy. I loved every second of it.”
Mina shook her head, grinning. “So when’s round two?”
Y/N’s smirk faded just a little. “That’s the thing… when I woke up, he was gone. No note. No number. Nothing.”
Mina raised a brow. “Mysterious. Maybe he’ll pop up again.”
Y/N stirred her coffee, trying to hide how much she hoped so. “Yeah… maybe.”
But even as they switched topics, she knew she’d recognize that smirk anywhere—and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to find him, or if she should run the other way if she did.
The sizzle of garlic in the pan filled her small kitchen, the scent curling warm and familiar through the air. Y/N moved lazily between the counter and the stove, wooden spoon in hand, humming faintly to herself. The TV was on in the living room, volume low—background noise she barely paid attention to most nights.
“…in other news, police are still investigating the underground street racing gang suspected in a string of high-end car thefts across the city…”
She half-listened, tossing the pasta into the pot, steam clouding up in front of her.
“…the group is believed to be highly organized, with members able to bypass advanced security systems in minutes. Authorities have yet to identify any suspects, but earlier this week, surveillance audio captured what they believe to be the gang’s leader…”
Her hand froze on the spoon.
“…the voice was recorded whispering something to himself while working to unlock a car. Investigators say it could be a personal quirk—possibly a code phrase. We warn viewers, the clip is faint but clear.”
She turned toward the living room without meaning to, her brows knitting together as the reporter continued.
And then—
“Open up for me, sweetheart.”
It wasn’t grainy enough to hide the tone. That deep, low rumble. The way the word sweetheart curled at the edges, dripping with command.
Y/N’s whole body went rigid, the steam from the stove curling around her as her mind stuttered.
No.
No, it couldn’t be—
But the moment it hit her ears, her body remembered. The weight of him above her. The heat of his breath against her ear. That exact same line, whispered while she lay beneath him, trembling, her back arching into his touch.
Her knees felt unsteady.
The anchor kept speaking, explaining how police hoped the clip might lead to tips from the public, but she barely heard a word. Her heart thudded in her chest as they played it again.
“Open up for me, sweetheart.”
She stumbled toward the couch, grabbing the remote with shaky fingers, rewinding. Playing it again. And again. Every repetition sent a sharp shiver down her spine.
It was him.
It was Taehyung.
She sank onto the couch, her dinner forgotten in the kitchen, the only thing she could hear was his voice filling the quiet apartment—over and over—until it was impossible to deny the truth.
The man who’d given her the best night of her life was the leader of a gang the police couldn’t catch.
And she knew that voice better than anyone.
The garage smelled like motor oil and adrenaline. The hum of a stripped-down Nissan idled low in the background, the hood up, exposed wiring glinting under the harsh white lights. Taehyung was crouched beside it, a smudge of grease on his forearm, his focus razor-sharp on the delicate lock bypass he’d been perfecting.
The metallic click of the door opening announced Jimin before his voice did.
“They got your voice on tape,” Jimin said flatly, stepping inside.
Taehyung didn’t look up right away, just kept working, a faint smirk playing at his lips. “Cops get lots of things on tape. Doesn’t mean they know what they’re listening to.”
Jimin leaned against the workbench, arms crossed. “This time, they’re playing it on the damn news.”
That made Taehyung pause. Slowly, he straightened, wiping his hands on a rag. “Let me hear it.”
Jimin pulled out his phone, scrolling, then hit play.
“Open up for me, sweetheart.”
The voice—his voice—rolled out into the garage, low and intimate even in the grainy recording.
And Taehyung froze.
Because he remembered saying it. Not here. Not to himself over a lock. But to her. Weeks ago, her knees open under his hands, her eyes glassy with need, the little breathless yes she’d given him right after.
Heat flared low in his gut, memory slamming into him so hard it stole his breath.
Her soft gasps as he slid into her.
The way she squeezed around him, so fucking tight it had him gritting his teeth.
The sight of her arching under him, mouth falling open as she obeyed every filthy word he gave her.
He hadn’t been able to hook up with anyone since. Not for lack of trying—he’d had offers. But every time he touched someone else, it felt wrong. They weren’t her. They didn’t make his control slip the way she did.
He tossed the rag onto the bench and grabbed his jacket.
Jimin blinked. “Where the hell are you going?”
“Out,” Taehyung said, already heading for the door.
“That’s it? You’re not even gonna—”
“Lock up the garage when you’re done,” he cut in, not slowing.
Jimin’s voice followed him out. “You’re not telling me something.”
Taehyung didn’t bother answering. He was already in the driver’s seat, engine roaring to life. His mind wasn’t on the job, or the risk, or the cops—it was on Y/N. On the way she’d looked up at him that night. On the sound she’d made when he told her to open up for him.
And if she’d seen that news clip…
He pressed harder on the gas. He needed to see her.
It was nearly midnight when the knock came.
Y/N froze halfway through brushing her teeth, the sound echoing through her quiet apartment. No one came by this late. No one except—
Her pulse quickened. She didn’t need to look through the peephole. There was only one person who would knock like that—three firm raps, a pause, then two more.
She pulled on her robe, tying the belt tighter as she stepped into the hall. And there he was.
Taehyung stood with his hands in his jacket pockets, hood up, shadows hiding half his face. But his eyes… she’d know them anywhere.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice low but steady.
He tilted his head slightly, studying her. “You know why I’m here.”
She crossed her arms, the robe tugging tighter across her chest. “Do I?”
His gaze sharpened. “I know you know it’s me. It’s all over the news.”
Y/N’s breath caught, but she didn’t look away. “The second I heard it… I knew.” She swallowed, fingers tightening on the robe belt. “It was you.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.
“But I’m not going to tell anyone,” she continued. “I don’t care what you’ve done… it’s not my business. But it means we can’t—” She hesitated, the words catching. “We can’t see each other anymore.”
Something flickered in his expression—amusement, maybe, or defiance. Then he stepped closer, close enough for her to smell the faint trace of his cologne, the warmth radiating from his body.
“You really think I’m going to walk away that easy?” he murmured.
Before she could answer, he leaned in and kissed her.
It wasn’t gentle. His mouth was hot, demanding, pulling a sharp gasp from her before she melted against him. Her hands were at his chest, meaning to push him back—but instead, they curled into his jacket as his tongue slid against hers, his body crowding hers into the doorframe.
She kissed him back. Hard. Like she’d been starving for it.
When she finally broke away, breathless, her hand pressed lightly to his chest—not shoving, but holding him there. “You have to stop coming here.”
He didn’t move for a beat, eyes locked on hers, lips curved in that infuriating smirk. But when she stepped back, he let her go.
She turned, retreating inside without looking back, the door clicking shut between them.
In the dark of her bedroom, she lay staring at the ceiling, heart still pounding.
What the hell was going on in her life?
----------------
The night air was thick with gasoline, smoke, and bass-heavy music that rattled the cracked pavement. Y/N stood near the edge of the crowd, hands stuffed in the pockets of her jacket, watching the chaos unfold.
Mina had dragged her here, bright-eyed with her new boyfriend in tow, gushing about how “street racing is way more fun than it sounds.” Y/N had almost said no. But maybe, she thought, it was time to put Taehyung firmly in the past. Maybe she could meet someone new tonight. Someone who didn’t vanish after wrecking her self-control, and definitely someone who wasn’t a walking red flag.
Engines roared at the starting line, headlights flaring against the dark. Y/N let her gaze wander over the lineup—sleek bodies of metal and chrome, paint jobs that gleamed under the scattered floodlights.
Then one particular car rolled forward.
It was impossible not to notice. Low to the ground, jet black with tinted windows that hid the driver completely—until the glass began to roll down.
Her stomach dropped.
Taehyung.
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Hi everyone, this is the masterlist for all my BTS Stories!
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Jungkook comes back after two years abroad and things heat up between him and his best friend's little sister who's all grown up. The harmless flirting quickly turns into something more...
7.4k, unprotected sex, dirty talk, oral sex, shower sex, kissing in the rain, humping, road head, sneaking around
PSA: This is the same as my NCT Jaehyun story, this is a BTS ver!
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It started the day Jungkook walked back into her life.
Two years away. Two years without his lazy smirks, his low voice, his teasing comments that always seemed to toe the line between playful and absolutely filthy. But when he strolled into his and Namjoon’s kitchen—sun-kissed, hair messy, tattoo just barely peeking from under his sleeve—Y/N swore her knees nearly gave out.
And Jungkook noticed.
Of course he noticed.
“Look who grew up,” he murmured, eyeing her up and down shamelessly. “You always this pretty, or is it just fucking with my head today?”
Y/N flushed scarlet. She hadn’t her brothers best friend in two years and that’s the first thing out of his mouth? Moving back in with her brother and Jungkook was gonna be tough.
“You’re one to talk,” she mumbled, trying to look away.
But he stepped closer, eyes locked on hers, smirk playing on his lips. “Say that again, angel. I liked how that sounded.”
She scurried off, cheeks burning.
It only got worse after that.
Every time they crossed paths—Jungkook alone in the hallway, shirtless in the kitchen, sprawled on the couch with that stupid smug smile—he’d say something.
“You know your skirt’s riding up, right?”
“Careful looking at me like that, baby. Someone might think you want something.”
“You keep biting your lip like that and I’m gonna start wondering what else that mouth’s good for.”
Each time, her throat dried, her heart raced, and her body responded way too fast.
But Jungkook never touched her. Never crossed the line. He'd crowd her into a wall, whisper things into her ear, and back off with a lazy wink—just enough to ruin her for the rest of the day.
And she kept letting him. Kept loving it.
The Party
She wasn’t even supposed to be going. Namjoon had said it was mostly older friends, college guys, exes—“boring,” he’d told her.
But when she heard Jungkook would be there, Y/N made a choice.
A tight black dress. Strapless. Short. Paired with heels and gloss and a teasing perfume she hoped he’d notice. The moment she walked into the apartment, she saw the way heads turned—and more importantly, she felt his eyes on her.
Jungkook was leaning against the wall with a drink in hand, laughing with someone. But the second he saw her, his jaw went slack. His gaze dragged over her—slow, dark, deliberate.
And he didn’t look away.
He didn’t approach her all night. He didn’t say anything. But she felt him everywhere—watching, pacing like a predator, drinking her in from across the room.
And finally, when she slipped into the kitchen for air, he followed.
“You wore that dress for me.”
Y/N spun around. Jungkook stood in the doorway, shirt open at the collar, hair wild like he’d run his hand through it too many times. His voice was low, rough, already half-wrecked with frustration.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she whispered, clutching her cup.
He stalked closer. “You knew I’d be here. You knew what that dress would do to me.”
“I didn’t think you’d even notice.”
“Bullshit.” His eyes dragged down her body again. “You wanted me to notice. You want me to look at you and forget all the reasons I shouldn’t bend you over this counter right now.”
She swallowed, heart hammering. “We’re not doing this.”
His jaw ticked. “You think I want to want you?” He stepped closer. “You think this is easy for me? Knowing every inch of you is off-limits? Knowing I can’t fucking touch you because your brother would bury me alive?”
Y/N gasped as his hand flattened on the counter beside her hip, boxing her in without touching.
“You walk around like you don’t know what you’re doing,” Jungkook growled. “Like you don’t see how I stare at your legs. Your lips. How I can’t stop thinking about the sounds you’d make if I had my mouth between your thighs.”
“Stop,” she whispered.
“Why?” His face was inches from hers now, voice ragged. “Because if I say one more filthy thing, you’re gonna let me pull that dress up and show you exactly how long I’ve been waiting to fuck you?”
“Jungkook—”
“You want me to stop?” he asked, chest rising and falling fast. “Say it. Say you don’t think about it too. Say you haven’t imagined me fucking you so hard you forget your own name.”
She couldn’t speak. Her body was shaking.
But then she whispered, “We can’t…”
His forehead touched hers for a second, hot and desperate.
“I know we can’t,” he breathed. “But don’t lie to me, baby. Don’t lie to yourself.”
A pause. Their lips almost brushed. So close it hurt.
“I want you,” she admitted, barely audible. “So fucking bad.”
He let out a rough, broken sound—half a groan, half a curse—and stepped back like it physically hurt to leave her.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Me too.”
Another beat of silence. Then he looked her over one last time, hunger still sharp in his eyes.
“This tension’s gonna kill us.”
She nodded. “I know.”
They didn’t kiss. They didn’t touch.
They just stood there, burning alive, trying not to destroy everything.
Later that night...
Jungkook hadn’t moved in twenty minutes.
He leaned back in a chair on the balcony, nursing the same drink while the rest of the guys hollered over some drinking game inside. His jaw was tight. His eyes tracked every shadow that passed near the kitchen—her. He hadn’t seen Y/N since she slipped out, cheeks flushed and lips parted like she wanted him to ruin her right there.
And fuck, he wanted to.
But he couldn’t.
“Bro,” one of the guys nudged him. “You good?”
“Hm?” Jungkook looked up.
“You haven’t flirted with anyone all night. Usually by now you’re halfway into someone’s pants.”
Jungkook gave a lazy smirk. “Guess I’m just not in the mood.”
But his voice lacked its usual cocky bite. His mind was still in that kitchen—her body inches from his, breath catching when he told her how much he wanted her.
“Not like you,” the guy muttered, squinting at him. “You’re not sulking over a girl, are you?”
Jungkook rolled his eyes. “Relax.”
But the guy didn’t drop it. “Wait... are you—”
A sudden commotion cut him off.
Shouting. From the front lawn.
Voices raised, sharp. A girl’s voice.
Jungkook was already standing before the others processed what was happening. He recognized it immediately—hervoice. Her angry voice.
By the time he pushed through the door and onto the porch, a small crowd had already formed near the edge of the lawn.
There she was—Y/N, flushed and furious, backing away from some drunk asshole with slick hair and a cocky stance.
“I said no,” she snapped, voice shaking. “Don’t touch me.”
“Come on,” the guy slurred. “You’ve been giving me looks all night.”
Jungkook didn’t hesitate.
He was down the steps in two strides, pushing through the crowd, voice sharp and deadly.
“She said no. Back the fuck off.”
The guy blinked at him, confused. “Who the hell are you?”
Jungkook stepped between them, towering over him now. “The last person you want to piss off tonight.”
The guy scoffed, tried to square up—drunk and dumb.
And Jungkook didn’t give him the chance.
He punched him—clean, hard, right in the face.
The guy hit the ground like a sack of bricks, groaning, hands clutching his nose.
The crowd gasped. Someone laughed. Someone cheered. And Jungkook just stood there, chest heaving, teeth clenched, fists still curled like he wanted to throw another.
Y/N stared at him, breathless. Eyes wide. Lips parted. She grabbed his hand and he unclenched his fists and gave her a soft look.
Namjoon came out seconds later, saw the scene, and rushed over, both of them quickly letting go.
“What the hell happened?”
Jungkook didn’t even look at him. “Your sister was dealing with some creep who didn’t know what no meant.”
Namjoon looked between the guy on the ground and Y/N—who was visibly shaken—and then back at Jungkook.
His expression softened.
“Thanks for stepping in, man,” Namjoon said, clapping a hand on Jungkook’s shoulder. “Seriously.”
Jungkook nodded once, barely. “Anytime.”
But he wasn’t thinking about the fight anymore.
He was thinking about the way Y/N looked at him just now—like she wanted to fall into his arms and never come out.
Later That Night – Jungkook’s Room
It was quiet.
The party had died down. Most people had left. Namjoon was still out back finishing drinks with a few stragglers.
Jungkook lay on his bed, shirt off, muscles tense, replaying that moment over and over. Her voice. The way her eyes had found his. The heat still thrumming in his chest.
Then a soft knock.
He sat up fast. “Yeah?”
The door cracked open. Y/N slipped in.
Short shorts. A thin tank top. No bra. Hair down. Barefoot.
Every nerve in Jungkook’s body snapped awake.
“I… just wanted to thank you,” she whispered, stepping in and closing the door behind her. “For earlier.”
He swallowed hard, trying to keep his eyes on hers. “He shouldn’t have touched you.”
“I was handling it,” she said, a smile playing on her lips.
“Not fast enough.”
They both laughed softly. The air between them buzzed.
Then she walked closer.
So close.
He sat on the edge of the bed, and she stopped in front of him. Her fingers brushed his knuckles—light, unsure. Then her other hand cupped his cheek, gently, tenderly.
Her lips pressed against his cheek. A soft kiss. A thank-you.
But then she lingered. Just a second too long.
And when she pulled back, their lips brushed.
Soft. Barely-there. But real.
Jungkook didn’t move.
Neither did she.
Her breath trembled. “Jungkook…”
Then—
SLAM.
The front door opened. Namjoon’s voice echoed through the house.
“Yo! Anyone still awake?”
They froze.
Y/N stepped back quickly, cheeks flushed, heart pounding.
Jungkook stood too, tension radiating off him in waves.
“We shouldn’t…”
“No,” he agreed, voice tight. “We shouldn’t.”
But their eyes said everything else.
She slipped out of the room a second later, heartbeat still in her throat.
And Jungkook sat back down, fists clenched in his lap, jaw tight, cursing every goddamn reason he couldn’t have her.
The Next Day
The backyard smelled like grilled meat, sunscreen, and summer sweat. The gang was loud—music playing, beers clinking, people laughing too hard at nothing. Y/N sat on a bench under the umbrella, trying to pretend she was listening to Namjoon talk about some dumb lawn game.
But she couldn’t focus. Not with him there.
Jungkook.
Laid back in a white tank top that clung to his chest, golden skin glowing under the sun, hair pushed back lazily as he nursed a beer. He looked like sin in human form. And every time he glanced at her—every slow drag of his eyes—her thighs pressed tighter together under the table.
He hadn’t said a word to her all afternoon.
Not a single filthy whisper. Not a single cocky smirk.
Which made her want it more.
And he knew it.
Later, she slipped inside to grab napkins from the kitchen—and the second the screen door shut behind her, she felt it.
His presence.
She turned, startled, just as Jungkook’s hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, pulling her down the hallway.
“Jungkook—what are you—”
“Shhh,” he muttered, glancing over his shoulder. No one noticed.
And then they were in the narrow hallway, alone, hidden from the windows.
He backed her into the wall—crowding her in. One hand on the wall beside her head, the other gripping her chin, thumb grazing her lower lip.
“Wearing those little shorts again,” he murmured, voice low and deadly. “Trying to make me lose my mind in front of all our friends?”
Y/N couldn’t breathe.
“You haven’t even looked at me all day,” she whispered.
His eyes darkened. “Because if I looked at you too long, I’d drag you inside and make you scream my name.”
Her knees buckled.
“You want that, don’t you?” he murmured, leaning closer—his breath hot on her ear. “You want me to take you right here. Up against this wall. My hand over your mouth so they don’t hear you moan.”
Y/N whimpered.
Jungkook groaned, deep in his throat. “You’d be so fucking loud for me.”
Before she could stop herself, her hands slid up his chest. Her thighs pressed together. And then she ground herself on his leg—slow, needy, shameless.
“Fuck, baby…” he hissed, thigh flexing under her. “You’re dripping for me, aren’t you?”
Her fingers gripped his shirt. Her hips kept moving, grinding up the length of his thigh like she couldn’t help herself.
His forehead touched hers. Their lips brushed.
Barely.
She let out a breathy, desperate moan straight into his mouth.
And Jungkook snapped.
Not all the way.
But enough to shove his hand over her mouth, breathing hard as he held her there, both of them trembling.
“Stop,” he panted. “Y/N, stop—fuck—”
She slowed.
But she didn’t back away. Her eyes were glassy. Her cheeks flushed. Her body buzzed with the tension still thick between them.
He leaned in, whispering against her ear again, voice wrecked. “You do that again and I won’t stop next time.”
A beat passed. Her thighs clenched.
Then—voices.
“Where’s Y/N?”
“Didn’t she go inside?”
“Yo, Jungkook! You seen her?”
They froze.
Jungkook exhaled sharply, composed himself. Dropped his hand from her mouth. Straightened his shirt. Ran a hand through his hair.
Y/N looked equally wrecked.
They took a breath.
And then they walked out together—calm, casual, like nothing had happened.
“Oh,” Jungkook said easily, slinging an arm around Y/N’s shoulders. “She spilled juice in the kitchen. We were cleaning it up.”
Namjoon blinked. “You cleaned a spill?”
Jungkook smiled lazily. “What can I say? I’m helpful.”
Y/N laughed—too high-pitched. “So helpful.”
And no one questioned it.
But under the table, Jungkook’s hand brushed her thigh. Just once.
A silent promise.
When they had a moment alone later Jungkook thought it over. They can't keep going like this. He was too attracted to her and it wouldn't end well. Even a little bit isn't enough. He had to cut her off.
"We can't be friends." Jungkook said guiltily when they were alone.
"What?" Y/n looked in shock.
"I can't be your friend. Because I'll never think of you or see you as my friend. And every time we have a normal interaction I'm just thinking about everything I wanna do to you and how your brother would kill me if he found out."
Y/n scoffed offended. "You don't even wanna be friends? That's a lame excuse Jungkook, even from you. But fine. You got it, we're no longer friends."
Over the next few days tensions grew with their constant bickering and y/n wearing more revealing clothing around the house.
It started with another fight.
Jungkook had been moody all day—gruff responses, tense jaw, barely speaking to anyone. Y/N finally snapped after he gave her yet another cold stare when she passed him in the hallway.
“What the hell is your problem?” she hissed, arms crossed tight.
“You,” he bit out. “You’re my fucking problem.”
Her heart stuttered.
“You don’t want me. You don’t want to be friends. So what do you want from me, Jungkook? We both live in this house so suck it up.”
“I want to stop thinking about you every time you breathe in the same damn room!” His voice cracked. “I can’t—fuck—I can’t pretend this is normal. I can’t act like I’m not dying to touch you every second.”
Y/N stared at him, chest heaving. Her cheeks burned with anger and something else. “Fine,” she snapped, voice cold. “You don’t want to deal with me? Then don’t.”
That night, she went on a date with someone else.
Later That Night
The restaurant was awful. The guy was worse. He talked over her, laughed at nothing, stared at her chest the entire time.
And when he leaned in, trying to kiss her outside by her Uber, she shoved him away and ran.
Tears burned in her eyes as she called the only person she knew would come.
“Jungkook…” she whispered when he answered. “Can you… can you pick me up?”
He didn’t hesitate. He picked her up and drove her back to their place, the car ride thick with silence.
It was pouring.
The sky cracked open above them, rain spilling like it had been waiting for this moment—just like them.
Y/N got out of the car and stood at the edge of the driveway, soaked and seething, arms crossed under her chest as thunder rolled in the distance. Her white tank clung to her breasts like second skin, completely see-through, nipples clearly visible. Her tiny denim skirt was soaked and hitched up high, the hot pink waistband of her panties teasing just above the fabric.
And Jungkook—black shirt plastered to his chest, cargo pants hugging his hips, tattoos glistening in the storm—stood there with his jaw clenched, looking like he was on the verge of tearing something apart.
He was.
“What the hell are you doing calling me?” he snapped, stepping into the rain. “Didn’t you run off to your perfect little date?”
She spun around, drenched hair whipping over her shoulder. “Don’t start.”
“Don’t fucking start?” His laugh was humorless. “You go out, dressed like that, trying to pretend I don’t exist, then cry for me to come save you like I’m still the good guy?”
“I called you because it's your fucking fault I went on that date in the first place. I didn’t know who else to—!”
“No,” he growled, stepping closer, “you called me because even when you’re pissed at me, you still want me.”
Her breath caught.
Jungkook's eyes dragged down her body, tongue darting out over his bottom lip. “You really think I didn’t notice that tiny little skirt, that wet tank, those bright fucking panties begging to be pulled down?”
Her eyes widened, but he wasn’t done.
“You walk around dripping wet, tits out, skirt barely covering your ass—and I’m supposed to keep pretending I don’t want to bend you over every surface I see?”
Y/N’s lips parted in shock.
“You think I haven’t pictured it?” he hissed. “Your legs spread in my backseat, you wrapped around me while my tongue is down your throat? Or your mouth gagged on my cock, crying while I throat fuck every thought of every other guy out of your head?”
Her knees buckled slightly. He saw it—and grinned. Dark. Filthy.
She shoved at his chest. “You're such a—”
But he grabbed her.
Fisted her skirt and panties, yanking her flush against him. Her gasp was swallowed by the sound of rain, her breath catching when she felt how hard he was through his pants.
“I’ve had enough of pretending,” he rasped. His lips brushed hers. “I’m fucking done.”
Then his voice dropped, hot and filthy against her mouth:
“Fuck it.”
And then he took her mouth.
It was wild. Open. Tongues colliding. His lips crushed hers, tongue shoving into her mouth like he was claiming it—like he’d been waiting years to taste her. His hand stayed tight on her panties, holding her body against his while he devoured her, spit and rain mixing between them.
Y/N moaned into it—helplessly—gripping his shirt like she needed something to hang on to.
Jungkook groaned, deep and rough, sucking on her tongue before biting her bottom lip just to hear her whimper.
“You feel that?” he growled between kisses, grinding into her soaked skirt. “That’s what you fucking do to me.”
She was panting, dazed, lips swollen.
And he wasn’t done.
“I swear to god, if Namjoon wasn’t your brother—” he shoved her back against the wall of the house, kissing her again, even harder this time— “I’d have fucked you right here. In the rain. With your panties still on.”
When they finally broke apart, both wrecked and breathless, her voice trembled.
“I want you.”
He wiped the rain from her cheek, staring at her like she was his breaking point and salvation at once.
“You’ve got me,” he whispered. “Now I’m done hiding it.”
The kiss didn’t stop.
Even as Jungkook dragged her back into the house, their mouths stayed fused—wet, frantic, tongues tangling while their soaked bodies bumped into walls and doorframes. His hand stayed tight on her waist, the other sliding up under her clingy, dripping tank, fingers kneading over bare, slick skin.
He kicked his bedroom door shut and slammed her against it, lips pressing into her jaw, her throat, her collarbone. He groaned when he felt the heat of her body through the thin fabric, both of them soaked to the bone and breathless.
“Clothes,” he growled against her mouth, tugging hard at the hem of her top. “Off. Now.”
She whimpered as he peeled the wet fabric off her—tank top first, tossed somewhere on the floor. Her skirt followed with a harsh tug, panties bunched with it. His black shirt clung to his abs, tattoos snaking over soaked muscle as he pulled it off over his head.
She barely had a second to breathe before his lips were on her again—hot, hungry, starved—pushing her backward until her thighs hit the edge of his shower.
Jungkook spun the handle.
Steam rushed out as hot water poured down from above.
He walked her straight into it, fully naked, his mouth still locked on hers. Their bodies collided under the stream, her back hitting the tile wall with a wet slap.
He didn’t let up.
His hands roamed—fisting her ass, dragging her against his thick length, sliding over her hips and ribs and chest, palms rough and greedy. His mouth dipped to her neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks, biting just below her jaw before kissing her again—deep and messy, with his tongue shoved so far into her mouth she could barely breathe.
“You feel that?” he growled, grinding into her under the water. “That’s what I’ve been hiding. Every night. Every time you walked past me looking like a fucking dream.”
“Jungkook—” she gasped, nails digging into his back.
“You don’t even know what you’ve done to me,” he snarled, grabbing her thighs. “But I’m about to show you.”
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Fire Prince Jungkook X Water Princess Reader - (Smut)
ATLA inspired (this is the same as my NCT Jaehyun fire prince story, I've made this a BTS ver.)
They're supposed to be sworn enemies, polar opposites, their countries have a shared history of violence, loss and pain. but life always has a way of making the most unexpected people form a bond...
Prince Jungkook and Princess Y/n head to the same boarding school and do not begin on good terms, but opposites attract no matter how much they resist.
WC: 10k (pt 1), loss of virginity, dirty talk, tension build up, purity ring, unprotected sex (in pt 2)
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Character Profiles -
Prince Jungkook of the Fire Nation descended from his private jet in dark crimson wool, gold embroidery tracing the edge of his coat like flames licking upward. His skin is warm under the late morning sun, even here where the cold bites. Golden eyes, molten and intense, scan the mountain campus without a hint of awe—he's used to luxury, but not rules. Not tradition he didn’t write.
He doesn't smile. Not because he’s unfriendly, but because he knows the effect his silence has. Cameras click. A student aide fumbles a clipboard when he passes, cheeks redder than the alpine breeze could cause.
He’s the walking embodiment of charisma and danger:
Don’t look too long, you’ll burn.
He’s not here to make friends. He’s here to graduate, play the game, then return home to command fire and steel.
But for now, he enters his assigned private suite at the top of the East Tower, tossing his bag onto a leather chair without care. His phone buzzes—another fan edit of him trending, a picture of him shirtless at a beach last summer.
He smirks.
They love him. Even if they don’t know him.
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Y/N
Y/N, daughter of the Northern Water Tribe’s High Chief, arrives quietly. Her travel coat is a pearly, icy blue that blends with the snowy backdrop, fur lining soft around her cheeks. Her beauty is subtle, soft but sharp when you look too long. Clear skin, frost-kissed lips, and eyes like stormy seas—still, until they’re not.
She doesn’t need a grand entrance. Her people believe in grace, not spectacle.
She’s escorted by two royal guards but walks slightly ahead of them, posture perfect, spine straight like she’s been balancing a crown since birth. Her phone dings in her pocket—texts from her cousins, memes from her best friend back home, an article someone sent:
“Prince of Fire Arrives—Again Shirtless?”
She rolls her eyes. She’s heard of Jungkook. Of course she has. Everyone has.
Arrogant. Spoiled. The fire prince who thinks he can charm anything with a heartbeat.
She walks through the grand arches of the West Tower, where the water tribes and diplomatic majors reside, a wall of ancient glacier stone shimmering faintly under LED lights. Her suite is smaller, decorated with handwoven tapestries from home and soft, flowing fabrics. Her room is cold by choice—she sleeps best in icy air.
She lays her palms on a bowl of still water on her nightstand. A family tradition. Her mother used to say that water remembers. She closes her eyes and breathes.
She doesn’t want to hate him. But she will if she has to.
It was quiet in the mountains before the sun rose—quiet in a way that made even royalty feel small. Snow clung to the trees like lace, and the stone corridors of the academy were still, bathed in the faint blue light of early dawn.
Most students were still asleep.
But not them.
Y/N walked silently through the empty hall outside her tower. Her fur-lined robe fluttered slightly around her ankles, and the tiny aquamarine jewels woven into her braids glinted faintly beneath the pale light. She carried herself like someone used to walking ahead of guards, someone who never had to introduce herself because her bloodline spoke first.
But here, no one knew what she looked like.
Her tribe had protected her identity with sacred fervor. No press. No public appearances. Not a single official photo released since she was a child. It was tradition. She was the only daughter of the Northern Water Tribe’s High Chief. Their most precious gem.
Only now, finally of age, had she been allowed to make a social media account, which she hadn’t even posted on yet.
“Let them meet me on my terms,” she had told her advisors.
---------------
She crossed the wide hallway of the East Wing—the “neutral” hall between towers—drawn to the massive window overlooking the southern peak. She sat in front of it, legs crossed, back straight, hands on her knees. Her breath fogged lightly in the air. The early cold didn’t bother her.
She began to meditate, letting her thoughts settle like snow on still water.
Until—
THUD.
Someone turned the corner too fast.
And ran straight into her.
“Shit—sorry,” came a low, warm voice.
Large hands gripped her arms gently, helping her upright. She gasped at the heat that surged through her skin at the contact—it was like grabbing metal left out in the sun.
Her eyes flew open.
Him.
Golden eyes. Shirtless. Hair still damp from the sink or maybe sweat from a pre-run stretch. He wore only fire-red joggers slung low on his hips and a sharp look of confusion as he stared at her.
Prince Jungkook.
She’d seen him in a hundred photos. The Fire Nation’s golden boy. All cocky smirks and smolder. Girls across the nations posted thirst edits of him like it was a sport. He was strong, fast, reckless—hot in every definition of the word.
And now he was holding her.
Jungkook blinked once, slow. His gaze traveled down the fine, icy blue detail of her robe, the royal crest pinned on her shoulder, the way the morning light hit her glass-like jewels and cast ripples across the floor.
Oh.
This had to be her.
The Princess of the Water Tribe.
He smirked, letting go of her a little too fast.
“Well,” he said, stepping back, “you should really watch where you’re going.”
Her brows shot up, breath fogging slightly as her expression shifted from surprised to amused—and irritated.
“Me?” she said coolly, rising to full height. “You turned the corner like you were on fire.”
His jaw ticked. “Maybe don’t sit in the middle of the hall like it’s your private glacier.”
They locked eyes.
Silence.
Snow outside the window, the sun just beginning to rise.
Tension snapped between them like dry kindling.
Without another word, Y/N turned on her heel and walked away, robe trailing behind her like ice across marble.
Jungkook stared after her for a second longer than he should have.
What the hell was that?
Who walks around looking like that at sunrise?
...And why the fuck was her voice kind of hot?
Y/N stepped into the common lounge of the Water Tower for the orientation breakfast. It was warm with the sound of chatter and fire-crackling hearths, and students milled about in their tribe’s traditional attire.
They rushed over, both waterbenders, daughters of minor dignitaries—warm, excited, and equally curious.
“Oh my god, no one told us you were this gorgeous,” Valkyrie breathed, wide-eyed. “You don’t even have a profile photo yet!”
“Yeah,” Amara grinned. “They kept you locked away like an ice sculpture. For what?! You look like a goddess.”
Y/N laughed softly, flustered but pleased. “My father’s rules. And the council. I wasn’t even allowed to take selfies until last week.”
The girls swooned dramatically.
“We’re obsessed already,” Amara declared.
“Come sit with us,” Valkyrie insisted, pulling her toward their table. “You have to tell us everything. What was it like growing up in the palace? Wait—have you met the Fire Prince yet?”
Y/N froze for a half-second, then tucked a piece of hair behind her ear with a cool, unreadable smile.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
-------------
Jungkook sat in the high-ceilinged breakfast hall, a carved wooden spoon twirling idly in his hand as Taehyung and Jimin chatted beside him over hot eggs and spiced rice.
But he wasn’t listening.
His mind was stuck on her.
The girl from this morning.
The Water Tribe princess.
Y/N.
The sharpness in her eyes.
The softness in her voice.
The way she’d looked at him like she saw him—not the prince, not the firebender, just... him. And didn’t care.
“Yo,” Taehyung nudged him, smirking as he caught Jungkook zoning out again. “You good?”
“You haven’t looked at your phone in like… ten minutes,” Jimin teased. “That’s got to be some kind of emergency.”
Jungkook rolled his eyes and stabbed a piece of sausage. “I’m fine.”
Taehyung leaned forward, grin widening. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the rumored Water Princess finally showing her face today, would it?”
Jungkook didn't answer.
But his silence said enough.
---------------
All first-years were herded out of the castle-like university and toward the trail winding up into the nearby mountains—a “team-building hike,” they called it.
Y/N walked with Amara and Valkyrie, wrapped in a lighter travel cloak with her braids tucked into a soft knit beanie. The air was bright and thin, sunlight bouncing off every snowy surface. Despite being used to cold, she wasn’t used to this—the altitude, the glare, the way the sun felt like it was trying to steal her breath and her strength.
The water inside her felt sluggish, sun-warmed and heavy.
Her body ached in a way it never did under the moon.
About halfway up the slope, her pace began to slow. Her breath hitched. Her vision blurred for half a second.
“Y/N?” Valkyrie turned. “You okay?”
She nodded weakly, managing a smile. “Yeah. Just... too much sun. You two go on ahead. I’ll catch up.”
Amara frowned but didn’t argue. “Alright. Just shout if you need us.”
The others moved on, disappearing slowly up the slope with the rest of the first-years, laughter and boots crunching in the distance.
Y/N sat down on a snow-covered boulder, tugging her coat tighter and closing her eyes. She missed the stillness of the moon already. Her body craved darkness, reflection, water.
She felt so far from it all.
And then—
“Hey.”
A gentle voice. Calm, steady.
She opened her eyes to find a tall boy crouching in front of her, wrapped in a charcoal hiking jacket with a Fire Nation patch stitched on the sleeve. Soft brown eyes. Faint scars on his knuckles.
“Jimin?” she said, surprised. “Aren’t you a group leader? Shouldn’t you be with the others?”
“I am,” he nodded with a soft smile. “But I’m also responsible for making sure everyone’s safe. You didn’t look okay.”
Y/N blinked at him, lips parting in disbelief.
“You... don’t hate me?” she asked before she could stop herself.
His smile faded just slightly, replaced by something more serious.
“I don’t hate people just because history says I should.” He paused. “I know what they say about our nations. But you’re not your government, and I’m not mine.”
She stared at him for a long second, stunned by how… kind he was. No hidden smirk. No sarcasm. Just warmth—like fire without burn.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
He stood and offered his hand. “Come on. I’ll walk with you the rest of the way.”
She hesitated, then placed her hand in his. His warmth was more bearable than Jungkook’s—it didn’t sting. It just felt… grounding.
They started walking again, slowly, together.
Further up the slope, Taehyung and Jungkook paused at a lookout post under a cluster of frost-covered pines.
Taehyung squinted down the trail. “That’s Jimin, right?”
Jungkook followed his gaze.
His eyes narrowed when they landed on her.
Y/N.
Moving slowly, cheeks flushed with effort.
And Jimin beside her, guiding her with gentle words and hands that hovered close but never touched.
“It’s the sun,” Jungkook muttered, sharper than he intended. “Water tribes draw strength from the moon. She’s probably not used to this much direct exposure.”
Taehyung raised a brow. “Since when are you an expert on her biology?”
Jungkook didn’t answer.
His fists were already clenched.
Not from anger.
Just... heat.
And he didn’t like that either.
-----------------
The restaurant was tucked into the edge of a mountainside town—a Michelin-starred, glass-walled jewel perched above the icy trees. Inside, golden chandeliers hung from carved cedar beams, casting a warm glow over polished silverware and ivory table linens. The waitstaff wore silk gloves. The wine list had its own zip code.
Students filed in, dressed in formal attire required for the night: tailored coats, evening dresses, polished boots. It was a diplomatic tradition—the first formal dinner of the year, meant to encourage “intercultural communication.”
The universe, however, had different plans.
Y/N slid into her assigned seat at the long banquet table, elegant in a midnight-blue gown embroidered with silver thread. Her braids were gathered to one side, aquamarine jewels glittering softly in the candlelight. She smoothed her napkin onto her lap—and froze.
Across from her, none other than Jungkook dropped into his seat, manspreading slightly in his sleek black formal suit like the chair owed him rent.
Of course.
His hair was pushed back, jaw sharp, golden eyes scanning the room until they landed squarely on her.
He smirked.
“Let me guess,” he said, reaching for his water. “You’re seated alphabetically. I pity the poor soul with a last name starting with Z.”
Y/N arched an eyebrow. “If I had known the Fire Nation trained in alphabet jokes, I’d have lowered my expectations even further.”
He chuckled, low and smooth. “Relax, princess. I’m just making conversation. Or are you afraid I’ll melt your composure with my oversized ego?”
“I’m afraid it might eclipse the moon,” she replied coolly, sipping her now-frosted water.
He glanced at her glass, then down at his own plate. With an easy breath, he exhaled over his fried rice, warming it just enough to let off steam—literally.
She narrowed her eyes.
“You know, some of us use utensils.”
“And some of us are just efficient.”
Around them, the room buzzed with soft conversation, the clink of glasses, and flirtatious laughter. A pair of girls at the far end of the table kept glancing at Jungkook, giggling behind their menus. He didn’t acknowledge them, but the slight raise of his chin told Y/N he’d noticed.
Across the room, she didn’t miss the way a few first-year boys were eyeing her like they were planning how to flirt with royalty without dying of embarrassment.
Jungkook followed her gaze, then raised a brow. “You’ve got fans already.”
“I don’t blame them,” she said sweetly. “They haven’t heard me speak yet.”
His smirk twitched. “Your modesty is overwhelming.”
“Coming from someone who warms rice with his mouth, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
They glared, the corners of their lips betraying the fight to stay serious. If either of them looked too closely, they'd see it wasn't quite hate. It was friction. Hot and sharp and electric.
-------------
After dinner, the students gathered outside, the snow crunching beneath their polished shoes as they waited for the sleek black cars that would ferry them back to the university. Breath turned to clouds in the cold night air.
Jungkook stood off to the side with Taehyung and Jimin, hands in his coat pockets, eyes trained on nothing in particular.
Until—
He saw her.
Y/N stood apart from the crowd, just a few paces away, her back turned, head tilted to the sky. Her eyes were closed, arms relaxed at her sides as she faced the full moon hanging heavy and glowing above them. The icy blue of her dress shimmered faintly under the moonlight. She looked... different like this.
Calm.
Still.
Powerful.
The air around her almost pulsed—gentle, cool, reverent. As if the night itself bowed for her.
Jungkook’s breath caught.
He knew what this was. He'd read about the moon’s connection to water tribe bending in one of his statecraft briefings. But seeing it? Feeling it?
It was intimate. Sacred.
And she was beautiful.
Moonlit skin, lashes fluttering softly, lips parted just slightly as if she were absorbing strength straight from the sky.
He forced himself to look away. Clenched his jaw.
Taehyung glanced at him. “You okay?”
Jungkook didn’t answer.
Because he wasn’t.
He felt like he’d intruded on something private, something not meant for anyone else.
And worse…
He couldn’t stop wanting to watch.
-------------
The cars purred softly as they dropped students off one by one back at the academy’s stone steps. The wind was gentler now, the moon still heavy overhead.
Jungkook climbed the stairs behind a small group of students, jacket slung over one shoulder, his golden gaze flicking lazily forward—until he caught sight of her again.
Y/N.
She was a few steps ahead, walking carefully, her long embroidered skirt and cloak catching on the wind. The icy-blue fabric looked heavy with the weight of tradition, trailing just slightly as she struggled to keep her footing on the slick stone steps.
A hand extended from the crowd.
Minho—broad-shouldered, soft-spoken, Earth Kingdom native with a kind smile—offered it to her shyly.
“You okay?” he asked, voice gentle.
Y/N blinked, then smiled warmly. “Thank you,” she said, taking his hand with delicate fingers. “That’s very kind of you.”
Minho flushed a little as he helped her up the last step, his ears turning red under the lamplight.
Behind them, Jungkook scoffed quietly.
Taehyung caught it and leaned over, smirking. “Jealous?”
“He looked like he was gonna propose just from touching her hand,” Jungkook muttered.
Taehyung laughed. “Careful. Your jealousy is showing.”
Jungkook didn’t answer, just shoved his hands in his pockets and walked a little faster.
The second day of orientation began with the same silence as the first.
And again, before the sun crested the peaks, Y/N was already in the hall outside her tower, meditating.
This time, though, she wasn’t quite as wrapped in tradition.
She wore loose training pants in icy grey and a sleeveless, high-neck top in soft blue. Her arms were bare, toned and elegant, her back visible where the fabric dipped slightly with her posture. Her skin practically shimmered in the blue morning light, moon-kissed even before the stars faded.
Eyes closed. Breathing even. Calm.
But she could feel it.
Heat.
Buzzing, magnetic, stubbornly male heat.
She didn’t open her eyes.
“Take a picture,” she murmured, voice slow and cool. “It’ll last longer.”
Jungkook stood a few paces away, breathing a little harder than before. His morning jog had screeched to a halt the moment he turned the corner and saw her.
“Didn’t realize this was a public exhibit,” he said, trying to force a smirk onto his face, voice thicker than usual.
“It’s not,” she replied, still not looking at him. “But unfortunately, I don’t control the wildlife.”
He snorted, shook his head, and tore his eyes away. “You’re insufferable.”
“Glad you’re keeping up.”
And with that, Jungkook jogged off—faster, harder, more focused. As if he could outrun the image of her in that outfit, bathed in blue light like a goddess with her own gravity.
He couldn’t.
Later that morning, Jungkook sat at a sleek, glass-top café table in the university’s sky lounge with Celina—a girl he’d met during orientation. Blonde, flirty, glitter on her cheekbones and three designer bags on her chair.
“So what was it like growing up in a fire palace?” she asked, leaning forward. “Did they teach you sword fighting? Or like, diplomacy or whatever?”
Jungkook gave a practiced smile. “Both.”
“Mmm,” she hummed, tilting her head. “And your eyes—do all Fire Princes have gold eyes or is that just a you thing?”
He blinked. “It’s... just a me thing.”
She giggled like it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard.
He looked down at his espresso, fingers tapping against the cup. She hadn’t asked him a single real question. Nothing about his thoughts, his interests, his beliefs. Just status, background, power.
He suddenly missed the sharp edge in Y/N’s voice. Missed being challenged.
He set his cup down and gave Celina a polite nod.
“Thanks for meeting me,” he said.
She blinked, surprised. “Oh! Yeah—of course. Are we—?”
“I’m not interested,” he said bluntly. Not cruel, just honest.
She blinked again. “Oh. Uh... okay.”
He stood, nodded once, and walked out—ignoring the flashes of confusion and rejection behind him. He didn’t have time for empty flattery.
Especially not when there was someone else who wasn’t impressed with him—and for some reason, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
The third day of orientation brought a surprise—a student outing to one of the most exclusive alpine horse tracks in Europe. The snowy valley beneath the university was carved with crystal-clear lanes, the horses bred from royal stables across the globe. The crowd was dotted with diplomats, nobles, and faculty, sipping hot drinks from porcelain cups while wearing coats worth small fortunes.
The students filled the private terrace seating, bundled in school-issue winter cloaks with their house emblems stitched over their hearts.
Jungkook arrived fashionably late, sipping black coffee, his hair tucked into a wool beanie that couldn’t hide the sharpness of his jawline or the smug set of his shoulders. Girls shifted when he walked past. Some fixed their scarves. One actually gasped.
He didn’t look for her.
He wasn’t looking for her.
But he found her anyway.
Y/N was seated already in the front row of the terrace, cheeks dusted pink from the cold, lips wrapped around a warm flask of tea. Her cloak was pale silver today, lined with soft navy fur that made her look even more regal. She laughed at something Amara said beside her, then looked toward the track, sharp eyes scanning the horses.
Jungkook exhaled slowly, like her mere existence was smoke in his lungs.
He took the empty seat next to her, dropping down without a word.
She turned her head, looked at him once, and returned her gaze to the field.
“Can’t seem to get rid of you,” she murmured.
“Tell me about it,” he replied.
---------------
The starting bells rang.
The horses lined up at the gate, steaming breath rising into the sky.
Students leaned forward eagerly, many of them whispering to one another.
“Leftmost one’s Firebred,” Taehyung noted from behind them. “Bred in Jungkook’s territory. Fastest on record.”
“He’s not winning,” Y/N said with cool confidence.
Jungkook tilted his head. “You’re betting against my horse?”
“I’m betting against your arrogance,” she said, eyes still on the track.
Jungkook smirked. “What happens if you’re wrong?”
“I won’t be.”
“But if you were?”
She finally turned her head to meet his eyes.
“If I lose,” she said calmly, “I’ll owe you a favor.”
Jungkook raised a brow, intrigued. “And if I lose?”
“I’ll collect a favor. When I choose.”
His heart gave an involuntary thump. Not just from the words, but from the way she said them—controlled, steady, almost teasing. Like she knew she’d win.
“Deal,” he said, offering his gloved hand.
She placed hers in his. The cold of her fingers clashed with the heat of his palm. The handshake lasted one second too long.
Then—
The gates opened.
The horses tore across the snow-packed field, thunderous and wild.
Students shouted, cheered, scrambled for a better view. Jungkook and Y/N leaned forward instinctively, breath held.
And just as the final stretch loomed...
A white-coated mare from the Northern Water territories surged forward, passing the Firebred in the final ten seconds.
The bell rang.
The crowd erupted.
Jungkook sat back slowly, jaw tightening.
Y/N turned to him with a victorious smile—not smug, just satisfied.
“I’ll let you know when I’m ready to collect,” she said sweetly.
He shook his head, trying to fight a smile. “That’s dangerous, you know.”
“So am I.”
The students filed out of the terrace in buzzing groups, still riding high from the race.
Jungkook stayed behind a few moments, watching Y/N disappear into the crowd with her friends—laughing, graceful, offering a polite smile to the steward who opened the door for her.
He hated to admit it, but she moved through the world like she’d been born to rule it.
Not like him.
Jungkook knew he was hot. He knew people liked him—wanted him. He had confidence, charisma, a name that made headlines and a face that broke hearts.
But Y/N?
She didn’t try. She just was.
Poised. Natural. Effortless.
Kind to everyone—except him.
He’d never met anyone who made him feel simultaneously this annoyed and this off-balance.
She’s the moon, he thought. Untouchable. Cold. But she pulls the tide anyway.
He exhaled hard and stood up.
He was going to need a hell of a lot more wins if he was going to keep up with her.
----------------
The mountain air was brisk as usual—sharp, cold, and biting just enough to remind Jungkook he was alive.
He jogged through the same corridor as always, hoodie pulled low over his brow, music pumping through his earbuds, pace even and strong. He passed a few students on the way, nodded to a few others, but didn’t stop.
Not until her.
Same spot. Same time.
Princess Y/N.
Seated on the mat just off the corridor window again, hands resting on her thighs, eyes closed, lips slightly parted in stillness.
This time, she wore a loose, snowy blue top that slid slightly down her shoulder, revealing the smooth line of her collarbone. Her legs were folded elegantly, the morning light pooling across her skin like it belonged there. And on her hand—resting atop one knee—was a delicate silver ring, carved with the moon cycle.
Jungkook’s steps faltered. He kept going—barely—but something about that ring...
His eyes narrowed.
By the time he reached the other end of the hall, he was already pulling out his phone, opening a search tab with quick, frantic fingers.
"Northern Water Tribe moon ring symbolism"
"Silver purity ring Water Princess"
"Tribe virginity ring customs"
And then it hit.
The results came flooding in, exactly what he feared—no, hoped—he’d find.
It was a purity ring.
One only worn by virgins in the Water Tribe—usually those in the royal family, signifying personal vows of restraint, tradition, and spiritual clarity until they chose a partner to share it with.
Jungkook stared at the screen.
And then...
“Fuck.”
He was half-hard already, pulse slamming in his throat. His jog forgotten. His thoughts suddenly very impure.
He ducked into a shadowed alcove, heart pounding, pressing his back to the wall. One hand still gripping his phone, the other dragging down his face before briefly—desperately—palming himself through his sweats.
Of course she’s untouched.
Of course she’s forbidden.
Of course she’s driving him insane.
Her calm. Her mouth. Her legs folded so perfectly. That fucking ring.
He cursed again under his breath, fingers tightening.
And then turned abruptly down the hall toward the nearest gym shower room.
The coldest water he could find.
Later that morning, Jungkook sat stiffly at a private corner table in the library café. Across from him was Saejin, another Fire Nation royal—the daughter of a war advisor, all sleek hair and perfect etiquette.
She smiled, flawless and polished, speaking like she was reading from a court-approved script.
“I just think it’s so refreshing to finally be around our own kind, you know?” she said sweetly, stirring her imported tea. “The Fire Nation doesn’t get enough credit for our superiority.”
Jungkook blinked once.
Saejin laughed lightly. “Not to be rude. I just mean… we’re trained better. Smarter. I’m sure the others try their best but—well, the Water Tribe is all superstition and snow.”
He leaned back slowly.
Golden eyes unreadable. Sharp.
She kept going, unaware of the crack in her façade. “Don’t you agree?”
“No,” Jungkook said flatly.
She stopped stirring. “Pardon?”
“I don’t agree,” he repeated. “You’re talking about entire cultures like they’re beneath you. I don’t think I’m better than anyone just because I was born where I was.”
Saejin flushed, eyes wide. “Oh—I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, obviously, I respect diversity—”
Jungkook stood up. Quiet. Steady. Done.
“Thanks for the tea.”
“Jungkook—”
But he was already gone, leaving her red-faced and speechless in the middle of the café.
Outside, Jungkook let the wind hit his face as he leaned against a stone railing, overlooking the snow-covered campus.
I need to stop going on these dates.
They were all the same. Same expectations. Same hollow words. Same attempt to fit into a mold he’d never even shaped himself.
But with her—Y/N—it wasn’t like that.
She didn’t care about who he was. Or what people thought. She challenged him, pushed him, made him feel beneath her in a way that didn’t bruise his ego—it ignited it.
And now that he knew she was untouched, pure, off-limits?
It made it worse.
It made it better.
Jungkook stared at the horizon, biting his lip, jaw tense.
Maybe dating wasn’t the right move.
Not until he figured out what the hell he was going to do about the girl who didn’t even know the hold she had on him.
Y/N lay in bed, the curtains drawn, the moonlight casting soft shadows across her blanket. Her window was cracked open, letting the chill in—a comfort more than a disturbance.
She should’ve been asleep.
She had orientation events early tomorrow.
Instead… she was deep in a stalking spiral.
Her thumb hovered over the search bar again.
"Just one more look,” she muttered under her breath, already typing: @JJK.f
His page loaded quickly.
And of course—it was exactly what she expected.
And exactly what irritated her.
Not a single selfie.
Just candids—clearly taken by someone else, likely friends, staff, maybe even admirers.
Photos from exotic places: volcano ridges, black sand beaches, underground raves lit by lava, firelight warming his smug face.
There were shirtless ones too. Obviously. One at a coastal cliff, him half-drenched from the sea, abs glistening like he knew what he was doing. Another one lounging in a hot spring, steam curling around his collarbones, eyes half-lidded and dangerously flirty.
Y/N scoffed and tossed her phone down, only to pick it back up 2 seconds later.
"Show-off," she muttered, face hot.
She clicked off his profile and opened her camera roll instead.
There was a pause.
Then a breath.
Then… a decision.
She tapped the little plus sign, selected a recent picture—one snapped just a few days before she left for school.
It was her and her older brother, standing at the palace gate. She had her arm looped through his, both of them laughing, crowns tipped askew from a snowball fight they'd gotten into minutes before. His robes were pristine despite the cold. Her cheeks were pink from the frost and joy.
The caption was simple.
“My favorite person.”
❄️👑
She hit post.
And within minutes, the notifications started pouring in.
💬 “Omg princess reveal?? You’re so pretty!!”
💬 “Royal siblings supremacy 🩵”
💬 “Cold beauty, no wonder the Fire Nation’s threatened”
💬 “Can she freeze me next pls?”
💬 “Protect her at all costs.”
Y/N turned her phone face down and smiled to herself. Just a little. Just once.
Taehyung was the first to see it.
He nearly choked on his tea.
“Hey, uh,” he said, scrolling, “Y/N just posted.”
Jimin glanced over. “Really?”
Taehyung turned his phone. “Yeah. First one ever.”
The three of them were seated in the common area, students scattered all around, winding down from another long day.
Jimin smiled. “She looks really happy there.”
Jungkook didn’t even glance up. He was leaned back on the couch, arms folded, pretending to nap.
Taehyung grinned. “You’re not even a little curious, Jungkook?”
Jungkook scoffed. “She’s not that interesting.”
“Mhm,” Taehyung drawled, unconvinced. “Totally. That’s why your whole jaw just clenched.”
“I don’t care what she posts.”
But even he didn’t believe his voice when he said it.
Jungkook made it exactly three minutes before giving up the act.
Back in his dorm, door locked, lights dimmed, he opened his phone and typed in her handle.
@yn.wtr
Her profile was quiet. Elegant. No posts before today. The display name simply: Princess Y/N of the Northern Water Tribe.
And the photo…
There she was. In full color.
Radiant in a way he hadn’t expected.
Not posed. Not calculated. Not seductive.
Just… warm.
The way she clung to her brother. The genuine laugh. The wind teasing her hair. The grace in her smile. The cold in her cheeks. Her eyes, so deep they looked like they held the whole sea.
And she was calling him her favorite person.
Jungkook’s thumb hovered over the like button. He didn’t press it.
He stared at the photo longer than he meant to.
This is just research, he told himself. She’s an enemy nation’s heir. I should know more. It’s strategic curiosity.
But his heart thudded louder in his chest.
And the only thing burning inside him…
was the truth.
--------------
The sun was high as the students walked the gardens of the Academy, gravel paths winding through meticulously arranged flora from every elemental nation. Minho had chosen the Earth Pavilion as their resting spot, lush with mossy stone benches and shaded by towering trees with twisting trunks.
Y/N sat gracefully beneath the largest tree, sipping warm tea despite the summer heat. Her posture was perfect. Regal, without effort. Around her, a few students chatted quietly, but Minho leaned in, clearly curious.
“Can I ask you something?” he said gently, eyes kind and cautious.
Y/N tilted her head. “Of course.”
“How do you feel… about the Fire Nation?”
The question made a few heads turn. The group hushed just slightly, enough to feel the weight of silence. Even Jungkook, who had been walking past behind a hedge of flame lilies, froze in place—unseen but very much listening.
Y/N didn’t flinch.
She took a breath, let the breeze comb through her white-blonde hair, and looked Minho straight in the eyes.
“I think history is important,” she said. “It should never be forgotten—what happened between our nations. The war was horrific. My great-grandparents lost their lives in it.”
Minho nodded solemnly. So did several others.
“But,” she continued, “I also think hatred is a poison. One that gets passed down if we’re not careful.”
Jungkook’s brows lifted, his chest going still.
Y/N pressed her cup into the grass beside her, voice calm but sincere.
“The war ended long before we were born. Generations have passed. And honestly? I’m tired of the narrative. I don't want to spend my life hating people I’ve never met based on things they didn’t do. That helps no one.”
A few students looked at each other, thoughtful. Minho seemed visibly moved.
“I believe both our nations have a lot to offer each other,” Y/N added. “The Fire Nation’s innovation, drive, and strength—combined with the Water Tribe’s patience, healing, and connection to nature… we could be powerfultogether.”
A beat.
“And I know not everyone feels the same. But… I don’t want to keep telling the same story of hate. I want to write a new one.”
From behind the hedges, Jungkook stared at the ground.
His hands were tucked into his pockets, his heart caught somewhere in his throat. He wasn’t even sure why he cared so much—why hearing her say it made something twist in his chest like a flame curling inward.
Maybe because… he agreed. Deep down, he always had.
But growing up in the Fire Nation, you weren’t allowed to say that out loud.
He’d learned about the war in school like it was a legacy. He'd heard whispers at home about what the Water Tribe took from them. Was taught that peace was a fragile tolerance, not a genuine future.
But now…
Here was the princess of that tribe. His supposed enemy. Saying everything he’d always secretly hoped.
And it didn’t make him angry.
It made him… ache.
Later that afternoon, during weapons demonstrations in the training field, Y/N was standing alone, tying her hair up into a high knot. The wind swept past her face, pulling stray strands from her braid, sunlight catching the delicate blue shimmer of her robe.
Jungkook approached from the opposite side, not planning to talk to her—but his eyes flicked up on instinct.
She looked at him briefly. Not with challenge. Not with disdain. Just… acknowledgment.
Jungkook, usually armed with a smirk, had nothing.
No comeback.
No insult.
He simply gave a nod.
A small one.
And Y/N, after a pause, returned it.
Like maybe…
just maybe…
they could be on the same side of history someday.
-------------
The halls of the Academy were still half asleep—bathed in pale morning light, with shadows stretched long across the polished floors. Most students wouldn’t rise for another hour. But Jungkook was already out, muscles aching from his morning lift, hair dripping sweat as he jogged shirtless through the west corridor, earbuds in but music long since paused.
It wasn’t like he meant to look for her.
But when he passed the meditation garden and saw the empty stone bench—her bench—he slowed. Eyes scanning the spot as if her absence disrupted some delicate balance in his morning. A frown tugged at his brow.
Weird.
Y/N was never late. She moved like clockwork.
He kept jogging, rounding a quiet corner—only to stop short when he spotted her. Pacing frantically down the hall in a soft robe, eyes wide and filled with panic, hair loose around her shoulders.
Even breathless and flushed, she looked like royalty.
“Lost something?” he called, trying to sound casual, but his heart kicked a little harder when she startled and looked up at him.
“Oh,” she said. “Yeah—I… I lost my ring.”
Jungkook blinked. “Your… ring?”
She nodded, clearly distressed. “I took it off for meditation last night, and now I can’t find it. It was a gift. A really important one.”
Jungkook’s jaw tightened.
There was only one ring he’d seen on her finger lately—thin, silver, engraved delicately. The one he’d Googled two nights ago while still hard and spiraling. A purity ring.
He forced a shrug. “Tough break,” he said, then jogged past her without another word.
But his chest was tight.
And when he turned the next hallway and caught a glint of silver against the floor by a water fountain, he paused.
The ring sat in a pool of light, small and innocent—mocking him with everything it symbolized.
She really meant it, he thought, scooping it up. She’s untouched.
Jungkook let out a frustrated breath, closing his hand around the metal. He stood there for a long second, debating if he should just leave it on a ledge or pretend he hadn’t seen it at all.
Instead… he turned back.
Y/N was still searching the base of a wall when Jungkook returned, quiet footsteps padding behind her. She straightened when she noticed him, eyes narrowing.
“You come back to mock me?” she muttered.
“Relax, your highness,” he said dryly. “I found it.”
He extended his hand and dropped the ring into her palm, watching the immediate relief wash over her face.
“Oh my god,” she whispered. “Thank you. Seriously, I—thank you.”
Her fingers curled around it like it was sacred.
But as she looked up to thank him again, her breath caught.
Jungkook was close. Too close. His chest bare and sweat-slicked, his necklace bouncing lightly against his sternum. His hair dark and damp, falling over his forehead. And now that she was really looking—really looking—she realized how tall he was compared to her. How… broad.
Jungkook didn’t miss the flicker in her eyes.
He tilted his head, lips curving slow. “You okay, princess?”
She blinked fast, like she’d caught herself staring. “Fine,” she said quickly. “Totally fine.”
His smirk widened.
“What’s this ring about anyway?” he asked, glancing pointedly at her fist. “Some kind of magical protection spell?”
Her cheeks flushed. “It’s… none of your business.”
“Oh, come on,” he teased, leaning down slightly—his breath hot against her ear. “You can trust me with a dirty little secret.”
Y/N gasped and shoved at his chest, eyes wide. “You’re disgusting.”
“I’m honest.”
She spun on her heel, walking away fast, flustered. Jungkook watched her go, grinning like a devil.
Finally.
She’s not made of ice after all.
Far down the hall, Y/N slowed, heart pounding. The ring was cold in her hand, but her skin? Her skin was burning.
“What the hell was that?” she whispered, pressing her fingers to her neck where heat lingered, trailing all the way down her spine to—
She didn’t even want to think about it.
Jungkook couldn’t sleep.
It wasn’t guilt. It wasn’t even stress.
It was her.
The image of her flushed face, the way her hand had closed around that damned ring, how she’d looked up at him—small, breathless, affected—kept replaying in his head like a loop designed to torment him.
He hated how much power that moment had over him. How her wide eyes had stayed with him long after she’d stormed off. He told himself it was just curiosity. Biological. Hormonal.
Not attraction.
Definitely not that.
But as he lay awake, the darkness of his dorm room wrapping around him, Jungkook’s thoughts turned filthy in ways he didn’t know he was capable of when it came to her.
The bratty little princess.
So perfect. So untouchable. So damn righteous.
He wondered how long she could keep that attitude if he had her underneath him, hands pinning hers, his mouth finally shutting her up. Would she keep talking back if he pushed her to the edge again and again? If he found that sweet, untouched spot between her thighs and -
Jungkook sat up and cursed, scrubbing a hand down his face.
He needed a distraction. Fast.
----------------
The Academy held mandatory cultural nights once a week, where students from all four nations were expected to attend a viewing or lecture that explored different facets of the post-war alliance.
Tonight was a historical dramatization.
A war-era film between the Fire Nation and the Water Tribe, one that depicted the gruesome realities of the past—and eventually, the fragile peace born between a prince and a captured healer. It was tense, political, and deeply romantic.
And then... the sex scene happened.
Not crude or explicit, but sensual enough to draw awkward coughs and shuffles from the younger students. On-screen, the prince pressed kisses along the healer’s neck, whispering confessions against her skin, fingers trembling as they undressed one another in soft candlelight.
Jungkook didn’t react.
At least—not outwardly.
But the moment he turned his head slightly and saw her, everything changed.
Y/N sat a few seats over, eyes fixed downward at her lap. She wasn’t watching. Her jaw was tight, ring spinning nervously on her finger, her cheeks visibly red even in the dim light of the auditorium.
She looked like she wanted to disappear.
And Jungkook? He could barely look away.
Oh, princess. You’ve never even been touched, have you?
His thoughts took a dark turn—sinking lower, hotter.
He wondered how long it would take for her to start panting under him. If she’d sob from being overwhelmed or try to act composed even when her body betrayed her. What sounds she’d make if he kissed down her stomach and told her to open her legs.
Would she be shy?
Or would the brat in her fight it—make him earn every reaction until he completely ruined her for anyone else?
Jungkook clenched his fists in his lap, nails digging into his palm.
Get it together. he hissed internally. She’s not yours. She’s not even someone you like.
But it didn’t stop the ache.
Or the jealousy that crept in, uninvited.
Because someday… she would marry. Someone her rank. Someone clean and regal, with boring, practiced hands and a pristine family tree. Someone worthy of royal heirs.
And that man—whoever he was—would get to see her. All of her. Would get to pull off those long layers of silk and find out what was underneath.
Jungkook swallowed hard and looked back at the screen.
But his mind was no longer on the war.
-----------
The thing about your enemies is that you know them better than your friends.
You study them. Watch them. Understand their patterns. Their tells. Their habits.
Jungkook knew Y/N.
He knew that she tied her hair differently depending on how much sleep she got. That she added exactly two drops of honey to her tea, even when no one else was looking. That her fingers fidgeted with the sleeve seam of her robe when she was nervous. And that—despite her poise—she hated being the center of attention.
So when lunchtime arrived, and he heard her ask for the fish, Jungkook didn’t expect her reaction when the kitchen worker gave her an apologetic smile.
“We’re all out of fish, Princess. Only the beef remains.”
She blinked once, then smiled politely. “No worries. Beef is perfectly fine.”
Except it wasn’t.
He watched her carry her tray like it weighed a hundred pounds. Watched her sit down three tables away, smile at Minho who said something, and take her first bite of vegetables with the same grace she did everything else.
But she didn’t touch the meat.
Not once.
Jungkook stared at his own plate—the flakey grilled fish, seasoned perfectly, steaming gently beside his rice. He wasn’t even that hungry.
He glanced at her again. Her fork glided around the meat like it wasn’t even there, never once piercing the beef.
If he remembered correctly from his cultural studies as a kid, the Water Tribe’s traditional diet didn’t include red meat. Not because they were opposed to it, but because they simply lived off the sea.
Fish. Shellfish. Seaweed. Broth.
His jaw clenched.
Just eat, he told himself, stabbing the fish without looking at it.
But he couldn’t.
His stomach turned. His fork stayed still.
“Are you okay?” Jimin asked, nudging him gently. “You’ve barely touched your lunch.”
“I’m fine,” Jungkook muttered.
Jimin followed his gaze and immediately picked up on it. Without a word, he stood up, walking calmly across the cafeteria.
“Princess Y/N,” he said with a gentle bow. “Would you allow me to trade meals with you?”
Y/N looked up, caught off guard. “What? Oh—no, that’s really not necessary. I don’t mind at all.”
“But I do,” Jimin said kindly. “You’re not eating. Please. Take the fish.”
She blinked, then softened. “Well… thank you. That’s very kind.”
They switched plates.
She smiled, quietly grateful, and Jimin returned to the table with the beef.
Jungkook stabbed a piece of rice and shoved it in his mouth like it had personally offended him.
“You could’ve just offered,” Jimin said, not unkindly, as he sat down.
“I didn’t notice,” Jungkook lied.
Jimin gave him a look like you’re full of shit, but said nothing else.
Across the room, Y/N’s shoulders relaxed slightly. She took a bite of the fish and closed her eyes for a brief second—just enough to let Jungkook know it mattered. That she really wanted it. That she’d almost endured a whole meal pretending she didn’t.
He looked down at his plate again.
Why did it bother him so much?
Not just that she hadn’t eaten.
But that he’d known—really known—and hadn’t done a damn thing about it.
He told himself it wasn’t about her. That it didn’t mean anything.
But somewhere deep in his chest, a little voice whispered:
You want to be the one who notices her. Before anyone else.
And that scared the hell out of him.
---------
The dorm room was dim, curtains drawn, the only sound the dull ticking of the clock on the wall. Jungkook sat at the edge of his bed, hands cradling his face, elbows on his knees, breath slow and heavy. His chest ached—not with pain, but with pressure. The kind that built from years of expectations. Years of pretending.
The door creaked open behind him.
“Jungkook?” Taehyung’s voice was quiet, careful. “You okay, man?”
Jungkook didn’t look up.
A beat passed before Taehyung walked in fully, closing the door behind him. He crossed the room and leaned against the wall, arms folded, studying his best friend with a furrowed brow.
“What happened?”
Another long pause.
Then Jungkook exhaled and dropped his hands, finally raising his head. His eyes were tired.
“…What do you think of the Water Tribe?” he asked.
Taehyung tilted his head. “That’s out of nowhere.”
Jungkook didn’t laugh. Didn’t smile.
“I’m serious.”
Taehyung’s face softened. “Honestly? I think the war was a tragedy. But it’s history. We should move forward.”
Jungkook nodded slowly, staring at the floor. “But I’m not just anyone, Taehyung. I’m the prince. Everything I say or feel… means something. It represents something.”
Taehyung stepped closer. “Maybe. But it also means you have the power to change things.”
Jungkook didn’t reply.
Taehyung sat beside him on the bed, letting the silence sit for a moment.
“…This isn’t really about the Water Tribe, is it?” Taehyung asked gently.
Jungkook’s jaw tensed. He didn’t answer, but that was answer enough.
Taehyung smiled faintly. “It’s okay to not feel hatred, Jungkook. Even if you were taught to. Even if it’s what your father expects.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“I know. But you’re not your father.” Taehyung leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “He might be king now. But one day… you’ll be the one on that throne.”
Jungkook swallowed hard.
“And when that day comes,” Taehyung continued, “you’ll have to make choices for your people, not his ghosts. Not his grudges. You think the weight of that makes you less human, but it doesn’t. If anything, it makes your feelings more important.”
Jungkook sat back against the wall, closing his eyes.
“I don’t want to hate her,” he admitted quietly. “But it feels wrong not to.”
Taehyung looked at him. “Y/N?”
Jungkook nodded once.
“She’s smart. Honest. Kind to people who don’t deserve it. She drives me insane,” he added, almost bitterly. “And I can’t stop thinking about her.”
Taehyung grinned softly. “Sounds like trouble.”
Jungkook laughed under his breath, finally.
“She’s not what I thought she’d be,” he said. “None of this is.”
Taehyung nudged his shoulder. “Then maybe… you’re not what you thought you’d be either.”
Jungkook looked over at him, blinking.
“It’s okay to be curious, Jungkook,” Taehyung said. “It’s okay to be wrong. To change. To feel something that doesn’t fit into a speech your father would’ve approved.”
Jungkook let out a long breath.
“Thanks,” he muttered.
“Anytime,” Taehyung said, standing up. “Also—if you do end up falling for her? At least make it interesting. Keep the drama level royal.”
Jungkook groaned, tossing a pillow at him as Taehyung laughed and ducked out of the room.
But long after he was gone, Jungkook stayed where he was.
Staring at the ceiling.
Wondering if the future he’d been raised for could somehow make room for the girl he wasn’t supposed to want.
---------------
The forest air was crisp, the canopy above casting golden dappled light onto the trail. Laughter echoed through the trees—Y/N and Jimin walking ahead, chatting easily, their steps light over the uneven ground. Behind them, Jungkook and Taehyung followed at a more relaxed pace, the latter sipping from a water bottle while Jungkook stayed mostly quiet, his eyes trailing up ahead.
He wasn’t eavesdropping.
He was watching.
Not that it mattered.
The conversation was harmless—Jimin cracking jokes, Y/N grinning, her eyes shining. Still, something gnawed at Jungkook’s stomach like a dull burn.
Then he saw it—Y/N’s foot catching on an exposed root, her balance tipping precariously. Before he could think, his body moved.
“Careful—” Jungkook muttered, stepping forward and grabbing her by the arm.
His hand caught her just in time, steadying her before she could fall. But in doing so, the back of his knuckles scraped harshly against a rough strip of bark on a nearby tree.
“Ah—damn,” he hissed softly, retracting his hand.
Y/N turned quickly. “Oh—are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said, more brusquely than intended.
Still, her hand lingered on his arm for a second longer before she gently pulled away, murmuring, “Thanks.”
Back at the academy grounds, the sun had dipped lower, golden hour stretching long shadows across the marble courtyards. Students filtered indoors for dinner or study, but Jungkook sat alone on the low stone wall near the meditation garden—her spot. His legs were stretched out lazily, one hand scrolling on his phone, the other resting palm-up, scraped and reddened.
He didn’t notice her until she was standing in front of him.
Y/N.
Arms folded. Unreadable expression.
He blinked up at her.
“What?” he asked, setting his phone down.
“I was going to walk by,” she said, “but then I remembered you saved me from face-planting into the forest floor.”
Jungkook smirked. “That would’ve been entertaining.”
She rolled her eyes, but her gaze dropped to his injured hand.
“Let me see it.”
He hesitated, narrowing his eyes. “Why?”
“Because I’m being nice, and you’re making it really hard.”
Jungkook scoffed, but slowly offered her his hand, watching as she knelt beside the fountain. With a wave of her fingers, water lifted gracefully into the air, suspended in a rippling orb. Her other hand took his—cool and light—and gently wrapped around his fingers.
Jungkook’s usual snark froze on his tongue.
Her hands were warm. Steady. Confident.
The water shimmered between their palms, glowing faintly as it touched his scraped knuckles. It tingled—not painful, but soothing, like warm sun after a chill.
And then—
It was gone.
The sting. The cut. The blood.
Completely healed.
Jungkook stared down at his now perfect skin, brows furrowed in disbelief.
“I thought that kind of healing was a myth,” he murmured, eyes flicking up to her.
Y/N stood, brushing off her skirt, a small satisfied smile on her lips. “My grandmother was a master healer. I was taught by the best.”
She turned on her heel.
Jungkook stared after her, completely thrown off his usual axis.
“Wait—” he called, suddenly.
She stopped, glancing over her shoulder. “Hm?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it again.
“…Thanks.”
Her smile deepened. “Don’t mention it, Your Highness.”
And then she disappeared down the path, her presence leaving behind the faint scent of water lilies and peppermint.
Jungkook looked down at his hand again, still half-expecting the cuts to return.
But they didn’t.
He ran a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath.
“…She’s going to be the end of me.”
Y/N shut the door to her dorm room quietly, the click of the latch echoing in the stillness. The light from the hallway slipped away, leaving only the soft glow of the moon filtering in through the gauzy curtains. She leaned against the wood, eyes closed, her chest rising and falling a little too fast.
She couldn't stop seeing him.
That moment by the fountain, the way his skin warmed under her hands. The way he looked at her—reallylooked at her—as if he’d never been touched like that before. His expression had been somewhere between awe and curiosity… and something darker. Something she shouldn't be thinking about.
But gods, was he beautiful.
Y/N exhaled shakily and crossed to her bed, slipping out of her outer robes, folding them neatly even as her mind wandered.
His eyes—sharp and cutting but deep, always watching her like he was trying to figure her out. The tension in his jaw when he was annoyed, the smirk when he teased her. The muscles in his arms, the ink-black hair damp and curling against his forehead after training. The sheer height of him towering over her, so close she could feel the heat radiating off his bare chest.
She never used to notice things like that. She was supposed to be composed. Dignified. Pure.
And yet…
As she curled up beneath the covers, her fingers drifted down her stomach on their own. Hesitating. Remembering the exact sound of his voice when he’d leaned down and whispered—
“You can trust me with a dirty secret.”
Her breath hitched.
She wasn’t supposed to think of him like this. Wasn’t supposed to feel this ache in her belly, this restless longing that settled deep between her thighs. But when her fingers brushed lightly against her clothed center, she gasped, her body arching just slightly off the bed.
Her other hand pressed to her lips, silencing her moan.
It’s just me, she told herself. Just relieving pressure. Just a release. Not about him.
But her body knew better.
She imagined the weight of Jungkook’s body above her, his voice low and rough in her ear. His hands sliding down her hips, those perfect lips on her throat, the scent of sweat and cedarwood thick in the air. His voice in her mind—so bratty today, Princess. Maybe I should shut you up.
Y/N whimpered, her fingers moving slowly now, teasing herself the way she imagined he might. Rough at first, then gentle. Her body trembled under her touch, thighs tightening as the pleasure built, as heat twisted tighter and tighter through her limbs. She was close—too close—and her breath grew ragged.
“Jungkook…” she whispered before she could stop it.
She came with a soft cry, legs shaking, chest heaving.
And then—
Silence.
Shame bloomed quickly. She rolled over, pulling the covers up to her chin, heart still racing.
What the hell was happening to her?
Why was it him she thought of, when she shouldn’t even like him?
Y/N closed her eyes tightly.
He’s the fire nation prince. Your supposed enemy. A cocky, annoying, arrogant menace.
But even that couldn’t stop the traitorous smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
Because Jungkook had also been gentle.
Thoughtful.
And worst of all—he made her feel something.
------------
Jungkook stared at his communicator for a long time before finally pressing the call button.
It was late—too late for most students to be awake—but his father would be expecting one of his check-ins. This time, it wasn’t about grades or how well he was fitting in at the academy.
When his father’s face appeared, regal in his robes, framed by the golden lighting of the palace, Jungkook straightened unconsciously.
“Father,” he said, voice a bit tight.
“Jungkook,” the king replied. “You’re calling late. Is something wrong?”
Jungkook hesitated. “There’s something I’ve been thinking about. Something that’s… been bothering me.”
A beat of silence passed.
“I’ve been taught my whole life to hate the Water Tribe,” Jungkook continued, keeping his gaze steady. “To see them as lesser. As enemies. But ever since I came to this school… it’s not like that. The students here, they’re not my enemies. Most of them don’t even care about what happened generations ago.”
His father’s eyes narrowed slightly, though not with anger. More like calculation. “Go on.”
Jungkook swallowed. “I don’t think I believe what I was taught anymore. I mean… how can I hate people I don’t even know? People who haven’t done anything wrong? The war ended decades ago.”
The king let out a low sigh, leaning back in his chair. “You sound like your mother.”
Jungkook blinked.
His father looked away for a moment. “I didn’t always hate the Water Tribe either. But my father—your grandfather—he was filled with rage. He watched friends die in the war. He lost his brother. So I was raised on that anger. I inherited it without ever questioning if it was truly mine.”
Jungkook’s brows furrowed. “So you don’t hate them?”
“I suppose I don’t,” the king admitted reluctantly. “Not personally. But you must understand, diplomacy is complicated. The Water Tribe may seem friendly now, but politics change in an instant. Trust the wrong person and it could cost your nation dearly.”
Jungkook’s jaw clenched. He knew what his father was really warning him about.
“The people might not like it,” the king went on. “If you’re seen growing close to someone from that side—especially someone of status—there’ll be whispers. Some might even call you a traitor.”
Jungkook looked down for a moment, thumb brushing the edge of the communicator. Y/N would never use me.He didn’t say it aloud. Not yet.
“I just think… maybe people have moved on more than we give them credit for,” Jungkook said instead. “And maybe the problem isn’t them. Maybe it’s us. If we don’t show forgiveness, how can we expect them to?”
His father’s expression shifted—tired, worn. “You’re still young. Idealistic.”
“Maybe that’s not a bad thing.”
The king didn’t answer for a moment. Then he sighed again and said, “For now, just focus on school. Learn what you need. Make allies. The world outside will be waiting when you’re ready.”
Jungkook nodded, but in his heart, something had already shifted. His father’s words were permission, in their own quiet, reserved way.
When the call ended, Jungkook leaned back on his bed, arms folded behind his head. He stared at the ceiling, thinking of Y/N’s smile, the warmth of her hands wrapped around his, the conviction in her voice when she spoke of peace.
He wasn’t just imagining it anymore.
And now that he had a sliver of his father’s blessing—however cautious—it felt even harder to resist where his heart was leading him.
------------
The house was packed, the bass from the music vibrating through the wooden floorboards. String lights crisscrossed the ceiling, and the warmth of so many bodies, drinks, and laughter made the place feel almost alive. One of the rich students rented an off campus house for a huge party.
Amara hooked her arm through Y/N’s and practically dragged her inside. “Tonight’s the night.”
Y/N gave her a skeptical glance. “What night?”
“The night you find a cute boy to obsess over for at least two weeks,” Amara declared. “Your aura is too serious. We’re fixing it. Immediately.”
Y/N blushed, laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Nope. I’m just trying to save you from dying of repression.”
They made their way inside, the room buzzing with activity. On the couch, Jungkook lounged beside Taehyung, beer bottle in one hand, phone in the other, looking devastatingly good in black. His eyes were low-lidded, distracted, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he scrolled. Y/N didn’t see him.
“Hey, Y/N,” a voice called. She turned to find Minho—a fellow student with kind eyes and a lopsided grin. He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “Glad you made it. Want to grab a drink with me?”
Y/N nodded. “Sure, I’m parched.”
He walked with her to the kitchen, chatting easily about classes and their upcoming practicals. She laughed a few times, especially when he admitted to flubbing his latest firebending exercise so badly that he singed off half his eyebrows.
Y/N scanned the table full of drinks and grabbed a can with strawberries on it, popping it open. “This looks harmless.”
Minho smiled but didn’t say anything.
They rejoined the party for a bit, dancing lightly before Amara found Y/N again. “Hey” she whispered. “I’m heading out.”
Y/N blinked. “Already?”
“Yeah…” Amara smirked. A tall guy—someone from the Earth Kingdom, broad and handsome—was waiting behind her. “Don’t wait up.”
Y/N’s jaw dropped. “You dragged me here and now you’re ditching me for a boy?”
“You’re welcome,” Amara winked. “Minho’s cute and clearly into you.”
Y/N flushed, waving her off. “We’re just friends.”
Amara disappeared into the crowd, and minutes later Minho did too—murmuring something about needing to check on a friend, promising to come back, but never did.
Y/N stayed a bit longer, drinking more than she meant to. She wandered, looking for Amara, then for Minho, but neither was anywhere to be found.
Eventually she gave up, pulled off her heels, and slumped onto the staircase, letting out a deep, tired sigh. Her head buzzed lightly, and the house was starting to spin in slow motion.
She didn’t see Jungkook until he sat down beside her, the heat of his body instantly noticeable.
“You’re warm,” she murmured, not looking up.
“You’re drunk,” he replied, glancing at the can in her hand. “That has alcohol in it.”
“No it doesn’t. It has strawberries.”
He let out a low laugh. “Right. Because strawberries mean safe.”
She pouted. “It tastes like juice.”
He handed her his water. “Drink this instead.”
She accepted it without question, and for a moment, they sat in silence. Then:
“Why do you care?”
Jungkook’s brow furrowed. “What?”
“Why do you care what I’m drinking? Or if Minho’s into me?”
“I don’t,” he snapped too quickly.
“You clearly do.”
“Forget it,” he muttered, getting up. “Just make sure Taehyung gets you back to the school safely.”
And just like that, he was gone.
The next morning, Jungkook didn’t eat. He barely looked up from his tray.
But when he saw Amara laughing outside with a group of girls, he stood up and made a beeline toward her.
“Hey,” he said sharply. “Got a second?”
Amara looked startled but followed him away from the crowd.
He didn’t sugarcoat it. “You left Y/N last night.”
“I—what?”
“She was tipsy. Alone. Sitting on the stairs barefoot. You were supposed to be with her.”
Amara looked immediately guilty. “I didn’t know she was still there. I… I left with someone.”
“Yeah, I figured that out.”
“I thought she was with Minho,” she tried, but it sounded weak even to her own ears.
Jungkook’s jaw clenched. “Minho ditched her too.”
Amara’s face dropped. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Then don’t let it happen again,” he said, low and pointed. “She’s not just some girl you can forget about when something better walks by.”
The sun had barely risen when Jimin collapsed on the grass beside Jungkook and Taehyung, stretching after morning drills.
"Alright," Jimin said between breaths, grinning. "Spill. Did you hook up with anyone at the party?"
Jungkook didn't even look up from his water bottle. "No."
Taehyung smirked, tossing a pebble between his fingers. “He hasn’t hooked up with anyone in a while, actually.”
Jungkook shot him a look, but Taehyung only raised a brow, silently daring him to deny it.
Jimin let out a quiet, knowing hum. “Ah.”
Jungkook’s jaw ticked. “What.”
“Nothing,” Jimin said, lips twitching. “Just... explains a lot.”
Taehyung snorted, not even trying to hide the amused glance he threw Jungkook’s way.
Later that day, Jungkook found Y/N in the garden path near the training courts, alone, running her fingers along a line of frost forming on a tree root. She hadn’t noticed him approach, but when she turned and caught his eye, her smile dropped.
He got straight to the point. “You need to be more careful with what you drink. Especially as a princess.”
Y/N blinked. “Excuse me?”
“At the party,” he clarified. “You didn’t even know it had alcohol in it.”
She crossed her arms. “So what? It was one drink. I was fine.”
“You’re the princess of the Water Tribe,” he said tightly. “You can’t afford to be careless.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t talk to me like I’m a child.”
“Then stop acting like one,” he snapped.
Her mouth fell open slightly. “You’ve got some nerve,” she muttered, stepping closer. “One minute you’re being sweet, giving me water, checking on me. The next, you’re lecturing me and acting like I’m some burden. Which one is the real you, huh?”
Jungkook scoffed and turned to leave.
“Don’t walk away from me,” she snapped, grabbing his wrist.
His breath caught slightly at the contact. He turned halfway back toward her, jaw clenched.
“Why do you care so much?” she demanded, searching his face. “Is this just some power trip? Do you feel responsible? Or is it something else?”
He stared at her for a long second. Then he exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if annoyed at himself.
“You’re the most inconvenient person in the whole damn world for me to fall for.”
Y/N’s hand dropped from his.
“What?”
Jungkook took a step closer. His voice was low but steady, eyes burning into hers.
“Princess of the Water Tribe. Me, prince of the Fire Nation. We were raised to stay away from each other. To see each other as rivals, enemies even. And yet—here you are.”
Her lips parted, eyes wide.
He chuckled bitterly. “But the universe loves irony, doesn’t it?”
Without giving her time to respond, he walked past her, leaving her stunned—alone in the garden with her heartbeat thundering in her ears and a truth she wasn’t ready to face.
-----------------
The sun was high when the class arrived at the local fruit farm. Woven baskets were handed out, and the students were split into groups to learn about sustainable agriculture. Laughter filled the warm air, the scent of ripe strawberries and apples hanging sweet and thick in the breeze.
“Princess,” Minho said, appearing at Y/N’s side with a charming grin. “Would you like to pair up for the cherries?”
Y/N smiled politely. “Sure.”
They wandered off toward the orchard, the soft rustling of the trees muffling their conversation. Jungkook watched them go with a furrowed brow, his hand tightening around the basket handle. Taehyung elbowed him.
“She’s allowed to pick cherries with someone,” he said under his breath.
Jungkook said nothing.
Twenty minutes later, Y/N returned alone. Her braid was looser than before, her lips pressed in a thin line. Jimin noticed instantly.
“Hey,” he said, stepping in front of her. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said softly, not meeting his eyes.
But she wasn’t. Her usual spark was gone, her fingers nervously twisting her sleeve. She barely spoke for the rest of the trip, hovering near Jimin but not really present.
Jungkook kept glancing over, unsettled by her quietness, by the way Minho had returned looking just as frustrated and sour.
Later, near the truck loading area, Jungkook overheard Minho talking to one of the other boys, voice too loud to ignore.
“I don’t get it,” Minho muttered. “I tried kissing her, and she flinched back like I hit her or something. Told me she wasn’t ready—please. She’s playing hard to get. She’s been all over me for days.”
Jungkook’s blood went cold.
“She’s just messing with me,” Minho continued. “Acting like a princess—”
“Watch your fucking mouth.”
Minho froze as Jungkook stepped into view, eyes burning.
“She’s not playing with you. She said she wasn’t ready, and that’s where it ends. If you had any brain cells left, you'd take that seriously.”
Minho scoffed. “Oh come on, don’t tell me you—”
Jungkook stepped closer, voice low and lethal.
“I’m telling you to fuck off and never speak to her again.”
Minho raised his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, man. Chill.”
Jungkook turned on his heel, seething. But as he stepped away, he stopped cold.
Y/N was there.
Standing just behind the truck crates, a half-full basket of blueberries in her hands. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. But her eyes—wide, stunned, glassy—said she’d heard everything.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then she turned and walked quickly toward the others.
Jungkook didn't follow.
He wanted to. But for the first time in a long time, he didn’t know what he could say that wouldn’t make it worse.
----------------
The lake was hidden deep within the forest, surrounded by tall pines and warm sunlight breaking through the branches. The water glimmered like glass, still and quiet—inviting.
Students rushed in, splashing and laughing, but Y/N moved with ease and grace, gliding into the water like she belonged to it. Because she did.
She floated on her back, eyes closed, skin glowing under the sun, completely at peace. The lake wrapped around her like it knew her name. The way the water cradled her body, how her hair spread like a halo—it was art. Untouchable. Sacred.
Jungkook sat on the ledge just above the shoreline, swim trunks low on his hips, legs spread and arms propped behind him. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His dark eyes were locked on her—unblinking.
He never liked swimming much. It made him feel unstable, like the ground could be pulled out from under him at any second. But sitting here, watching her command the water without even trying? That was something else entirely.
He tilted his head slightly, resting his jaw against his knuckles, still staring. Drinking her in.
Y/N felt it—eyes on her.
Her brows drew slightly, lashes fluttering open as her body remained still, barely breaking the surface. She slowly dipped herself below the water, eyes scanning just above the surface like a panther.
Then she saw him.
Perched on the rock like a flame in the shadows, not even pretending to look away.
Their eyes locked.
Neither of them moved. The lake. The air. The whole forest seemed to still with the quiet force of the tension stretching between them.
Jungkook’s stare was intense, unreadable. Y/N’s brows rose, silently challenging him to blink first.
He didn’t.
A distant voice broke the moment like a knife—
“WATER FIGHT!!”
Screams and splashes erupted across the lake. Y/N rolled her eyes and stood, slowly walking toward the shore. The water clung to her body, droplets sliding down her thighs, her one-piece hugging every curve like it was painted on.
Jungkook didn’t even try to hide it now—his eyes dragged from the dip of her waist to the slope of her collarbone, to the water glistening between her thighs.
She caught him.
Y/N turned to face him fully, hands on her hips.
“You’re still looking,” she said with a small, breathless laugh.
Jungkook didn’t flinch. “I’m not hiding it.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re practically undressing me with your eyes.”
He smirked, leaning back even further. “Then maybe you shouldn’t look so good wet.”
Y/N’s heart kicked against her ribs.
She rolled her eyes and turned, but she was smiling.
And Jungkook—he couldn’t stop.
-------------
It was still dark when Y/N stepped into the corridor. The halls were quiet, the world outside still sleeping. She had hoped for a moment of peace, maybe clarity.
Instead, she found Jungkook.
He leaned against the wall near the end of the hallway, arms crossed, bathed in pale moonlight, as if waiting for her.
“You’re up early,” she said softly.
“I could say the same to you,” he replied, voice low and unreadable.
She hesitated. Something was off in the air. Thicker. Heavier.
“Can’t sleep?”
Jungkook pushed off the wall and walked toward her. “You drive me insane, you know that?”
Her breath caught in her throat. “Why?”
“Because you’re… challenging everything I’ve ever known. Everything I was taught.” His voice was quiet, raw. “They said we were supposed to hate each other. But you—”
He let out a humorless laugh, stopping just short of her. “You proved that hate is taught. And sometimes… not justified.”
Y/N looked up at him, something sparking in her chest. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?”
His eyes narrowed slightly, surprised.
She shook her head, voice cracking. “You walk around so confident. So sure of yourself. And I don’t know how to be around you. I don’t know what to do with myself when you look at me like I’m… like I’m not off-limits.”
Jungkook moved closer. Close enough that she had to tilt her chin to meet his gaze.
“You’ve got it all twisted,” he whispered. “You’re the perfect princess. Everyone loves you. You say the right things, do the right things.”
He reached out slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I’m the one who was never meant to be tamed.”
She backed up until her spine touched the cold wall behind her. He followed, not touching her, but caging her in with his presence alone.
“Tell me,” he murmured, voice deep and teasing, “do you know what it’s like… to be selfish?”
Her throat tightened. “What are you talking about?”
His mouth brushed near her ear, breath hot. “To do something just for yourself. Something no one can control or dictate.”
She swallowed, body frozen. “Like what?”
His eyes flicked down to her lips. Then lower. Then back up.
“Like pleasuring yourself.”
She gasped.
The silence between them cracked open like a fault line. Her eyes went wide, face flushing. She opened her mouth to object but couldn’t form words.
Y/N pushed him hard in the chest, scandalized. “That’s highly inappropriate.”
“Relax,” he said casually, catching her wrist before she could walk away. “Everyone does it. Maybe if you did it more, you wouldn’t always look like you're one second from bursting into tears.”
Her mouth fell open, offended, her hand lifting for a slap—
But Jungkook caught it mid-air.
In one fluid move, he twisted her wrist gently and turned her, pressing her front to the wall, his body hovering behind hers, not quite touching—but close enough that her breath stuttered.
He leaned in, lips by her ear. “Nice try.”
His fingers trailed to her hand, his thumb brushing over the ring she always wore.
“I know what this is,” he murmured, examining the crest. “You wear it like a shield. Like I’m not supposed to react.”
He smirked, voice dropping into something that made her knees weak.
“But I see it. I see you. The royal family didn’t consider one thing…”
His breath tickled her skin.
“That the perfect princess might have forbidden dreams. Dreams about what it would feel like to be wrecked—by the right man.”
Y/N gasped, struggling in his hold, breathless. “Let me go—”
He released her instantly, stepping back with infuriating calm.
Her body was trembling, her heart racing so loud it echoed in her ears.
Jungkook’s voice was soft now, but sharp like flint. “You can keep pretending, princess. But we both know what’s underneath that crown.”
And then he walked away, leaving her flushed, stunned, and furious—mostly at herself.
------------
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Fire Prince Donghyuck x Water Princess Reader - Arranged Marriage (smut)(repost)
The Fire Prince and Water Princess are set to be married for a political alliance so both countries can be at peace, but maybe it turns into something more...
ATLA inspired!
11.8k, unprotected sex, shower sex, dirty talk, making out, sexual tension
----------------
The palace air was thick with formality and tension. Crystal waves carved along the ceiling of the Water Kingdom's great hall, the cool breeze enchanted through the walls to keep guests comfortable. And yet, the moment Fire Prince Haechan stepped into the chamber, everything felt warmer.
Y/N inhaled sharply.
There he was.
The man she was bound to marry.
She hadn’t known what to expect—only vague reports from her advisors. “He’s clever.” “He’s temperamental.” “He speaks like the sun glows for him.” Not one of them had said beautiful.
But he was. Unfairly so.
Sun-kissed skin glowed golden under the morning light. His shoulder-length brown hair was swept back, exposing his forehead, which gave him a princely aura—but his eyes held mischief, like he knew every dirty secret the world had to offer. His uniform was red and black, trimmed in gold, hugging his frame, collar just low enough to hint at a toned chest. His lips curved when he caught her staring.
Smirking. He’s smirking.
Y/N straightened her spine, eyes narrowing. She was a princess of the tides, trained not to flinch under pressure—certainly not at a cocky fire prince with a gaze that wandered too slow, too low.
And wander he did.
Haechan felt his chest tighten as he looked at her. Fuck.
She was stunning.
Silky hair cascading over her shoulders in soft waves, skin glowing like it had been kissed by moonlight, lips perfectly pink, full and glossy. Her eyes caught him like a current, hard to look away from, especially when they sparkled with challenge. She wore a soft blue ceremonial gown, fitted at the waist, water jewels stitched into the bodice that shimmered when she moved. Haechan let his gaze travel down—just enough to note the soft swell of her chest under the fabric, before returning lazily to her face.
He liked the way she bristled.
“I take it you’re Princess Y/N,” he said, his voice low, smooth like slow-burning embers.
Y/N tilted her chin. “And you must be Prince Haechan. I expected someone taller.”
His brows lifted, lips twitching. “I expected someone... less cold.”
“I am the daughter of water,” she replied with a cool smile. “I run deep.”
Their parents, engaged in stiff conversation a few feet away, seemed unaware of the verbal sparring. The two royal families had kept their distance for centuries, water and fire locked in uneasy rivalry. This marriage was supposed to seal the first treaty between their kingdoms.
A symbol of peace.
Yet standing here, with their eyes clashing like flame against ocean, it felt anything but peaceful.
“I suppose we’re supposed to smile and look grateful,” Haechan said under his breath, voice pitched for her alone. “Pretend this is what we wanted.”
Y/N resisted the urge to glance at his lips. “Isn’t it?”
He leaned in just slightly, a glint of something dangerous in his eyes. “I didn’t ask for a stranger.”
She didn’t flinch. “Neither did I.”
A beat of silence passed, heavy with awareness. Somewhere behind them, her father mentioned something about ceremonial customs, his voice clipped and formal.
Y/N finally looked away.
But she could still feel Haechan's gaze on her.
Lingering.
Burning.
The meeting adjourned with stiff handshakes and overly polite smiles. The adults discussed ceremony details, treaties, dowries. But Haechan didn’t care about any of it.
Not when she was walking beside him, her chin high, her lips pressed tight in practiced serenity.
They were shown into a private chamber for “acquaintance and bonding,” the advisors said, as if either of them could relax under the weight of centuries of political tension and a wedding in seven days.
The moment the doors closed, Y/N turned to him.
“I think it’s best we set expectations now,” she said evenly, voice calm, practiced. “This marriage is a symbol. A duty. Nothing more.”
Haechan raised a brow. “Nothing more?”
She nodded once, folding her hands delicately in front of her. “We’re doing this for our people. So I’d like our relationship to reflect that. Respectful. Professional. No unnecessary intimacy.”
He blinked once, then laughed—sharp and amused, the sound low and rich like a crackling flame.
She frowned. “What’s funny?”
“You,” he said, grinning. “This whole ‘professional relationship’ thing. You say it like you don’t feel it.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Feel what?”
He stepped a little closer, voice dropping. “The heat. You don’t feel it yet, do you?”
She sucked in a breath, cheeks flushing pink. “I feel nothing of the sort.”
“Sure,” he said casually, stepping back with a smirk. “Whatever you want, Princess.”
Y/N bristled. The way he said Princess—so smooth, so mocking—it made her blood boil in the worst way. He wasn’t taking any of this seriously. Just like the rumors said: Prince Haechan, the Fire Kingdom’s cocky golden boy. Spoiled, reckless, dangerously charming.
Her gaze flicked to the floor, frustrated, then back up—just in time to catch him staring at her hand.
At the delicate silver ring on her finger.
She stiffened.
“What’s that?” he asked, his tone curious but sharper now. His eyes locked on the band with a seriousness that hadn’t been there a second ago.
Y/N’s entire body went tense. “None of your business.”
His gaze snapped back to her face. And then—
He grinned.
Slowly. Like a match being struck.
“Oh,” he said, eyes dragging down her figure now with less subtlety. “Oh.”
Y/N’s cheeks went crimson. “Don’t you dare—”
“A purity ring,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You’ve got one of those?”
She turned away, scoffing. “You’re so full of yourself. I knew the rumors were true.”
Haechan crossed his arms, still smirking, voice cocky. “They usually are. But... it seems like you’re into that.”
She gasped, spinning back around. “You’re insane!”
But he just leaned against the nearest pillar, looking entirely too pleased with himself as she stormed toward the door.
“See you next week, soon-to-be-wife,” he called as she yanked it open.
Y/N didn’t look back.
But Haechan stayed where he was, hands in his pockets, heart thudding faster than he’d like to admit.
He hadn’t expected to want her. Not really. Not like that.
And now? Now all he could think was:
Shit.
I’m going to enjoy this.
---------------
The Water Kingdom had never seen a ceremony like this.
Petals floated in the enchanted air, suspended like glittering snowflakes that shimmered as they caught the light. An orchestra played gentle strings, the melody laced with old hymns from both kingdoms—fire and water woven together for the first time. The entire capital had gathered beyond the palace gates, watching the union of two enemies turned allies. Of two strangers turned husband and wife.
Y/N stood at the edge of the marble aisle, her gown flowing like a tide around her feet. The pale silk hugged her figure before cascading into layers of sheer, iridescent fabric. Tiny crystals had been stitched into the sleeves and train, catching the light with every step she took. Her hair was woven into an elegant twist, a delicate water lily tucked just behind her ear.
She didn’t tremble. She didn’t frown.
But her heart was pounding.
When the palace doors opened and she stepped inside, the entire room inhaled.
Including Haechan.
He stood at the altar in deep crimson ceremonial robes tailored perfectly to his frame, the collar low and lined in gold, his hair brushed back again, a warm firestone pin glittering at his chest. But it wasn’t his outfit that made her breath catch.
It was the way he looked at her.
Like the whole world had shifted.
She stopped in front of him, eyes meeting his—nervous, unsure—and he leaned forward slightly, the officiator’s voice just beginning in the background.
“You’re beautiful,” Haechan whispered.
Y/N blinked.
Her lips parted in surprise—then curved into the softest smile. “Thank you.”
They joined hands, his palm warm against hers, fingers curling gently. She expected arrogance, some smirking joke. Instead, he held her like she mattered. Like this mattered.
When it came time for vows, Haechan surprised her again.
He didn’t stumble, didn’t look smug or bored. He spoke clearly, gaze fixed on hers like she was the only person in the room.
“I promise to protect you,” he said quietly, voice low and serious. “To stand beside you, and not in front or behind. I’ll give you the life you deserve—not just as a princess or queen, but as yourself. I’ll learn to love what you love. I’ll fight for what you believe in.”
Y/N's throat tightened. The words were simple, but… honest. No performance.
She spoke her vows just as softly, her eyes shining by the time they finished.
When the officiator declared them husband and wife, Haechan stepped closer.
His hand lifted, fingertips brushing her chin as he tilted it up. She could feel the warmth of his breath, the strange intimacy of this moment—before their first kiss had even begun. He didn’t rush it. He just looked at her like he needed to remember this.
And then he kissed her.
Slow. Sweet. Just a brush of mouths.
But it left her a little breathless anyway.
When they pulled apart, they were both smiling.
The crowd erupted into cheers, and they descended the stairs, hands still joined, fireworks beginning to blossom in the skies above the palace dome.
Their first dance was held in the grand ballroom, golden chandeliers flickering with soft flame, enchanted rain dancing just outside the windows.
Everyone watched.
But Y/N didn’t care. Not when he held her waist gently, pulling her in.
They swayed together, slowly.
And for a second, it didn’t feel like duty. It didn’t feel like obligation.
Just… warmth.
She leaned in closer, voice soft by his ear. “Did you mean it?”
Haechan pulled back to look at her. “Mean what?”
“Your vows.”
He smiled—just a little—his voice a quiet rasp. “Every word.”
She stared at him, eyes searching, lips barely parted.
Then he leaned in again, his next words brushing hot against the shell of her ear.
“I don’t do or say anything caring what anyone thinks.”
When she pulled back to look at him again, there was a new look in her eyes.
Something uncertain.
Something intrigued.
And Haechan—
Well.
He hadn’t planned to care.
But now?
Now, he was starting to.
----------------
The royal island estate was made for beauty. For romance.
The white-sand shores curved along crystal waters, untouched and hidden from the world. Their private villa sat atop a lush hill, its wide balcony wrapped in flowing curtains, overlooking a sea that shimmered under the starlight.
It was paradise.
And it was hers.
Theirs.
Y/N stood in the doorway of the master suite, barefoot on the polished wood, arms crossed tightly over her chest.
One room.
One bed.
Of course.
The servants had filled the space with soft candles, flowers from both kingdoms twined into garlands across the carved headboard. A silver tray of wine and fruits sat untouched on the low table. And in the center of it all, that massive, silken bed.
Y/N didn’t look at Haechan. Not at first.
But she could feel him behind her. The warmth of him. The weight.
She could hear him unbuttoning his jacket, dropping it somewhere behind her with a casual sigh.
“Pretty place,” he murmured.
She swallowed. “It’s a tradition. Every royal marriage ends with a retreat to one of the sacred islands.”
“I like it.”
Y/N finally turned. Haechan had loosened his collar, kicked off his boots. The sunset behind him made his tan skin glow like embers, and when he met her eyes, he smirked faintly.
“Are you going to sleep in that gown?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“Want help deciding?”
Her jaw tightened. “We’re married now. I thought you’d be less irritating.”
He walked past her, slow and sure, brushing her shoulder with his as he moved toward the bed. “That’s the thing about marriage, Princess,” he said, tossing himself down across the mattress. “Now I get to irritate you for the rest of your life.”
She turned away, cheeks warm.
She wasn’t afraid of the wedding night. She’d prepared for it. She’d assumed, expected, that it would happen now. That he would try.
And yet—he didn’t move.
He just laid there, one arm propped behind his head, watching her with something unreadable in his eyes.
Finally, she cleared her throat. “Aren’t you…?”
Haechan tilted his head. “Aren’t I what?”
“Going to… consummate the marriage?”
A pause.
Then—that smile again.
“Didn’t you say you wanted this to be professional?” he asked, feigning confusion. “Strictly duty?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You—”
He sat up slowly, voice dropping low, slow like smoke curling around her spine.
“I won’t touch you,” he said, eyes locked on hers, “until you’re crying for it.”
Y/N froze.
A breath caught in her throat. She gasped softly, like the air had been pulled from the room.
“You’re insane,” she hissed, stepping back instinctively. “That won’t happen.”
He just laid back again, smug and glowing and dangerous. “Sure, Princess. Whatever you say.”
Fuming, she stomped toward the bed, grabbing every pillow she could and stacking them straight down the center—walling him off.
“You’re impossible.”
He didn’t stop chuckling until she was under the covers, back to him, arms folded.
With a flick of his fingers, the lantern blew out.
Darkness settled around them, soft and thick.
The ocean whispered beyond the open balcony. Wind danced through the trees.
And in the silence, Y/N lay awake far too long, heart racing, skin hot, aware of the fact that on the other side of that ridiculous pillow wall—
Was her husband.
Smirking in the dark.
Waiting.
“This is ridiculous,” Y/N muttered as they strolled through the winding gardens of the island villa the next morning, sunlight glinting through the palm leaves. “We’re doing everything backwards.”
Haechan looked over at her, sipping lazily from a chilled coconut. “What do you mean?”
She gestured vaguely. “We got married first. Now we’re dating and getting to know each other.”
He grinned. “Better than dating first and then realizing the sex is bad.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You—!”
“Kidding,” he said, very much not kidding, eyes gleaming as he tossed the coconut aside and leaned closer. “Mostly.”
Y/N rolled her eyes and kept walking, though the smile tugging at her lips gave her away.
They spent the late morning exploring the island’s hidden paths and secret groves, followed by a private lunch on a terrace carved into the cliffs, overlooking the turquoise sea. The food was decadent — grilled mango-glazed fish, warm honeyed bread, spiced vegetables — but it was the company that made her heart beat too fast.
She hated how easy it was with him.
Hated how they laughed, how he teased her into smiling when she didn’t want to, how he challenged everything she said and meant it, how—despite the heat between them—he still hadn’t made a single move.
It made her feel insane.
“Don’t you ever get tired of hearing your own voice?” she asked dryly, pushing her plate away.
“Not when I’m saying interesting things.”
“You don’t say interesting things.”
“I said you were beautiful.”
“That’s just lazy flattery.”
“Worked, didn’t it?” he replied with a wink.
She flushed and stood. “I’m going swimming.”
His brows lifted. “Without me?”
“Obviously.”
But of course, he followed.
—
The private lagoon was quiet, hidden away by thick jungle. A soft waterfall spilled into the blue-green pool, mist catching the sun in delicate bursts of light.
Y/N dove in first, sleek and fluid like she was born for the water. Her hair trailed behind her like seaweed, her limbs graceful and easy. Haechan watched from the edge, tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek.
“Are you part siren?” he asked as she resurfaced. “Be honest.”
“No,” she called back, smoothing her wet hair over her shoulder. “Just better than you at this.”
“I’d argue,” he said, stripping off his shirt and stepping into the water, “but I’m too distracted.” His eyes raked up and down her body.
She turned—just in time to see him walking in, sun casting his body in sharp lines, muscles flexing as he moved. Her eyes dipped briefly, involuntarily, before snapping away.
“You’re disgusting.”
He laughed. “And you’re still staring.”
Y/N splashed him without mercy. He took it with a grin, wading deeper until the water reached his waist.
But then—
He looked at her.
Really looked.
Dripping, glowing, bare shoulders rising and falling with each breath. The water hugged her body, translucent fabric floating up, revealing the soft swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist. Her skin shimmered in the light like polished pearls.
Haechan felt the air leave his lungs.
That’s mine, he thought, shocked.
That beautiful, clever, infuriating girl—was his.
His wife.
He let his gaze trail down again, slower this time. No shame. No apology.
And when she caught him?
She glared. “You’re not even trying to hide it.”
He grinned lazily, voice low and teasing. “Why would I?”
Then, leaning back in the water, he added:
“I might’ve married you out of duty, Princess…” His gaze raked her once more. “But I’m still the real winner.”
Y/N looked away with a scoff, swimming farther out.
But her thighs pressed together under the water.
She hated that she could feel it—the heat between her legs, the thrum in her chest, the pull of his voice like a flame licking just close enough to burn.
And she hated most of all that…
She didn’t hate it.
The sun hung low, casting golden ribbons across the lagoon. The water shimmered like glass, warm and still. The sound of the waterfall had become background music to their laughter, their bickering, their shared silence.
They floated near the edge now, side by side.
Y/N laid back on the surface, letting her arms stretch wide, hair fanned out in the water like seafoam.
Haechan was close enough to touch. Close enough to feel. But for once, he was quiet.
“You never told me,” Y/N said softly, eyes on the sky. “How you reacted. When you found out.”
He blinked. “Found out what?”
“About the marriage. The arrangement.”
A pause.
Then: “Oh. That.”
His voice was too casual, too cool.
She turned her head to look at him.
He sighed. “Honestly? I was annoyed. Felt like I was being traded. Like I didn’t get a say in something that would affect the rest of my life.”
She nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
“Felt like a trap,” he added with a crooked smile. “And I hate traps.”
She smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“What about you?” he asked, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.
Y/N took a moment.
“I was scared.”
The words left her lips like a confession.
“I didn’t know who you were. I didn’t know what kind of man you’d be. I just kept thinking—what if he’s cruel? What if he’s angry all the time? What if he tries to break me?”
Haechan’s smile vanished.
Gone in an instant.
He straightened slightly, suddenly all sharp breath and stillness, his brows furrowing.
He hadn’t thought of that.
He hadn't thought of her fear.
How terrifying it must’ve been, being promised to a stranger—especially one from a nation known for their fire. Their temper. Their history.
She hadn’t just been afraid of the marriage.
She’d been afraid of him.
And yet here she was. Laughing with him. Swimming beside him. Still giving him that cold, smart mouth—but with softness behind it now.
He reached out.
Took her hand beneath the water.
“I’d never hurt you,” he said quietly. “And I’d never force you into anything.”
Y/N’s eyes searched his face. He was all boyish beauty still—but for once, the smirk was gone. His jaw was tight, his gaze serious. Protective.
Her heart cracked a little.
“I know,” she whispered, squeezing his hand.
The moment held between them like a delicate ripple.
Then he let go.
“I’m gonna shower,” he said quickly, pulling away.
Y/N watched as he climbed out of the water, water trailing down his back, the sun outlining every sculpted line of his body.
But her chest felt hollow.
The second he was gone, the pool felt colder. Quieter. Like the heat had been drained from the air entirely.
She sank lower into the water, pulling her knees to her chest.
And whispered to herself:
“…I miss your warmth.”
--------------
The morning sun painted soft golden lines across the veranda, the air warm and scented with sea breeze and tropical fruit. Their plates were nearly empty — mango slices, toasted honey bread, and cups of steaming jasmine tea sitting untouched now as the silence between them settled into something unusually comfortable.
Y/N sipped her tea, stealing glances at Haechan as he tilted back in his chair, shirt loose, collar open, hair still slightly damp from his morning shower. He looked impossibly smug for someone doing absolutely nothing.
“You’re too quiet,” he muttered without looking at her. “What are you plotting?”
“Nothing,” she said, voice soft but firm.
“Liar.”
“Arrogant.”
He smirked. “Flirt.”
Before she could respond, her foot caught on the leg of the chair as she stood, her body tilting awkwardly to the side. She gasped—
—and landed right into him.
Strong arms closed around her waist instantly, catching her like it was nothing.
Time froze.
Their faces were close. Too close.
Y/N blinked up at him, chest pressed to his, the heat of his skin radiating around her like he was the sun. Her breath caught. Her fingers were curled on his shoulders, gripping instinctively.
And Gods, he was warm.
Not just physically — elementally. It buzzed under his skin. Alive. Like standing in front of a campfire with no escape.
He looked at her, amused.
“Well,” he said quietly. “If you wanted to throw yourself at me, Princess, you could’ve just said so.”
Y/N’s face flushed. She yanked her hands back and stepped away, nearly tripping again in the process. “It was an accident.”
“Sure.” He leaned back against the table, arms folded lazily. “But if you ever do want to touch me, all you have to do is ask.”
“Keep dreaming.”
“I do. Every night.”
She picked up her teacup just to have something to throw at his head. He dodged easily, laughing.
The rest of breakfast dissolved into their usual chaos — him teasing, her snapping back with sharp, witty insults. But under it all, Haechan could barely hide his grin.
He loved this.
Loved the way she didn’t just tolerate him — she fought him. Matched him word for word, glare for glare, and looked so damn pretty doing it.
He leaned in, elbows on the table, chin resting in his palm as she pretended to read the itinerary the attendants had left for them.
“Tell me again,” he said casually, “how you think I’m insufferable.”
She didn’t look up. “You’re egotistical. Loud. You smirk too much. You flirt with everything. You have a god complex.”
His grin stretched wider. “You forgot devastatingly handsome.”
“I was getting there.”
“Mm,” he hummed, watching her lips. “You think I’m hot, don’t you?”
Y/N finally looked up. “I think the heat from your ego is melting this entire island.”
He barked a laugh, the sound warm and happy and annoyingly attractive.
And deep down, Y/N knew: she didn’t hate this.
She didn’t hate him.
Not even a little.
In fact… she was starting to enjoy this game.
Even if it left her thighs pressed together under the table and her thoughts drifting to the way his hands had felt on her waist.
---------------------
They hadn’t spoken much at the beginning. Just exchanged a few awkward nods before the instructor gestured for them to step onto the circular wooden floor, dimly lit by rows of candles in red and blue glass.
“Today,” the instructor smiled, “you’ll learn the Fire-Water Unity Dance. It’s a tradition meant to express harmony through contrast—strength through surrender, resistance through flow.”
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “So... a fight?”
Haechan grinned. “More like foreplay.”
She elbowed him, but he only laughed, not even pretending to apologize.
Then the music began—deep drums for the fire, slow strings for the water. The instructor moved around them, guiding their bodies into position. Haechan’s hand found her waist first—warm and firm. She braced herself for the heat, but it still startled her—the way his touch burned even through layers of fabric.
His other hand took hers, fingers sliding into place like he’d done this a hundred times. She glanced up to see him watching her, not the instructor.
“You’re warm,” she whispered.
He smirked. “You’re cold. Guess we fit.”
The movements started slow. A step forward, a sweep to the side. Haechan’s palm slid from her waist to the small of her back, guiding her, pulling her into him with each breath. Y/N tried to focus on the rhythm, the meaning behind the steps, but her mind kept scattering—burning alive from the nearness of his body, from the teasing brush of his thigh against hers as they spun.
The dance wasn’t chaste. It wasn’t meant to be.
It was intimate.
Every step placed them chest to chest, then spun them apart, then back again. Her skirt flared, and Haechan caught it mid-air, eyes dropping to the skin of her thigh before he returned to form. His smirk deepened when she stumbled.
“Nervous?” he murmured.
“You wish.”
His hand slid up her back again, fingers spreading at the base of her neck. “Maybe I do.”
The instructor circled them again, correcting their posture. “Closer,” she told Y/N, gently nudging her toward Haechan. “Let him feel your balance.”
Y/N pressed closer. Her chest brushed his, and Haechan bit back a sound, one of his hands flexing on her waist like he was barely holding it together.
Her heart pounded. It wasn’t the music or the movement—it was him, all of him, his heat, his breath, his words. His hand slid lower when they turned again, thumb brushing the top of her backside, his lips next to her ear.
“You’re sweating,” he said.
“So are you.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “But I like the way you smell.”
Y/N made the mistake of glancing up at him. His eyes burned. She felt her legs falter just a bit—he caught her, smirking again.
“I got you,” he said, cocky and sure, spinning her back into his arms.
By the time the music faded, her entire body felt like it was trembling. Her cheeks were flushed, her pulse wild. The instructor gave them a pleased nod and excused herself to grab water.
As soon as the door closed behind her, silence settled over them like heavy smoke.
They stood there, breathless.
Y/N’s hands were still against his chest.
Haechan was staring.
And then—“Don’t you wanna kiss me?”
She blinked, lips parting. “Don’t you wannna kiss me?” She repeated.
His mouth twitched. But this time it wasn’t a tease. “Actually… yeah. I do.”
He took a step closer, giving her time to stop him.
She didn’t.
She couldn’t.
His hand cupped her jaw gently, thumb brushing her cheek as he leaned in. His lips met hers softly at first—so soft it made her breath hitch. It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t demanding. It was warm, languid, testing. But then she kissed him back—hungrily, breathlessly—and he groaned into her mouth.
The hand on her waist pulled her flush against him. Her hands slid into his hair. His tongue teased the seam of her lips, and when she let him in, he kissed her like he’d been waiting for this moment forever.
Her fingers tightened in his hair as he sucked on her lower lip, then tilted his head to deepen it, pressing his thigh between hers.
Y/N moaned softly, the sound lost into his mouth.
That’s when—
The door creaked.
They jerked apart, faces flushed, lips swollen.
The instructor froze in the doorway, clearly registering the scene, but politely looking away.
Y/N was mortified, gasping as she stumbled back.
The instructor cleared her throat. “We’ll... pick up again tomorrow.”
As she walked past, Y/N covered her face.
But from behind her, Haechan whispered, smug and low, “Next time, princess... I’m not stopping.”
The moon hung low and silver, casting a gentle glow across the private royal bungalow nestled in the jungle. The sea breeze slipped through the open windows, rustling the white curtains like ghostly dancers. Inside, all was still—except for Haechan.
He sat in the woven rattan chair by the open balcony doors, cradling a crystal glass of sweet, dark Fire Nation whiskey, gaze locked on the sleeping figure in their bed.
Y/N lay on her side, face soft and peaceful in the lamplight, hair fanned across the silk pillowcase. One hand was curled under her cheek, the other rested gently over her chest, the glint of her wedding band catching the light with every slow breath. Haechan could make out the delicate blue and silver bracelet her mother had given her, still wrapped around her wrist.
She looked… untouched. Serene. Sacred.
And it was killing him.
He ran a hand down his face, then through his hair, the whiskey burning down his throat like it was trying to match the heat pulsing inside him. He was going insane. He could still taste her from the kiss they'd stolen, feel the pressure of her body against his during the dance. Her curves. Her breathy laugh. Her stubbornness. Her soft moan. The pillow wall was still up between them at night, but every morning he woke up with his hips pressed against it, her body just inches away.
Now, watching her in the moonlight, purity written across every line of her body, his chest twisted in something that felt nothing like lust.
He might be falling for his wife.
-------------
The next morning came far too quickly.
Y/N stood at the docks dressed in her traditional Water Tribe blue—layers of hand-stitched silk swirling around her like waves, hair intricately braided by her mother’s hands. Her father kissed her forehead; her youngest sibling clung to her waist, trying not to cry. The ocean sparkled behind them like a painting, the same one she grew up with, the same one she was leaving behind.
“I’ll write you every week,” she promised, her voice shaking, pulling her mother in for one last tight hug. “And I’ll visit whenever they allow it.”
Her mother sniffled and nodded. “Just remember who you are. Your heart belongs to the sea, but now you’ll have fire beside it too.”
Y/N turned to Haechan, who had given her space but hadn’t taken his eyes off her. He knew what she was giving up. Her culture, her home, the safety of being surrounded by people who understood her without words. And she was coming with him, to a kingdom where the air smelled of smoke and stone and the palace halls were always too hot.
As she stepped onto the ship beside him, Haechan slipped his hand into hers and gave it a squeeze.
“I know it’s not fair,” he said quietly. “But I promise to make it feel like home.”
The Fire Nation palace was majestic—soaring ceilings, carved stone hallways, crimson tapestries that caught the firelight. But it wasn’t home.
Not for her.
At dinner, she sat stiffly, dressed in unfamiliar fabrics, her appetite lost to nerves. The servants presented spicy grilled meats, fire-roasted vegetables, dishes sizzling with heat and oil. Haechan noticed her hesitance immediately.
He leaned over and whispered, “I had them make something else for you.”
Moments later, a new tray was carried in: slow-simmered seal stew, moon peach tarts, iced berry nectar—all from the Northern Water Tribe.
Y/N blinked at the spread, lips parting in shock. “You remembered?”
He nodded, a little sheepish. “I paid attention during that history lesson on our date. And maybe... asked your mom and the cook for a few recipes before we left.”
Her eyes welled up for a moment, but she blinked quickly and leaned in to kiss his cheek—quick, soft, just a brush of lips on skin.
“Thank you.”
And just like that, Haechan—crowned prince of the Fire Nation, soldier, firebender—was reduced to a man grinning like an idiot, heat blooming across his face hotter than any flame he’d ever bent.
He reached for more stew just to hide it, but he couldn’t stop smiling the rest of the night.
Their new bedroom in the Fire Nation palace was much smaller than the luxurious honeymoon suite. The bed—although still elegant—was noticeably tighter, forcing proximity neither of them had truly confronted yet. Haechan paused in the doorway, arms crossed as he surveyed the space. “If it’s too cramped for you,” he offered, his voice casual, “I can take the guest chamber. I don't mind.”
Y/N turned to him with a small shake of her head, her voice gentle but sure. “No… We’re married. We have to get used to it.”
That word—married—still sent a strange thrill down his spine. A mixture of disbelief, amusement, and something warmer, more dangerous. Especially when she said it like that, so soft and sure of him.
They both changed in the small adjoining room, backs turned out of respect—or maybe tension. Haechan padded out first, shirtless as always, his sun-kissed skin glowing under the firelight. Y/N followed a moment later, dressed in a silk two-piece set: soft blue shorts that clung to her thighs and a matching top with delicate straps. Haechan glanced over just once, then forced his eyes away, swallowing hard as he slid beneath the covers on his side.
The palace’s rooms were cooled by design, to give Fire Nation dwellers relief from their natural heat. But to Y/N, who’d grown up falling asleep beside crackling blizzards and glacial winds, the room felt too cold—unnatural, almost eerie. The fire in the corner was out, only a few embers glowing faintly. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself as she lay down.
They didn’t say much. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was heavy, expectant. Like the air between them had shifted since that kiss during the dance.
Now, inches apart, both of them lay facing opposite directions. But somewhere in the middle of the night, Y/N stirred.
The cold crept into her bones and, half-asleep, her body searched for warmth. Without thinking, she rolled over and instinctively burrowed into the closest heat source.
Haechan.
He felt it immediately—soft limbs tangling with his, her silk-covered thighs brushing against his bare skin, her chest pressed against his arm, breath hitting the crook of his neck. His whole body went rigid.
Eyes flying open in the darkness, he stared at the ceiling, heartbeat hammering. She was—she was all over him. One leg had slipped between his, her hand resting unconsciously on his abdomen, fingers brushing the faint line of hair below his navel. She didn’t know what she was doing. She couldn’t.
Shit.
He shifted slightly, careful not to wake her, but her body responded instinctively—curling tighter against him, nose nudging his throat. And he felt it—his body’s response. His cock, hard and aching now, trapped under the sheets. All because of the way she clung to him in her sleep, unaware and innocent and so damn soft. Dangerous.
He hissed under his breath and clenched his jaw, frozen.
Was she dreaming of something else? Or was it really just the cold?
Either way, he couldn’t take advantage. He wouldn’t.
After a moment of cursing himself silently, he exhaled slowly and reached for a thicker blanket at the foot of the bed. Gently, he tugged it over her body, covering her fully and tucking the edges around her, like some kind of ridiculous protector. Like he could shield her from him.
Once she was cocooned in warmth and no longer clinging, he carefully peeled himself away from her and sat at the edge of the bed, head in his hands.
He needed a shower. A cold one. Immediately.
As he slipped out quietly, trying not to wake her, he glanced back once. Her face was peaceful, lips parted, wedding ring catching the faint light.
Haechan ran a hand through his hair and whispered to himself, “What the hell are you doing, man?”
Because he knew the answer was dangerous.
He might just be falling for her. For real.
------------------
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Fire Prince Jaehyun x Water Princess Reader (smut) - Repost
They're supposed to be sworn enemies, polar opposites, their countries have a shared history of violence, loss and pain. but life always has a way of making the most unexpected people form a bond...
WC: 10k (pt 1), loss of virginity, dirty talk, tension build up, purity ring, unprotected sex (in pt 2)
Repost in honour of NATLA S2 that just came out, this story is older so pls be kind <333 (:
-----------------
Prince Jaehyun of the Fire Nation descends from his private jet in dark crimson wool, gold embroidery tracing the edge of his coat like flames licking upward. His skin is warm under the late morning sun, even here where the cold bites. Golden eyes, molten and intense, scan the mountain campus without a hint of awe—he's used to luxury, but not rules. Not tradition he didn’t write.
He doesn't smile. Not because he’s unfriendly, but because he knows the effect his silence has. Cameras click. A student aide fumbles a clipboard when he passes, cheeks redder than the alpine breeze could cause.
He’s the walking embodiment of charisma and danger:
Don’t look too long, you’ll burn.
He’s not here to make friends. He’s here to graduate, play the game, then return home to command fire and steel.
But for now, he enters his assigned private suite at the top of the East Tower, tossing his bag onto a leather chair without care. His phone buzzes—another fan edit of him trending, a picture of him shirtless at a beach last summer.
He smirks.
They love him. Even if they don’t know him.
-------------------
Y/N
Y/N, daughter of the Northern Water Tribe’s High Chief, arrives quietly. Her travel coat is a pearly, icy blue that blends with the snowy backdrop, fur lining soft around her cheeks. Her beauty is subtle, soft but sharp when you look too long. Clear skin, frost-kissed lips, and eyes like stormy seas—still, until they’re not.
She doesn’t need a grand entrance. Her people believe in grace, not spectacle.
She’s escorted by two royal guards but walks slightly ahead of them, posture perfect, spine straight like she’s been balancing a crown since birth. Her phone dings in her pocket—texts from her cousins, memes from her best friend back home, an article someone sent:
“Prince of Fire Arrives—Again Shirtless?”
She rolls her eyes. She’s heard of Jaehyun. Of course she has. Everyone has.
Arrogant. Spoiled. The fire prince who thinks he can charm anything with a heartbeat.
She walks through the grand arches of the West Tower, where the water tribes and diplomatic majors reside, a wall of ancient glacier stone shimmering faintly under LED lights. Her suite is smaller, decorated with handwoven tapestries from home and soft, flowing fabrics. Her room is cold by choice—she sleeps best in icy air.
She lays her palms on a bowl of still water on her nightstand. A family tradition. Her mother used to say that water remembers. She closes her eyes and breathes.
She doesn’t want to hate him. But she will if she has to.
--------------
The school is divided into towers by regions and affinities. The Fire Nation and Water Tribes have never shared classes—until this year.
A new curriculum, a political strategy by the heads of state, hoping the next generation will forget old scars. Hoping proximity will ease the generational distrust.
They’re all supposed to play nice now.
But traditions don’t melt that easily.
And when fire meets water… there’s always steam.
------------
It was quiet in the mountains before the sun rose—quiet in a way that made even royalty feel small. Snow clung to the trees like lace, and the stone corridors of the academy were still, bathed in the faint blue light of early dawn.
Most students were still asleep.
But not them.
Y/N walked silently through the empty hall outside her tower. Her fur-lined robe fluttered slightly around her ankles, and the tiny aquamarine jewels woven into her braids glinted faintly beneath the pale light. She carried herself like someone used to walking ahead of guards, someone who never had to introduce herself because her bloodline spoke first.
But here, no one knew what she looked like.
Her tribe had protected her identity with sacred fervor. No press. No public appearances. Not a single official photo released since she was a child. It was tradition. She was the only daughter of the Northern Water Tribe’s High Chief—the final heir. Their most precious gem.
Only now, finally of age, had she been allowed to make a social media account, which she hadn’t even posted on yet.
“Let them meet me on my terms,” she had told her advisors.
She crossed the wide hallway of the East Wing—the “neutral” hall between towers—drawn to the massive window overlooking the southern peak. She sat in front of it, legs crossed, back straight, hands on her knees. Her breath fogged lightly in the air. The early cold didn’t bother her.
She began to meditate, letting her thoughts settle like snow on still water.
Until—
THUD.
Someone turned the corner too fast.
And ran straight into her.
“Shit—sorry,” came a low, warm voice.
Large hands gripped her arms gently, helping her upright. She gasped at the heat that surged through her skin at the contact—it was like grabbing metal left out in the sun.
Her eyes flew open.
Him.
Golden eyes. Shirtless. Hair still damp from the sink or maybe sweat from a pre-run stretch. He wore only fire-red joggers slung low on his hips and a sharp look of confusion as he stared at her.
Prince Jaehyun.
She’d seen him in a hundred photos. The Fire Nation’s golden boy. All cocky smirks and smolder. Girls across the nations posted thirst edits of him like it was a sport. He was strong, fast, reckless—hot in every definition of the word.
And now he was holding her.
Jaehyun blinked once, slow. His gaze traveled down the fine, icy blue detail of her robe, the royal crest pinned on her shoulder, the way the morning light hit her glass-like jewels and cast ripples across the floor.
Oh. This had to be her.
The Princess of the Water Tribe.
He smirked, letting go of her a little too fast.
“Well,” he said, stepping back, “you should really watch where you’re going.”
Her brows shot up, breath fogging slightly as her expression shifted from surprised to amused—and irritated.
“Me?” she said coolly, rising to full height. “You turned the corner like you were on fire.”
His jaw ticked. “Maybe don’t sit in the middle of the hall like it’s your private glacier.”
They locked eyes. Silence. Snow outside the window, the sun just beginning to rise.
Tension snapped between them like dry kindling.
Without another word, Y/N turned on her heel and walked away, robe trailing behind her like ice across marble.
Jaehyun stared after her for a second longer than he should have.
What the hell was that?
Who walks around looking like that at sunrise? ...And why the fuck was her voice kind of hot?
Y/N stepped into the common lounge of the Water Tower for the orientation breakfast. It was warm with the sound of chatter and fire-crackling hearths, and students milled about in their tribe’s traditional attire.
They rushed over, both waterbenders, daughters of minor dignitaries—warm, excited, and equally curious.
“Oh my god, no one told us you were this gorgeous,” Valkyrie breathed, wide-eyed. “You don’t even have a profile photo yet!”
“Yeah,” Amara grinned. “They kept you locked away like an ice sculpture. For what?! You look like a goddess.”
Y/N laughed softly, flustered but pleased. “My father’s rules. And the council. I wasn’t even allowed to take selfies until last week.”
The girls swooned dramatically.
“We’re obsessed already,” Amara declared.
“Come sit with us,” Valkyrie insisted, pulling her toward their table. “You have to tell us everything. What was it like growing up in the palace? Wait—have you met the Fire Prince yet?”
Y/N froze for a half-second, then tucked a piece of hair behind her ear with a cool, unreadable smile.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
-------------
Jaehyun sat in the high-ceilinged breakfast hall, a carved wooden spoon twirling idly in his hand as Johnny and Taeyong chatted beside him over hot eggs and spiced rice.
But he wasn’t listening.
His mind was stuck on her.
The girl from this morning. The Water Tribe princess. Y/N.
The sharpness in her eyes. The softness in her voice. The way she’d looked at him like she saw him—not the prince, not the firebender, just... him. And didn’t care.
“Yo,” Johnny nudged him, smirking as he caught Jaehyun zoning out again. “You good?”
“You haven’t looked at your phone in like… ten minutes,” Taeyong teased. “That’s got to be some kind of Fire Nation emergency.”
Jaehyun rolled his eyes and stabbed a piece of sausage. “I’m fine.”
Johnny leaned forward, grin widening. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the rumored Water Princess finally showing her face today, would it?”
Jaehyun didn't answer.
But his silence said enough.
---------------
All first-years were herded out of the castle-like university and toward the trail winding up into the nearby mountains—a “team-building hike,” they called it.
Y/N walked with Amara and Valkyrie, wrapped in a lighter travel cloak with her braids tucked into a soft knit beanie. The air was bright and thin, sunlight bouncing off every snowy surface. Despite being used to cold, she wasn’t used to this—the altitude, the glare, the way the sun felt like it was trying to steal her breath and her strength.
The water inside her felt sluggish, sun-warmed and heavy.
Her body ached in a way it never did under the moon.
About halfway up the slope, her pace began to slow. Her breath hitched. Her vision blurred for half a second.
“Y/N?” Valkyrie turned. “You okay?”
She nodded weakly, managing a smile. “Yeah. Just... too much sun. You two go on ahead. I’ll catch up.”
Amara frowned but didn’t argue. “Alright. Just shout if you need us.”
The others moved on, disappearing slowly up the slope with the rest of the first-years, laughter and boots crunching in the distance.
Y/N sat down on a snow-covered boulder, tugging her coat tighter and closing her eyes. She missed the stillness of the moon already. Her body craved darkness, reflection, water.
She felt so far from it all.
And then—
“Hey.” A gentle voice. Calm, steady.
She opened her eyes to find a tall boy crouching in front of her, wrapped in a charcoal hiking jacket with a Fire Nation patch stitched on the sleeve. Soft brown eyes. Faint scars on his knuckles.
“Taeyong?” she said, surprised. “Aren’t you a group leader? Shouldn’t you be with the others?”
“I am,” he nodded with a soft smile. “But I’m also responsible for making sure everyone’s safe. You didn’t look okay.”
Y/N blinked at him, lips parting in disbelief.
“You... don’t hate me?” she asked before she could stop herself.
His smile faded just slightly, replaced by something more serious.
“I don’t hate people just because history says I should.” He paused. “I know what they say about our nations. But you’re not your government, and I’m not mine.”
She stared at him for a long second, stunned by how… kind he was. No hidden smirk. No sarcasm. Just warmth—like fire without burn.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
He stood and offered his hand. “Come on. I’ll walk with you the rest of the way.”
She hesitated, then placed her hand in his. His warmth was more bearable than Jaehyun’s—it didn’t sting. It just felt… grounding.
They started walking again, slowly, together.
Further up the slope, Johnny and Jaehyun paused at a lookout post under a cluster of frost-covered pines.
Johnny squinted down the trail. “That’s Taeyong, right?”
Jaehyun followed his gaze.
His eyes narrowed when they landed on her.
Y/N. Moving slowly, cheeks flushed with effort. And Taeyong beside her, guiding her with gentle words and hands that hovered close but never touched.
His jaw tightened.
“She doesn’t look well,” Johnny said, tilting his head. “Think she’s sick?”
“It’s the sun,” Jaehyun muttered, sharper than he intended. “Water tribes draw strength from the moon. She’s probably not used to this much direct exposure.”
Johnny raised a brow. “Since when are you an expert on her biology?”
Jaehyun didn’t answer.
His fists were already clenched.
Not from anger. Just... heat.
And he didn’t like that either.
-----------------
The restaurant was tucked into the edge of a mountainside town—a Michelin-starred, glass-walled jewel perched above the icy trees. Inside, golden chandeliers hung from carved cedar beams, casting a warm glow over polished silverware and ivory table linens. The waitstaff wore silk gloves. The wine list had its own zip code.
Students filed in, dressed in formal attire required for the night: tailored coats, evening dresses, polished boots. It was a diplomatic tradition—the first formal dinner of the year, meant to encourage “intercultural communication.”
The universe, however, had different plans.
Y/N slid into her assigned seat at the long banquet table, elegant in a midnight-blue gown embroidered with silver thread. Her braids were gathered to one side, aquamarine jewels glittering softly in the candlelight. She smoothed her napkin onto her lap—and froze.
Across from her, none other than Jaehyun dropped into his seat, manspreading slightly in his sleek black formal suit like the chair owed him rent.
Of course.
His hair was pushed back, jaw sharp, golden eyes scanning the room until they landed squarely on her.
He smirked.
“Let me guess,” he said, reaching for his water. “You’re seated alphabetically. I pity the poor soul with a last name starting with Z.”
Y/N arched an eyebrow. “If I had known the Fire Nation trained in alphabet jokes, I’d have lowered my expectations even further.”
He chuckled, low and smooth. “Relax, princess. I’m just making conversation. Or are you afraid I’ll melt your composure with my oversized ego?”
“I’m afraid it might eclipse the moon,” she replied coolly, sipping her now-frosted water.
He glanced at her glass, then down at his own plate. With an easy breath, he exhaled over his fried rice, warming it just enough to let off steam—literally.
She narrowed her eyes.
“You know, some of us use utensils.”
“And some of us are just efficient.”
Around them, the room buzzed with soft conversation, the clink of glasses, and flirtatious laughter. A pair of girls at the far end of the table kept glancing at Jaehyun, giggling behind their menus. He didn’t acknowledge them, but the slight raise of his chin told Y/N he’d noticed.
Across the room, she didn’t miss the way a few first-year boys were eyeing her like they were planning how to flirt with royalty without dying of embarrassment.
Jaehyun followed her gaze, then raised a brow. “You’ve got fans already.”
“I don’t blame them,” she said sweetly. “They haven’t heard me speak yet.”
His smirk twitched. “Your modesty is overwhelming.”
“Coming from someone who warms rice with his mouth, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
They glared, the corners of their lips betraying the fight to stay serious. If either of them looked too closely, they'd see it wasn't quite hate. It was friction. Hot and sharp and electric.
-------------
After dinner, the students gathered outside, the snow crunching beneath their polished shoes as they waited for the sleek black cars that would ferry them back to the university. Breath turned to clouds in the cold night air.
Jaehyun stood off to the side with Johnny and Taeyong, hands in his coat pockets, eyes trained on nothing in particular.
Until—
He saw her.
Y/N stood apart from the crowd, just a few paces away, her back turned, head tilted to the sky. Her eyes were closed, arms relaxed at her sides as she faced the full moon hanging heavy and glowing above them. The icy blue of her dress shimmered faintly under the moonlight. She looked... different like this.
Calm. Still. Powerful.
The air around her almost pulsed—gentle, cool, reverent. As if the night itself bowed for her.
Jaehyun’s breath caught.
He knew what this was. He'd read about the moon’s connection to water tribe bending in one of his statecraft briefings. But seeing it? Feeling it?
It was intimate. Sacred.
And she was beautiful.
Moonlit skin, lashes fluttering softly, lips parted just slightly as if she were absorbing strength straight from the sky.
He forced himself to look away. Clenched his jaw.
Johnny glanced at him. “You okay?”
Jaehyun didn’t answer.
Because he wasn’t.
He felt like he’d intruded on something private, something not meant for anyone else. And worse… He couldn’t stop wanting to watch.
-------------
The cars purred softly as they dropped students off one by one back at the academy’s stone steps. The wind was gentler now, the moon still heavy overhead.
Jaehyun climbed the stairs behind a small group of students, jacket slung over one shoulder, his golden gaze flicking lazily forward—until he caught sight of her again.
Y/N.
She was a few steps ahead, walking carefully, her long embroidered skirt and cloak catching on the wind. The icy-blue fabric looked heavy with the weight of tradition, trailing just slightly as she struggled to keep her footing on the slick stone steps.
A hand extended from the crowd.
Minho—broad-shouldered, soft-spoken, Earth Kingdom native with a kind smile—offered it to her shyly.
“You okay?” he asked, voice gentle.
Y/N blinked, then smiled warmly. “Thank you,” she said, taking his hand with delicate fingers. “That’s very kind of you.”
Minho flushed a little as he helped her up the last step, his ears turning red under the lamplight.
Behind them, Jaehyun scoffed quietly.
Johnny caught it and leaned over, smirking. “Jealous?”
“He looked like he was gonna propose just from touching her hand,” Jaehyun muttered.
Johnny laughed. “Careful. That fire under your collar’s showing.”
Jaehyun didn’t answer, just shoved his hands in his pockets and walked a little faster.
Scene Two: Early Morning, Part II
The second day of orientation began with the same silence as the first.
And again, before the sun crested the peaks, Y/N was already in the hall outside her tower, meditating.
This time, though, she wasn’t quite as wrapped in tradition.
She wore loose training pants in icy grey and a sleeveless, high-neck top in soft blue. Her arms were bare, toned and elegant, her back visible where the fabric dipped slightly with her posture. Her skin practically shimmered in the blue morning light, moon-kissed even before the stars faded.
Eyes closed. Breathing even. Calm.
But she could feel it.
Heat. Buzzing, magnetic, stubbornly male heat.
She didn’t open her eyes.
“Take a picture,” she murmured, voice slow and cool. “It’ll last longer.”
Jaehyun stood a few paces away, breathing a little harder than before. His morning jog had screeched to a halt the moment he turned the corner and saw her.
“Didn’t realize this was a public exhibit,” he said, trying to force a smirk onto his face, voice thicker than usual.
“It’s not,” she replied, still not looking at him. “But unfortunately, I don’t control the wildlife.”
He snorted, shook his head, and tore his eyes away. “You’re insufferable.”
“Glad you’re keeping up.”
And with that, Jaehyun jogged off—faster, harder, more focused. As if he could outrun the image of her in that outfit, bathed in blue light like a goddess with her own gravity.
He couldn’t.
Later that morning, Jaehyun sat at a sleek, glass-top café table in the university’s sky lounge with Celina—a girl he’d met during orientation. Blonde, flirty, glitter on her cheekbones and three designer bags on her chair.
“So what was it like growing up in a fire palace?” she asked, leaning forward. “Did they teach you sword fighting? Or like, diplomacy or whatever?”
Jaehyun gave a practiced smile. “Both.”
“Mmm,” she hummed, tilting her head. “And your eyes—do all Fire Princes have gold eyes or is that just a you thing?”
He blinked. “It’s... just a me thing.”
She giggled like it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard.
He looked down at his espresso, fingers tapping against the cup. She hadn’t asked him a single real question. Nothing about his thoughts, his interests, his beliefs. Just status, background, power.
He suddenly missed the sharp edge in Y/N’s voice. Missed being challenged.
He set his cup down and gave Celina a polite nod.
“Thanks for meeting me,” he said.
She blinked, surprised. “Oh! Yeah—of course. Are we—?”
“I’m not interested,” he said bluntly. Not cruel, just honest.
She blinked again. “Oh. Uh... okay.”
He stood, nodded once, and walked out—ignoring the flashes of confusion and rejection behind him. He didn’t have time for empty flattery.
Especially not when there was someone else who wasn’t impressed with him—and for some reason, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
-----------
The third day of orientation brought a surprise—a student outing to one of the most exclusive alpine horse tracks in Europe. The snowy valley beneath the university was carved with crystal-clear lanes, the horses bred from royal stables across the globe. The crowd was dotted with diplomats, nobles, and faculty, sipping hot drinks from porcelain cups while wearing coats worth small fortunes.
The students filled the private terrace seating, bundled in school-issue winter cloaks with their house emblems stitched over their hearts.
Jaehyun arrived fashionably late, sipping black coffee, his hair tucked into a wool beanie that couldn’t hide the sharpness of his jawline or the smug set of his shoulders. Girls shifted when he walked past. Some fixed their scarves. One actually gasped.
He didn’t look for her. He wasn’t looking for her.
But he found her anyway.
Y/N was seated already in the front row of the terrace, cheeks dusted pink from the cold, lips wrapped around a warm flask of tea. Her cloak was pale silver today, lined with soft navy fur that made her look even more regal. She laughed at something Amara said beside her, then looked toward the track, sharp eyes scanning the horses.
Jaehyun exhaled slowly, like her mere existence was smoke in his lungs.
He took the empty seat next to her, dropping down without a word.
She turned her head, looked at him once, and returned her gaze to the field.
“Can’t seem to get rid of you,” she murmured.
“Tell me about it,” he replied.
---------------
The starting bells rang.
The horses lined up at the gate, steaming breath rising into the sky.
Students leaned forward eagerly, many of them whispering to one another.
“Leftmost one’s Firebred,” Johnny noted from behind them. “Bred in Jaehyun’s territory. Fastest on record.”
“He’s not winning,” Y/N said with cool confidence.
Jaehyun tilted his head. “You’re betting against my horse?”
“I’m betting against your arrogance,” she said, eyes still on the track.
Jaehyun smirked. “What happens if you’re wrong?”
“I won’t be.”
“But if you were?”
She finally turned her head to meet his eyes.
“If I lose,” she said calmly, “I’ll owe you a favor.”
Jaehyun raised a brow, intrigued. “And if I lose?”
“I’ll collect a favor. When I choose.”
His heart gave an involuntary thump. Not just from the words, but from the way she said them—controlled, steady, almost teasing. Like she knew she’d win.
“Deal,” he said, offering his gloved hand.
She placed hers in his. The cold of her fingers clashed with the heat of his palm. The handshake lasted one second too long.
Then—
The gates opened.
The horses tore across the snow-packed field, thunderous and wild.
Students shouted, cheered, scrambled for a better view. Jaehyun and Y/N leaned forward instinctively, breath held.
And just as the final stretch loomed...
A white-coated mare from the Northern Water territories surged forward, passing the Firebred in the final ten seconds.
The bell rang. The crowd erupted.
Jaehyun sat back slowly, jaw tightening.
Y/N turned to him with a victorious smile—not smug, just satisfied.
“I’ll let you know when I’m ready to collect,” she said sweetly.
He shook his head, trying to fight a smile. “That’s dangerous, you know.”
“So am I.”
The students filed out of the terrace in buzzing groups, still riding high from the race.
Jaehyun stayed behind a few moments, watching Y/N disappear into the crowd with her friends—laughing, graceful, offering a polite smile to the steward who opened the door for her.
He hated to admit it, but she moved through the world like she’d been born to rule it.
Not like him.
Jaehyun knew he was hot. He knew people liked him—wanted him. He had confidence, charisma, a name that made headlines and a face that broke hearts.
But Y/N? She didn’t try. She just was.
Poised. Natural. Effortless. Kind to everyone—except him.
He’d never met anyone who made him feel simultaneously this annoyed and this off-balance.
She’s the moon, he thought. Untouchable. Cold. But she pulls the tide anyway.
He exhaled hard and stood up.
He was going to need a hell of a lot more wins if he was going to keep up with her.
----------------
The mountain air was brisk as usual—sharp, cold, and biting just enough to remind Jaehyun he was alive.
He jogged through the same corridor as always, hoodie pulled low over his brow, music pumping through his earbuds, pace even and strong. He passed a few students on the way, nodded to a few others, but didn’t stop.
Not until her.
Same spot. Same time. Princess Y/N.
Seated on the mat just off the corridor window again, hands resting on her thighs, eyes closed, lips slightly parted in stillness.
This time, she wore a loose, snowy blue top that slid slightly down her shoulder, revealing the smooth line of her collarbone. Her legs were folded elegantly, the morning light pooling across her skin like it belonged there. And on her hand—resting atop one knee—was a delicate silver ring, carved with the moon cycle.
Jaehyun’s steps faltered. He kept going—barely—but something about that ring...
His eyes narrowed.
By the time he reached the other end of the hall, he was already pulling out his phone, opening a search tab with quick, frantic fingers.
"Northern Water Tribe moon ring symbolism" "Silver purity ring Water Princess" "Tribe virginity ring customs"
And then it hit.
The results came flooding in, exactly what he feared—no, hoped—he’d find.
It was a purity ring.
One only worn by virgins in the Water Tribe—usually those in the royal family, signifying personal vows of restraint, tradition, and spiritual clarity until they chose a partner to share it with.
Jaehyun stared at the screen.
And then...
“Fuck.”
He was half-hard already, pulse slamming in his throat. His jog forgotten. His thoughts suddenly very impure.
He ducked into a shadowed alcove, heart pounding, pressing his back to the wall. One hand still gripping his phone, the other dragging down his face before briefly—desperately—palming himself through his sweats.
Of course she’s untouched. Of course she’s forbidden. Of course she’s driving him insane.
Her calm. Her mouth. Her legs folded so perfectly. That fucking ring.
He cursed again under his breath, fingers tightening.
And then turned abruptly down the hall toward the nearest gym shower room.
The coldest water he could find.
Later that morning, Jaehyun sat stiffly at a private corner table in the library café. Across from him was Saejin, another Fire Nation royal—the daughter of a war advisor, all sleek hair and perfect etiquette.
She smiled, flawless and polished, speaking like she was reading from a court-approved script.
“I just think it’s so refreshing to finally be around our own kind, you know?” she said sweetly, stirring her imported tea. “The Fire Nation doesn’t get enough credit for our superiority.”
Jaehyun blinked once.
Saejin laughed lightly. “Not to be rude. I just mean… we’re trained better. Smarter. I’m sure the others try their best but—well, the Water Tribe is all superstition and snow.”
He leaned back slowly.
Golden eyes unreadable. Sharp.
She kept going, unaware of the crack in her façade. “Don’t you agree?”
“No,” Jaehyun said flatly.
She stopped stirring. “Pardon?”
“I don’t agree,” he repeated. “You’re talking about entire cultures like they’re beneath you. I don’t think I’m better than anyone just because I was born where I was.”
Saejin flushed, eyes wide. “Oh—I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, obviously, I respect diversity—”
Jaehyun stood up. Quiet. Steady. Done.
“Thanks for the tea.”
“Jaehyun—”
But he was already gone, leaving her red-faced and speechless in the middle of the café.
Outside, Jaehyun let the wind hit his face as he leaned against a stone railing, overlooking the snow-covered campus.
I need to stop going on these dates.
They were all the same. Same expectations. Same hollow words. Same attempt to fit into a mold he’d never even shaped himself.
But with her—Y/N—it wasn’t like that.
She didn’t care about who he was. Or what people thought. She challenged him, pushed him, made him feel beneath her in a way that didn’t bruise his ego—it ignited it.
And now that he knew she was untouched, pure, off-limits?
It made it worse.
It made it better.
Jaehyun stared at the horizon, biting his lip, jaw tense.
Maybe dating wasn’t the right move.
Not until he figured out what the hell he was going to do about the girl who didn’t even know the hold she had on him.
Y/N lay in bed, the curtains drawn, the moonlight casting soft shadows across her blanket. Her window was cracked open, letting the chill in—a comfort more than a disturbance.
She should’ve been asleep. She had orientation events early tomorrow.
Instead… she was deep in a stalking spiral.
Her thumb hovered over the search bar again.
"Just one more look,” she muttered under her breath, already typing: @jeongjae.fire
His page loaded quickly.
And of course—it was exactly what she expected. And exactly what irritated her.
Not a single selfie. Just candids—clearly taken by someone else, likely friends, staff, maybe even admirers. Photos from exotic places: volcano ridges, black sand beaches, underground raves lit by lava, firelight warming his smug face.
There were shirtless ones too. Obviously. One at a coastal cliff, him half-drenched from the sea, abs glistening like he knew what he was doing. Another one lounging in a hot spring, steam curling around his collarbones, eyes half-lidded and dangerously flirty.
Y/N scoffed and tossed her phone down, only to pick it back up 2 seconds later.
"Show-off," she muttered, face hot.
She clicked off his profile and opened her camera roll instead.
There was a pause. Then a breath. Then… a decision.
She tapped the little plus sign, selected a recent picture—one snapped just a few days before she left for school.
It was her and her older brother, standing at the palace gate. She had her arm looped through his, both of them laughing, crowns tipped askew from a snowball fight they'd gotten into minutes before. His robes were pristine despite the cold. Her cheeks were pink from the frost and joy.
The caption was simple.
“My favorite person.” ❄️👑
She hit post.
And within minutes, the notifications started pouring in.
💬 “Omg princess reveal?? You’re so pretty!!” 💬 “Royal siblings supremacy 🩵” 💬 “Cold beauty, no wonder the Fire Nation’s threatened” 💬 “Can she freeze me next pls?” 💬 “Protect her at all costs.”
Y/N turned her phone face down and smiled to herself. Just a little. Just once.
Johnny was the first to see it. He nearly choked on his tea.
“Hey, uh,” he said, scrolling, “Y/N just posted.”
Taeyong glanced over. “Really?”
Johnny turned his phone. “Yeah. First one ever.”
The three of them were seated in the common area, students scattered all around, winding down from another long day.
Taeyong smiled. “She looks really happy there.”
Jaehyun didn’t even glance up. He was leaned back on the couch, arms folded, pretending to nap.
Johnny grinned. “You’re not even a little curious, Jae?”
Jaehyun scoffed. “She’s not that interesting.”
“Mhm,” Johnny drawled, unconvinced. “Totally. That’s why your whole jaw just clenched.”
“I don’t care what she posts.” But even he didn’t believe his voice when he said it.
Jaehyun made it exactly three minutes before giving up the act.
Back in his dorm, door locked, lights dimmed, he opened his phone and typed in her handle.
@yn.wtr
Her profile was quiet. Elegant. No posts before today. The display name simply: Princess Y/N of the Northern Water Tribe.
And the photo…
There she was. In full color. Radiant in a way he hadn’t expected. Not posed. Not calculated. Not seductive. Just… warm.
The way she clung to her brother. The genuine laugh. The wind teasing her hair. The grace in her smile. The cold in her cheeks. Her eyes, so deep they looked like they held the whole sea.
And she was calling him her favorite person.
Jaehyun’s thumb hovered over the like button. He didn’t press it.
He stared at the photo longer than he meant to.
This is just research, he told himself. She’s an enemy nation’s heir. I should know more. It’s strategic curiosity.
But his heart thudded louder in his chest.
And the only thing burning inside him… was the truth.
--------------
The sun was high as the students walked the gardens of the Academy, gravel paths winding through meticulously arranged flora from every elemental nation. Minho had chosen the Earth Pavilion as their resting spot, lush with mossy stone benches and shaded by towering trees with twisting trunks.
Y/N sat gracefully beneath the largest tree, sipping warm tea despite the summer heat. Her posture was perfect. Regal, without effort. Around her, a few students chatted quietly, but Minho leaned in, clearly curious.
“Can I ask you something?” he said gently, eyes kind and cautious.
Y/N tilted her head. “Of course.”
“How do you feel… about the Fire Nation?”
The question made a few heads turn. The group hushed just slightly, enough to feel the weight of silence. Even Jaehyun, who had been walking past behind a hedge of flame lilies, froze in place—unseen but very much listening.
Y/N didn’t flinch.
She took a breath, let the breeze comb through her white-blonde hair, and looked Minho straight in the eyes.
“I think history is important,” she said. “It should never be forgotten—what happened between our nations. The war was horrific. My great-grandparents lost their lives in it.”
Minho nodded solemnly. So did several others.
“But,” she continued, “I also think hatred is a poison. One that gets passed down if we’re not careful.”
Jaehyun’s brows lifted, his chest going still.
Y/N pressed her cup into the grass beside her, voice calm but sincere.
“The war ended long before we were born. Generations have passed. And honestly? I’m tired of the narrative. I don't want to spend my life hating people I’ve never met based on things they didn’t do. That helps no one.”
A few students looked at each other, thoughtful. Minho seemed visibly moved.
“I believe both our nations have a lot to offer each other,” Y/N added. “The Fire Nation’s innovation, drive, and strength—combined with the Water Tribe’s patience, healing, and connection to nature… we could be powerful together.”
A beat.
“And I know not everyone feels the same. But… I don’t want to keep telling the same story of hate. I want to write a new one.”
From behind the hedges, Jaehyun stared at the ground.
His hands were tucked into his pockets, his heart caught somewhere in his throat. He wasn’t even sure why he cared so much—why hearing her say it made something twist in his chest like a flame curling inward.
Maybe because… he agreed. Deep down, he always had.
But growing up in the Fire Nation, you weren’t allowed to say that out loud.
He’d learned about the war in school like it was a legacy. He'd heard whispers at home about what the Water Tribe tookfrom them. Was taught that peace was a fragile tolerance, not a genuine future.
But now…
Here was the princess of that tribe. His supposed enemy. Saying everything he’d always secretly hoped.
And it didn’t make him angry.
It made him… ache.
Later that afternoon, during weapons demonstrations in the training field, Y/N was standing alone, tying her hair up into a high knot. The wind swept past her face, pulling stray strands from her braid, sunlight catching the delicate blue shimmer of her robe.
Jaehyun approached from the opposite side, not planning to talk to her—but his eyes flicked up on instinct.
She looked at him briefly. Not with challenge. Not with disdain. Just… acknowledgment.
Jaehyun, usually armed with a smirk, had nothing.
No comeback.
No insult.
He simply gave a nod.
A small one.
And Y/N, after a pause, returned it.
Like maybe… just maybe… they could be on the same side of history someday.
-------------
The halls of the Academy were still half asleep—bathed in pale morning light, with shadows stretched long across the polished floors. Most students wouldn’t rise for another hour. But Jaehyun was already out, muscles aching from his morning lift, hair dripping sweat as he jogged shirtless through the west corridor, earbuds in but music long since paused.
It wasn’t like he meant to look for her.
But when he passed the meditation garden and saw the empty stone bench—her bench—he slowed. Eyes scanning the spot as if her absence disrupted some delicate balance in his morning. A frown tugged at his brow.
Weird.
Y/N was never late. She moved like clockwork.
He kept jogging, rounding a quiet corner—only to stop short when he spotted her. Pacing frantically down the hall in a soft robe, eyes wide and filled with panic, hair loose around her shoulders.
Even breathless and flushed, she looked like royalty.
“Lost something?” he called, trying to sound casual, but his heart kicked a little harder when she startled and looked up at him.
“Oh,” she said. “Yeah—I… I lost my ring.”
Jaehyun blinked. “Your… ring?”
She nodded, clearly distressed. “I took it off for meditation last night, and now I can’t find it. It was a gift. A really important one.”
Jaehyun’s jaw tightened.
There was only one ring he’d seen on her finger lately—thin, silver, engraved delicately. The one he’d Googled two nights ago while still hard and spiraling. A purity ring.
He forced a shrug. “Tough break,” he said, then jogged past her without another word.
But his chest was tight.
And when he turned the next hallway and caught a glint of silver against the floor by a water fountain, he paused.
The ring sat in a pool of light, small and innocent—mocking him with everything it symbolized.
She really meant it, he thought, scooping it up. She’s untouched.
Jaehyun let out a frustrated breath, closing his hand around the metal. He stood there for a long second, debating if he should just leave it on a ledge or pretend he hadn’t seen it at all.
Instead… he turned back.
Y/N was still searching the base of a wall when Jaehyun returned, quiet footsteps padding behind her. She straightened when she noticed him, eyes narrowing.
“You come back to mock me?” she muttered.
“Relax, your highness,” he said dryly. “I found it.”
He extended his hand and dropped the ring into her palm, watching the immediate relief wash over her face.
“Oh my god,” she whispered. “Thank you. Seriously, I—thank you.”
Her fingers curled around it like it was sacred.
But as she looked up to thank him again, her breath caught.
Jaehyun was close. Too close. His chest bare and sweat-slicked, his necklace bouncing lightly against his sternum. His hair dark and damp, falling over his forehead. And now that she was really looking—really looking—she realized how tall he was compared to her. How… broad.
Jaehyun didn’t miss the flicker in her eyes.
He tilted his head, lips curving slow. “You okay, princess?”
She blinked fast, like she’d caught herself staring. “Fine,” she said quickly. “Totally fine.”
His smirk widened.
“What’s this ring about anyway?” he asked, glancing pointedly at her fist. “Some kind of magical protection spell?”
Her cheeks flushed. “It’s… none of your business.”
“Oh, come on,” he teased, leaning down slightly—his breath hot against her ear. “You can trust me with a dirty little secret.”
Y/N gasped and shoved at his chest, eyes wide. “You’re disgusting.”
“I’m honest.”
She spun on her heel, walking away fast, flustered. Jaehyun watched her go, grinning like a devil.
Finally. She’s not made of ice after all.
Far down the hall, Y/N slowed, heart pounding. The ring was cold in her hand, but her skin? Her skin was burning.
“What the hell was that?” she whispered, pressing her fingers to her neck where heat lingered, trailing all the way down her spine to—
She didn’t even want to think about it.
Jaehyun couldn’t sleep.
It wasn’t guilt. It wasn’t even stress.
It was her.
The image of her flushed face, the way her hand had closed around that damned ring, how she’d looked up at him—small, breathless, affected—kept replaying in his head like a loop designed to torment him.
He hated how much power that moment had over him. How her wide eyes had stayed with him long after she’d stormed off. He told himself it was just curiosity. Biological. Hormonal.
Not attraction.
Definitely not that.
But as he lay awake, the darkness of his dorm room wrapping around him, Jaehyun’s thoughts turned filthy in ways he didn’t know he was capable of when it came to her.
The bratty little princess.
So perfect. So untouchable. So damn righteous.
He wondered how long she could keep that attitude if he had her underneath him, hands pinning hers, his mouth finally shutting her up. Would she keep talking back if he pushed her to the edge again and again? If he found that sweet, untouched spot between her thighs and -
Jaehyun sat up and cursed, scrubbing a hand down his face.
He needed a distraction. Fast.
----------------
The Academy held mandatory cultural nights once a week, where students from all four nations were expected to attend a viewing or lecture that explored different facets of the post-war alliance.
Tonight was a historical dramatization.
A war-era film between the Fire Nation and the Water Tribe, one that depicted the gruesome realities of the past—and eventually, the fragile peace born between a prince and a captured healer. It was tense, political, and deeply romantic.
And then... the sex scene happened.
Not crude or explicit, but sensual enough to draw awkward coughs and shuffles from the younger students. On-screen, the prince pressed kisses along the healer’s neck, whispering confessions against her skin, fingers trembling as they undressed one another in soft candlelight.
Jaehyun didn’t react.
At least—not outwardly.
But the moment he turned his head slightly and saw her, everything changed.
Y/N sat a few seats over, eyes fixed downward at her lap. She wasn’t watching. Her jaw was tight, ring spinning nervously on her finger, her cheeks visibly red even in the dim light of the auditorium.
She looked like she wanted to disappear.
And Jaehyun? He could barely look away.
Oh, princess. You’ve never even been touched, have you?
His thoughts took a dark turn—sinking lower, hotter.
He wondered how long it would take for her to start panting under him. If she’d sob from being overwhelmed or try to act composed even when her body betrayed her. What sounds she’d make if he kissed down her stomach and told her to open her legs.
Would she be shy?
Or would the brat in her fight it—make him earn every reaction until he completely ruined her for anyone else?
Jaehyun clenched his fists in his lap, nails digging into his palm.
Get it together. he hissed internally. She’s not yours. She’s not even someone you like.
But it didn’t stop the ache.
Or the jealousy that crept in, uninvited.
Because someday… she would marry. Someone her rank. Someone clean and regal, with boring, practiced hands and a pristine family tree. Someone worthy of royal heirs.
And that man—whoever he was—would get to see her. All of her. Would get to pull off those long layers of silk and find out what was underneath.
Jaehyun swallowed hard and looked back at the screen.
But his mind was no longer on the war.
-----------
The thing about your enemies is that you know them better than your friends.
You study them. Watch them. Understand their patterns. Their tells. Their habits.
Jaehyun knew Y/N.
He knew that she tied her hair differently depending on how much sleep she got. That she added exactly two drops of honey to her tea, even when no one else was looking. That her fingers fidgeted with the sleeve seam of her robe when she was nervous. And that—despite her poise—she hated being the center of attention.
So when lunchtime arrived, and he heard her ask for the fish, Jaehyun didn’t expect her reaction when the kitchen worker gave her an apologetic smile.
“We’re all out of fish, Princess. Only the beef remains.”
She blinked once, then smiled politely. “No worries. Beef is perfectly fine.”
Except it wasn’t.
He watched her carry her tray like it weighed a hundred pounds. Watched her sit down three tables away, smile at Minho who said something, and take her first bite of vegetables with the same grace she did everything else.
But she didn’t touch the meat.
Not once.
Jaehyun stared at his own plate—the flakey grilled fish, seasoned perfectly, steaming gently beside his rice. He wasn’t even that hungry.
He glanced at her again. Her fork glided around the meat like it wasn’t even there, never once piercing the beef.
If he remembered correctly from his cultural studies as a kid, the Water Tribe’s traditional diet didn’t include red meat. Not because they were opposed to it, but because they simply lived off the sea.
Fish. Shellfish. Seaweed. Broth.
His jaw clenched.
Just eat, he told himself, stabbing the fish without looking at it.
But he couldn’t.
His stomach turned. His fork stayed still.
“Are you okay?” Taeyong asked, nudging him gently. “You’ve barely touched your lunch.”
“I’m fine,” Jaehyun muttered.
Taeyong followed his gaze and immediately picked up on it. Without a word, he stood up, walking calmly across the cafeteria.
“Princess Y/N,” he said with a gentle bow. “Would you allow me to trade meals with you?”
Y/N looked up, caught off guard. “What? Oh—no, that’s really not necessary. I don’t mind at all.”
“But I do,” Taeyong said kindly. “You’re not eating. Please. Take the fish.”
She blinked, then softened. “Well… thank you. That’s very kind.”
They switched plates.
She smiled, quietly grateful, and Taeyong returned to the table with the beef.
Jaehyun stabbed a piece of rice and shoved it in his mouth like it had personally offended him.
“You could’ve just offered,” Taeyong said, not unkindly, as he sat down.
“I didn’t notice,” Jaehyun lied.
Taeyong gave him a look like you’re full of shit, but said nothing else.
Across the room, Y/N’s shoulders relaxed slightly. She took a bite of the fish and closed her eyes for a brief second—just enough to let Jaehyun know it mattered. That she really wanted it. That she’d almost endured a whole meal pretending she didn’t.
He looked down at his plate again.
Why did it bother him so much?
Not just that she hadn’t eaten.
But that he’d known—really known—and hadn’t done a damn thing about it.
He told himself it wasn’t about her. That it didn’t mean anything.
But somewhere deep in his chest, a little voice whispered:
You want to be the one who notices her. Before anyone else.
And that scared the hell out of him.
---------
The dorm room was dim, curtains drawn, the only sound the dull ticking of the clock on the wall. Jaehyun sat at the edge of his bed, hands cradling his face, elbows on his knees, breath slow and heavy. His chest ached—not with pain, but with pressure. The kind that built from years of expectations. Years of pretending.
The door creaked open behind him.
“Jae?” Johnny’s voice was quiet, careful. “You okay, man?”
Jaehyun didn’t look up.
A beat passed before Johnny walked in fully, closing the door behind him. He crossed the room and leaned against the wall, arms folded, studying his best friend with a furrowed brow.
“What happened?”
Another long pause.
Then Jaehyun exhaled and dropped his hands, finally raising his head. His eyes were tired.
“…What do you think of the Water Tribe?” he asked.
Johnny tilted his head. “That’s out of nowhere.”
Jaehyun didn’t laugh. Didn’t smile.
“I’m serious.”
Johnny’s face softened. “Honestly? I think the war was a tragedy. But it’s history. We should move forward.”
Jaehyun nodded slowly, staring at the floor. “But I’m not just anyone, Johnny. I’m the prince. Everything I say or feel… means something. It represents something.”
Johnny stepped closer. “Maybe. But it also means you have the power to change things.”
Jaehyun didn’t reply.
Johnny sat beside him on the bed, letting the silence sit for a moment.
“…This isn’t really about the Water Tribe, is it?” Johnny asked gently.
Jaehyun’s jaw tensed. He didn’t answer, but that was answer enough.
Johnny smiled faintly. “It’s okay to not feel hatred, Jae. Even if you were taught to. Even if it’s what your father expects.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“I know. But you’re not your father.” Johnny leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “He might be king now. But one day… you’ll be the one on that throne.”
Jaehyun swallowed hard.
“And when that day comes,” Johnny continued, “you’ll have to make choices for your people, not his ghosts. Not his grudges. You think the weight of that makes you less human, but it doesn’t. If anything, it makes your feelings more important.”
Jaehyun sat back against the wall, closing his eyes.
“I don’t want to hate her,” he admitted quietly. “But it feels wrong not to.”
Johnny looked at him. “Y/N?”
Jaehyun nodded once.
“She’s smart. Honest. Kind to people who don’t deserve it. She drives me insane,” he added, almost bitterly. “And I can’t stop thinking about her.”
Johnny grinned softly. “Sounds like trouble.”
Jaehyun laughed under his breath, finally.
“She’s not what I thought she’d be,” he said. “None of this is.”
Johnny nudged his shoulder. “Then maybe… you’re not what you thought you’d be either.”
Jaehyun looked over at him, blinking.
“It’s okay to be curious, Jae,” Johnny said. “It’s okay to be wrong. To change. To feel something that doesn’t fit into a speech your father would’ve approved.”
Jaehyun let out a long breath.
“Thanks,” he muttered.
“Anytime,” Johnny said, standing up. “Also—if you do end up falling for her? At least make it interesting. Keep the drama level royal.”
Jaehyun groaned, tossing a pillow at him as Johnny laughed and ducked out of the room.
But long after he was gone, Jaehyun stayed where he was.
Staring at the ceiling.
Wondering if the future he’d been raised for could somehow make room for the girl he wasn’t supposed to want.
---------------
The forest air was crisp, the canopy above casting golden dappled light onto the trail. Laughter echoed through the trees—Y/N and Taeyong walking ahead, chatting easily, their steps light over the uneven ground. Behind them, Jaehyun and Johnny followed at a more relaxed pace, the latter sipping from a water bottle while Jaehyun stayed mostly quiet, his eyes trailing up ahead.
He wasn’t eavesdropping.
He was watching.
Not that it mattered.
The conversation was harmless—Taeyong cracking jokes, Y/N grinning, her eyes shining. Still, something gnawed at Jaehyun’s stomach like a dull burn.
Then he saw it—Y/N’s foot catching on an exposed root, her balance tipping precariously. Before he could think, his body moved.
“Careful—” Jaehyun muttered, stepping forward and grabbing her by the arm.
His hand caught her just in time, steadying her before she could fall. But in doing so, the back of his knuckles scraped harshly against a rough strip of bark on a nearby tree.
“Ah—damn,” he hissed softly, retracting his hand.
Y/N turned quickly. “Oh—are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said, more brusquely than intended.
Still, her hand lingered on his arm for a second longer before she gently pulled away, murmuring, “Thanks.”
Back at the academy grounds, the sun had dipped lower, golden hour stretching long shadows across the marble courtyards. Students filtered indoors for dinner or study, but Jaehyun sat alone on the low stone wall near the meditation garden—her spot. His legs were stretched out lazily, one hand scrolling on his phone, the other resting palm-up, scraped and reddened.
He didn’t notice her until she was standing in front of him.
Y/N.
Arms folded. Unreadable expression.
He blinked up at her.
“What?” he asked, setting his phone down.
“I was going to walk by,” she said, “but then I remembered you saved me from face-planting into the forest floor.”
Jaehyun smirked. “That would’ve been entertaining.”
She rolled her eyes, but her gaze dropped to his injured hand.
“Let me see it.”
He hesitated, narrowing his eyes. “Why?”
“Because I’m being nice, and you’re making it really hard.”
Jaehyun scoffed, but slowly offered her his hand, watching as she knelt beside the fountain. With a wave of her fingers, water lifted gracefully into the air, suspended in a rippling orb. Her other hand took his—cool and light—and gently wrapped around his fingers.
Jaehyun’s usual snark froze on his tongue.
Her hands were warm. Steady. Confident.
The water shimmered between their palms, glowing faintly as it touched his scraped knuckles. It tingled—not painful, but soothing, like warm sun after a chill.
And then—
It was gone.
The sting. The cut. The blood.
Completely healed.
Jaehyun stared down at his now perfect skin, brows furrowed in disbelief.
“I thought that kind of healing was a myth,” he murmured, eyes flicking up to her.
Y/N stood, brushing off her skirt, a small satisfied smile on her lips. “My grandmother was a master healer. I was taught by the best.”
She turned on her heel.
Jaehyun stared after her, completely thrown off his usual axis.
“Wait—” he called, suddenly.
She stopped, glancing over her shoulder. “Hm?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it again.
“…Thanks.”
Her smile deepened. “Don’t mention it, Your Highness.”
And then she disappeared down the path, her presence leaving behind the faint scent of water lilies and peppermint.
Jaehyun looked down at his hand again, still half-expecting the cuts to return.
But they didn’t.
He ran a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath.
“…She’s going to be the end of me.”
Y/N shut the door to her dorm room quietly, the click of the latch echoing in the stillness. The light from the hallway slipped away, leaving only the soft glow of the moon filtering in through the gauzy curtains. She leaned against the wood, eyes closed, her chest rising and falling a little too fast.
She couldn't stop seeing him.
That moment by the fountain, the way his skin warmed under her hands. The way he looked at her—really looked at her—as if he’d never been touched like that before. His expression had been somewhere between awe and curiosity… and something darker. Something she shouldn't be thinking about.
But gods, was he beautiful.
Y/N exhaled shakily and crossed to her bed, slipping out of her outer robes, folding them neatly even as her mind wandered.
His eyes—sharp and cutting but deep, always watching her like he was trying to figure her out. The tension in his jaw when he was annoyed, the smirk when he teased her. The muscles in his arms, the ink-black hair damp and curling against his forehead after training. The sheer height of him towering over her, so close she could feel the heat radiating off his bare chest.
She never used to notice things like that. She was supposed to be composed. Dignified. Pure.
And yet…
As she curled up beneath the covers, her fingers drifted down her stomach on their own. Hesitating. Remembering the exact sound of his voice when he’d leaned down and whispered—
“You can trust me with a dirty secret.”
Her breath hitched.
She wasn’t supposed to think of him like this. Wasn’t supposed to feel this ache in her belly, this restless longing that settled deep between her thighs. But when her fingers brushed lightly against her clothed center, she gasped, her body arching just slightly off the bed.
Her other hand pressed to her lips, silencing her moan.
It’s just me, she told herself. Just relieving pressure. Just a release. Not about him.
But her body knew better.
She imagined the weight of Jaehyun’s body above her, his voice low and rough in her ear. His hands sliding down her hips, those perfect lips on her throat, the scent of sweat and cedarwood thick in the air. His voice in her mind—so bratty today, Princess. Maybe I should shut you up.
Y/N whimpered, her fingers moving slowly now, teasing herself the way she imagined he might. Rough at first, then gentle. Her body trembled under her touch, thighs tightening as the pleasure built, as heat twisted tighter and tighter through her limbs. She was close—too close—and her breath grew ragged.
“Jaehyun…” she whispered before she could stop it.
She came with a soft cry, legs shaking, chest heaving.
And then—
Silence.
Shame bloomed quickly. She rolled over, pulling the covers up to her chin, heart still racing.
What the hell was happening to her?
Why was it him she thought of, when she shouldn’t even like him?
Y/N closed her eyes tightly.
He’s the fire nation prince. Your supposed enemy. A cocky, annoying, arrogant menace.
But even that couldn’t stop the traitorous smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
Because Jaehyun had also been gentle.
Thoughtful.
And worst of all—he made her feel something.
------------
Jaehyun stared at his communicator for a long time before finally pressing the call button.
It was late—too late for most students to be awake—but his father would be expecting one of his check-ins. This time, it wasn’t about grades or how well he was fitting in at the academy.
When his father’s face appeared, regal in his robes, framed by the golden lighting of the palace, Jaehyun straightened unconsciously.
“Father,” he said, voice a bit tight.
“Jaehyun,” the king replied. “You’re calling late. Is something wrong?”
Jaehyun hesitated. “There’s something I’ve been thinking about. Something that’s… been bothering me.”
A beat of silence passed.
“I’ve been taught my whole life to hate the Water Tribe,” Jaehyun continued, keeping his gaze steady. “To see them as lesser. As enemies. But ever since I came to this school… it’s not like that. The students here, they’re not my enemies. Most of them don’t even care about what happened generations ago.”
His father’s eyes narrowed slightly, though not with anger. More like calculation. “Go on.”
Jaehyun swallowed. “I don’t think I believe what I was taught anymore. I mean… how can I hate people I don’t even know? People who haven’t done anything wrong? The war ended decades ago.”
The king let out a low sigh, leaning back in his chair. “You sound like your mother.”
Jaehyun blinked.
His father looked away for a moment. “I didn’t always hate the Water Tribe either. But my father—your grandfather—he was filled with rage. He watched friends die in the war. He lost his brother. So I was raised on that anger. I inherited it without ever questioning if it was truly mine.”
Jaehyun’s brows furrowed. “So you don’t hate them?”
“I suppose I don’t,” the king admitted reluctantly. “Not personally. But you must understand, diplomacy is complicated. The Water Tribe may seem friendly now, but politics change in an instant. Trust the wrong person and it could cost your nation dearly.”
Jaehyun’s jaw clenched. He knew what his father was really warning him about.
“The people might not like it,” the king went on. “If you’re seen growing close to someone from that side—especially someone of status—there’ll be whispers. Some might even call you a traitor.”
Jaehyun looked down for a moment, thumb brushing the edge of the communicator. Y/N would never use me. He didn’t say it aloud. Not yet.
“I just think… maybe people have moved on more than we give them credit for,” Jaehyun said instead. “And maybe the problem isn’t them. Maybe it’s us. If we don’t show forgiveness, how can we expect them to?”
His father’s expression shifted—tired, worn. “You’re still young. Idealistic.”
“Maybe that’s not a bad thing.”
The king didn’t answer for a moment. Then he sighed again and said, “For now, just focus on school. Learn what you need. Make allies. The world outside will be waiting when you’re ready.”
Jaehyun nodded, but in his heart, something had already shifted. His father’s words were permission, in their own quiet, reserved way.
When the call ended, Jaehyun leaned back on his bed, arms folded behind his head. He stared at the ceiling, thinking of Y/N’s smile, the warmth of her hands wrapped around his, the conviction in her voice when she spoke of peace.
He wasn’t just imagining it anymore.
And now that he had a sliver of his father’s blessing—however cautious—it felt even harder to resist where his heart was leading him.
-------------------
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sneak peak:
“I know how to fix this,” he said lowly. “All of it.”
She blinked, breath catching. “How?”
“One night.” His eyes burned. “One wild, filthy, unhinged night. We get it out of our systems. Every stolen look, every thought we’ve tried to bury. Just… one night. You and me. No crowns. No tribes. Just primal fucking instinct.”
“Jaehyun,” she whispered, stunned.
His mouth was near hers now, not quite kissing, just hovering—close enough that their lips brushed every time one of them exhaled.
“You want it too,” he murmured. “I see it. Every time you look at me like you want to devour me. Every time you gasp over nothing when I’m near.”
Y/N whimpered softly, eyelids fluttering shut. His hand curled gently around her waist, guiding her until her back pressed into the cool stone wall.
“Say yes,” he whispered, lips ghosting her cheek. “Just one night. I swear I’ll ruin you so sweetly, you’ll never think of another man again.”
Subscribe to my patreon here or access the full story here.
Since the Donghyuck version of this story was so loved, I made a Jaehyun version since he got discharged from the military recently. I hope you enjoy!
Jaehyun is in an accident during his military service and forgets the past year of his life, including his breakup with y/n. When he wakes up, he thinks they're still together. Y/n and everyone around him scrambles to play the part so the shock doesn't ruin his recovery, but will it work?
11.1k (full ver is 15.6k), First person POV
Unprotected sex, riding, more angst than my usual stories but happy ending!
-------------
You and Jaehyun had been together for three years. Three years of inside jokes and late-night convenience store runs, of him learning exactly how you liked your coffee and you knowing the precise spot on his back that made him shiver when you touched it. Three years of building a future together—talking about moving in, about trips you'd take, about everything that glittered on the horizon.
Then he enlisted.
You'd known it was coming. He'd talked about it since before you got together, a sense of duty ingrained in him by his father and his father's father. You'd braced yourself for the distance, for the letters and the phone calls and the long stretches of missing him.
What you hadn't braced for was the breakup.
A week before he shipped out, he sat you down on the same park bench where he'd first kissed you. His hands were shaking. His voice cracked when he spoke.
"I can't do this to you."
You blinked at him, confused. "Do what?"
"Make you wait." He wouldn't meet your eyes. "Two years I''m gonna be gone Y/N.. You deserve someone who's here. Someone who can give you the time and attention you need. I'd just be holding you back."
You argued. You pleaded. You cried until your throat was raw, telling him you didn't care about the wait, that you'd be here when he got back, that you wanted to wait.
But his jaw was set, his eyes distant in a way you'd never seen before.
"I'm sorry. I love you. That's why I'm doing this."
He stood up. Walked away. Didn't look back.
That was fourteen months ago.
Fourteen months of silence. Fourteen months of deleting his number and re-saving it. Fourteen months of driving past his parents' house and wondering if he was home on leave, if he'd changed, if he'd found someone else. Fourteen months of building a wall around your heart brick by bitter brick.
You told yourself you were over it. You told yourself he was a coward who didn't deserve your tears. You went on dates that went nowhere, laughed at jokes that didn't feel funny, and pretended the ache in your chest was just heartburn.
He was supposed to be discharged in two months. You knew because you'd checked. Because you were weak. Because some pathetic part of you still hoped he'd call, show up at your door, tell you he'd made a terrible mistake.
But he didn't. And you told yourself it was time to move on for real.
Then your phone rang.
It was a Tuesday. Rain streaked your window. You were halfway through a bowl of instant ramen, scrolling through Netflix, wearing the oversized sweater you'd stolen from him years ago—the one you never threw away, no matter how many times you told yourself to.
The caller ID flashed an unknown number. Base prefix.
You almost didn't answer. Probably a wrong number. Probably a scam.
But something made you swipe the screen.
"Hello?"
"Am I speaking with Y/N L/N?"
Male voice. Professional. Tense.
"This is her. Who's asking?"
"This is Sergeant Park from the 8th Army Corps. I'm calling regarding Private First Class Jeong Jaehyun. You're listed as his emergency contact."
Your heart stopped. "What? No. That's—we're not together anymore. I shouldn't be on that list."
"Ma'am, I understand. However, the information we have indicates your number as his primary emergency contact. I'm afraid this is somewhat urgent. Can you come to the base hospital as soon as possible?"
Ice flooded your veins. Hospital. Urgent.
"Is he okay? What happened?"
"Ma'am, I'd prefer to explain in person. Please come to the main gate and ask for Sergeant Park. I'll have you escorted to the medical wing."
The line went dead.
You stared at your phone. Your hands were shaking. Your ramen had gone cold.
You were in your car before you fully registered what you were doing, the tires squealing as you pulled out of your parking spot, rain hammering against the windshield, your mind a hurricane of worst-case scenarios.
The base was a maze of checkpoints and identical buildings. True to his word, Sergeant Park met you at the gate—a stocky man with tired eyes and a clipboard—and walked you through the sterile halls of the medical wing.
"He was in a training accident this morning," Sergeant Park said as you walked. "Simulated breach exercise. Structural collapse. He was pulled out within minutes, but he took some hits to the head. Multiple contusions, mild concussion, bruised ribs. He regained consciousness a few hours ago."
Relief. Then confusion. "So he's okay?"
"Physically, yes. He'll recover. But there's... a complication."
You stopped walking. "What kind of complication?"
Sergeant Park stopped too, turning to face you. His expression was difficult to read—guarded, maybe pitying.
"I'll let you speak to the doctor so she can explain the rest" he says.
The moment you stepped into the room, the doctor—a tired-looking woman with kind eyes and a clipboard—gestured you aside. Jaehyun was asleep, his breathing slow and even, the monitor beside him beeping a steady rhythm.
"Can I speak with you privately for a moment?" she asked quietly.
You followed her into the hallway, your pulse still racing. She introduced herself as Dr. Choi, the attending physician.
"You're the emergency contact listed in his file," she said. "I understand you and Private Jeong—"
"We broke up." The words came out flat, harder than you intended. "More than a year ago. He broke up with me right before he enlisted. We haven't spoken since. I don't know why I'm still in his phone."
Dr. Choi's expression didn't change. She nodded slowly. "I see. That complicates things."
"Can you call his parents? They should be the ones here."
"I already have. They're on their way. But in the meantime, I have to be honest with you—Jaehyun is still under the impression that you're together. He has amnesia and can't remember the past 2 years of his life. When he woke up, he asked for you by name. He asked when you were coming to visit. He thinks you're still his girlfriend."
Your throat tightened. "There is no way this is really happening."
"And given the extent of his memory loss, the fact that you were together for a long time before his enlistment... telling him abruptly that you've been broken up for over a year could be a significant emotional shock. We're already monitoring him for signs of traumatic stress from the accident. A sudden revelation like that—while he's still disoriented and vulnerable—could hinder his recovery."
"So what are you saying?"
"I'm saying that for now, it might be best to let him believe what he believes. Just for a short while. Let him stabilize physically, let his brain rest. Then we can gradually reintroduce the truth in a controlled way, with his family's support."
You opened your mouth to argue, to tell her that this was insane, that you weren't his girlfriend anymore, that he broke your heart and you couldn't just pretend—
But before you could speak, the door to the ward opened and a familiar couple rushed in.
His parents.
Mrs. Jeong looked exactly as you remembered—small, warm-eyed, with grey threading through her dark hair. Mr. Jeong stood behind her, stoic but with worry etched into every line of his face. They'd always liked you. They'd been devastated when Jaehyun told them about the breakup.
"Y/N," Mrs. Jeong breathed, rushing to you. "They called us. Is he—is he okay?"
"He's stable," Dr. Choi said. "Physically, he'll recover. But there's an issue with his memory."
She explained the situation again, quickly, while Mrs. Jeong's hand found yours and squeezed tight. When Dr. Choi finished, his mother turned to you, her eyes glistening.
"He still thinks you're together?"
"Yes."
"He was so in love with you," she whispered. "When he ended it, I told him he was making a mistake. He wouldn't listen. He said he was doing the right thing."
You felt the old anger flicker in your chest. "He threw me away like I meant nothing."
"I know, sweetheart. I know." Her grip on your hand tightened. "But please I'm begging you. Just for a week or two. Let him recover. Let him get stronger. Then we'll tell him everything together. I don't want him to relapse or hurt himself further because of the shock."
Mr. Jeong, who rarely spoke, cleared his throat. "We know it's a lot to ask. You don't owe him anything. But if you could find it in your heart... for a little while..."
You looked past them, through the half-open door of the hospital room.
Jaehyun lay in the bed, turned slightly on his side. His face was slack with sleep, but you could see the bruises painted across his cheekbone, the scrape along his collarbone peeking above the hospital gown. His hand—the same hand that had held yours a thousand times—rested limply on the pillow.
He looked so vulnerable. So different from the man who'd stood on that park bench and told you he was letting you go.
A part of you hated him. Hated him for giving up on you. Hated him for making you feel disposable. Hated him for all the sleepless nights and angry tears. A part of you truly despised him.
But another part of you, the part you tried to bury, still loved him. Still missed him. Still ached when you thought about the future you'd planned together.
And now he didn't even remember destroying it.
"What's a couple of weeks, right?" you heard yourself say, the words hollow and resigned.
Mrs. Jeong let out a shaky breath. "Thank you. Thank you, Y/N. We'll be here too. We'll help. You're not alone in this."
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
When Jaehyun woke again, the light in the room had shifted to a warm afternoon glow. You were sitting in the chair beside his bed, scrolling through your phone without seeing anything, when you heard him stir.
"Hi baby."
Your heart seized. His voice—soft, hoarse, full of sleepy affection—hit you like a punch to the chest. He was reaching his hand toward you, palm open, fingers curling in that familiar way that meant come here, hold me.
You forced a smile onto your face. It felt fragile, like paper stretched too thin.
"Hey," you said softly, taking his hand. His fingers closed around yours, warm and real. "You're awake."
"What happened?" he asked, blinking slowly, looking around the room with confusion. "Why am I in the hospital? My head hurts."
You squeezed his hand. "You were in an accident. A training exercise. They said you hit your head pretty hard."
"An accident?" He frowned, trying to remember. "I don't... I can't remember. What day is it?"
You told him the date. His frown deepened.
"That doesn't make sense. I should be... I was supposed to enlist next month. I was still in civilian life."
"No," you said gently, hating every word. "You enlisted. You've been in for over a year. The doctors think the accident made you forget more than a year of your life."
His eyes searched your face, looking for any sign of a joke. When he found none, he exhaled slowly, his grip on your hand tightening.
"So I don't remember the military at all even though I've been serving for months?"
"Yes."
He smiled—that same soft, loving smile—and tugged your hand gently.
"I'm glad you're here. I was scared when I woke up and didn't see you."
"I'm here," you said, the words scraping past the lump in your throat. "I'm not going anywhere."
The doctors decided to discharge him early. His physical injuries were minor enough to treat at home, and they believed a familiar environment would help his memory recovery. When he was fully healed he would still need to come back to base to finish his military service. But there was no point keeping him in the hospital for observation when his home—his parents' home, technically—was only an hour away.
But when Mrs. Jeong mentioned taking him to their house, Jaehyun shook his head.
"No, I want to go to our place. My apartment with Y/N. I want to be with her."
You froze. Your apartment. Your apartment, which he'd visited a hundred times, which still had a drawer of his clothes in it because neither of you had ever bothered to empty it after the breakup.
His mother shot you a look. Go along with it.
"Of course," you heard yourself say. "I'll take you home."
So now you were driving, Jaehyun in the passenger seat beside you, his hand resting on your thigh like it used to, his eyes closed against the glare of the afternoon sun. He smelled like hospital soap and antiseptic, but underneath it, beneath the unfamiliar scents, there was still him. The boy you'd loved. The man who'd broken you.
And you were bringing him back to your bed.
You ask him what's the last thing he remembers. Jaehyun's brow furrows as he tries to pull the memory forward. "Discussing enlisting early with you," he says slowly. "I still had a couple more months before I had to go, but I wanted to join and get it over with. You were so supportive about it." He smiles, the warmth of that memory softening his face. "I remember you holding my hand, telling me you'd wait."
You nod once, a short, tight motion. "Yeah," you say, your voice carefully neutral. Inside, the thought spikes sharp and bitter: That was ultimately our downfall.
You don't say it out loud though.
Jaehyun studies your face, concern bleeding into his expression. "You look upset."
"It's just—" You swallow, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. "Seeing you hurt like this. It's really hard."
That, at least, isn't a lie.
His smile turns gentle, almost grateful. He lifts your hand from where it rests on the arm of the chair and presses a kiss to your knuckles, lips warm and soft against your skin. "I'm fine," he murmurs. "Promise."
Your heart twists. You let him hold your hand, feeling the lie settle heavier around you both.
The drive back to his apartment is quiet, punctuated only by the low hum of the radio and the occasional directions from the GPS. Jaehyun's hand finds yours over the center console, fingers lacing together like it's the most natural thing in the world. You let him, telling yourself it's for the act, but your palm tingles where his thumb strokes slow circles.
When you finally step through his front door, the familiar scent of his place—laundry detergent, sandalwood, a hint of the lemon cleaner he always used—hits you hard. It smells like memory, like three years of coming and going, like home. You swallow the lump in your throat and toe off your shoes.
Jaehyun drops onto the couch with a satisfied groan, stretching his legs out and letting his knees fall wide apart in that classic manspread that always used to make you roll your eyes. He does it now, and you do roll them, a reflex that comes before you can stop it.
But underneath the exasperation, something warm curls in your chest. He's still him. His simple presence—the way he fills a room without trying, the way he exists so casually, so comfortably—always had way too big of an impact on you. Even now. Especially now.
He pats his lap, that easy smile spreading across his bruised face. "Come here. I've got a few questions. Things are still fuzzy."
You hesitate. Sitting beside him would be safer. A little distance. But you know Jaehyun—the real him, the one who remembers everything—would notice that immediately. You're usually clingy. Both of you are. Hands always finding each other, legs tangled, bodies pressed close. If you keep space, he'll sense something's wrong.
So you move forward, settling carefully onto his lap, mindful of his ribs. His arms come around you immediately, pulling you flush against his chest. He presses a warm kiss to your cheek, lips lingering a second longer than necessary.
You sigh, giving in, and wrap your arms around his neck, resting your head on his shoulder. The tension in your body slowly unwinds. You can't lie—this feels nice. You missed this. Missed him. Even with all the anger and hurt still simmering underneath, you've missed him so much it aches.
His hand runs up and down your spine in a lazy, soothing rhythm. "So," he says, voice low and content, "catch me up. What've you been up to the past two years? How's 127? Any new hobbies? Interests?" He presses another kiss to your hair. "I need to know every little thing. I feel like I've been asleep for ages."
You shift slightly, buying time. "It'll come back with time," you say softly. "There's no rush."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes searching. Then he leans in and kisses you—slow, deep, his lips moving against yours with aching familiarity. Your heart stutters. A soft moan escapes your throat before you can stop it, and you kiss him back for a breathless second.
Then you force yourself to break away. "We can't," you murmur, voice shaky. "No physical stuff for at least a week. Just to make sure it doesn't mess up your recovery."
Jaehyun smirks, that cocky tilt of his mouth that always made your knees weak. "Actually," he says, voice dropping an octave, "it might help my recovery. Endorphins, you know."
He dips in again, and this time you let him. Your lips part, tongues meet, and for a moment you lose yourself in the taste of him. His hand slides to your hip, grip firm, and he starts to shift underneath you, trying to angle you differently—
You plant a hand on his chest and push back, breaking the kiss. "Nice try." You slide off his lap and stand, smoothing your shirt. "But we're gonna do this right."
He licks his lips, that slow, deliberate motion that always made your stomach flip. Then he smiles, easy and accepting. "Okay."
You know him. You know he always gets his way eventually—with that charm, that persistence, that way of wearing you down until you give in. But this time, you're determined to make it different. You're not the same girl who let him walk all over your heart.
This time, you'll hold the line. Even if every cell in your body wants to fall back into his arms.
The moment the bathroom door clicks shut and the sound of water starts with him the shower, you pull out your phone. Your thumb hovers over the screen for a beat before you open the folder with the little red badges you've been ignoring for days.
Delete.
You don't let yourself hesitate. One by one, the apps disappear. Tinder. Bumble. That other one you downloaded on a lonely Friday night when wine made you reckless. Gone.
Then you open your messages.
Your stomach twists as you scroll through conversations—some casual, some surprisingly serious. You pause on the thread with the guy you've been seeing for the last few weeks. His name Soobin blinks back at you: a kind smile, a gentle voice, someone who made you feel like maybe you could move on.
His texts are sweet.
"Good morning, hope you have a good day." "That café you mentioned? I went. The pastries are incredible. You were right." "You free this weekend? I’d love to see you again."
You type back: "Hey, I’m so sorry. Something came up. I can’t explain right now but I need to pause things. I’ll reach out when I can. I’m sorry."
Your finger trembles before you hit send. Then you delete the thread.
Not because you want to. Because you have to.
Another notification pops up. Minhyun.
Minhyun: "You okay? Haven't heard from you in a few days. I'm starting to think you've finally ghosted me like everyone else." A winky face follows, but you know him well enough to catch the real concern underneath.
You glance at the bathroom door. Still running. You call him.
He picks up on the second ring. "There she is. I was starting to think my best friend had fallen into a pothole or gotten abducted by aliens."
"Minhyun." Your voice comes out quieter than you intended. He must catch something in it because his tone shifts immediately.
"What's wrong?"
You sink onto the edge of the couch, rubbing your forehead. "It's... a lot. Okay, so, you know my ex? Jaehyun?"
"The one who joined the military? The one you were with for three years before I met you?"
"Yeah." You take a shaky breath. "He was in a training accident. He lost his memory. The last two years—he doesn't remember the breakup, the military, any of it. He thinks we're still together."
Silence. Then: "That's crazy."
"I know." You laugh, but it comes out hollow. "I know. But—Minhyun, you should've seen his mother. She showed up at the hospital and begged me. On her knees, practically. The doctors said it could set back his recovery if he finds out the truth right now. She just wants a week or two for him to stabilize, and then they'll handle it."
"And you said yes."
"I said yes."
He's quiet for a moment. Then, softer: "Y/N. You don't owe him anything. You don't owe his family anything."
"I know." You press your palm against your eyes. "I know that. But... I saw him. He was so confused, so scared. And he kept looking at me like I was the only thing that made sense." Your throat tightens. "I couldn't just leave him alone. I couldn't...even though he left me."
"So what about the guy you've been seeing? What's his name?"
You wince. "Soobin. I... I just sent him a message. Put things on pause. I don't know if he'll wait."
Minhyun lets out a long breath. "You're juggling a lot, Y/N. Are you okay?"
No. You're not okay. You're overwhelmed and confused and still angry at Jaehyun for breaking your heart the way he did, and yet here you are, playing house like nothing happened. But you can't say that out loud.
"I'll manage," you say. "It's only for a week or two."
"Famous last words."
The water stops. You hear the creak of the shower door sliding open.
"Hey, I gotta go. He's done in the shower."
"Call me if you need anything. And I mean anything. Doesn't matter what time."
"Thanks, Minhyun." Your voice softens. "Really."
"Of course. Stay strong."
You hang up just as the bathroom door starts to open.
The soft sound of footsteps pads across the hardwood floor. You're already halfway gone, eyelids heavy, the day's weight pressing down on you like a warm blanket you can't fight. Your head lolls to the side, cheek pressing into the couch cushion, and the last thing you register before darkness pulls you under is the faint scent of soap and the quiet rustle of fabric.
Jaehyun steps out, towel still scrubbing at his damp hair, and stops when he sees you. A soft smile spreads across his face—genuine, unguarded, the kind he used to wear when you'd fall asleep on him during movie nights. He finishes drying his hair in silence, tosses the towel over the back of a chair, and disappears for a moment. When he comes back, he's carrying a folded blanket from the linen closet and a pair of your socks he'd thrown in the dryer earlier. He drapes the blanket over you gently, tucking the edges around your shoulders, then carefully pulls the warm socks onto your feet. His fingers brush against your ankle, featherlight, and he lingers for just a second before pulling away.
He stands there, watching you breathe, and something in his chest tightens. He doesn't know why. There's only you, safe and asleep, and the quiet hum of the TV filling the space.
He heads to the kitchen.
You wake slowly, consciousness seeping in like honey. The first thing you notice is the warmth. Not just the blanket—soft and smelling faintly of lavender—but the cozy heat wrapped around your feet. You wiggle your toes and realize you're wearing socks that are still slightly warm from the dryer.
Your heart does something complicated. A twist, a squeeze, a swell.
You sit up, blinking the sleep from your eyes, and look down at yourself. The blanket is tucked in carefully, the kind of meticulous care he always took. He used to do this—little things. Warming your socks in the dryer on cold mornings. Making sure your coffee was exactly the way you liked it. Leaving notes on the bathroom mirror when he left for early schedules.
How did things go south so fast?
The question lingers, bitter and unresolved. You'd been so angry at him for leaving—for making the choice to enlist early, for saying he didn't want to make you wait, for deciding for both of you. And yet here he is, not remembering any of it, still caring for you like it's second nature.
The sound of footsteps pulls you from your thoughts. Jaehyun walks in from the kitchen, holding two plates. He's changed into a loose t-shirt and sweats, and his hair is still slightly damp, curling at the ends.
"Hey, sleepyhead." His voice is soft, amused. "Figured you'd wake up soon. I made sandwiches."
He sets the plates on the coffee table—turkey and cheese on toasted bread, cut diagonally, the way you used to like it. Your chest tightens.
"I was hungry," you admit, your voice a little rough from sleep. "But—Jaehyun, I should be taking care of you. You're the one who just got out of the hospital."
He shakes his head, settling onto the couch beside you. His knee brushes yours, and he doesn't pull away. "No. We take care of each other. That's how it works."
We take care of each other.
The words hit you harder than they should. You look down at the sandwich, not trusting your voice, and take a bite. It's good. Simple, but good. He always made the best sandwiches.
You eat in silence, the TV playing some dumb sitcom with a laugh track that feels too loud and too hollow at the same time. But the quiet between you isn't uncomfortable. It's almost... familiar. Like slipping back into an old rhythm you thought you'd forgotten.
Jaehyun finishes his sandwich first and leans back, groaning. "I need to catch up on so much stuff. Music, TV shows, movies... I don't even know what's been popular the last two years."
You glance at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Hey, it'll come back to you. Just give it some time." You pause, considering. "But... music might be a good way to jog your memory. You always had that playlist we made together."
He perks up at that, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. "The one with all the road trip songs?"
"Yeah." Your smile widens despite yourself. "That one."
He nods slowly, thoughtful. "You're right. Music is—it's like a time machine." He throws an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side, and grabs the edge of the blanket, draping it over both of you. The warmth of his body seeps into yours, solid and grounding.
You let yourself lean into him. Just for a moment. Just for tonight.
The sitcom plays on, and your eyes grow heavy again. The sleep you've been running from for months—the restless nights, the anxious mornings—finally catches up to you. Your head finds the curve of his shoulder, and you let go.
For the first time in a while, you really sleep.
And it's the best sleep you've gotten in years.
The doorbell rings at exactly eleven in the morning, and you're in the middle of wiping down the kitchen counter when Jaehyun calls out, "I'll get it."
You freeze. You know who it is—Jaehyun mentioned last night that Jungwoo and Johnny had texted him, insisting on coming by. Your stomach knots. You haven't seen them since the breakup. They were his friends first, but you'd grown close over the three years, shared meals, inside jokes, late-night conversations. And then you'd just... vanished from their lives. No explanations, no goodbyes. Just silence.
You hear the door open, followed by Jaehyun's surprised laugh. "Hyung! Jungwoo-a!"
"Holy shit, look at you," Johnny's voice booms, warm and familiar. "You look like hell, but a good kind of hell."
"He's been through an accident, Johnny, be nice," Jungwoo chides, but there's laughter in his tone. "How are you feeling hyung?"
You dry your hands on a dish towel, taking a breath, and walk toward the living room just as they're wrapping him in careful hugs—gentle, mindful of his bruises. Jaehyun winces slightly when Johnny's hand pats his back, but he's smiling.
"You guys look older," Jaehyun says, cocking his head. "Did you get gray hair already, Johnny hyung?"
"Yah, I'm only thirty-two," Johnny protests, but he's grinning. "And you're still an asshole, I see. Head injury didn't fix that."
Jaehyun laughs, and the sound is so easy, so familiar, that your chest aches.
Then their eyes land on you.
You're standing at the edge of the living room, arms crossed loosely, a strained smile on your face. "Hey."
The atmosphere shifts for half a second—a flicker of uncertainty in their eyes, a shared glance between them. But then Jungwoo steps forward, pulling you into a hug before you can react.
"Y/N," he says softly, squeezing you tight. "It's good to see you."
You hug him back, your voice catching. "You too."
Johnny follows, wrapping his arms around both of you briefly, then pulling back to look at you. His expression is careful, knowing. "You hanging in there?"
It's whispered, just for you, his hand still on your shoulder. You nod, blinking quickly. "Yeah. The plan is to tell him in a week or two. His mom's idea."
Johnny gives a firm nod, his jaw tight. "We'll follow your lead. Just... let us know if you need anything."
Jaehyun is watching from the couch, oblivious, a curious smile on his face. "Hey, are you guys keeping secrets from me already?"
You laugh, shaking your head. "Just girl talk. Or... guy talk? Girl-to-guy talk?"
Jungwoo snorts. "That's not a thing."
"Come sit," Jaehyun says, patting the spot beside him. "Let's catch up. I feel like I've been in a time machine and I missed everything."
You settle into chairs around the dining table, the afternoon light filtering through the curtains. You've set out glasses—wine for the guests, and a tall glass of apple juice for Jaehyun, which he eyes with theatrical disappointment.
"Really?" He picks up the glass, swirling it like it's a fine vintage. "I'm a grown man. I can have a glass of wine."
"No," you say firmly, sliding a plate of snacks onto the table. "You're on medication for another four days, and I don't know how alcohol interacts with a concussion. So juice."
"A concussion," Johnny repeats, raising an eyebrow. "That's what they're calling it?"
"It's retrograde amnesia," Jungwoo supplies, pouring himself a glass of red. "Which means he forgot a lot of stuff, including all our inside jokes. So we have to reintroduce ourselves."
"You're my best friends," Jaehyun says, deadpan. "I didn't forget you. I just forgot what you've been doing. So... fill me in. What comebacks did I miss? Who's dating who? Any scandals?"
Johnny leans back, swirling his wine. "Well, I've been working on some solo stuff. Thinking of dropping a single next spring. Nothing huge, just... something for me."
Jaehyun's eyes light up. "Solo? That's amazing, hyung. What genre?"
"R&B, mostly. A little hip-hop. I'll send you a demo when we're done."
"And me?" Jungwoo points at himself. "I'm enlisting soon. Next month, actually."
Jaehyun's face falls. "Already? Didn't you just... I mean, you were supposed to have more time."
Jungwoo shrugs, but there's a flicker of nervousness in his smile. "Time flies. And you're almost done, right? Two months?"
"Two months," Jaehyun confirms, glancing at you. "They discharged me early because of the accident. Medical leave, then I finish out my service."
You nod, keeping your expression neutral. You remember the paperwork you'd signed at the hospital, the official forms listing you as his primary contact. The irony wasn't lost on you.
"Anyway," Johnny says, raising his glass, "to Jaehyun's miraculous recovery. And to Jungwoo's imminent suffering."
"Yah!" Jungwoo protests, but he's laughing. They clink glasses, and Jaehyun takes a long drink of his juice, making an exaggerated pleased face.
"Mm. Delicious," he says flatly. "I feel so healthy."
You can't help but smile. It's the old Jaehyun—playful, sarcastic, warm. The one you fell in love with.
After an hour of catching up—stories about missed comebacks, industry gossip, and Johnny's detailed recounting of a disastrous blind date—you stand up, stretching.
"I'm going to run to the grocery store," you say, grabbing your bag. "We're out of a few things. You guys keep talking."
Jaehyun looks up, a flicker of concern in his eyes. "You don't have to go. I can come with—"
"No, no." You wave him off. "You stay. Catch up. I'll be back in an hour."
He hesitates, but Johnny claps him on the shoulder. "Let her go, man. We'll keep you company."
You give them a small wave and head out, the door clicking shut behind you. The hallway is quiet, and you lean against the wall for a moment, letting out a breath you didn't realize you were holding.
Inside, the three men fall into an easy rhythm. Jaehyun finishes his juice and sets the glass down, his expression sobering.
"I feel bad," he admits quietly. "I can't remember anything. The last two years are just... blank. Like a hard drive that got wiped. I know things happened—I know I enlisted, I know we had our schedules—but I don't remember. And you guys have been through stuff too, and I wasn't there."
Johnny and Jungwoo exchange a glance. There's a weight in the air, a secret pressing down on them.
"Hey," Johnny says, reaching over to squeeze Jaehyun's shoulder. "It's okay. You're here now. That's what matters."
"Yeah," Jungwoo adds, his voice gentle. "And you have Y/N. She'll help you remember the important stuff. The little things. The things that matter."
Jaehyun's face softens at the mention of you. A small, genuine smile touches his lips. "I know. She's... she's been amazing. I don't know what I'd do without her."
Jungwoo's throat tightens, but he pushes through it. "She's strong. And she loves you."
Loves you. Present tense. The words hang in the air, and Jaehyun doesn't question them. He just nods, looking down at his hands.
"Yeah. I know."
The shower hums in the bathroom, steam curling under the door, and the sound of water hitting tile fills the apartment. Jaehyun sits on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, the screen glowing against his face while he waits for you to finish your shower. Johnny and Jungwoo left ten minutes ago, their cheerful goodbyes still echoing in his ears, but now the silence settles heavy around him.
He scrolls through his gallery. Photo after photo of barracks, training grounds, group shots with faces he doesn't recognize. Guys in uniform, arms slung around each other, smiles wide and genuine. He should know their names. He should remember the jokes, the late-night conversations, the shared exhaustion. But it's all blank, like looking at strangers.
He swipes further. A few landscapes. A meal at a base cafeteria. A selfie he must've taken on a rainy day, looking tired but grinning. Nothing from before. No photos of you though, at least not recently. His thumb hovers over the empty space where memories should live.
Why did I delete everything?
He opens his messages. The list is sparse—mostly numbers without names, conversations he can't place. A text from someone named "Hyejin" asking if he's okay after the accident. A thread with "Sanghyuk" about a workout schedule. He scrolls down, finds your name. The chat is clean, empty. A few messages from yesterday—you asking if he wanted soup for dinner, him replying with a heart emoji. But before that? Nothing. Cleared. Wiped clean like the rest of his memory.
He frowns, tapping the screen absently. When did I do that? Why?
The water stops in the bathroom. He hears you moving around, the rustle of a towel, the click of the cabinet. Your phone is on the nightstand, screen face-up. A notification lights it up.
Minhyun: hey how're you doing?
Jaehyun's eyes catch it before he can look away. He knows Minhyun is a friend—you've mentioned the name before, he thinks—but the timing, the casual intimacy of the text, makes something flicker in his chest. Curiosity, maybe. Or something sharper.
He stares at the phone for a long moment. The screen dims, then darkens. The bathroom door creaks open, and you step out, hair damp, wrapped in a robe.
"You alright?" you ask, seeing him sitting there, phone in hand, expression unreadable.
He looks up, and the worry softens his features. He sets the phone aside. "Yeah. Just... looking at old photos. Trying to remember."
You cross the room, sitting beside him on the bed. Your hand finds his, fingers intertwining. "Anything come back?"
He shakes his head slowly. "Not really. Just a lot of guys I don't know." He pauses. "I saw you got a message. From Minhyun?"
You blink, caught off guard. "Oh. Yeah, he's just checking in." Your voice is careful, neutral. "He's a friend from...from the past few months so I guess you wouldn't remember him."
Jaehyun nods, but his eyes search yours. "You never mentioned him before."
"Because it's not important." You squeeze his hand. "You're the one I'm focused on right now."
He wants to believe you. He wants to let it go. But the cleared messages, the missing years, the growing sense that something is just out of reach—it gnaws at him, quiet and persistent.
"Okay," he says finally, and leans in to kiss your forehead. "I trust you."
But even as he says it, a small voice in the back of his mind whispers: Do I?
The towel in your hands stills as you catch Jaehyun's silence—that particular kind of quiet that settles heavy, loaded with unspoken thoughts. You finish drying your hair, the damp strands clinging to your neck, and sit beside him on the bed.
"What's wrong?" you ask, keeping your voice light.
He looks at you, and there's a vulnerability in his eyes that makes your chest ache. "I was looking through my phone. I don't have any recent photos of us together."
The words land like a stone dropped into still water. You force yourself to breathe, to think fast. "We haven't seen each other much since you enlisted," you say softly, reaching for his hand. "It's been mostly phone calls and texts. You know how it is when you're on base."
He nods slowly, accepting the explanation, but you see the flicker of disappointment. "Yeah, I figured. I just had to ask."
It's terrifying, how easily the lie slips out. How smooth and practiced it sounds, like you've been rehearsing it for weeks. You hate yourself a little for that.
He shifts the topic, casual but pointed. "So you've made new friends while I've been gone?"
"Yea, a few."
"Good. I'd like to meet them. I'm sure I already have, but it'll be like the first time." He smiles, and it's genuine, hopeful.
You hesitate—just a second too long. Your mind races to Minhyun, to the other casual dates you'd been seeing before this whole mess started. "Actually, they haven't met you yet," you say carefully. "You were so busy with training. But sure, I'll set something up."
He doesn't notice the crack in your voice. Or if he does, he doesn't show it.
"Okay, good." He pulls you into his lap, and you let yourself be moved, your damp hair brushing against his cheek. His lips find your forehead, your nose, your cheeks—featherlight kisses that make your skin tingle despite everything. You giggle, squirming, the sound surprising even yourself. It feels almost natural.
He strokes your hair, looking into your eyes with that old adoration you'd forgotten existed. "I love you so much, you know?"
The words hit you like a wall. The smile on your face freezes, then slides off entirely. For a heartbeat, you're fourteen months ago, right in front of him, hearing him say I can't do this anymore with a face that held none of this warmth.
You blink. Slowly, you nod. "Yea, I know." A pause. "I love you too."
The smile you offer is weak, barely holding.
He doesn't seem to notice, or maybe he chooses not to. He kisses you then—soft, lingering, his hand cradling the back of your head. When he pulls back, he just holds you, his arms wrapped tight around your waist.
"I missed this," he murmurs into your hair.
You press your face into his shoulder, breathing him in. Fabric softener, soap, the faint musk of his skin. It smells like home. Like the home you used to know.
But you don't say anything. You just let him hold you, guilt coiling in your stomach like a snake, and wonder how many more lies it will take before you both break.
The call to Minhyun is brief, your voice steady as you explain the situation. He listens without interrupting, and when you finish, there's a pause.
"Sure," he says finally. "Anything for you."
You meet at a small café near the river, the kind of place with mismatched chairs and the smell of fresh pastries drifting through the air. Jaehyun stands a little straighter than usual when Minhyun approaches, his posture sharper, more deliberate. He extends his hand first.
"Hi. Jaehyun. Thanks for coming."
Minhyun shakes it, a polite smile on his face. "Minhyun. Y/N's told me a lot about you."
"She's told me nothing about you," Jaehyun replies, but there's no edge to it—just curiosity. He glances at you, then back at Minhyun. "I'm going to order for us. Y/N, the usual?"
You nod, and he kisses the top of your head before walking to the counter, leaving you alone with Minhyun.
Minhyun watches him go, then turns to you, eyebrows raised. "He's really handsome."
You roll your eyes, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. "You wanna date my boyfriend?"
He doesn't laugh. Instead, he looks at you with that knowing expression, the one that always cuts through your bullshit. "You're not even dating him."
The words hang in the air. You pause, and then you genuinely laugh—a real, unguarded sound that surprises even yourself. "I guess not, huh?" You lean back in your chair, the humor fading into something heavier. "This situation is absurd."
He doesn't push. He just waits, letting you sit with it.
Jaehyun returns a few minutes later, balancing three cups. He sets an iced Americano in front of you, a hot latte for himself, and a black coffee for Minhyun.
Minhyun glances at your drink, then back at you. "Didn't you stop drinking coffee?"
You shrug, taking a sip. "It's fine."
Jaehyun's head turns, his brow furrowing. "What? When did you stop?"
"A year ago, maybe? I don't know. It just started making me jittery."
He stares at you for a moment longer than comfortable. There's a flicker of something in his eyes—hurt, maybe, or the sting of not knowing. He forces a smile, but you see through it easily. You always could.
The conversation shifts. They talk about how you and Jaehyun met, how he asked you out even though he thought you might hate him because you seemed so closed off. Minhyun laughs.
"Yea, I thought that too when I met her. She's got this wall up."
"She's worth breaking through," Jaehyun says, his hand finding yours under the table.
You squeeze back, but your smile is tight.
When the café date ends, you walk out together, the late afternoon sun warm on your shoulders. Minhyun heads off with a wave, and Jaehyun turns to you, his expression thoughtful.
"I liked him," he says. "He seems nice."
"Good."
But you know him. You know the slight tension in his jaw, the way his eyes are just a little too bright. "What's wrong?" you ask softly.
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I don't like how I can't remember things about you that have changed. I don't like that someone else knows you better than I do right now."
You stop walking. Turn to face him fully. Your heart pounds, but your voice is steady.
"No one knows my heart, soul, body, and dreams like you, Jaehyun. No one." And it's not a lie.
He looks at you, and there's so much vulnerability in his gaze that it hurts. You don't think. You just step forward, rise on your toes, and press your lips to his.
It's you. For the first time in this strange, twisted game, you're the one initiating physical contact. Your hand cups his cheek, feeling the faint stubble, the warmth of his skin. He freezes for half a second, then melts into it, his arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer.
The kiss is soft at first—tentative, like a question. Then it deepens, and you feel his breath hitch, his fingers threading into your hair. You let yourself sink into it, just for a moment, letting the taste of his lips erase the lies you've been telling.
When you pull back, his eyes are still closed. He opens them slowly, and there's something raw in them—gratitude, longing, love.
"Thank you," he whispers.
You don't know what he's thanking you for. The kiss. The reassurance. All of it.
You just nod, taking his hand, and walk home together in silence.
The next morning, Jaehyun kisses your forehead before he leaves, promising to text you when he's done with the members. You watch him go from the window, his gait still a little careful, a little guarded, like his body remembers the accident even if his mind doesn't.
You meet Minhyun at the same café. He's already there, nursing a black coffee, scrolling through his phone. When you slide into the seat across from him, he looks up and doesn't bother with pleasantries.
"You're fucked," he says.
You blink. "What?"
He sets his phone down, leans forward. "I thought you were doing this out of pity. Or kindness. Some noble ex-girlfriend bullshit." He shakes his head slowly. "But you're still in love with him."
Your mouth opens. Closes. "What?"
"It's clear as day." He holds your gaze, steady and unflinching. "I saw you two together. The way you look at him. The way you kissed him at the end there. That's not pity. That's a woman who never stopped."
You want to deny it. The words are right there, lined up on your tongue. No, I'm just confused. I'm just going through the motions. I'm just—
But you can't say them. Because they'd be lies.
Minhyun's voice softens. "For what it's worth, it's just as obvious he feels the same. That guy is wrecked for you, Y/N. Even with his scrambled brain, he knows."
You drop your gaze to the table, tracing the grain of the wood with your fingertip. "Maybe I never fully got over him." The admission comes out raw, scraped clean of pretense. "And no matter what, I'll always love him. I don't know how to not."
Minhyun smiles. It's a sad smile, the kind that carries the weight of things left unsaid. He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing yours. "I know this is messed up. But maybe… this accident was a blessing in disguise? To bring you two together." He lets out a quiet laugh, almost to himself. "I don't believe in destiny or soulmates. But sometimes… maybe things happen for a reason. Don't waste this chance."
The tears come before you can stop them. One slips down your cheek, then another. You press your palm to your mouth, trying to hold it in, but your shoulders shake.
"I have to come clean," you whisper, voice cracking. "Soon. But I'm so scared of how he'll react. What if he remembers everything and he's disgusted? What if he already chose to walk away two years ago and I've been pretending we're still together? What if he hates me for lying?"
Minhyun gets up, rounds the table, and pulls you into his arms. You collapse against him, face buried in his chest, your tears soaking into his shirt. He rubs your back in slow, steady circles, his hand warm and grounding.
"It's alright," he murmurs. "Everything will be okay."
You cry into his shoulder, ugly and raw, and he doesn't flinch. He just holds you, letting you fall apart in the middle of a café, surrounded by strangers who don't know the mess of your heart.
And for a moment—just a moment—you let yourself believe him.
The door clicks shut behind you, and the silence of Jaehyun's apartment wraps around you like a wool blanket—heavy, warm, suffocating. You kick off your shoes without bothering to put them away, drop your bag by the entrance, and drag yourself through the hallway.
Your body feels hollowed out. Every muscle aches with the weight of the morning, of Minhyun's words, of the tears you let him catch.
You don't even remember crawling into bed. One moment you're standing in the bedroom doorway, staring at the sheets that still smell like him. The next, you're face-down on the mattress, fully clothed, the world fading to black.
Jaehyun comes home to darkness.
The apartment is quiet, no light from the living room, no hum of the TV. He calls your name softly, but there's no answer. He checks the kitchen, the bathroom, and then pushes open the bedroom door.
You're sprawled across the bed, still in the jeans and sweater you wore this morning. Your hair is fanned out messily across the pillow, one arm dangling off the edge. You didn't even pull the covers over yourself.
He frowns, his brow knitting with concern. He sits down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and places a gentle hand on your back. "Y/N," he murmurs. "You want to change into something more comfortable?"
You shift, a soft sound escaping your lips, but you don't wake. Just burrow deeper into the pillow.
He doesn't push. Instead, he carefully pulls the duvet from under you, draping it over your body. He brushes the hair from your face, his thumb tracing along your cheekbone. Your skin is warm, slightly puffy around your eyes. He notices. His fingers still for a moment, but he doesn't ask. He tells himself it's just fatigue, the stress of the past days.
He leans down, presses a feather-light kiss to your temple, and whispers, "Sleep well."
Then he gets up, undresses quietly, and slides into bed beside you. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close, and rests his chin on your shoulder. Within minutes, he's asleep.
Morning comes in pale gray light filtering through the curtains.
Jaehyun wakes first. His internal clock is still military-trained—up before the sun, even on leave. He eases out of bed carefully so as not to disturb you, padding barefoot to the kitchen.
He makes himself a black coffee. For you, he boils water and steeps a chamomile tea bag, knowing you prefer it mild. He sets the mug on the counter, waiting.
You sleep for another hour. Then two.
When you finally stir, the tea has gone cold. He reheats it, brings it to the bedroom, and sits beside you. His hand finds your neck first—a gentle touch, checking your temperature. Then his palm presses against your forehead.
"Hey," he says softly. "You okay?"
You blink, groggy, your voice raspy. "Yea. Just tired."
He studies your face, searching for cracks you've already learned to hide. "Don't stress over me, okay?" He strokes your hair back. "I'll get better. The doctors said it might take time, but I'm already remembering bits and pieces. It'll come."
You force a smile. If only that were my biggest problem.
He tilts his head. "What did you do yesterday? You were out when I got back."
"Met Minhyun again," you say, the name slipping out before you can weigh it.
"Oh." His voice is neutral, but there's a flicker in his eyes. "So soon?"
"What does that mean?" You sit up slowly, pulling the duvet to your chest.
He shrugs, looking down at his coffee cup. "Nothing. I don't know." A pause. "I've just been feeling a bit insecure since I can't remember anything lately. You have this whole life I'm not a part of. People you see, things you do. I feel… behind."
Your heart clenches. You reach for his hand, lifting it to your lips and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. "If you want to know something, you can just ask me. You don't need to hide anything."
He looks at you then, really looks, and the insecurity melts into something softer. He leans in, presses a kiss to your cheek, his lips lingering. "We should eat something. I'll make pancakes."
You nod, and he gets up, heading for the kitchen.
You sit there, the tea warming your palms, and wonder how much longer you can keep this up. How many more mornings of pretending everything is fine before the truth shatters the fragile peace you've built.
But for now, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed and follow the smell of batter hitting the pan.
The date unfolds like a memory you've been trying to forget but can't stop replaying. Jaehyun insists he takes you out tonight, claiming it'll bring back memories.
He takes you to a small restaurant tucked away along the coastline, the kind of place you used to visit on lazy Sunday afternoons when the world felt small and safe. The wooden deck overlooks the ocean, lanterns strung overhead casting warm pools of light across the tables. The salt breeze carries the sound of waves, soft and rhythmic.
You order shrimp pasta, he gets lasagna. And for a while, it is like old times.
He asks about your week—the parts you're willing to share—and you find yourself laughing at his jokes, the way he scrunches his nose when he's being particularly silly. He reaches across the table to hold your hand, kisses your knuckles between bites. Then he cuts a piece of his lasagna and holds the fork out to you, eyebrows raised in that familiar, teasing way.
"Open up."
You roll your eyes but accept, the warm cheese and meat melting on your tongue. He grins, satisfied, and goes back to his own plate.
The conversation drifts between nothing and everything. He talks about the band, about Jungwoo's upcoming enlistment, about how Johnny's been texting him ideas for a solo track. You nod, you smile, you add your own commentary. The weight in your chest loosens, just a fraction.
After dinner, he pays before you can argue, then leads you down a narrow path to the beach. He kicks off his shoes, then kneels to help you with yours, unlacing your sandals with careful fingers. He holds them in one hand, his other hand finding yours, fingers lacing together.
"Walk barefoot," he says, glancing at you sidelong. "I know you love it."
You do. You always have. The sand is cool and damp between your toes, the water kissing the shore just inches away. The moon hangs low and silver over the horizon, painting the waves in soft light.
You walk in silence for a while. The kind of silence that used to feel comfortable, but now presses against your ribs like a held breath.
Then he stops. Turns to face you, the ocean at his back, his eyes soft and earnest.
"After I finish my last two months in the military, I'm a free man," he says, voice low but steady. "We can spend the rest of our lives together."
You freeze.
The words hit you like cold water. Rest of our lives. He's planning a future that doesn't exist. He's talking about after, about a timeline where you're still his, where the breakup never happened, where the year of silence and hurt and moving on was erased by a head injury and a hospital bed.
"What's wrong?" he asks, his smile faltering.
You force your mouth to move. "Nothing. I just… didn't think about that. But you're right."
It comes out hollow, but he doesn't seem to notice. He's already looking out at the water, his thumb tracing circles on your hand.
"We should go looking for a ring soon," he says, almost to himself. "I want to do it right. Maybe next week, after I see the doctor again."
Your stomach lurches. A wave of nausea rolls through you, hot and sudden. You pull your hand from his, pressing your palm to your mouth.
"I feel sick," you manage. "Maybe it was the shrimp."
He's immediately at your side, his hand on your back. "Hey, hey—come here."
You stumble toward the edge of the water, doubling over as your body rebels. He holds your hair back, his other hand rubbing firm circles between your shoulder blades. You heave, nothing but bile and the remnants of dinner, your eyes watering.
"It's okay," he murmurs. "Let it out. I've got you."
When it passes, you straighten up, shaky and pale. He hands you a water bottle from his jacket pocket—always prepared, always caring. You rinse your mouth, drink slowly, and let him guide you back to the car.
He drives with one hand, the other resting on your thigh. Every few minutes, he glances over, concern etched into his brow.
"You sure you're okay? We can stop at a pharmacy if you need something."
"I'm fine," you whisper, but you're not. You're the opposite of fine.
You're sitting next to a man who's planning to marry you, who doesn't know you've been broken up longer than you were ever together in his memory. And every second you don't tell him the truth, the lie grows deeper, more tangled, more dangerous.
You close your eyes, the hum of the engine filling your ears, and know—with a certainty that sits heavy in your gut—that you have to tell him. Soon. Before he buys a ring. Before he falls any deeper into a dream that isn't real.
But the thought of his face when he learns the truth makes you want to throw up all over again.
You close the bathroom door softly, the click of the lock echoing in the small tiled space. The mirror reflects a stranger—pale, hollow-eyed, a woman who's been lying for days and is about to break.
You pull out your phone and dial the number you'd saved in a moment of guilt-ridden foresight. Jaehyun's mom picks up on the second ring, her voice warm but wary, like she already knows bad news is coming.
"Sweetheart, is everything okay?"
"No," you whisper, voice cracking. "It's not. I can't do this anymore."
Silence on her end. You press on, the words tumbling out before you lose courage.
"I have to tell him the truth. Tonight. Tomorrow at the latest. He's talking about marriage, about spending the rest of our lives together, about looking for rings. I can't—" Your breath hitches. "I can't keep pretending. It's tearing me apart."
"Please," his mom says, her voice gentle but pleading. "Just a little longer. The doctor said his memory might return on its own. If you tell him now and it shocks him, it could set back his recovery. Please, for his sake—"
"No." You shake your head even though she can't see it. "You don't understand. He's planning a future. He's picking out rings. I'm going to have to look him in the eye and lie while he puts a ring on my finger if I wait any longer. I can't."
There's a long pause. You hear Jaehyun's mom exhale slowly, the sound heavy with years of maternal exhaustion.
Then she speaks, her voice quieter, almost fragile.
"I guess… he doesn't remember."
You frown. "Remember what?"
"He already bought a ring." The words land like stones. "About a month before he enlisted. He called us, so excited. Said he wanted to propose soon. He'd been saving up, found the perfect one. He asked for my mother's ring—to have it reset, combine it with something new. He wanted it to be special."
Your throat tightens. "What?"
"He loved you so much, sweetheart. We'd never seen him like that. He was glowing when he talked about it." Her voice wavers. "And then a few weeks later… he called again. Said he'd broken up with you. Wouldn't tell us why. Just kept saying it was for the best, that you deserved better, that he was being selfish by holding you back. We thought he was just scared of the military, of the distance. But we never knew the real reason."
You lean against the sink, the ceramic cold through your shirt. The phone feels heavy against your ear.
"Why didn't he propose?" you ask, the question raw, scraped out of you. "Why did he end it instead?"
"I don't know," she says softly. "I wish I did. Maybe he'll remember. Maybe… maybe this is a second chance for you both. To find out."
You close your eyes. The water is running in the kitchen, the soft clink of dishes, Jaehyun humming a melody you used to fall asleep to.
"I have to go," you murmur.
"Think about it, please. Just a little more time."
You end the call without answering, shoving the phone into your pocket. You stare at your reflection again—the smudged mascara, the trembling lips, the woman who got a ring she never knew existed from a man who broke her heart instead of giving it to her.
You don't know whether to cry or scream.
So you do neither. You splash cold water on your face, dry it with a towel, and open the bathroom door.
Jaehyun looks up from the sink, hands soapy, a smile softening his features.
"You okay? Heard you talking in there."
"Fine," you lie, the taste of it familiar now. "Just my mom. Checking in."
He nods, turning back to the dishes. "Tell her I said hi."
You lean against the doorframe, watching the way his shoulders move under his shirt, the way he hums without a care, the way the future he's building for you both is built on sand.
And you wonder—if he remembered the ring, if he remembered why he never gave it to you—would he still want to marry you now?
Or would he break your heart all over again?
The knocking comes sharp and insistent, rattling the door in its frame. Three rapid thuds, then a pause, then two more.
Your eyes snap open. The morning light filters through the curtains, pale and gray. Beside you, Jaehyun is dead weight, one arm flung across your waist, his breathing deep and even. He doesn't stir.
You slide out from under his arm carefully, your bare feet hitting the cold floor. The knocking comes again—harder this time.
"Coming," you hiss under your breath, grabbing the first thing you can find. Jaehyun's t-shirt from last night, crumpled on the floor. You pull it over your head—it hangs past your thighs, the fabric warm and smelling like him.
You pad to the door, unlock it, and crack it open just wide enough to see who it is.
Your stomach drops.
Soobin.
He's standing on your doorstep, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, hair messy like he ran his fingers through it too many times. His eyes are bloodshot, worried.
"Y/N," he breathes, relief flooding his face. "Thank god. I was so fucking worried."
You push the door shut behind you, stepping out onto the small porch, your bare legs exposed to the crisp morning air. You cross your arms, hugging yourself, suddenly very aware that you're wearing nothing but your ex-boyfriend's shirt.
"What are you doing here?" Your voice comes out hoarse, frazzled. "Soobin, you can't...you need to leave."
He takes a step closer, searching your face. "You ended things out of nowhere. No explanation. Just a text saying 'I can't do this anymore.' I thought something happened to you. I thought you were in trouble."
"I'm fine." You press a hand to your chest, feeling your heart hammer. "I'm sorry I did it like that. I should have called. But I'm fine, and you need to go."
"Fine?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You look like you haven't slept in a week. You're wearing a guy's shirt. Y/N, what the hell is going on?"
You swallow. The truth sits heavy on your tongue, but you force it out. "I got back together with my ex."
Soobin's expression shifts. His jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing. He looks at you—really looks—and something cold settles into his features.
"The one who broke your heart?" His voice drops, low and sharp. "The one you cried about? The one who left you for the military and didn't even call?"
Your throat closes. The tears prick at your eyes, hot and unwanted. "Please," you whisper. "Please just leave."
He stands there for a long moment, studying you like he's trying to find the person he thought he knew. Then he shakes his head, steps back, hands raised in surrender.
"Fine." He turns, walks down the path, then stops. He looks over his shoulder. "You deserve better than that, Y/N. You always did."
He leaves.
You stand there, frozen, the cold biting into your legs, the tears finally spilling over. You wipe them away with the back of your hand, take a shaky breath, and turn back to the door.
You push it open.
Jaehyun is standing in the hallway.
His hair is mussed from sleep, his chest bare, pajama pants slung low on his hips. He looks like he just woke up—but his eyes are wide open, dark, fixed on you. There's a crease between his brows, a tension in his shoulders.
"Who was that?" His voice is quiet. Careful.
You freeze. The door clicks shut behind you. The silence stretches, suffocating.
"It was... no one," you say. The lie tastes like ash.
He doesn't move. "I heard you talking. You said you got back together with your ex."
You can't breathe. He's looking at you like he's trying to piece together a puzzle that doesn't fit.
"Y/N." He takes a step forward, his voice steady but fragile. "Who was that?"
---------------
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Football Player Donghyuck x President's Daughter Reader (smut) - Repost
Since the World Cup is happening right now, here's a repost of my lil story!
16k ish, tad bit slow burn at the start, masterbation, dirty talk, unprotected sex, oral sex
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The Eclipse Cup had always been more than a tournament. It was spectacle and pride, a proving ground where nations measured not only their teams but their spirits against one another. And this year, the honor of hosting had fallen to your country.
Which meant you, as the president’s daughter, were in attendance. Always.
The stadium pulsed with electric energy, flags painting the stands in brilliant colors, vuvuzelas and chants rattling the air like thunder. From the presidential family’s VIP box, you had the perfect view—front and center, every eye on you whenever the cameras panned between plays.
You had grown up with this weight: soccer was your country’s heartbeat, its lifeblood, and your family’s presence at home games was as much political as it was traditional. You were expected to cheer with perfect patriotism, to look proud when your nation triumphed, composed when they didn’t.
But today’s match wasn’t about your team. The opening game of the Eclipse Cup pitted two foreign countries against one another. Which meant, technically, you weren’t expected to feel much at all.
And then he took the field.
Lee Donghyuck. Rookie. Barely older than you. And already, the commentators spoke about him as though he were soccer’s second coming—an MVP in the making. You’d rolled your eyes when you heard the hype before kickoff. But now, watching him glide across the pitch, sweat streaking down bronze skin, smirk tugging at lips that looked far too pretty for someone who played with such ferocity… you understood.
Unfortunately.
He was too good. Quick feet, effortless control, the ball clinging to him as though enchanted. He scored the first goal with ruthless precision, and the second with an audacious strike that made the crowd roar—even those wearing the wrong colors.
And he knew it.
Every celebration was cocky, arms outstretched like a god descending among mortals. His teammates cheered him, and he basked in it, laughing, chest heaving, sweat slicking the strands of hair stuck to his forehead.
You hated how your eyes lingered.
When the final whistle blew, Donghyuck’s team victorious, he jogged across the pitch, waving to the crowd. Then—just for a heartbeat—his head lifted higher, gaze flicking toward the VIP box.
Your breath caught.
The grin widened, sharp and knowing, and he gave the faintest bow of his head before turning to jog toward the tunnel with his teammates.
Heat prickled your neck.
No, no. That hadn’t been for you. He wouldn’t dare. More likely, he’d been acknowledging your parents—important political figures, the ones who mattered. Not the daughter expected to clap politely and keep her smile in place.
And yet, your pulse thrummed. Because in the seconds his eyes had met yours, it hadn’t felt like politics. It had felt… forbidden.
And worse—you weren’t sure if you wanted it to stop.
That night, the stadium’s roar was long gone, replaced with the pulse of bass and laughter in one of the capital’s favorite lounges. You sat tucked into a corner booth with Sooyoung and a few others, a chilled cocktail glass sweating in your hand. The weight of the day had lifted, replaced by the giddy, harmless gossip that always flowed when you and Sooyoung were together.
“So…” Sooyoung leaned closer, her eyes glittering with mischief over the rim of her glass. “That rookie. Lee Donghyuck.Don’t tell me you didn’t notice how hot he is.”
You nearly choked on your drink. “Hot?” you scoffed, swatting at her arm. “Please. He’s obnoxious. He knows he’s good and he shoves it in everyone’s face.”
“Mm, so you did notice.” Sooyoung smirked, ignoring your glare. “I bet half the country is googling him right now. Wondering if he’s single. Wondering what’s under that uniform.” She wiggled her eyebrows, making the table burst into laughter.
You laughed too, hitting her hand playfully. “Stop! He’s not all that great.”
But your smile betrayed you. Because… okay. He was great. Too great. The kind of great that made your chest tight just thinking about the way his smirk curved after that second goal.
Later, back in the quiet of your bedroom, you found yourself restless. The city outside your window slept, but you couldn’t. Not with his face flashing uninvited in your mind.
So, against your better judgment, you typed his name into the search bar.
The rabbit hole opened instantly. Pre-rookie footage of him tearing through defenses like they were children. Old interviews where his cocky charm bled through every word, that lazy grin flashing before he winked directly into the camera.
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. But you didn’t stop.
He wasn’t just arrogant; he was… magnetic. He laughed easily, answered questions with a flirty lilt, always just this side of disrespectful.
Definitely not your type. Definitely not the kind of man you were supposed to think about.
And yet.
You absolutely did not click on the training video. The one at the gym. The one where his shirt clung to his chest and his biceps flexed beneath a sheen of sweat as he pressed a ridiculous amount of weight overhead. You definitely didn’t let it loop twice, imagining how the barbell must feel compared to—
You snapped the laptop shut, burying your heated face in your hands. “God. No. Absolutely not.”
Except the damage was done.
Because now, instead of rolling your eyes at him, you were… waiting. Waiting for his next match, two days away, pulse already quickening at the thought of watching him play again.
Two days later, the stadium buzzed again—fuller, louder, brighter than before. The Eclipse Cup was only just beginning, but already the fever had gripped the city.
And you, for reasons you stubbornly refused to admit, had taken longer than usual getting dressed. The white summer dress hugged you just right—simple, elegant, presidential-daughter appropriate. But the cut of it, the flash of leg when you crossed them, the soft swell of your breasts framed by the square neckline… that was for you. For your confidence. Not for anyone else. Certainly not for him.
When the players filed onto the field, the air swelled with ceremony. Two national anthems rang out first, the teams standing in stiff formation. Then your own country’s anthem boomed through the speakers, pride rippling across the stadium like a wave. You kept your chin lifted, expression serene, exactly as you were taught.
And then your eyes drifted.
Donghyuck stood with his teammates, broad shoulders squared, lips pressed together in solemn respect. But when he glanced down, he crouched slightly, ruffling the hair of the small child mascot standing in front of him, saying something that made the boy giggle. The sight tugged a smile from you before you even realized it.
You caught yourself instantly, cheeks heating as you smoothed your expression back into neutrality. You weren’t supposed to… to melt at that.
The whistle blew. The game began.
At first, Donghyuck surprised you. He hung back, letting the others run the plays, passing instead of dominating. Almost like he didn’t need to prove himself this time. But midway through, as though he’d grown bored, he exploded into motion. One goal. Then, within minutes, another.
The stadium erupted. Cheers deafened the air, some in awe, some in frustration. His teammates mobbed him, but he played it cool, flashing that devastating grin. This time, he turned toward the nearest camera, blowing a flying kiss that made half the girls in the stands scream and the guys groan with laughter.
You rolled your eyes. But your stomach flipped.
And when he jogged back to position, for the briefest second, his gaze cut upward. Toward the VIP box. Toward you.
Your breath stalled. Was it real? Or were you imagining it again, the way you wanted to?
The game ended with his team victorious, once more. The crowd roared, flags waving, chants echoing into the warm evening air. Donghyuck lingered at the edge of the field, clapping with his teammates, soaking in the attention. Then, as they headed toward the tunnel, he slowed.
Walking backwards.
Eyes fixed.
Your heart hammered as you realized he wasn’t glancing vaguely upward. He was looking. Right at you.
And this time, he didn’t smirk. He grinned—boyish, mischievous, like a secret passed across the stadium.
The grin stayed until he finally spun around and disappeared from sight.
You sat frozen in your seat, dress clinging to your skin, pulse thrumming in your ears.
There was no denying it now.
It wasn’t your imagination.
He was looking at you.
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You didn’t even make it through the drive home before your phone was in your hand, thumb twitching to refresh. By the time you kicked off your heels in your bedroom, you already had YouTube open.
“This is ridiculous,” you muttered, clicking the top result. “I’m just curious. That’s all.”
Totally harmless. Totally normal.
Except your pulse jumped the second his face filled the screen.
The video was fresh—barely an hour old. Donghyuck at the post-game press conference, hair damp from his shower, jersey swapped for a fitted polo that still clung a little too well to his chest. He looked half-bored, lounging in his chair with one elbow propped on the table, answering questions with clipped politeness.
Until one reporter asked, “Lee Donghyuck, that flying kiss you gave after your second goal—who was it for?”
His grin broke across his face like sunlight, mischievous and smug all at once. “For whoever wanted to receive it.” He winked directly at the camera, and the press room rippled with laughter.
You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. “Unbelievable.” And yet your stomach twisted, heat creeping up your neck.
Another reporter asked about his playing style—why he’d hung back at first, only to explode later. He leaned into the microphone, shrugging casually. “It’s a long tournament. You don’t burn your fuel all at once. I let my teammates get comfortable, I read the defense, and then—” His smirk sharpened. “I finish it.”
You hated how your thighs pressed together at the way he said finish.
Then came the question that made your throat go dry.
“It’s your first time in our country. Have you had a chance to explore the city?”
Donghyuck’s smile widened, slow and deliberate. “Not yet,” he said, gaze flicking up. “I was hoping maybe a VIP could show me around.”
The room chuckled. He leaned back, looking far too satisfied with himself.
“Have you met any VIP officials yet?” someone pressed.
He shook his head. “Not yet. But I hope… soon.”
Your heart stuttered.
The final question: “Are you seeing anyone lately?”
Donghyuck laughed, low and smooth, tilting his head until his eyes locked with the camera lens. For a second, it felt like he was looking straight into your room.
“I’m available,” he said, lips curving slow, “just in case anyone out there was wondering.”
You slammed the laptop shut so fast it startled you.
This was insane. You weren’t some fangirl staying up late to watch press clips and training videos. You were the president’s daughter. You had responsibilities, an image, a country to think of.
And yet when you crawled beneath your sheets, your phone clutched tight in your hand, you couldn’t stop replaying his grin in your head. His words. His eyes.
“Not yet,” he’d said. “But I hope… soon.”
You exhaled shakily.
Two games, and Lee Donghyuck had already invaded your life.
And you weren’t sure you wanted him to leave.
---------------
By now, you knew the routine. Every team in the tournament would be welcomed with a formal dinner hosted by your family—part tradition, part diplomacy. Your country prided itself on hospitality, and these evenings were meant to showcase that.
It should have been routine. Predictable.
But today was different.
Today was his team’s turn.
You told yourself it was no big deal. You told yourself it was just another dinner, nothing more. And yet you’d spent nearly the entire afternoon trying on dress after dress, fussing with your hair until every strand fell just so, redoing your makeup three separate times. Every time Sooyoung texted you to ask what you were wearing, you swore it was casual, no big effort. Just another night.
And yet, when you finally stepped into the receiving hall, silk dress brushing against your legs, heart thudding, you knew you were lying to yourself.
The cameras were already in place, flashing as your family took their positions for the greetings. One by one, the players entered, shaking your father’s hand first, then your mother’s, before moving down the line. Each one smiled for the photographers, posed politely beside you all before being ushered toward the private dining room.
And then—last, as rookies often were—came him.
Lee Donghyuck.
The suit fit him like it was stitched to his skin, the cut sharp against the easy arrogance of his stride. His hair was styled back, but a few strands still fell boyishly across his forehead, softening him in a way that made your breath catch. The warm, musky cologne that clung to him reached you before he did, rich and dizzying.
You steeled yourself, preparing for the usual handshake. But when he reached you, he didn’t simply take your hand.
He lifted it gently, leaned down, and pressed his lips against your knuckles.
The cameras exploded in flashes.
It wasn’t the first time someone had greeted you this way. You were the president’s daughter, after all—politeness, reverence, even a little flattery were expected. And yet, the way he did it—slow, deliberate, his eyes never leaving yours—made heat crawl up your neck.
“Nice to finally meet you,” he said, voice smooth, warm, curling around you like his cologne. His grin widened just slightly. “A bit overdue, in fact.”
“Oh?” Your voice betrayed you with the faintest waver. “Why do you say that?”
He tilted his head, still holding your hand a moment too long. “We’re around the same age. It’d be nice to have a friend, don’t you think? It’s hard to meet people in this type of work.”
You smiled, though your chest was fluttering. “I… know what you mean.”
The photographers called for everyone to gather, breaking the moment. The team lined up beside your family, the flashes popping again as the official picture was taken—bright smiles, hands clasped, the perfect display of diplomatic unity.
Then, at last, the doors to the private dining room closed, leaving the cameras outside.
You found your seat at the long, elegantly set table—golden cutlery gleaming, crystal glasses catching the light. Your breath stuttered when you realized Donghyuck was sliding into the chair directly beside you.
“Coincidence,” you whispered to yourself. It had to be.
And yet the awareness of him pressed against you like a live wire. His cologne, his warmth, the subtle brush of his sleeve when he adjusted in his seat. You kept your chin high, posture impeccable, smiling and engaging in polite conversation as though nothing at all was amiss.
But your pulse betrayed you.
Because no matter how carefully you composed yourself, every nerve ending in your body was acutely aware of the boy sitting inches away, the boy who had kissed your hand like it meant something, the boy who had looked at you from across a stadium full of people and smiled like it was only for you.
And you couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew exactly how much he was affecting you.
Dinner began exactly as expected: polished conversation, polite laughter, your father leading discussions about sport diplomacy and hospitality, your mother complimenting the team’s performance. The players responded with rehearsed charm, their coaches thanking your country for its warmth.
You kept your posture immaculate, your smile soft, the way you always did at these events. But sitting beside Donghyuck made it feel… different.
At first, his focus stayed on your father, your mother, the older officials down the table. But every so often, his shoulder brushed yours when he leaned back. His cologne seemed stronger when he turned his head your way, warm and heady. And once or twice, you could swear his voice dropped lower, pitched just for you when he made a quiet comment between courses.
“Food here is incredible,” he murmured when the second dish arrived. His words were innocent enough. But his eyes lingered on you, trailing briefly down your neckline before returning to your face. “I could get used to it.”
You blinked. Was that… flirting? It was so subtle, so slippery, you couldn’t pin it down.
Later, when someone made a joke about his flashy goal celebrations, Donghyuck chuckled, then leaned closer to you, his breath grazing your ear. “You didn’t think that kiss was too much, did you?” His gaze dropped to your lips for a heartbeat before he straightened again.
Heat shot through you. Normally, you hated when men stared so openly at your mouth, your body, like you were there to be consumed. But now, with him—smirking, confident, impossibly magnetic—you didn’t hate it at all.
By the time the dessert course was mentioned, you were on the edge of unraveling. The heat in your cheeks, the quickening of your pulse—none of it felt proper, not here, not now.
“I’ll just—excuse me for a moment,” you said softly, rising from your chair before anyone could stop you.
In the privacy of the washroom, you braced your hands on the sink, staring at your reflection in the mirror. “Get a grip,” you whispered, trying to slow your breathing. He was just a boy. A cocky, talented, ridiculously handsome boy. You couldn’t let him affect you this way.
You smoothed your dress, pressed your lips together until the flush faded, and finally stepped back into the hallway.
Only to collide with him.
Donghyuck’s hand shot out to steady you, warm against your arm. “Sorry,” he said, though his smile was anything but apologetic. “Guess I was heading the same way.”
For a moment, the hallway felt too small, too quiet. Just the two of you, the hum of conversation distant behind the doors.
“I’m sure you get asked this all the time,” he began, tone softer now, casual in a way that felt dangerously intimate. “But… could I get your number? Maybe we could hang out sometime.”
You raised a brow, trying to mask the sudden rush in your chest. “What, you need a VIP official to show you around?”
His grin deepened, slow and knowing. “Oh, so you do watch my interviews?”
Your teeth caught your bottom lip before you could stop yourself. Caught. Exposed.
“Relax,” he teased, voice dropping low. “I’m flattered. And I meant what I said—it’d be nice to be shown around. Especially by someone as gorgeous as you.”
Before you could respond, he slipped your phone easily from your hand, typing his number in with quick fingers. He handed it back, the faintest brush of skin against yours, then stepped past you toward the washroom with a grin.
“Text me,” he said over his shoulder, disappearing inside.
You stood frozen in the hall for a second, then pressed your phone tight to your chest as you walked back toward the dining room.
You were smiling—huge, helpless, giddy—and for the first time in your life at one of these dinners, you hoped the night wasn’t nearly over.
-----------
You hadn’t texted him.
His number sat saved in your phone, glowing like temptation every time you scrolled past it. But each time your thumb hovered over it, your mind flooded with warnings. Scandal. Headlines. The whispers of diplomats and the judgment of your country.
So you didn’t text.
You told yourself it was for the best.
But when the third match of the Eclipse Cup began—his team’s most important yet, the one that would decide if they advanced to the quarter semifinals—you realized that “for the best” didn’t stop your stomach from knotting the moment Donghyuck stepped onto the field.
The stadium was louder than ever, nerves and energy rattling the air like a storm. Both teams fought tooth and nail, trading goals back and forth, neither able to pull ahead. And every time Donghyuck touched the ball, the opposing defense swarmed him, three men collapsing on him like shadows.
For most of the game, he seemed… fine with it. Holding back, moving strategically, letting his teammates take the shots.
Until the final minutes.
The score was tied, the crowd a restless sea. Then, in a blur, Donghyuck broke free. He slipped past the first man, spun past the second, and burned the third with a burst of speed so sharp it drew gasps. One-on-one with the keeper, he struck clean.
The net rippled.
The stadium erupted.
The crowd surged to its feet, deafening chants shaking the very structure. Cameras swiveled, capturing him as he tore off down the pitch, teammates piling onto him in celebration.
And of course, because he couldn’t resist, he turned to the nearest lens and blew another kiss.
You groaned aloud, but your body betrayed you—the heat in your face, the sharp twist in your stomach.
Then chaos flared.
An opposing defender stormed toward him, jaw tight, shouting. You stiffened as the man squared up to Donghyuck, anger radiating off him. Before it could escalate, one of Donghyuck’s teammates shoved the man back, arms out in protection.
But Donghyuck didn’t move.
He just stood there, grinning, arms spread wide in mock innocence.
What did I do? his expression said. The smirk tugged his mouth, taunting, playful, infuriating.
And something inside you broke.
Because as you sat in the VIP box, legs crossing tightly beneath your dress, your chest heaving, you admitted the truth you’d been denying since the moment he looked up at you after his first game.
His ego. His arrogance. His skill. His smile.
Fuck.
You wanted him.
You wanted Lee Donghyuck.
And no amount of rules, no amount of scandal, no amount of logic was going to change that now.
-----------
The game ended hours ago, and still your phone sat in your hand.
You’d been pacing your room for nearly twenty minutes, thumbs hovering over the blank text box, typing and deleting, typing and deleting.
Finally, with a frustrated groan, you just wrote the only thing your frazzled brain could manage.
hey
The second you hit send, regret washed over you. That was it? Just “hey”? You were the daughter of diplomats, trained in eloquence, in choosing the perfect words. And yet with him… you felt sixteen again, flustered and foolish.
Minutes ticked by. An hour. Two. You almost convinced yourself he wasn’t going to respond when, close to midnight, your phone finally lit up.
who’s this
You blinked. Then narrowed your eyes.
Your thumbs flew. oh you give your number out a lot?
You barely had time to smirk at your own boldness before your phone buzzed with an incoming call.
Your eyes widened. He was calling.
Panic jolted through you as you scrambled to sit up straighter, smoothing your hair down even though he couldn’t see you. Clearing your throat, you forced your voice to sound calm as you answered.
“Hello?”
“Relax,” Donghyuck’s voice came, warm and rich, threaded with laughter. “I’m kidding. I know it’s you.”
Your cheeks heated, though you rolled your eyes like he could see it. “Not very funny.”
“Sure it was,” he said smugly. “So… what did you think of my game today?”
You leaned back, biting your lip. Two could play this game. “Average. You could’ve done better.”
There was a beat of silence—then he barked out a laugh so genuine you had to fight a smile.
“You’re something else,” he said, still chuckling. “Everyone else calls me a genius, and you say average.”
“Well, maybe I have higher standards.”
He hummed, thoughtful. “Have you ever played?”
“No,” you admitted. “Not really.”
“Then that settles it,” he said, voice dipping lower, smoother. “You’re meeting me at the private practice field. I’ll show you a few moves.”
Your heart skipped. He said it like a command, not a suggestion, like he already knew you’d say yes.
You hesitated, chewing your lip, the warnings in your head hissing about rules, scandal, risk. But beneath all that was a thrill that burned hotter than fear.
“…Alright,” you said quietly. “I’ll come.”
“Good.” His voice wrapped around you, smug and satisfied. “Just between us.”
When the call ended, you set your phone down, staring at it.
For the first time in your life, you weren’t doing what was expected. You weren’t making the “smart” choice.
You were doing something just for yourself.
And it felt exhilarating.
------------
Slipping out was second nature by now. After her eighteenth birthday, Y/N had quietly perfected the art of freedom—timing the guards’ rotations, slipping past the blind spots of cameras, rehearsing her alibis. She was careful, always careful. And she’d never been caught.
Tonight, her pulse raced for a different reason.
Donghyuck was already waiting when she reached the dimly lit parking lot. He leaned against his sleek car, hood pulled low, phone in hand. The glow from the screen lit his sharp features until he spotted her—then he straightened, pocketing it, that slow, easy grin spreading across his face.
“You made it,” he said simply, like he hadn’t doubted her for a second.
“Of course I did,” she whispered back, almost defensive, as though he could sense how reckless this felt for her.
He only chuckled and pushed the gate open, motioning her through. The stadium lights hummed above, flooding the empty practice field in a surreal glow. It was massive—green stretching endlessly in every direction. Y/N’s steps faltered.
“It looks… bigger from down here,” she murmured.
Donghyuck glanced at her, amused. “It is big. Try running back and forth across it a dozen times in ninety-degree heat, then tell me what you think.”
She wrinkled her nose, imagining it. “I’ll pass.”
He laughed, walking a few paces ahead before turning back. “Why did you start playing, anyway?” she asked, genuinely curious.
“Why?” His grin turned teasing. “Because I looked really good in the jersey.”
She gave him a look. “I’m serious.”
His shoulders lifted in a faint shrug, expression softening. “My dad played. He was… incredible. I wanted to be like him.”
Her lips parted, surprised at his candidness. “He must be proud.”
Donghyuck’s gaze flicked away, down at the turf. “I hope so.” A beat passed before he added quietly, “I wouldn’t know. He passed away three years ago.”
Her breath caught. “Oh… I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
He shook his head, cutting her off with a small smile. “Don’t be. He’s still here. I feel him when I play. Every game, every goal.”
The honesty in his voice silenced her. For the first time, she wasn’t thinking about rules or risks—just him.
He shifted then, walking closer until he was directly in front of her, placing a ball at her feet. “Alright, princess. Lesson one. Kick it.”
“What, just… like this?” She nudged it awkwardly, sending it veering off course.
Donghyuck laughed under his breath, retrieving it easily. “Not bad—for someone who’s never touched a ball.” He dropped it back in place. “Use the inside of your foot, not your toe.”
He demonstrated with his own, smooth and controlled. When she tried again, she stumbled, nearly tripping over herself.
“Easy,” he murmured, stepping behind her now. His hands ghosted over her hips as he adjusted her stance, his chest brushing her back for the briefest second. “Like this.”
Her breath hitched. The heat of him was dizzying, each correction of his touch pulling her mind into darker places she couldn’t afford to linger.
Minutes blurred—ball, laughter, the brush of his arm as he steadied her. Until she couldn’t take much more.
“It’s really late,” she whispered, her voice thinner than she wanted. “I should go home.”
Instantly, he stepped back, no hesitation. “Alright.” He gathered the balls, tucking them under one arm, and led her back to the lot without another word.
At his car, he stopped, unlocking the door for her. She hesitated, biting her lip, nerves sparking through her veins. Then—before she could lose the courage—she leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
“Thanks,” she mumbled, ducking away as fast as she dared, slipping into the seat before she could see his reaction.
But she didn’t need to. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught it—the grin breaking across his face, his hand brushing the spot where her lips had been.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.
And for the entire ride back, Y/N couldn’t stop smiling either.
-------------
The quarter-semi finals felt heavier than the last two games. The air buzzed with nerves, the crowd restless with chants and cheers. Y/N sat in her usual spot, sunglasses on, phone tucked discreetly in her lap.
Good luck tonight.
She hit send before she could overthink it, fingers tapping anxiously against the screen. The typing bubble never appeared. No reply. Of course—he was getting ready, probably zoned in. She told herself not to care, but the little pang in her chest betrayed her.
When the teams walked out onto the field, her eyes instantly found him. Number 7. Donghyuck’s shoulders broad beneath the weight of his jersey, stride loose but sharp, like he owned the pitch before the whistle even blew.
The national anthem started, and Y/N was careful to look straight ahead. But it was impossible to ignore it—the way his gaze kept drifting across the line of players, past the crowd, and landing on her. Not once. Not twice. Over and over.
Her pulse quickened. No one else seemed to notice, but she knew. She felt it.
The game was brutal from the start. The opposing team wasn’t just good—they were relentless, cutting down passing lanes, swarming Donghyuck every chance they got. It was clear he was the threat they feared.
Still, he pushed through. Minutes in, with defenders clawing at his heels, he slipped past, lightning-fast, firing the ball into the back of the net. The stadium erupted.
“YES!” Y/N gasped under her breath, clapping before she remembered herself.
The scoreboard flashed: 1–1.
But tying the game only made things nastier. The other team was sharper, meaner now. One defender in particular seemed locked on Donghyuck, shoving him, elbowing him whenever the ref’s back was turned.
Then it happened—an outright shove, sending him stumbling. The ref didn’t call it.
Y/N sat forward, her stomach twisting.
Donghyuck’s jaw tightened. For a moment she thought he might explode, but he didn’t—he pushed back. Hard enough to send the other player reeling.
And then they were chest to chest, foreheads nearly colliding, the other guy screaming obscenities in his face. Donghyuck just stood there, calm, infuriatingly calm, his smirk curling at the corner of his mouth like he was above it all.
Y/N’s breath caught. God, why is this so hot? she thought, horrified at herself. She shouldn’t find this attractive, the aggression, the danger—but she did. The steadiness in his eyes, the way he didn’t flinch even with rage spit flying into his face.
The ref finally stepped in, shoving them apart, handing the other player a yellow card. Boos rained from the stands.
Donghyuck didn’t even look rattled.
Minutes later, he struck again—slipping past his man with a sudden burst of speed, hammering the ball into the goal. The crowd went wild, the sound shaking the stands.
Instead of celebrating immediately, he turned back to the opposing team. And with the cockiest grin Y/N had ever seen, he blew them an exaggerated, mocking air kiss.
She slapped a hand over her mouth, half-gasping, half-laughing, her stomach flipping.
His teammates tackled him in a crushing hug, shouting in triumph. The scoreboard read: 2–1. Another win. Another step closer to the finals.
And Y/N could only sit there, heart racing, replaying that smirk, that kiss blown across the field, wondering if she was crazy to hope—even just for a second—that it hadn’t been meant for them at all.
The press conference was chaos. Cameras flashing, reporters jostling for space, the roar of victory still echoing from the stadium. Donghyuck leaned lazily into the mic, sweat drying on his skin, jersey clinging to him.
“Number 7,” one reporter started, “can you comment on the altercation with the opposing forward? It looked heated.”
Donghyuck’s lips quirked, his tone dripping with arrogance. “Heated? Nah,” he said with a shrug. “He was just mad I ran circles around him. Can’t blame him. I’d be pissed too if someone made me look that bad on national TV.”
Laughter rippled through the room. Another question was fired, but Donghyuck’s smirk only grew, ego filling every answer. Cocky, sharp, untouchable.
Y/N didn’t stay for the whole thing—she couldn’t. The second she was home, she curled up with her laptop, searching YouTube for clips. They were everywhere already: the goals, the fight, the mocking air kiss replayed in slow motion, commentators dissecting his swagger like it was a weapon.
She hit play again and again. His smirk. His calm. His fire.
Her thighs pressed together, restless, her body buzzing with leftover adrenaline that wasn’t even hers. Her hand slid down, sneaking under the hem of her shorts, a shaky breath catching in her throat as her fingers found heat.
“Oh my god…” she whispered, watching him on the screen, hips arching up against her touch. She moved slowly, gasping softly, her mind flashing with images of him—the cocky grin, the way he didn’t flinch when shoved, the confidence that made everyone else bend around him.
She was too far gone to stop. Closer, closer—
Her phone buzzed on the bed. Donghyuck.
Her whole body jolted. She yanked her hand out of her shorts, staring at the screen in disbelief. No way. No way.
Heart pounding, she swiped to answer. “H–hello?”
His voice was low, still rough from the game. “Why do you sound out of breath?”
Her throat went dry. “I—I just got back from a run,” she lied quickly, voice higher than usual.
“Uh huh,” he said, clearly not buying it, amusement curling in his tone. “Guess that’s why you sound like you’re about to keel over.”
She swallowed hard, clinging to composure. “Congratulations on the win.”
“Thanks,” he replied casually, then added, “Your good luck text must’ve done it. Guess I should keep you around for every game.”
Y/N’s lips tugged into a smile before she could stop it, warmth spreading through her chest. “Maybe you should.”
There was a beat of silence, tension humming between them through the phone. Then Y/N cleared her throat, deciding to be bold. “You know what? It’s time I finally show you around a bit. Come to the house tomorrow. I’ll take you through the presidential gardens… the whole estate.”
Donghyuck chuckled, low and intrigued. “A private tour with the President’s daughter?” he drawled. “Sounds dangerous.”
“Only if you misbehave,” she teased softly.
He hummed, the sound thick with promise. “Then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
------------
The gardens stretched wide and quiet, rows of flowers blooming in perfect symmetry, fountains trickling softly in the background. Donghyuck walked a step behind Y/N, hands shoved in his pockets, his dark eyes roaming over the estate like he couldn’t quite believe he was here.
“So,” he said after a while, his tone casual but curious, “what’s it like? Being the President’s daughter. Feels like you live in a whole different world.”
Y/N smiled faintly, brushing her hand over the top of a hedge as they walked. “It’s… complicated. You grow up knowing eyes are always on you. That you can’t really make mistakes because people are waiting to talk about them. Sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to just… be normal.”
Donghyuck glanced at her, lips quirking. “Normal’s overrated. You’d get bored.”
She laughed softly at that, shaking her head. “Maybe. What about you? Did you always know you’d end up here? Competing at this level?”
His grin softened into something quieter. “I don’t know. I never thought I wouldn’t. It wasn’t really a question for me. Football has just… always been the thing. My whole life.”
Y/N studied him as they wandered further down the gravel path. The certainty in his voice was different from arrogance—it was just fact, unshakable. She admired that.
Eventually, the path curved to a small clearing where a man-made lake glimmered under the sunlight, secluded by tall trees and thick shrubs. The air was warm, cicadas buzzing faintly, the surface of the water reflecting the sky like glass.
“Wow,” Donghyuck murmured, stepping closer to the water’s edge. His tan skin glowed faintly with sweat under the heat, a sheen on his neck and arms. “You have this all to yourself?”
“Pretty much,” Y/N said, settling onto a low stone bench facing the lake. “Not many people come out here.”
He sat beside her, close enough that his knee brushed hers. For a moment they both just watched the ripples on the lake, the silence somehow louder than words. Then his voice broke through, lower this time, teasing but edged with something else.
“You know… I’ve never been this close to royalty before.”
Y/N rolled her eyes, but her stomach fluttered. “I’m not royalty.”
“Feels like it,” he said, and when she turned her head, his gaze was already fixed on her lips.
Her breath caught. He leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. When his mouth finally touched hers, it was soft, testing, almost innocent.
Y/N froze, her heart slamming against her ribs—then she leaned back quickly, eyes wide. “We shouldn’t…”
Donghyuck’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. He pulled back, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. Maybe I should go.”
The words hit harder than she expected, sudden panic curling in her chest. Before he could stand, she grabbed his wrist and yanked him back toward her, crashing her lips against his in a kiss that was anything but innocent.
Donghyuck’s eyes widened for a split second—then he melted into her, a low sound escaping his throat as his hands found her hips. He pulled her closer, his thumb pressing into her side, his mouth moving hungrily against hers like he’d been holding back for far too long.
The world outside the trees didn’t exist anymore—just the two of them, pressed close on the stone bench, kissing like it was the most dangerous and necessary thing they’d ever done.
The kiss deepened fast, Donghyuck tugging her against him like he couldn’t help himself. Y/N shifted instinctively, sliding onto his lap, straddling him on the stone bench. His hands immediately gripped her thighs, fingers pressing into the soft skin through her shorts, holding her in place.
Her breath hitched when he tilted his head and licked into her mouth, tongue brushing hers with maddening precision. Y/N moaned softly into the kiss, her fingers threading through his damp hair, tugging when he sucked on her lower lip. Donghyuck groaned in response, the sound vibrating through her chest as he squeezed her thighs, pulling her closer until she could feel every inch of him under her.
They kissed like they’d been starving, mouths sliding, teeth grazing, each gasp making the other more desperate. She broke the kiss only long enough to breathe before diving back in, her nails scraping lightly against the back of his neck. He groaned again, deeper this time, his mouth hot and demanding as he tasted her.
Neither of them noticed how loud their moans had gotten, how flushed their skin looked in the sunlight—until the sharp buzz of her phone shattered the haze. Y/N jerked back, both of them breathing hard, a string of saliva still connecting their lips. Donghyuck’s chest rose and fell beneath her, his eyes dark and blown out as he glanced at her buzzing phone.
She scrambled off him, swiping at her mouth before answering. “H-hello?” Her mother’s voice came through, calm but curious, asking where she’d wandered off to. Y/N forced her voice steady, giving some vague excuse about the gardens, and hung up as quickly as she could.
When she looked back, Donghyuck had leaned back on the bench, his grin cocky despite how disheveled he looked—hair mussed, lips red, shirt clinging to his chest with sweat.
“It’s fine,” he said, his tone casual though his voice was still rough. “I’ll be busy now anyway. Semi-finals, then hopefully finals. Gotta keep my head straight.”
Y/N nodded, trying to slow her breathing. “I understand.”
He stood, brushing off his shorts, then leaned down to give her one last kiss—quick, but lingering enough to make her dizzy. As he pulled back, he winked. “Cheer for me.”
And just like that, he was gone, walking down the garden path like he hadn’t just kissed the President’s daughter breathless on a secluded bench.
Y/N stood frozen, biting her lip, her hair tangled from his hands. She pressed a hand to her mouth and exhaled shakily, the reality sinking in.
She was so, so screwed.
That night, Y/N lay sprawled in her bed, staring at the ceiling as her mind looped back to the garden bench, to his mouth on hers, to the way his hands had clutched her thighs like he owned her. Her chest rose and fell unevenly. She rarely ever touched herself—too shy, too repressed, too afraid someone might know—but tonight she couldn’t fight it.
She reached into her nightstand and pulled out the small vibrator she’d almost forgotten she owned. For a moment she hesitated, chewing her lip, but then she pictured Donghyuck’s smirk, the way he’d groaned into her mouth, and flicked it on.
A soft gasp escaped as the hum met her, her legs falling open against the sheets. She tried to keep quiet, hand pressed against her mouth, but the images wouldn’t stop. His tan skin gleaming in the sun. His tongue sliding against hers. His cocky voice saying, Cheer for me.
Her back arched, thighs trembling as the vibrator circled faster, her hips lifting helplessly. She shook apart quickly, muffling a cry into her pillow, her body shaking from head to toe. But as the waves of release left her panting and sweaty, a pang of emptiness lingered. The toy had done its job, but it wasn’t him. Nothing would ever compare to his mouth, his hands, his heat.
Across town, Donghyuck leaned against the steaming shower tiles in his hotel bathroom. Water streamed down his shoulders, his forehead pressed to the wall as he fisted himself with slow, aching strokes. He hadn’t meant to—had told himself he’d keep his head clear before the semi-finals—but the moment he closed his eyes, he saw her straddling him, moaning into his mouth like she couldn’t get enough.
“Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as his strokes quickened. His chest rose and fell rapidly, trying to hold himself together but failing, every muscle tense as he pictured her face tipping back in pleasure.
The heat built until his jaw clenched, his hand tightening, and he spilled with a sharp groan, his lip nearly bleeding from how hard he bit down to stay quiet. The water washed everything away, but his pulse stayed wild. He’d never wanted someone this badly in his life.
The next day, minutes before the semi-finals, Y/N’s nerves got the better of her. She sent a quick text: Can I see you? Just for a second?
When Donghyuck slipped into the quiet hallway outside the locker room, he expected her usual teasing smile—but she only stepped close, cheeks flushed, and kissed him quick and soft. “Good luck,” she whispered shyly.
For a moment he just blinked at her, dazed, her lips still tingling against his. Then a slow, boyish grin spread across his face, and he licked his lips deliberately. “Damn. I’ll be unstoppable now.”
She swatted his chest lightly, but her stomach fluttered. As he jogged off to join his team, she could still see the grin, could still feel his lips.
And she knew she was in deeper than she thought.
------------
From the very first whistle, Donghyuck was everywhere. He moved like the ball belonged to him, like the field was his stage. Within thirty minutes he had already scored three goals, each one sharper and more arrogant than the last. The crowd roared with every strike, but it was his celebration that had Y/N biting her lip.
Gone were the playful flying kisses. Now, he stuck his tongue out at the nearest camera, smirking like he was taunting not only the opposing team but the entire stadium. His teammates clapped his back, ruffled his hair, while the commentators’ voices strained with disbelief at his dominance.
Y/N’s heart raced. Watching him command the field like that was intoxicating. He wasn’t just cocky off the pitch—he earned it, every bit of it.
The tension boiled over midway through the second half when one of Donghyuck’s teammates collided roughly with an opposing defender. Shoves were exchanged, tempers flared, and suddenly the two players were chest to chest. Before the referee could step in, Donghyuck was already there, wedging himself between them. His hand pressed firmly against his teammate’s chest, his body shielding him as he squared up to the opposition with narrowed eyes.
Y/N sighed under her breath, a hot flush creeping over her skin. God, he’s such a man. Confident, fearless, protective. He wasn’t just the star—he was the one holding his team together.
By the final whistle, Donghyuck’s side had secured a dominant win, the stadium thunderous with victory chants. Cameras chased him as he jogged across the field, sweat gleaming on his tan skin, grin wide as he basked in the triumph.
But Y/N couldn’t celebrate fully. As she scrolled through updates later that night, her breath hitched when the brackets confirmed what she’d dreaded: her own country’s national team had also advanced to the finals.
The final game wasn’t just any game. It would be him—Donghyuck—against her homeland.
-----------
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Donghyuck is Spider-Man, but because of a spell gone wrong, everyone forgets who he is—including his girlfriend Y/N. He watches and protects her from the shadows, but it hurts him so bad that she doesn't remember who he is. Except her body remembers something her head can't. She wakes up in the middle of the night craving something she never knew she had. Donghyuck ensures they find their way back to each other eventually.
WC: 16.4k (full)
Warnings: Unprotected sex, restrained by Spiderman's webs during sex, dirty talk, kinda Dom!haechan, teasing, sex dreams (memories), casual mentions of sex throughout the entire story (the overall tone is more filthy than previous stories, beware)
Spiderman slips onto the fire escape outside Renjun's apartment, the city humming below him like a heartbeat he can't quite feel anymore. He's not here to spy—he tells himself that. He's just checking. Making sure she's safe. That's what he does now: patrols her life like a ghost, invisible and aching.
But then he hears Renjun's voice through the cracked window, and Y/N's laugh—that soft, familiar sound that used to be for him—and he can't tear himself away.
He crouches low, listening.
"So you're telling me you haven't gotten laid in, what, three months?" Renjun's voice is teasing, light. He's sprawled on his couch, a beer in hand, grinning at Y/N like they're having the most casual conversation in the world.
She's curled on the other end, legs tucked under her, a throw pillow hugged to her chest. "That's not what I said."
"That's exactly what you said. You said you're 'too wound up, stressed, can't sleep.' That's textbook horny, babe."
"Renjun!"
"What? I'm just saying." He takes a lazy sip of beer. "You're way too tense these days. You need to hook up with someone. Let off some steam."
She gasps, swatting at his leg. "I absolutely am not."
He grins, eyes glinting. "Yes you are. I can't put my finger on it, but you just seem so restless lately. Like you're crawling out of your skin."
"It's just stress over work." She pulls the pillow tighter. "Writing for the New York Chronicles is a lot of work. Deadlines, interviews, fact-checking—"
"Uh-huh. And when's the last time you got properly fucked?"
"Renjun!"
He laughs, full and unbothered. "I'm serious. Maybe some good dick will help you. Relax those shoulders, clear that head of yours. You're practically vibrating."
On the fire escape, Donghyuck's hands tighten into fists.
She's mine.
The thought crashes through him, possessive and raw. His jaw aches from clenching. He watches her through the window—her flustered expression, the way she hides her face in the pillow, the way she doesn't deny it. She's restless. He knows. He's seen her pace her apartment at 2 a.m., seen her press her thighs together in the bathtub, heard the soft, frustrated moans she thinks no one can hear.
And he knows Renjun is right. She needs release. But the idea of her finding that release in someone else—some stranger's hands, some stranger's mouth, some stranger's cock inside her—makes his stomach twist with something dark and violent.
"You're impossible," she mutters, throwing the pillow at Renjun.
He catches it easily. "And you're in denial. But okay. Keep telling yourself it's deadlines."
She stands, smoothing her shirt. "I'm leaving before you say something even more embarrassing."
"Text me if you change your mind! I know a guy—"
"Goodnight, Renjun!"
The door clicks shut. Renjun chuckles to himself, shaking his head.
Donghyuck stays frozen on the fire escape long after she's gone, her scent still lingering in the air, her laugh still ringing in his ears.
He knows what he has to do.
He has to reintroduce himself. Casually, carefully. Slide back into her life before she finds someone else to release those frustrations on. Before some other man touches what's his.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he watches her walk home from a rooftop three blocks away, her silhouette moving under the amber streetlights. He watches her pause at her door, glance over her shoulder like she feels something watching her. She hugs herself, shivers, and disappears inside.
Soon, he tells himself, pressing a hand over his chest where his heart used to belong to her. Soon I'll make you remember. Or I'll make you want me again.
But for now, he waits.
Donghyuck stands outside the coffee shop, his reflection staring back at him from the glass door. He checks his hair three times—runs his fingers through it, smooths the front, tucks a stray strand behind his ear. The black shirt hugs his shoulders just right, and the glasses frame his face in a way that used to make Y/N bite her lip and look at him twice.
She loved these glasses, he thinks, adjusting them once more. She used to say I looked like a secret librarian. A hot one.
He takes a breath, pushes the door open, and walks in with a confidence he's been practicing for weeks.
The bell above the door chimes. Y/N looks up from the counter where she's been scribbling in a notebook—probably working on another article for the New York Chronicles. Her hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She's wearing a simple apron over a cream sweater, and when she sees him, she smiles.
It's polite. Professional. The same smile she gives every customer working at her parent's cafe.
But it's still her smile, and his heart stumbles.
"Hi," she says, setting down her pen. "What can I get started for you?"
He steps up to the counter, leaning an elbow on the polished wood. "Hey. I'll take an iced americano and a chocolate donut."
She nods, writing it down. "Anything else?"
"No, thanks. That's perfect."
She turns to prepare the coffee, and he watches her movements—efficient, practiced. The way she scoops ice, pours the espresso, reaches for the donut with a tissue. When she turns back and hands him the cup, their fingers brush.
It's barely a second. Just a whisper of contact.
But she pauses, her eyes lifting to his face. A flicker of something—recognition? Curiosity?—passes through her gaze before she blinks it away.
"Here you go," she says softly.
He takes the cup, letting his fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary. "Thanks."
She smiles again, a little different this time—warmer, a hint of confusion. Then she turns back to the sink where a few dishes are waiting, rolling up her sleeves.
Donghyuck takes a seat by the window, sipping his americano, watching her from behind his glasses. She's humming softly, something he doesn't recognize. From the back room, he hears Renjun's voice, humming some pop song, the clatter of boxes being moved.
Over the next few weeks, he becomes a regular.
He comes in every other day, sometimes every day. Always orders the same thing—iced americano, chocolate donut. Sometimes he grabs a table and pretends to work on his laptop, but really he's watching her. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear. The way she bites her lip while reading. The way she laughs at something Renjun says, bright and easy.
Their interactions are casual. Limited.
"Morning Haechan." That's the name he gives her, for now at least.
"The usual?" She asks.
"You know it."
A smile. A quick exchange. Then she's busy, and he's left with the ghost of her attention.
It's not enough.
So one afternoon, when the shop is empty and Renjun is in the back, he makes his move.
He walks up to the counter, coffee in hand, and as he reaches to pay, he lets his wrist go slack. The cup tips. The lid pops off. Brown liquid splashes across the floor, a puddle spreading near his feet.
"Shit," he mutters, a little too loud.
Y/N spins around from the espresso machine. "Oh no! Don't worry, I'll get it—"
She grabs a roll of paper towels from under the counter and moves to crouch down, but he's already there. He takes the roll from her hands, his fingers closing over hers for a brief, deliberate second.
"It was my fault," he says, meeting her eyes. "Don't worry about it."
"Really, I can—"
"Nope. I got it." He kneels, wiping up the mess quickly, ignoring her protests. "You have enough to do. Let me take care of this."
She stands there, hands on her hips, watching him clean up her floor with an expression caught between amused and impressed.
"You're not going to let me help, are you?" she asks.
"Nope." He finishes, tosses the wet paper towels in the trash, and straightens up. "See? All good."
She shakes her head, a smile tugging at her lips. "You're stubborn."
"I prefer determined."
"A determined mess-maker."
He laughs—a real laugh, not the careful one he's been using.
They stand there, the air between them easier now, the tension cracked open. She leans against the counter, crossing her arms, studying him with fresh eyes.
"You come here a lot," she says.
"I do. Good coffee. Good donuts." He pauses, letting his voice drop just a fraction. "Good company."
Her cheeks flush. She looks down, then back up, a spark in her gaze. "You're not from around here, are you?"
"Born and raised. Just... been away for a while."
"Ah. A returning native."
"Something like that."
She tilts her head. "What do you do, Haechan? Besides cleaning up your own messes?"
"I'm a freelance photographer. I take pictures of the city, the people. Try to capture moments that don't last."
Her eyes light up. "That sounds beautiful."
"It has its moments." He holds her gaze. "Maybe I could show you sometime. If you're interested."
The offer hangs in the air, soft and deliberate. She bites her lower lip, considering, and he feels his pulse quicken.
"I'd like that," she says quietly.
A bell rings from the back—Renjun calling something about a shipment. The moment breaks, but it doesn't shatter. It settles into something warm, something potential.
"I should let you get back to work," Donghyuck says, stepping back. "But I'll see you tomorrow. Same time?"
"Same time," she confirms, her smile lingering.
He walks out of the coffee shop, heart hammering, a grin threatening to break across his face. He doesn't look back, but he doesn't need to.
He knows he has her attention now.
Renjun slides up beside Y/N the moment the door swings shut behind Donghyuck. He nudges her shoulder with his, a knowing grin already spreading across his face.
"Okay, so that guy? Exactly your type."
Y/N rolls her eyes, but she can feel the heat creeping up her neck. "Haechan?"
"Obviously Haechan." Renjun leans against the counter, crossing his arms. "Like, I get it. He's attractive in that nonchalant way. The whole I just rolled out of bed but I'm still hotter than you vibe. And that confidence? It's practically dripping off him." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Makes you horny, doesn't it?"
"Renjun!" She smacks his shoulder, but she's laughing. "Shut up. He's just a nice guy."
"A nice guy who you've been staring at for three weeks straight."
"I have not—"
"You literally watched him walk to the door just now. Like a sad puppy."
She opens her mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Because he's right. She did watch him. She always watches him.
Renjun groans, shaking his head with mock exasperation. "When you two finally hook up, I'm going to be right there to say I told you so."
"He's just a customer, Injun."
"Mhmm. Sure." He pats her shoulder and heads toward the back room, already humming again, leaving her standing there with her thoughts.
She bites her lip.
He's just a customer, she tells herself. But her mind drifts anyway, unbidden.
His voice—low and warm, with a teasing edge that makes her stomach flip. The way he carries himself, relaxed but aware, like he knows exactly what he's doing at all times. His baggy clothes, the way they hang off his frame, hiding and revealing at the same time. The silver rings on his fingers. That little smirk he gives her sometimes, like he's in on a joke she hasn't heard yet.
Her exes were... fine. Nice. Respectful. Boring.
They held doors open and said please and thank you. They kissed her forehead and asked if she was comfortable. They never made her pulse race. They never made her wonder what it would feel like to be pushed against a wall and taken.
Haechan does.
He gives her mystery. Maybe even a little danger. The way he looks at her sometimes, like he's holding something back—something intense.
She shakes her head, physically trying to dislodge the thought. Crazy. You don't even know him.
But the thought lingers, hot and stubborn, all the way through the rest of her shift. It follows her home, past the subway, up the stairs to her apartment. It settles in her bones the moment she closes her door.
---
She's restless.
The apartment is quiet, dark except for the lamp by her bed. She changes into a tank top and shorts, lies down, tosses, turns. Her body feels tight—a coil wound too tight, needing release.
She gives in.
From the nightstand drawer, she pulls out her vibrator—a sleek pink thing she's had for years. She lies back, spreads her legs, and lets the hum of the motor fill the silence.
Her mind drifts to him.
To Haechan. To his hands. Those rings. What they'd feel like gripping her thighs. His voice, low in her ear, telling her exactly what he's going to do to her.
She presses the vibrator harder against her clit, her breath hitching. She thinks about his smirk, his confidence, the way he holds her gaze a second too long. She chases the image, lets it build—
And then she comes.
A sharp, quick release. A gasp. The tension snaps, but it doesn't dissolve. It just... scatters. Falls apart unsatisfyingly.
She sighs, letting the vibrator drop onto the mattress. Her body feels hollow. Empty. Like the orgasm barely scratched the surface of what she actually needs.
"Fuck," she whispers to the ceiling.
She lies there, staring at the dark, her skin still buzzing with unresolved heat. She wants more. She wants him. But he's a stranger. A customer. Nothing.
She rolls onto her side, pulls the blanket up, and tries to sleep.
---
Outside her window, perched on a fire escape three buildings over, Donghyuck watches the dark shape of her bedroom through the gap in her curtains.
He didn't look. Not directly. He swung toward her building on instinct, drawn by the familiar pull of her presence, and he landed on the adjacent rooftop just in time to hear it.
The buzz of the vibrator. Her soft, breathy moans.
His name. She whispered his name—Haechan—on a desperate exhale.
And then the sigh. That disappointed, hollow sigh at the end.
He heard it all.
His fingers curl into a fist against the brick wall beside him. A smirk spreads across his face, slow and predatory, mixing with the ache in his chest.
You're not satisfied, are you, baby?
He knows the feeling. He's been unsatisfied too—in a different way. Hungry for her touch, her voice, her warmth. But that hunger is about to be fed.
He pushes off the ledge, letting the night air rush past him as he swings into the darkness.
Soon. I'll take my rightful place soon.
Below him, the city blurs. Sirens wail somewhere in the distance. Another night of crime waits for him—thugs to stop, civilians to save. The usual.
But tonight, for the first time in weeks, he feels something close to hope.
It starts slowly.
A whisper of warmth against her skin. The weight of a body behind her, pressed close, solid and familiar. She can't see his face, but she knows him—or rather, her body knows him. Her back arches into his chest instinctively, seeking more contact.
His hands. God, his hands. Calloused palms sliding up her thighs, fingers digging into her hips with just enough pressure to bruise. She feels the cool bite of metal rings against her overheated skin. A low chuckle rumbles against her ear.
"You've been so good for me, baby. But I'm gonna take what's mine now."
She opens her mouth to respond, but he's already rolling her onto her stomach, pulling her hips up, positioning her on her knees. The sheets are soft beneath her palms. She can feel his cock—thick, hard, pressing against her soaked entrance—and she whimpers, pushing back against him.
"Please," she breathes. "Please, I need—"
He cuts her off with a sharp thrust. He slams into her to the hilt, and she screams, her body clenching around him immediately. He doesn't stop. He fucks her like he owns her, like he's been waiting for this, each stroke deep and punishing, hitting a spot inside her that makes stars burst behind her eyelids.
"That's it. Take it. Take all of it."
His voice is low, rough, almost unrecognizable through the fog of lust. She can't think. She can only feel—the stretch, the burn, the relentless pounding. He wraps a hand around her throat, not choking, just holding, tilting her head back so he can whisper directly into her ear.
"You missed me, didn't you? Your tight little pussy missed me. Say it."
"I—yes—fuck—I missed you—"
He groans, a sound so raw it vibrates through her bones. His pace quickens, his grip on her hip bruising. She feels the coil building, tighter and tighter, her moans turning into desperate sobs—
And then she wakes up.
---
Gasping.
Y/N bolts upright in bed, her tank top soaked with sweat, her thighs sticky with arousal. The sheets are twisted around her legs. Her pussy is throbbing, clenching around nothing, so empty it almost hurts.
She blinks at the ceiling, panting.
What the fuck was that?
The dream is already fading, slipping through her fingers like water. She remembers heat. A deep voice. Being pinned down and fucked senseless. But the face—she can't remember the face. Just a blur of dark hair, broad shoulders, a cruel smirk.
She presses her palm against her cunt, gasping at the sensitivity. She's soaked. Her thighs are slick. Her hole flutters, desperate to be filled.
"Fucking hell," she mutters, flopping back onto the pillows.
It's been like this for almost a week now. Every night, another dream. Some nights she's on her knees, sucking a thick cock while a hand tangles in her hair. Some nights she's tied to a bed, spread open, being fucked so slowly she can feel every inch drag against her walls. Some nights it's just a voice—a low, possessive voice—calling her filthy, desperate, mine.
She always wakes up the same way: wet, aching, unsatisfied.
She reaches for her vibrator on the nightstand, but even as she presses it against her clit, she knows it won't be enough. It never is anymore. She comes—hard, fast, grinding into the plastic—but the release is hollow. An echo of what her body actually craves.
She doesn't know what that is.
Her exes were boring. They never made her feel claimed. They never made her scream.
But her body wants something more, something she's never experienced. Or so she thinks.
She sighs, tossing the vibrator aside. Her cunt still throbs, still clenches, still weeps for something she can't name.
Why does this feel like grief?
---
Across the city, perched on a water tower overlooking her block, Donghyuck watches the distant glow of her window with a dark, hungry expression.
He knows.
He's been watching her sleep through the gap in her curtains. He's heard her moans, her whimpers, the desperate sounds she makes when she's lost in a dream he put there—not consciously, but through the lingering threads of the spell that binds them. She can't remember him, but her body can. Her body is a traitor, whispering his name in the language of her muscles, her slick, her trembling thighs.
He clenches his fists, his cock hardening painfully in his suit.
He lets out a slow, shaky breath.
I'll give you what you're craving soon.
He pushes off the water tower, swinging into the night, leaving his mark on the rooftops like a promise.
But he doesn't go far. He lands on the fire escape just outside her window—close enough to hear her frustrated sigh, the rustle of sheets as she rolls over, the quiet, desperate whisper she thinks no one hears:
"What do I need? What's wrong with me?"
He presses a hand to the glass, his rings glinting in the moonlight.
Nothing's wrong with you, love. You just need me.
The morning rush at the coffee shop had been mercifully slow, leaving Y/N and Renjun with nothing better to do than wipe down the already-clean countertops in a lazy, synchronized rhythm. The TV mounted in the corner murmured in the background—some local news broadcast about a bank robbery in Midtown. The anchor's voice was tinny, almost an afterthought.
"...and witnesses report that Spider-Man intervened just moments after the robbers entered. No casualties reported. The web-slinger made a quick escape as usual—"
Y/N didn't look up. Neither did Renjun. It was New York. Spider-Man stopping a robbery was as routine as a subway delay. They'd both heard the name so many times it barely registered anymore—a ghost in red and blue, flickering across screens, saving lives, disappearing.
Renjun hummed a tune under his breath, rubbing a smudge off the granite with his thumb. Y/N's mind was elsewhere. Still half-lost in the hazy aftertaste of another dream from last night—the echo of a deep voice, the phantom weight of hands on her hips, the ache between her legs that hadn't fully faded even after she'd come twice this morning.
She bit her lip, grip tightening on the rag.
Focus. Work. Coffee. Normal stuff.
The little bell above the door jingled.
She looked up.
And there he was.
Haechan stepped inside, and she felt the air shift. He was breathing hard, his black t-shirt clinging to his torso like a second skin, dark patches of sweat spreading across his chest and under his arms. His hair was damp, plastered to his forehead in messy waves, and a thin sheen of perspiration glistened over his neck and collarbones.
He looked exhausted. But also... good. Really good.
"Hey," Y/N said, her voice coming out a little too breathy. She cleared her throat. "You okay?"
He offered a tired smile, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Yeah. Just tired. Killed it at the gym today." He let out a huff of laughter, rolling one shoulder like it ached. "Didn't realize I pushed myself that hard."
She nodded, already moving to make his usual ice americano. Her body went through the motions automatically while her eyes trailed down his frame. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle, veins visible beneath the tanned skin. The sweat highlighted every contour—the arch of his biceps, the column of his throat, the way his chest rose and fell with each controlled breath.
Shit. She felt heat creep up her cheeks.
Her gaze dropped lower, catching a glint of silver at his wrist. A bracelet—woven black cord with a small metallic charm, a roughly shaped star. It looked handmade, well-worn, the edges smooth like it had been touched a thousand times.
She slid the cup across the counter toward him. "That's pretty," she said, nodding at the bracelet.
For a split second, something flickered in his eyes. A flash of emotion too fast to name—hope? Pain? He opened his mouth, and she could've sworn she saw him about to say something, his throat bobbing with a swallow.
Do you remember that you gave this to me?
But the words didn't come. He just watched her as she pulled away from the counter, already turning back to the rag in her hand.
Of course she didn't remember.
"Thanks," she said over her shoulder, already distracted, moving toward the back to restock napkins.
Donghyuck stared at the bracelet on his wrist. The star charm. She'd made it for him on their six-month anniversary, clumsily braiding the cord while sitting cross-legged on his bed, laughing about how she'd never made jewelry before. "So you don't forget me," she'd said, pressing it into his palm. "Wear it even when you're being Spider-Man. I want to be with you, always."
He clenched his jaw, forcing the ache down his throat.
She doesn't remember. Of course she doesn't. You knew that.
Renjun slid off his stool and walked over, holding out a napkin. "Hey," he said, his voice soft but pointed. "Your forehead's bleeding a bit."
Donghyuck blinked, reaching up. His fingers came away with a smear of red. Shit. Must've caught a stray piece of debris during the takedown. He'd been too focused on getting there fast—on changing out of the suit in that alley, on making it to the shop before she closed—that he hadn't bothered to check for damage.
"Ah, that." He took the napkin with a casual shrug, pressing it to the cut. "Tripped on the way here. Almost ate pavement. Stupid, I know."
Renjun's eyes lingered on him a moment too long, a quiet skepticism behind his gentle gaze. He didn't say anything, but Donghyuck could feel the weight of his unspoken question.
That's a weird place to trip. And you're too banged up for just a fall. And you showed up right after Spider-Man was seen.
But Renjun just nodded, taking a slow sip of his own drink. "Be careful," he said simply, and walked back to the counter.
Donghyuck exhaled slowly, pressing the napkin harder against his temple. He watched Y/N move behind the counter, her hair tied in a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She was beautiful. She was his. And she didn't even know it.
He took a long sip of the coffee she'd made him, letting the bitterness ground him.
He smiled against the rim of the cup, eyes fixed on the curve of her back as she bent down to grab more cups from the low shelf.
The bracelet gleamed on his wrist like a promise.
The morning air in Manhattan carried the usual cocktail of exhaust fumes, pretzel cart steam, and distant sirens. Y/N walked with her messenger bag slung across her body, earbuds in, a playlist of lo-fi beats keeping her grounded. The New York Chronicle skyscraper loomed ahead, all glass and steel, reflecting the pale winter sun. She was running a little early today, which meant she could grab a decent coffee from the lobby cart before heading up to her desk.
She was two blocks away when the screaming started.
At first, it was distant—a ripple through the crowd ahead. Then it grew, a wave of panic rolling toward her. People began sprinting in her direction, faces twisted with fear, elbows knocking pamphlets and coffee cups out of the way. A woman clutching a toddler nearly collided with her.
"What—" Y/N pulled out her earbuds, heart lurching. "What's happening?"
No one stopped to answer. The tide of bodies pushed past her, and she stumbled sideways, grabbing a lamppost to steady herself. Then she saw it: a column of smoke rising from the base of the Chronicle building. Orange flames licked at a collapsed awning. Glass littered the street like crushed diamonds.
Oh god. That's the lobby.
Her feet started moving before her brain caught up. She had to get in there. Had to see if her coworkers—her editor, the layout team, Maria from HR who always gave her extra granola bars—were okay. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She ignored it.
"HEY!"
A blur of red and blue dropped from above, landing in front of her with a soft thud that cracked the asphalt. She yelped, skidding to a halt.
Spider-Man.
His lenses narrowed, body angled like he was about to grab her.
"What the hell are you doing?" His voice was modulated, sharp with urgency. "There's a gas leak—could blow again any second. Get back."
"I have to see if the people in that building are okay!" She tried to sidestep him, but he moved with her, a wall of spandex and muscle.
"I'll check. You stay here." He pointed a gloved finger at the sidewalk behind her. "Don't move."
She barely registered that she'd just been ordered around by a superhero. Her heart was hammering. The smoke stung her nostrils. "I'm not just going to—"
He was already turning, preparing to leap. She took a step forward, following him.
A sharp thwip sliced through the air.
Something snapped around her right wrist—a rope of white webbing, sticky and warm, yanking her arm sideways. She stumbled, grunting, and found herself anchored to the handle of a police cruiser parked at the curb. The web held fast, elastic but unyielding.
"What the hell?!" She yanked at her wrist, but the webbing stretched and held. "Are you serious right now?!"
Spider-Man paused, tilting his head. She could almost hear the smirk behind the mask. "Nope. Wait here. I'll free you after I'm sure it's safe."
And then he was gone, a red streak disappearing into the smoke-filled doorway.
Y/N stood there, arm stretched awkwardly toward the cop car, jaw hanging open. People were still running past her, but the immediate panic was thinning. She looked at her wrist, at the white strands wrapped snugly around it, and felt a jolt—not of anger, but of something else.
The texture. The pressure. The slight give when she pulled.
Her breath caught.
She was in her bedroom. The lights were dim. Her wrist was bound to the bedpost with...not a rope...not a scarf...something else entirely. Her arms stretched above her head and a dark figure hovered over her. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel his weight, his heat, the deep rumble of his voice against her ear.
"Stay still, baby. I'm not done with you yet."
The memory dissolved as quickly as it came, leaving her gasping on the sidewalk, knees weak.
What the fuck?
She shook her head violently, pressing her free hand to her flushed cheek. "I'm starting to feel like a fucking sex addict," she muttered under her breath. Of all the things to think about right now—tied to a car by Spider-Man—her brain was conjuring erotic flashbacks? With...Spider-Man? For all she knew, the guy was a forty-year-old accountant underneath that suit. He could be balding.
But he didn't move like a forty-year-old. And his voice, even through the modulator, had a certain quality—young, confident, teasing.
She shook her head again, harder. Stop it. Focus. The building.
A few minutes passed. The fire trucks arrived. EMTs started setting up a triage zone. Y/N strained her neck, trying to see if anyone was being carried out. She pulled at the web again, frustrated, but it held true.
Then Spider-Man emerged from the smoke, walking casually now, hands on his hips. He jogged over to her.
"Building's clear. No casualties. Gas leak was contained before it got worse. Minor injuries, but everyone's out." He reached for the web on her wrist and gave it a sharp tug setting her free.
She rubbed her wrist, red and slightly raw. "That wasn't cool. You could have just asked me to stay."
"I did. You didn't listen." He shrugged, the motion exaggerated by the suit's padding. "You should be more careful. People get hurt when they run toward explosions."
"I work there." She glared at him. "I was worried about my friends."
He was quiet for a second, his head tilted. She could feel his gaze through the white lenses, studying her. There was something familiar about the angle of his jaw, the set of his shoulders.
Then he straightened. "Bye."
And with a single leap, he was gone, swinging between buildings, disappearing into the Manhattan skyline before she could even respond.
Y/N stood there, mouth half-open, hand still rubbing her wrist. The phantom sensation of the web lingered—soft, taut, possessive. Her skin tingled where it had been wrapped.
Why does that feel like a memory I can't reach?
She stared up at the empty sky, the smoke still curling into the gray clouds.
And for some reason, her thighs pressed together.
Get a grip, Y/N. He's a stranger in a mask.
But her body didn't believe that. Not for a second.
The evening air did nothing to cool the heat lingering beneath Y/N's skin. After the chaos at the Chronicle building, after being webbed to a police car like some disobedient puppy, after the shredded remains of her dignity scattered across Sixth Avenue—she'd gone through the motions. Talked to her editor. Confirmed everyone was safe. Filed a preliminary report on the gas leak. Smiled at Maria's thanks.
But all the way home, her wrist tingled. The ghost of that webbing refused to fade.
Now she stood in her apartment, shoes kicked off, coat thrown over the armchair. The city lights bled through her window, painting amber stripes across her wooden floor. She should shower. Eat something. Answer the three texts Renjun had sent asking if she was okay.
Instead, she grabbed her laptop and collapsed onto her bed, flipping it open.
YouTube.
Her fingers moved before she could talk herself out of it. She typed in the search bar: Spider-Man New York 2024.
The results flooded the screen. News clips. Fan edits. Compilations titled "Spider-Man's Top 10 Saves" and "Spider-Man Being a Menace for 12 Minutes Straight." She clicked the first one—a news report from two months ago, shaky cell phone footage of Spider-Man webbing a falling construction beam before it crushed a bus.
She watched it twice. Then a third time.
The comments section was a battlefield.
"whoever is under that suit is DEFINITELY packing i'm not taking questions"
"imagine getting railed by spider-man... the grip?? the stamina???"
"he literally fights crime every night and still has time to help old ladies cross the street... husband material"
"plot twist: he's actually a 50 year old dude with a beer belly and we're all just simping for spandex"
"even if he is 50 i'd still let him web me to the bed 🥴"
Y/N snorted despite herself, scrolling deeper. The thirst was real, embarrassingly real. These women were out there, posting paragraphs about what they'd let Spider-Man do to them. What they'd do to him. She felt a pang of something—not judgment, because who was she to judge—but recognition.
She'd felt that web around her wrist. She'd felt the possessiveness in that single thwip.
And God help her, she wanted to feel it again.
She clicked on another video. This one was different—a street interview, low-budget, filmed by someone's phone. The camera focused on Spider-Man, standing casually beside a hot dog cart, and standing next to him was a little boy—maybe eight years old, holding a notebook.
The interviewer says, "We've got a special guest today—this is Liam, and he wanted to ask Spider-Man a few questions."
Spider-Man crouched down to the boy's level. His lenses softened, tilted—the body language of someone genuinely engaged. He reached out and patted the kid's head, a casual, affectionate gesture.
"Go ahead, Liam. I'm all ears."
And he laughed—a low, warm chuckle that cut through the modulator like a blade through silk.
Y/N's breath hitched.
That laugh. She knew that laugh. It tickled something deep in her chest, a phantom sensation, like a voice calling from underwater. Her fingers tightened on the laptop. She replayed it. Once. Twice. Three times.
"I'm all ears."
The way he said it—teasing, gentle, familiar.
She shook her head, hard. You're projecting. Every guy laughs. It's not him. You don't even know who "him" is.
But her skin was prickling. Her thighs pressed together under the laptop.
She kept scrolling.
There was a Reddit link. r/SpiderManFantasies (NSFW). Her thumb hovered over it for a full ten seconds before she clicked.
The forum was a treasure trove of desperation. Women (and some men) posting photos they'd taken of Spider-Man mid-swing, or perched on a rooftop, or standing in the middle of a street after a rescue. The photos weren't explicit—they couldn't be, he was fully suited—but the captions were anything but.
"If I ever meet him I'm dropping to my knees immediately. That suit does NOT hide what he's working with."
"Imagine him pinning you down after a fight, all that adrenaline still pumping... you'd feel the bass in his chest."
"I don't even care what he looks like. I just want one night. ONE. NIGHT. With whoever is under that mask."
One post showed a blurry shot of Spider-Man crouched on a fire escape, his legs spread, the suit stretching taut across his thighs. The caption read: "I want to sit on his face and never get up."
Y/N closed the laptop so fast the screen clicked shut.
Her heart was hammering. Her cheeks burned. She pressed a hand to her forehead, groaning.
"I'm not above this," she whispered to the empty room. "I'm so far below this it's embarrassing."
She threw the laptop aside and flopped onto her back, staring at the ceiling. The city hummed outside—distant sirens, a neighbor's TV, the low bass of a car passing by. Her skin felt too tight. Her cunt ached, a dull, persistent throb that had been living in her bones for weeks now.
The clock on her nightstand read 11:47 PM when Y/N finally collapsed onto her bed, still wearing her jeans and a thin camisole.
Sleep came heavy and reluctant.
---
She woke with a gasp, thighs pressed together, a dull throb between her legs.
The clock read 2:47 AM.
Her skin was damp with sweat. Her nipples were hard, rubbing against the cotton of her shirt. She'd been dreaming again—fragments of a body above her, weight pressing her into the mattress, a warm mouth trailing down her stomach. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel his hands. Strong, calloused, knowing exactly where to touch.
"I've got you, baby. I've always got you."
She threw an arm over her eyes, breathing hard. She was wet, aching, clenching around nothing. She slid a hand down her belly, into her underwear, her fingers finding her clit swollen and desperate.
She rubbed herself slowly, trying to chase a release that never came. She imagined the web wrapped around her wrist again. Spider-Man's lenses staring down at her. The low laugh from the video.
"Fuck," she whimpered, fingers moving faster. But it wasn't enough. It was never enough. She could feel a shape just out of reach.
Her body remembered. Her mind didn't.
She pressed her palm harder, hips bucking, but the orgasm hovered like a mirage, untouchable. She let out a frustrated sob, pulling her hand away, her chest heaving.
Outside, on the fire escape, a shadow shifted.
Donghyuck pressed his back against the brick wall, his own breathing uneven. He'd heard her whimper through the glass. Heard the wet sound of her fingers working. The whine of her frustration when she couldn't finish.
His cock was hard, straining against the suit. He'd come here to check on her after the explosion—to make sure she was safe, to watch her sleep like he did most nights. He hadn't expected this.
But he couldn't leave. Not while she was aching.
Not when he was the only one who could fix it.
He pressed a palm against the cold glass of her window, the mask hiding the anguish on his face. Soon, he told himself. Soon I'll find a way.
But for now, he just listened to her breathe, and hated the spell that kept them apart.
The knock that rattled Renjun's door at 11 PM was frantic—three sharp, pounding hits, then a pause, then another. He barely had time to unlatch the lock before Y/N pushed past him into his apartment, her eyes wild, her hair a mess, her chest heaving like she'd run the whole way.
"Okay," she said, hands on her hips, pacing his narrow living room. "You were right. You were fucking right."
Renjun closed the door slowly, crossing his arms. He was in sweatpants and an old band tee, clearly winding down for the night. "Right about what, exactly? Because I'm right about a lot of things."
She whirled on him, jaw tight. "The sex thing. The needing-to-get-laid thing. The I'm crawling out of my skin thing." She raked her fingers through her hair, tugging at the roots. "It's not just being horny, Renjun. It's like—" She stopped, struggling for words. "It's like my body is craving something specific. A specific touch. A specific rhythm. A specific person. But I don't know who or what. I don't remember. I just feel this ache that nothing fills."
Renjun's teasing demeanor softened. He gestured to the couch, and she collapsed onto it, head in her hands.
He sat beside her, voice careful. "An ex? Someone you dated before? Maybe your brain locked away a breakup that hit you harder than you think."
She looked up, rolling her eyes so hard it was almost audible. "No. It's not an ex. I don't have any traumatic breakup memory. It's—" She groaned, frustrated. "I don't know. It feels like a ghost. A phantom limb."
Renjun was quiet for a moment. Then he said, slowly, "Maybe you don't need to find that specific person. Maybe you just need to try someone new."
She blinked at him. The idea hung in the air, fresh and foreign.
"Someone new," she repeated, tasting the words.
"Someone who doesn't come with baggage or memories. Someone who can just—" He made a vague gesture. "Fuck you into forgetting whatever's haunting you. A clean slate. A hot body. A night of no strings."
She stared at him. Then, slowly, a nod. "Maybe you're right."
His grin spread wide. "I am right. And I know exactly how to start." He pulled out his phone, already scrolling. "There's that new nightclub in midtown. Opened last week. 'Velvet Underground.' It's got black lights, VIP booths, and supposedly a very attractive bartender who does body shots. I've been dying to go."
"A club," she said flatly.
"A club where you can find a guy—or girl, no judgment—who will take you home and fuck you until you forget your own name. That kind of club."
She chewed her lip. The idea terrified her. Thrilled her. She thought of her empty bed, the wet sheets, the incomplete orgasms. She thought of the phantom hands in her dreams.
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay. Let's do it."
Renjun clapped his hands together. "Yes. I'll text you the details. Wear something slutty. I'm talking a dress that says 'I'm here to get railed.'"
She laughed—a real laugh, shaky but genuine. "You're such a bad influence."
"Someone has to be."
They spent the next hour planning. What time to arrive. Which drinks to order. An exit strategy if the guy was a creep. Y/N felt lighter than she had in weeks, a fragile hope blooming in her chest.
---
Outside, pressed against the brick wall of the adjacent building, a figure in red and blue watched through the sliver of curtain left uncovered.
Donghyuck's hands curled into fists.
His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
Someone new.
The words echoed in his skull, each syllable a knife twist. She was going to let some stranger touch her. Some random guy from a club. He'd put his hands on her skin, his mouth on her throat...
A low, guttural sound escaped his throat, muffled by the mask.
No. Absolutely fucking not.
He pushed off the wall, landing silently on the fire escape below. His mind raced. He couldn't stop her—not directly. He couldn't reveal himself, couldn't break the spell. But he could intercept. He could follow. He could make sure that no one—no one—got close enough to touch what was his.
Even if she didn't remember it.
He swung into the night, a plan already forming. The club. He'd be there. Not as Spider-Man—too obvious. He'd ditch the suit, put on something tight, something that would make her look. He'd find her on the dance floor, buy her a drink, let the night unfold.
The hunt was on.
The strapless bodycon dress was a weapon, and Y/N knew it.
Black velvet hugged every curve from her collarbone to mid-thigh, the hem riding up just enough to make men's eyes glaze over. She'd paired it with strappy heels that made her legs look miles long and a thin silver necklace that caught the light. Her hair fell in loose waves, makeup smoky and deliberate.
Renjun let out a low whistle when she stepped out of her bedroom. "Holy shit."
"Too much?" She tugged at the neckline nervously.
"Not enough. You're going to break necks tonight. Possibly some hearts too, but who's counting." He offered his arm. "Shall we?"
She took it, laughing. "Let's get me laid."
---
The Velvet Underground lived up to its name. The interior was all dark burgundy and dim gold lighting, with a massive dance floor pulsing under black lights that made white fabrics glow. Bodies moved together in a haze of sweat and bass, the air thick with perfume and alcohol.
They claimed a spot at the bar, and Renjun ordered them both shots of tequila. "Warm-up," he shouted over the music.
Y/N downed hers, grimacing at the burn. A second followed. Then a third.
By the fourth, the edges of her anxiety had blurred into a pleasant haze. The bass thrummed through her bones, and she found herself swaying, scanning the crowd. Potential candidates everywhere—sharp jawlines, broad shoulders, confident grins.
None of them made her stomach flip.
But then the door opened.
And he walked in.
Donghyuck had planned this.
Tight black jeans that hugged his thighs and sat low on his hips. A simple white T-shirt, thin enough that the outline of his chest was visible when he moved. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing the veins in his forearms. He'd styled his hair messy, like he'd just rolled out of bed, and he wore that lazy half-smirk that had always made her knees weak.
Her favorite outfit.
He remembered the first time she'd seen him in it. They'd been dating for a few weeks, and he'd shown up at her door looking like this. She'd pulled him inside by his collar, pinned him against the wall, and kissed him so deep he'd seen stars. Her hands had tangled in his hair, pulling, while the other roamed down his stomach to palm him through the denim. She'd broken the kiss just to whisper against his lips, "You look so good it should be illegal. I want to ruin you."
And she had. For hours.
He carried that memory in his bones as he pushed open the club door, scanning the crowd with practiced casualness. His eyes landed on the bar.
There she was.
Strapless black dress. Hair loose. Cheeks flushed from alcohol. She was even more beautiful than he remembered—which was saying something, because he remembered every detail.
He pretended not to see her at first. Ordered a drink. Leaned against the bar, letting the black lights catch the contours of his arms.
Then Renjun spotted him.
"Hey! Hyuck!"
Donghyuck turned, feigning surprise. His eyes landed on Y/N, and he let them widen slightly—just enough. "Oh. Hey. Didn't expect to see you guys here."
Y/N's breath caught. Her lips parted, a soft gasp escaping. "Hi."
Just that. Hi. But the word came out breathy, almost involuntary.
Renjun gestured him over. "Come join us. We're just warming up. Y/N's on a mission tonight."
"A mission?" Donghyuck raised an eyebrow, sliding onto the stool beside her. Close enough that his knee brushed hers under the bar. "Sounds intriguing."
She opened her mouth to respond, but the words came out slurred. "M'sion... find someone... hot..."
Renjun sighed. "I think the tequila hit faster than expected."
Donghyuck smiled knowingly. She always did get tipsy fast. Three drinks and she'd be clinging to him, whispering dirty things in his ear. Four and she'd be begging to go home. Five and she'd be asleep before they hit the door.
"I can help you get her home," he offered, voice steady. "If you want."
Renjun looked relieved. "God, yes. I was not looking forward to carrying her six blocks in those heels."
They helped her off the stool. Her legs wobbled, and she stumbled forward—
Right into Donghyuck's arms.
Her palms landed flat on his chest. Her head tipped up, eyes glassy and unfocused. She blinked at him, a dopey smile spreading across her face. "Wow. You're... strong."
His hands caught her waist, steadying her. The velvet of her dress was soft under his fingers, her skin warm beneath the fabric. He could feel the rapid flutter of her pulse.
He lowered his voice, letting it dip into that husky register she'd always loved. "Oh yea?"
She nodded, earnest and drunk. "Mmhm. Like... hero strong."
If only you knew.
Renjun was already heading for the door, waving them along. Donghyuck kept one arm around Y/N's waist, guiding her out into the cool night air. The city hummed around them, taxis honking, distant sirens, the buzz of neon signs.
The walk to her apartment was slow. She kept tripping on cracks, leaning into him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. At one point she looked up at him, squinting.
"You smell... familiar."
His chest tightened. "Good familiar or bad familiar?"
"Good." She nuzzled into his shoulder. "Really good."
Renjun shot him a look—half curious, half amused. Donghyuck just shrugged, playing it casual, though his heart was hammering.
They reached her building. Renjun held the door while Donghyuck helped her up the stairs. At her apartment door, she fumbled with her keys, nearly dropping them twice.
When she finally got it open, she turned around, throwing her arms around both of them in a messy group hug.
"Thank you," she mumbled into Renjun's shoulder. "You're the best."
She pulled back, swaying slightly, and turned to Donghyuck.
Her eyes met his.
The air between them thickened.
"You..." She reached up, touching his cheek with drunken clumsiness. Her thumb brushed his jawline. "You look so good tonight."
The words came out soft. Barely a whisper. Heavy with something she couldn't name.
Donghyuck's throat tightened. He wanted to grab her, pull her inside, pin her against that door and remind her exactly what she was missing. He wanted to kiss that drunk confession off her lips and replace it with moans.
But not yet.
Not yet.
He smiled, gentle and aching. "Get some sleep, Y/N."
She blinked slowly, then ducked inside, closing the door with a soft click.
The lock turned.
Donghyuck stood there for a long moment, hand pressed flat against the wood. He could hear her on the other side, shuffling, probably kicking off her heels.
"She say something?" Renjun asked from behind.
"Just saying goodnight."
Renjun hummed, unconvinced. "You know, for a guy who just met her, you're pretty invested."
Donghyuck turned, keeping his face neutral. "She's a friend. I don't like seeing friends drunk and alone."
"Uh huh." Renjun didn't push. "Well, thanks for the help. I'm gonna crash. See you around, Haechan."
"Yeah. See you."
When Renjun disappeared down the stairwell, Donghyuck let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
He pressed his forehead to the door, listening. On the other side, he heard her humming—off-key, sleepy—as she padded toward her bedroom.
Soon, he promised himself. Soon she'll know.
But for tonight, he'd settle for knowing that even drunk and confused, she still thought he looked good.
That was enough.
For now.
The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence of his apartment swallowed him whole.
Donghyuck stood there for a long moment, forehead pressed against the wood, listening to the echo of her voice in his head. You look so good tonight. Drunk, slurred, honest. She'd meant it. Even without knowing who he was, her body remembered. Her eyes had traced the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his jaw, and something deep in her gut had stirred.
But she was inside, alone, probably already curled up in bed, dreaming of strangers.
And he was out here. Alone. Again.
He pushed off the door and walked to his kitchen, grabbing a glass of water he didn't want. The apartment was too quiet. Too empty. The walls seemed to press in on him, carrying the weight of every night he'd spent like this—restless, aching, watching the clock tick toward dawn while the city hummed outside.
It's hard when no one loves you and the ones you love can't remember you.
He set the glass down harder than intended. It cracked. Water spilled across the counter.
"Fuck."
He stood there, dripping, staring at his own reflection in the dark window. A stranger in his own life. Spider-Man saved people. Donghyuck saved no one. Not even himself.
He loved being Spider-Man. Loved the rush of swinging between buildings, the wind in his face, the sound of sirens fading as he swooped in to help. Loved the gratitude in strangers' eyes when he pulled them from wrecks, the way kids pointed up at him with awe.
But Donghyuck deserved his own life too. A job he didn't have to hide. Friends who called him by his real name. A girl who looked at him like he was the only man in the world.
He closed his eyes, and there she was. Y/N. Laughing. Touching his face. Whining his name in that breathless way she used to when he was inside her.
"You're so good, Hyuck. Fuck—don't stop—"
His hand curled into a fist.
Then his spider-sense flared.
Sharp. Urgent. Something wrong.
He sighed, heavy and resigned, and reached for the suit.
---
The city was cruel tonight.
He swung from rooftop to rooftop, the wind biting at the exposed skin of his face and hands. Below, the neon lights of Manhattan bled into puddles on wet asphalt. Somewhere, a woman screamed—he veered toward it, landing on a fire escape to find a mugger wrestling a purse from an elderly lady. He webbed the guy to a lamppost in seconds, returned the purse, and was gone before the woman could finish thanking him.
Two blocks over, a car crash. He helped pull a family out before the fuel line sparked.
A domestic disturbance. He talked a man down from a balcony ledge.
A break-in at a convenience store.
A fire on the Lower East Side.
He kept moving. Kept saving. Kept pretending that each life he touched filled the hole inside him.
But it didn't.
Because the whole time, in the back of his mind, he was thinking of her. Her safety. Her smile. The way she used to trace the scars on his shoulders after a bad fight, her voice soft with worry: "You can't keep doing this, Hyuck. One day you won't come back."
And he'd kissed her forehead and promised he'd always come back to her.
Now she didn't even know to wait.
---
He landed on a rooftop overlooking her building.
The lights were off in her apartment. She was asleep, probably still drunk, tangled in sheets that smelled like her perfume. He imagined her lips slightly parted, hair fanned across the pillow, the slow rise and fall of her chest.
He pulled out the photo he kept tucked inside his suit. Polaroid, edges worn from handling. Her smiling at the camera, hair messy, wearing his hoodie. She'd taken it one morning after they'd spent the whole night tangled together. He'd been making coffee, and she'd grabbed his phone, snapped the picture just as he turned around.
"So I can look at you even when you're gone," she'd said.
He didn't know she'd end up being the one gone.
He pressed his thumb to her face, tracing the curve of her smile.
Soon.
Soon, he'd find a way. Something drastic. Something that would break through the spell's hold and make her remember—or at least make her feel it, even if she couldn't name it.
Soon, he'd be inside her apartment. Inside her. Reminding her exactly what she was missing.
But for now, he tucked the photo back, turned toward the next siren, and launched himself into the night.
For her. Always for her.
The bell above the door chimed, and Donghyuck walked in like he owned the place.
Y/N looked up from the register, head pounding, eyes barely open. Her hair was pulled into a messy knot, and she was pretty sure she still smelled like last night's cheap perfume and regret. The hangover was a dull throb behind her eyes, a punishment for every shot Renjun had convinced her to take.
She squinted at him. Him. The guy with the dangerous smile and the bracelet she didn't remember giving him.
"Morning," she grumbled, not even trying to sound pleasant.
He grinned. Actually grinned, like her misery was the highlight of his day. "Someone had fun last night."
"Someone regrets everything."
He laughed—that low, easy sound that did something annoying to her stomach—and walked past her to the counter. "Just the usual, please."
She turned to make it, moving slow, her head throbbing with every step. The espresso machine hissed, and she winced.
Behind her, she heard the door open again—a small commotion, a child's voice. She glanced over her shoulder.
A little boy, maybe seven or eight, had run in too fast, his backpack swinging. He collided with the table where Hyuck had set his bag, sending it toppling. But before it could hit the ground, Hyuck's hand shot out, catching it mid-air with reflexes too fast, too precise.
"Sorry, mister!" the boy said, eyes wide.
Hyuck just smiled, crouching down to the kid's level. "It's okay, buddy. No harm done." And he reached out, ruffling the boy's hair with an easy, affectionate motion.
Y/N froze.
The gesture. The way his fingers moved through the dark strands, the gentle mock-scolding in his tone. It was exactly how Spider-Man had ruffled that kid's hair in the interview she watched online. She'd watched the clip multiple times, her body heating each time—the way those gloved fingers had been so careful, so human, beneath the mask.
She blinked, shaking off the thought. No. That's ridiculous. Lots of people ruffle kids' hair.
But something nagged at her. The precision of the catch. The casual confidence. The way he moved.
Hyuck straightened, catching her stare. His eyebrow arched. "Something wrong?"
She realized she'd been staring. Heat crept up her neck. "No. Nothing. Your coffee."
She shoved the cup toward him, maybe a little too aggressively. He took it, amused, and leaned against the counter instead of leaving like a normal person.
She needed to get this over with.
"Listen," she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "About last night. I was... a lot. I know I was all over you, and I'm sorry. I don't usually—I mean, I was drunk, and Renjun was being an ass, and—"
"Cute."
She stopped. "What?"
"You were cute." He took a sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim. "Not 'a lot.' Cute."
Her face burned. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. No words came out. Just a stupid, flustered silence.
He smiled—that knowing, crooked smile that made her knees weak—and pushed off from the counter. "See you around, Y/N."
He walked out, the bell chiming behind him.
She stood there, heart hammering, watching him disappear down the street.
Fuck.
She touched her cheek. It was hot. She was blushing like a teenager. And worst of all, she was thinking about him—the scent of his cologne, the strength in his hands when he'd caught that bag, the way his voice had dipped when he said "cute."
She shook her head, turning back to the register.
But as she wiped down the counter, her mind wandered. To Spider-Man. To Haechan. To the way both of them made her feel seen in a way she couldn't explain.
Maybe I have a crush on him.
She bit her lip.
Or maybe I'm just that desperate.
But even as she thought it, she knew it wasn't true. There was something about him. Something familiar. Something that pulled at the edges of her memory, just out of reach.
And somewhere across the city, swinging between rooftops, Donghyuck smiled to himself, her blush burned into his mind.
Soon, he thought. Soon, you'll remember.
The city was settling into dusk, streetlights flickering to life as Y/N walked home, her bag slung over one shoulder. The hangover had faded to a dull ache, replaced by the restless energy that had been gnawing at her all day. She was thinking about Hyuck—the way he'd laughed, the way his hand had caught that bag, the way he'd called her cute.
She was so lost in thought she almost missed the commotion.
A sharp cry. An old man's voice, cracked with panic. "Help! Someone help!"
Y/N's head snapped up. Across the street, a figure in a hoodie was sprinting away, an old leather bag clutched under his arm. Behind him, an elderly man stumbled, reaching out helplessly.
"Hey!" Y/N didn't think. She ran.
Three blocks. Her lungs burned, her legs pumping, the thief weaving through pedestrians. She was fast—she'd always been fast—but he was younger, more desperate. He ducked into a narrow alley, reeking of garbage and stale urine.
She followed without hesitation.
The alley was dark, shadows pooling like liquid. She could hear his footsteps echoing, slowing. He was cornered. She rounded a corner, ready to tackle him—
And then he was gone.
No. Not gone. Pinned.
A figure in red and blue dropped from above, landing silently. The thief was already webbed to a wall, the bag dangling from Spider-Man's hand. The hero turned to her, the white lenses of his mask catching the faint light.
"You really need to stop running into danger," he said, his voice modulated, teasing.
Y/N's heart pounded—not from the chase, but from him. From the way he stood, the way he moved.
She tried to step forward, to get a better look at the thief, to see where he'd gone into the darkness—
A thwip. A strand of web shot out, catching her wrist, yanking it to the brick wall beside her.
She stared at her hand, pinned by the familiar white silk. Again.
"Are you kidding me?" she snapped, yanking at the web. It held firm. "You can't just—"
"Watch and learn," Spider-Man said, and in two quick moves, he had the thief subdued, the bag retrieved, a police call tapped into his comm—all while she stood there, helpless, a memory flickering in the back of her mind.
Webs. Restraint. A voice whispering in the dark. Hands on her wrists, pinning her down. A body pressing against hers, the rough texture of a suit, the heat beneath it.
She blinked, the image dissolving like smoke.
He was in front of her now, the old man's bag tucked under one arm. He reached up and flicked the web on her wrist. It dissolved instantly, dropping her hand.
"You're free," he said. "Now go home. It's not safe."
She rubbed her wrist, glaring at him. "You can't just do that whenever you want! I was helping! I could have—"
She stepped forward, jabbing a finger at his chest plate. "You don't get to decide when I'm in danger! You don't get to just—"
She pushed him. Hard. He didn't move, but she kept going, frustration boiling over, her hands flat against his chest—
And then her foot caught on a loose piece of asphalt.
She stumbled forward, off-balance, straight into him.
Her body collided with his, her hands instinctively grabbing his arms to steady herself. Her fingers wrapped around his biceps, the fabric of his suit smooth and textured beneath her palms.
And something clicked.
The feel of it—the tight compression, the subtle ribbing, the exact way the material hugged the muscle underneath—sent a shiver through her. Her eyes widened. She didn't know why, but her hands began to move, sliding down his arms slowly, almost reverently. She felt the curve of his shoulders, the strength of his forearms, the way his muscles tensed under her touch.
She looked up.
The mask stared back at her, white lenses unreadable. But she could feel him watching her, feel the sudden stillness in his body.
Her breath caught. She could see him beneath the mask. Not his face, but something else. A feeling. A memory just out of reach.
I know you. I've felt you before.
She lifted a hand, reaching for his mask, her fingers trembling—
He stepped back.
Just one step, but it was enough to break her hold. Her hand hung in the air, empty.
"I have to go," he said, his voice tighter now, less playful. He set the bag down. "The police are on their way. Stay safe."
And before she could say another word, he was gone—a blur of red and blue vanishing into the night sky, leaving her alone in the dark alley, the old man's bag at her feet, her skin still tingling where she'd touched him.
She stood there, heart racing, frustration and confusion twisting in her chest.
Why does he feel so familiar?
She clenched her fists. It was like a word on the tip of her tongue, a name she couldn't remember, a face she couldn't see.
And yet, he's a stranger.
She bent down, picked up the bag, and walked out of the alley, her mind churning.
Who are you?
The question echoed in the empty space where Spider-Man had been. And somewhere, high above, hidden in the shadows, Donghyuck watched her go, his hands shaking, his heart aching with the weight of everything she didn't remember.
The bell above the café door chimed, and Y/N's heart did a little flip she immediately suppressed.
Donghyuck walked in, all easy confidence in a loose black t-shirt and those worn jeans that hung just right on his hips. He ran a hand through his hair—still slightly damp, like he'd just showered—and gave her a small smile as he approached the counter.
"Morning, Y/N."
She should have said something. She should have smiled back, asked for his usual order, made some casual remark about the weather. But her mind was still reeling from last night. The alley. The webs. The way her hands had traced the suit's texture like her fingers remembered what her brain couldn't.
Instead, she just nodded, her movements mechanical as she punched in his order. "Americano."
He blinked, clearly noticing her clipped tone. "Yeah. Thanks."
She turned to make the coffee, her back to him, feeling his gaze on her. She could sense the question in his silence—what's wrong?—but she couldn't bring herself to address it. She didn't know what to say. Hey, I think you might be the superhero who's been haunting my dreams and my subconscious sex life, but I can't be sure, so just pretend everything's normal.
She slid the cup across the counter. He took it, their fingers almost brushing. She pulled back too fast.
"Thanks," he said again, slower this time, searching her face.
She just nodded and turned to wipe down the counter, even though it was already clean.
The café was quiet—a lull between the morning rush and the lunch crowd. Renjun was in the back, restocking cups, humming something under his breath. Y/N busied herself with meaningless tasks, acutely aware of Donghyuck settling into his usual table by the window, pulling out his phone.
He didn't look at her again. Or maybe he did, in brief glances she pretended not to notice.
After a few minutes, he stood up, stretching his arms above his head. The motion pulled his shirt up just slightly, revealing a sliver of his stomach. Y/N's eyes tracked it before she forced them away.
"Bathroom," he said, more to announce it than anything, and disappeared through the back hallway.
The moment the door clicked shut, Renjun emerged from the stockroom, his eyes gleaming with mischief.
"Okay. Now's my chance."
Y/N frowned. "What chance?"
Renjun didn't answer. He darted to Donghyuck's table, where the worn leather messenger bag sat propped against the chair leg.
"Renjun, what the hell—"
"Shh." He was already crouching, unzipping the bag with practiced ease. "He's so mysterious. I just want to snoop a little. See if he's hiding anything interesting."
Y/N's heart lurched. "Stop! Put that back." She hissed, crossing the café in three quick strides. "What are you doing? That's his private stuff—"
"Relax, I'm just looking." Renjun's hands moved through the bag's contents—a wallet, a phone, a protein bar wrapper, a small notebook. "Boring, boring, boring. How does this guy have no personality in his bag?"
"Renjun, I swear to God—"
He pulled out a crumpled piece of fabric. Dark red and blue, folded into a rough square.
His eyebrows shot up. "Oh, he's a fan."
He unfolded it, and Y/N's breath caught in her throat.
It was a mask. A Spider-Man mask. The white lenses stared up at her, empty and familiar.
Renjun held it up, smirking. "See? Fanboy. Probably wears it to bed or something." He scoffed, tossing it carelessly back into the bag. "Guess even mysterious guys have heroes."
But Y/N wasn't listening.
She reached down, her fingers trembling, and picked up the mask. The fabric was cool against her skin. She ran her thumb across the surface—the subtle ribbing, the tight weave, the exact texture that had pressed against her palms last night.
The same texture.
Her blood ran cold.
She remembered the alley. The way her hands had slid down Spider-Man's arms. The way the suit had felt beneath her fingers. The way her body had known it, even when her mind couldn't.
This was the same mask. The same fabric. The same—
She looked up. Renjun was staring at her, his smirk fading into confusion. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
She couldn't speak. Her throat was tight, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.
She was holding Spider-Man's mask.
Haechan's mask.
Haechan is Spider-Man.
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