pairings: mafia leader!yoongi x f!reader
genre: mafia!au, yandere au, historical au
summary: Their interlocking gaze served as a butterfly effect on his heart, stirring it to the core. She, in turn, only dreams to find a way to escape. But perchance, over time she might forcefully learn to love the man who has taken so much from her.
Thus unfolds a twisted tale of love and loss, of hope and despair, of life and death. The music reverberated through the dimly-lit streets. Tears of sorrow, weeping symphony - reflects the hurt, the scars that linger deep within and the wounds that never healed. Lacrimosa.
warnings: minors dni 18+ | mafia au, dark!yoongi, mafia!yoongi, yandere, manipulation, deception, mention of attempted suicide, miscarriage, the sacred letter opener, mention of a gun, mind distortion, hallucinations, decapitated finger, graphic content, distortion between imagination and reality.
beta read by @chaoticpuff17
word count: 3,5K
disclaimer: this story is purely fictional, it does not depict real-life events or involve any actual members of BTS. This story will contain depictions of violence, blood shed, death, mentions of abuse, smoking, alcohol drinking, illegal activities, forbidden medical procedures, old social norms and traditions, which we do not condone.
keep in mind - I'm not an expert on chinese, korean and japanese culture, but I tried to research everything realistic I wanted to add to the story. Nonetheless, take it as a fiction.
author's note: will be at the very end! please read.
Thus unfolds a twisted tale of love and loss, of hope and despair, of life and death. The music reverberated through the dimly-lit streets. Tears of sorrow, weeping symphony - reflects the hurt, the scars that linger deep within and the wounds that never healed. Lacrimosa.
summer 1942
The wind carried the scent of summer rain, thick and heavy, like the monsoons she once watched from behind lattice windows. Y/N sat by the harbor, watching the lights flicker along the water, her hands resting idly in her lap. A freedom she had fought for, bled for, manipulated for, lied for, stretched out before her in the hum of the city. And yet, it did not feel like victory. Not entirely. Not until she healed from all the demons he summoned in her.
She might not have succeeded. There was always the possibility. For that, everytime she woke up, her mind repeated the same words all over again. Nightmare. It was just a nightmare. Not a reality. Yet she cannot live peacefully, not until he is somewhere out there, still looking for her. Last time she heard, he proclaimed whether she is to be found by anybody, they will be rewarded graciously. Elevating the search to different merit. But he would not find her. She kept saying that as her daily mantra, as believing was easier than knowing just how close he might be to discovering her everyday. He cannot. The darkest place on earth is under the lamp in the end. To run her whole life until he gave up, which he would never do, was not an option. Someone would eventually see her and that would lead to her doom. But, let us put things in the correct order for once.
She would have to lie, if she said that her freedom was self-earned. Since the birth of civilisation, noone ever did something of such merit alone, woman and a man entre holy matrimonial bond, consumate their marriage, sire children, who hopefully grew to adolescence, enter their own matrimonial bonds, multiply and so on so forth until there are several generations of a clan. All sparked just so they are not alone in this vast dark world. Similarly to the raven and dove and the generations before them. Said operation takes discipline that Yoongi lacked, but Dove possessed, even though it seemed opposite at times. Thus, she extorted the madness in her soul and used it to its brink, although not entirely without an aid of terrestrial and above higher powers.
Her heart clenched when she ran through the crowd towards the tighter alleys, praying to God to grant her this wish, straight towards the waiting car. She could still turn around and run for the bridge to Chosen hotel, let herself be found, say she could not find him in the chaos of the crowd, because that is where he would expect her to go when they were not so forcefully separated. But she had decided long before that, so even when the cold crept to her bones, oddly resembling the long long time ago when she ran from her motherland, yet she had nothing but determination.
It took a long time to orchestrate but she had nothing but herself and her thoughts, but it was as if the Lord himself has laid a path under her feet to walk on. Thus, a series of events altered the concluding sequence of her reign as the third Buin of Min clan rather naturally. Unless, there was nothing natural about it. After all, who can endure and bury the hatred for such a long period of time and puppeteer on that man's arm while quietly counting her days. What kind of a woman can do that? One in a rage. Vengeful one. Angry one. Broken one. Choose what you wish.
But Y/N long stopped hating him. She did not hate him. She only hated what he made her do. Who she had to become to get away. And this realisation came along the healing once she found love. Within her.
She wanted him to feel the pain she had when he took her soul peace by peace because she was very much aware that she is the core of his own being. His muse. His purpose. His peace. His havoc. His demise. His doom.
He was the one who presented himself to be in God's favour. How their union is thy Lord's will. Albeit, it was she who was in his favour. Especially when the most devoted brother of his betrayed his own kin.
He helped her. He could have stopped her that day. He could have run her down if he wanted. He had known anyway. And yet, he let her go. He might have been loyal to his brother, but he knew she needed to go. The memory clung to her, a weight she could not shake. His face portrayed a one of hurt when he realised she was not running to hide from the gunshots but towards them, that one of losing a friend. The same one he had when he found her in the ambulation, with Xiaoli's and Seokjin’s wife's medical files. He knew that was the moment they lost her. For good.
"Give me your coat and purse." And she had given him the ring too, what he planned to do with it, she did not have to know. All she needed was to-
"Go," he had said, the word barely a breath. "Now."
Hoseok had let her go.
She mouthed a little broken "thank you" and had not hesitated since. She had not. Because if she had, she would not have left. He had known anyway. But he himself rather lived in the belief that she had taken the road. Believing was easier than knowing. Something that she will tell the generations after her, if there will be anyone to tell the tale. Ever.
Y/N exhaled, leaning her head against the bench, letting the late evening hold her secrets. The world thought she had been kidnapped which was easy to plant when Luen Hanyu implied the idea into the Kkangpae's mind at her father's funeral. Of course, something had to transpire at the funeral that slipped Yoongi's attention.
Luen Hanyu was the next in line after his father and an older brother to Doctor Luen Min-ho. A figure she never spoke of. Never dared to acknowledge their existence in front of Yoongi. In front of anybody, there was no existing string tied between them. She tried to do the same for Chen, however, that was an unfortunate event she did not plan for and did not expect to happen at all. First love never dies. But Chen had not been her first love. Luen Min-ho, not a doctor at the time they first met, was her first love. Her green-eyed boy with dark hair she kissed under the cherry blossom tree. Reunited once she stepped on the academia soil. The youngest Luen son had given her the key to her survival back than and is still outstretching a helping hand. A name she could use. A passage through their territory in the north, first when she ran from her father, and second from her husband. She had erased every trace of how she had crossed through their territory in 1938 when she ran from China. The only loose thread was her late father. And now he was not among the living anymore. Killing him had been a salvation. His death had been the closing of one door, the unlocking of another. Yoongi, unfortunately, admired her for both.
"I'm pulling you out of here, Y/N."
"Not yet." She said to Min-ho at the funeral, her husband was occupied, distracted. She had never met Min-ho, nor any of the Luens, that is what they believed, thus there was no reason to be cautious when he walked her way, trying to hide a smile, the same one he had each time they met at the university labs, and express his sincerest condolences.
"But be ready."
His face had the same smile when she reached the car, hidden in a corner alley, gunshots resonating in the distant square in front of the government building. In different circumstances, she would fall for him all over again. Yet, she cannot.
She had spent some time, tucked away in Luen's safe house, and only after Yoongi actively started to engage in destroying the Luens, as he drew himself mad to believe she could not run away but be taken from him, she relocated. Otherwise he would have found her by now. That is what he delusionally believed. The easier option. To believe. Apparently, he was drowning in the delusion and even Kim Namjoon could not save the day with his cleverness anymore. She wonders whether he told him about the deal he had not even the slightest intention to uphold. The Min empire, however, kept standing. Good. This was only ever about his misery and even if she boldly said to his face that he only ever loved his clan, she knew that would never hurt him, as he fell too deep, too hard, for her. Fuck his empire. It can flourish for all she cares, as long as she is no longer part of it.
It was a well-placed rumor that had reached Yoongi's ears, twisting the truth just enough to send him into another clan war. Distract him from running to find her. As if he did not search half the continent and the other. She had known, from the moment she stepped into his world, that there was only one way out. To make him feel what she felt. To make him lose something that could never be replaced. He would look for her everywhere, but not close. He would search in Europe, in China, in Japan, even in America, in places far removed from the life she had led. But never here. Never as close to the ghosts they had both created.
She had done everything she needed to survive. And she had done everything she needed to make him suffer. But freedom had come at a cost. And she had paid it in full. With her mind. The sleepless nights were never farce, the frenzied pacing, the sensation that her body was still trapped even when she had been miles away. She had won. She had lost. She was free. But she was caged by a memory.
After all, what woman would slit her own throat, with a precise cut that will draw the blood but won't touch her windpipe, nor a cut that would be too deep to not stitch, to hurt him like he hurt her. What woman would kill her own father, what sane woman would manipulate a master manipulator that Yoongi was and is. What woman would agree to carry a child of that monster? What woman would starve herself to later appear to gain weight. What woman would falsify pregnancy and subsequent miscarriage. She. The answer is she.
Timing was beyond being crucial. Her own mother and brother were at stake and she could not leave them behind. She bargained with him to send them to Maryland, where she had bargained to send her cousins before. She had waited. She had waited for the right moment. Until he sent her mother and brother to America, believing they would be safer there, away from the chaos of everything that surrounded them.
He demanded a child in exchange. Greedy bastard.
Xiaoli was too far gone. And unless she found a way to mend unmendable, she could be of no help to her. But she was safe as Taehyung's wife. Now, as Min-ho said at their last encounter, a very pregnant wife.
Daiyu had known. The moment they stepped onto American soil, they had disappeared from the radar. It had been planned long before, long before Y/N ever made her move. Daiyu had understood what needed to be done. Once they were in, they vanished. No contact. No trace. The final chain tying Y/N to her past was severed. They will live. Away from all her sins.
But, to intrigue you further, pretending to be pregnant was the easiest in comparison to the miscarriage she had to act. Xiaoli unwillingly outed her and she never thanked her sister for anything but that. It opened another path. Complicated one, but worth taking. There is no way Min Yoongi would let his pregnant woman run for the hills so easily, nor as she expected leave the safety of sanctuary. But the pregnancy was needed in order to broker the deal between them. And she had absolutely zero intention of getting pregnant.
The beginning of the war was supposed to be her salvation, more of a doom in the end, as he was determined that his pregnant wife was too fragile to see the world in shambles. Thus, she needed to sin even more.
She had planted the idea with precision, knowing how gossip would weave its way through the hanok like smoke, so it is not like Yoongi would doubt if others noticed too. The maids whispered about how she moved slower, how she touched her stomach absentmindedly, how she refused wine one evening with a quiet smile, how she gained weight. Eating meals repeatedly, eating meals that made her bloat to imitate the little swell of her belly, enough that they noticed. But she never uttered the words herself.
No "I am with a child" ever curled on her tongue.
Note that, and that is a technicality she thought through. Yoongi never questioned it. He was overjoyed. He forgot, he forgave, he never thought to demand proof. His love, his obsession, blinded him.
Faking the miscarriage had been trickier. She had stolen the transfusion blood from the infirmary, Seokjin would not notice, it was her job to keep the tabs. Hiding the vials beneath the floorboards in their room, rationing them until the moment came.
The day she decided it was time to elevate the narrative, she made sure the pain in her voice was raw, real, laced with panic. When he had come running, the blood already spilled, staining the sheets and huddling them to look like a tiny bundle stained with blood. He never looked. He never peeled back the layers to see the deception. He held her, murmured reassurances, swore he would never leave her side. And she had let him, pressing her face into his shoulder, whispering apologies she never meant.
She gave him something that is never supposed to die. Hope. And when it was time, she stung the knife deep and ran.
Singapore had been peaceful. A city where no one knew her name, as this was Luens' extended territory even the Mins could not reach, as noone knew whose power extends here. She moved through the crowded streets as just another young woman with no past. She had found a small apartment, modest but safe, above a tailor's shop owned by an elderly couple who never asked questions. She worked quietly over the years after she finished her studies in London rather quickly. The war needed physicians, even women if praise be. Now she was assisting at a local clinic where Min-ho had secured her a place. Under a false name, of course. Falsified documents. She never spoke too much, never shared too much. Silence had become her greatest defense.
The quiet hum of a long shift still weighed on her as she walked home through the dimly lit streets, her nurse's uniform clinging to her skin from the humidity. The old man downstairs greeted her with a nod, handing her a brown paper-wrapped package, held with a string, a little dove painted in the right corner.
"Another one from your friend, Doctor" he murmured, giving her a smile that did not reach his eyes. She bowed down to thank him and scurried up the stairs to her apartment. The love she felt for Min-ho was different. Not romantic to be correct, but one of respect, gratitude even. But her mind was far gone to be with him. She could not anyway. He was a man of a name, and she… she was a renegade now.
She carried it upstairs, expecting another book or vinyl from Min-ho. Standing by the small table she had the gramophone stationed at, she cut the string with a letter opener and unwrapped it, revealing, what she predicted to be a vinyl. She placed it on the player, waiting for the needle to catch. Placing the box sideways, she gasped, looking at her bloodied hand. Did she cut herself? Confused, she glanced back into the package, lifting it to see it soaked in one corner where she was previously holding it. Her mind too tired to notice. She lowered it to throw the papers that surrounded the vinyl out, halting when the gramophone started to resonate through the sound horn, a melody, or more a cacophony she wished to never hear again.
Horror gripping her throat. No, this is just a coincidence. Min-ho has no means to know what this song means to her. That it echoed in her head each time she witnessed the resurrection of the evil Kkangpae Min Yoongi was. He never actually considered she could get away on her own. But he wanted her to know that there is nowhere to go. And she wanted to prove him wrong.
Very slowly, she glanced down to see what was under the crunched papers. Letting the box fall with a loud thud to the floor, pressing her hand to hide the shriek she let out upon seeing the decapitated hand inside, one of its fingers wrapped with a gold ring that had Luen's insignia, one of a deer. No.
This must be just her imagination, hallucination even. She must be having a lucid dream, as she often had them since her departure. Nightmares. Real ones this time, not the Greek tragedy she performed in front of Yoongi so later in her narrative he thinks she has healed.
Soft footsteps. Measured, unhurried, deliberate. The sound of leather soles against the wooden floor, moving with a certainty that sent ice through her veins. Closer. And closer. Did they underestimate Yoongi's reach, or was there an internal betrayal? They protected her. Just what made Min-ho slip down. Or is this even Min-ho’s hand? Did they torture him? He never became her lover just like she used to dream about back in the day. She understood that loving him would make her vulnerable, but the friendship they nurtured made her realise just how lucky she was that he felt all the same to help her get out of there. This must me a hallucination.
Her breath hitched. She did not need to turn around. She did not want to admit her defeat. You must understand that she was always ready to defend herself, to flee when needed, as she never made the mistake of underestimating him, just like he did underestimate her. To fight she was ready for. He already has one large scar, what is one more? Did he want to toy with her? Could he have attacked her sooner?
"There you are."
This must be a dream. She will not accept this as her reality anymore. Yet, her breath hitched upon hearing the baritone voice. In a single, fluid motion, her fingers brushed against her thigh to pull out the letter opener, from the pocket of her uniform. She spun, the blade slicing through the air—a desperate attempt.
It embedded itself in the wooden door frame, just inches from his head. Her aim was always perfect how come she missed now? Was he even there to be aimed at?
He did not even flinch. He simply smiled, just as wickedly as she remembered, tilting his head, to glance at the blade that she grew fond of as it seems. Twisted sentiment.
Only if she had a split of a second to open the desk's drawer to pull out the small revolver, if only. No. He was too close, he would catch her faster than a lightning would strike.
But if this is a dream she could reach it in time right?
And in the blink of an eye, she is back—trapped once more in the hanok of nightmares, where shadows breathe and the past refuses to sleep, screaming for her to wake up.
His hair was shorter now, the unruly waves tamed, though strands still fell over his forehead. A scar cut across his eye was just as she remembered. His black leather coat hung unbuttoned at his broad shoulders. Yet, he is all the same in her mind.
‘Get out of my head. Get out!’ she cries, but the words splinter in the air, swallowed by the very darkness that lurks within her.
The voice calls out once more, and the fabric of reality trembles—its borders blurred, its edges unravelling. She no longer knows where the nightmare ends and the waking world begins. A wound that never healed. Lacrimosa.
final author's note: my dear dark romance fairies, allow me to utter some last words before you'll descend me to hell if you possibly misunderstand. Lacrimosa was never meant to give you answers. Only possibilities. I wrote this story with one foot in the dark and one in the light, where the line between reality and nightmare stays blurred. A narrative that is unreliable. This story was never meant to deliver a neat ending wrapped in clarity—it was written to leave space, a pause between breaths, where you decide what lingers in the dark and what was merely imagined in the quiet between heartbeats. To not be sure if the story truly ended. Thank you for walking beside her my fairies. For staying through the silence, the sorrow, the unravelling.
Is this the reality she wakes to, or the nightmare she never escaped?
Was it all a dream? A descent? A warning?
That, my dear readers, is yours to decide.
Let her fate rest in your hands.
And maybe, just maybe—she’ll find peace in whichever version you choose.
So close the final page gently.
And if she’s still dreaming… maybe don’t wake her just yet.
Special thanks to @chaoticpuff17 who is not only brilliant beta reader but a dear friend of mine. Your insight, intuition, and unwavering honesty helped shape the bones of this story and for that I am so so grateful, endlessly.
Special thanks to all of you who stayed till the very end and to you who will just descend to hear the music reverberating through the dimly-lit streets. To see the tears of sorrow, weeping symphony - reflects the hurt, the scars that linger deep within and the wounds that never healed. Lacrimosa.
title: drakskar
pairings: general!jungkook, yandere!jk x duchess/cadet f!reader
genre: fourth wing au, dark romance, arranged marriage au, smut, porn with plot, fanstasy au
word count: 16,5 K
beta read: lovely @chaoticpuff17
summary: To escape an arranged political marriage to the infamous marked-one general, Jeon Jungkook, you enroll in the Riders Quadrant instead—choosing dragons and near-certain death over becoming his wife. But fate proves crueler than politics when you bond a dragon mated to his.
disclaimer: this is a Fourth Wing AU and therefore borrows lore, concepts, and certain dynamics from Rebecca Yarros’ original worldbuilding. This oneshot was inspired by chapter 22 and explores the idea of what if xaden never taught violet how to shield from the mating bond? all recognizable elements belong to their rightful owners.
author’s note: happy conscription day cadets!
𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
Cadets enrolled in the Riders Quadrant are hereby forbidden from entering into holy matrimony while under active training and service. Any marriage contract, ceremony, or binding recognised outside military authority shall be considered null and void for the duration of enrollment. Violation of this clause is treated as a breach of Quadrant discipline and subject to command review. A rider’s allegiance belongs first to their dragon, then their wing. Marriage is not prohibited. It is deferred until survival is no longer uncertain.
–ARTICLE SEVEN, SECTION TWO
THE DRAGON RIDER’S CODEX
You land on both of your feet on the dried grass of the courtyard of Basgiath and breathe the humid summer air of July. You’ve done it. You’ve crossed the parapet.
Behind you, boots still scrape against stone as the next cadets attempt the crossing, some cursing, some praying under their breath. Ahead, the vast courtyard sprawls beneath iron-gray skies, crowded with survivors trying—and failing—to look unaffected by the fact that they’re still alive.
Your pulse is still pounding hard enough to rattle your ribs. A laugh threatens to escape you, wild and disbelieving. You made it. No carriage waiting at dawn. No wedding dress on you but black leathers instead.
A familiar voice cuts through the ringing in your ears before you can properly enjoy your victory.
“Well,” it says, equal parts disbelief and accusation, “either I’m concussed from too many sparring matches, or you are the last person I expected to see standing on this side of the parapet.”
You turn sharply. There, weaving through the scattered cluster of first-years and unimpressed officers, is your cousin.
Third-year rider leathers fit her like they were sewn onto her body—dark, weathered, practical. A relic scar nicks across one brow from some incident your aunt had dramatically described in three separate letters.
You hadn’t seen her for a hot minute. Not since she’d left for Basgiath and your family had started speaking about your future in increasingly transactional terms.
Her eyes narrow as she takes you in, from your windswept hair to your death grip on your pack. Then her expression shifts from surprise to outright suspicion.
“…What are you doing here?”
“Lovely to see you too.” You exhale, still trying to regulate your heartbeat. She ignores that entirely.
“No…” she says, stepping closer, voice dropping. “Seriously. What are you doing here?” There’s a beat. Then realisation dawns across her face with almost comical horror.
“Oh, gods.”
“Yes.” You grimace, trying to downplay this even though you don’t have to. But you cannot let yourself to feel any guilt.
“No!”
“Yes.”
“You ran?” Her mouth actually falls open.
“I prefer strategically redirected my future,” you throw your hands around, nervously laughing. Out loud, it all seems so…weird.
“You fled your marriage by voluntarily attempting the parapet?”
“When you say it like that, it sounds dramatic,” or maybe the word dramatic indeed suits your current predicament better than weird.
“It is dramatic.” She glances over your shoulder as if expecting armed guards to descend at any moment. “You were supposed to be halfway to the capital by now, drowning in ceremonial silk and regrettable life choices.”
“Exactly the issue.” A small smile tugs at your mouth and she drags a hand over her face.
“You cannot possibly understand how insane this is,” she mutters. “Do you have any idea what kind of diplomatic incident you’ve just caused?”
“Hopefully a memorable one,” you say as if turning this into some kind of a joke will save your ass once someone will dig into this.
“This isn’t funny.” Her tone lowers further. “You weren’t being married off to some forgettable noble heir from the infantry.”
You know. Of course, you know. There has not been a single conversation in your family home for the year he was courting you that didn’t somehow circle back to him.
General Jeon Jungkook.
Youngest general in active command. Marked one. Rider. Political liability turned military necessity. A man spoken about in one of two ways: with fear or careful diplomacy. Never casually. Never lightly. Never as though he were a person.
“You were engaged to the general Jeon.” Your cousin folds her arms.
“Betrothed,” you correct automatically.
“As if that distinction matters.”
“It matters to me,” or you thought so the past year.
She studies you for a long moment, like she’s trying to determine whether you’ve lost your mind somewhere between your estate and the parapet.
“When he’ll get to know–” Then, with the kind of timing the gods reserve purely for cruelty, her gaze shifts over your shoulder and all the color drains from her face. Slowly, suspiciously, you turn. The noise of the courtyard seems to dim. A cluster of professors parts near the stone staircase leading toward the academic buildings.
And there he is.
Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed not in ceremonial uniform but dark rider leathers lined with a general’s insignia at the collar. A relic mark disappears beneath the edge of his throat, curling just above the neckline like spilled ink. General Jeon Jungkook looks less like a political arrangement and more like a very well-dressed threat.
He’s speaking to some professor, expression unreadable. Fuck. He got here way too fast? You were counting on having some time before he’d come to confront you. At least until threshing, which would give you three months to think of what you’ll say to him. Well… it seems you have about half an hour before the conscription day ends.
Then, as if sensing the exact moment your life begins to deteriorate in real time, he lifts his gaze and looks directly at you. Not through the crowd. Not past you.
At you.
Your stomach drops harder than it did on the parapet. Shit.
“Oh, you are so screwed.” Your cousin mutters, being deeply unhelpful. You tear your gaze away first.
Cowardly? Maybe.
Necessary? Absolutely.
The alternative is standing frozen in the middle of Basgiath’s courtyard while your almost-husband stares you into an early grave.
“No,” you mutter, mostly to yourself. “He can wait.”
“Can he?” Your cousin lets out a sound suspiciously close to a laugh.
“Yes.”
“No, I mean biologically. I’m not entirely convinced General Jeon has ever waited for anything in his life.”
You shoot her a glare, adjusting the strap of your pack higher on your shoulder.
“He waited for a year; he can wait three more.”
All remaining chatter dies almost instantly. A commanding officer steps onto the raised platform at the center of the grounds, voice amplified with the kind of authority that suggests insubordination is a hobby punishable by death.
“First-years, line up by section markers! Conscription processing begins now!”
Movement erupts around you. Cadets scramble into formation, some jogging, others practically sprinting as if late arrival might somehow disqualify them after surviving the parapet. You take one last glance toward the staircase.
Jungkook is still there, his eyes still dark, overlooking all the outcasts that made it through the parapet and you…among them. He’d probably never anticipated that you’d go to such measures to avoid marrying him. It’s the codex you did it for. Once you cross the parapet, there is nothing he can do for another three years. There is no way they would grant him any exception just because he is a general. Right? You count on all the codex worshipers that are you won’t have any exception.
Your best wish is that he won’t wait, just like Maelys suggested; he doesn’t have it in him to wait. Not three years at least. If you’re lucky, he’ll let you be useful somewhere other than as his bride. You’ll be a rider…if you’ll be seeing the daylight.
You pivot sharply and join the stream of first-years before your body can betray you by doing something humiliating—like turning around and fleeing back across the parapet.
Later that day, a healer presses a blade to your thumb. You hiss as blood wells across your skin.
“Name.”
“Y/N Y/S,” you state it.
The second year rider glances at the roster. Pauses. Looks up at you. Then looks back down again.
Ah.
Recognition.
Wonderful.
By the time you’re handed your assigned temporary quarters and formation details, at least four people have stared at you with varying degrees of confusion, curiosity, or poorly concealed horror.
Apparently, word travels fast. Or perhaps your spectacularly failed political disappearance plan was never as discreet as you’d hoped.
The sun has dipped lower by the time the final orientation announcements conclude. You’re halfway through considering whether hiding in your newly assigned bunk until winter is a viable life strategy when someone stops directly in front of you.
A red-haired girl in rider leathers—older, scar across her jaw, expression carved from stone—regards you with open disinterest.
Your…. section leader.
Or maybe…..wingleader? Or whatever delightful title belongs to the person most capable of ruining your evening.
“You.” You look behind you. There is no one there even though you hoped. Excellent.
“Yes?”
“You’re wanted.”
Every muscle in your body goes rigid. There are only so many ways that sentence can go wrong here. And none of them is fun.
“Wanted,” you repeat carefully, “by whom?”
“The board.”
Of course.
Naturally.
Why let you survive one life-threatening experience today when administrative terror is still available? You suppress a sigh and stare at her for a moment longer, briefly considering pretending you didn’t hear that. Unfortunately, military environments tend to frown upon selective deafness.
So with all the enthusiasm of someone marching toward their own execution, you nod.
“Lead the way.”
The corridors of Basgiath are colder inside. Stone walls. Torchlight. Echoing boots. Your footsteps sound far too loud as you follow the redhead girl deeper into administrative halls, which you definitely should not already be familiar with.
This is it, then.
Perhaps they’ve decided your enrollment was legally questionable. Perhaps your mother has already sent formal complaints. Perhaps someone finally realized accepting a runaway noble bride into the deadliest quadrant in the kingdom is poor institutional judgment.
Perhaps you’re fucking thinking too much.
You round one final corridor. The redhead girl stops outside a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron. She gestures toward it.
“You’ll go in alone.” You blink. Shouldn’t she come with you as your section slash wingleader or whatever she is?
“Aren’t you—”
“No.”
That seems unnecessarily ominous. Your pulse quickens. Something about this feels… off. Before you can interrogate her further, she turns on her heel and leaves. Just walks away. Actually walks away. Leaving you alone outside the door like some offering left at a shrine.
You inhale once. Twice. Then shove the door open. The room beyond is dimly lit, lined with shelves and maps pinned across stone walls. A war room, not a board chamber… and very much not occupied by a panel of professors.
Just one person.
General Jeon Jungkook stands near the far table, one hand braced against its edge, head lowered over a spread of maps. He doesn’t look surprised when you enter. Which means he is, of course, the one who summoned you.
Sure thing. As if you expected him to just stare at you. Okay….you can do this.
The door clicks shut behind you with a deeply offensive finality. For one long moment, silence stretches between you. Then Jungkook lifts his head. Dark eyes settle on you with maddening calm.
“Are you alright?”
“…What?” You blink at him with confusion.
Jungkook straightens from the table, expression unreadable. Is he…?
“I asked if you’re hurt.” His gaze drags over you with clinical precision, like he’s conducting an inventory. Your shoulders. Your hands. The scrape on your palm from the parapet stone. A loose strand of hair plastered to your temple from dried sweat. As if he is checking for damage.
“I survived.” You recover just enough to lift your chin.
“That was not my question.” There’s an edge to his voice now. Sharper. More personal than a general should sound.
You stare at him, thrown off balance by the fact that he seems genuinely annoyed by your refusal to elaborate.
“No,” you say at last. “I’m not hurt.”
His shoulders loosen so subtly you almost miss it. Almost. Only then does he exhale. A slow breath through his nose, like he’s been holding onto a very specific kind of rage since the moment someone informed him of your location.
“Good,” he says. And then his expression hardens. There it is. There’s the version you expected.
Because when he speaks again, his voice is calm in the way storms are calm right before flattening entire villages.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?!”
“In my defence, your proposal was always deeply inconvenient.” You fold your arms. A dangerous pause, you’re waiting for him to snap at you, which…he does.
“We were supposed to be married by now!”
“No, right. My apologies.” You gesture vaguely. Something dark flickers behind his eyes. He pushes off the table and begins walking toward you. His boots echo once. Twice. You hate that your body registers each step as he keeps walking.
“You crossed the parapet,” he says, like he still hasn’t fully accepted the reality of it. “Without training.”
“Yes. I made it.”
“Barely.”
“Still counts.”
He stops in front of you now, close enough that you have to tilt your head back slightly to maintain eye contact.
“You disappeared before dawn,” he says, voice lower now. “Left your family in chaos, your escort unconscious and half the capital convinced you’d been abducted.”
You wince. In fairness, the unconscious escort had been a regrettable necessity. Unhinged move that you’ll be apologising for later…in life.
“They’ll recover.”
“That is not the issue,” you swear you can hear his teeth grind against each other.
“No, I gathered–”
A humourless breath escapes him. For a second, he just looks at you. Not with anger, exactly. Something more exhausting. Like you have personally shortened his lifespan by several years.
“This,” he says quietly, gesturing once toward you, toward Basgiath, toward all of your terrible life choices, “was a deeply irritating move.”
“You thought enrolling here would solve your problem?” Jungkook continues in his…lecture? Preaching?
“It actually did,” you retort.
“No–” his voice is maddeningly certain. “It changed the location of your problem.”
“The Codex is clear.” You fold your arms tighter. That earns you the faintest shift in his expression. Almost amusement. Almost.
“Yes,” Jungkook says dryly. “I’ve finished this death college. I lived by the codex…sort of.”
“Then you understand the complication.”
“You seem to be under the impression that a bureaucratic clause is what was keeping this arrangement intact.”
That… is not the answer you wanted. Your stomach tightens.
“You cannot possibly mean—”
“If you wish to be here,” he cuts in, “then be here.” His tone is level. Controlled. Too controlled.
“I will not drag you from the Riders’ Quadrant because you wanted to prove a goddamn point.”
That surprises you. Enough that your guard slips, just slightly. Jungkook notices. Of course, he notices and continues.
“You crossed the parapet. You earned your place.” There’s something almost respectful in the words. Almost.
Then:
“But let’s be very clear.” His gaze sharpens, pinning you in place more effectively than any physical restraint could.
“This changes absolutely nothing.” The words land like stones. Your jaw tightens and you tighten your fists.
“You don’t get to decide that alone anymore–”
“No,” he agrees, infuriatingly calm. “But you do not get to vanish into a death college and pretend I will simply… what? Move on?”
Well. When he says it like that, it sounds almost ridiculous. Which is inconvenient.
“I entered the Riders’ Quadrant,” you say, forcing steadiness into your voice, “because I–”
“Because you don’t want me? Is that it?” The interruption lands like a blade thrown with terrifying precision. He steps closer, but you don’t move back. Your lips part, but for one humiliating second, absolutely nothing comes out.
Because of all the responses you’d prepared for this conversation—anger, threats, political manipulation, outrage—that was not one of them. Not even remotely. Jungkook watches you carefully. Not like a general assessing a cadet. Like a man waiting for an answer he actually intends to remember.
“Because Basgiath is the only place in this kingdom where my name belongs to me.”
For the first time, something in his expression softens. Not much. Just enough to be dangerous.
“You think I don’t understand that?” That throws you. Because no, actually—you hadn’t considered that possibility. Not really when he was eager to give you his name.
Jungkook studies your face for a long moment before speaking again.
“If being a rider is what you want,” he says, quieter now, “then I’ll allow this.”
“How generous of you.” You bristle instantly. His mouth twitches. But his next words erase any satisfaction you might have gotten from that.
“However,” he says, “if this becomes too much for you—if you are overwhelmed, too injured, or one reckless decision away from becoming dragon food—I will remove you myself.”
“You can’t do that.” Your eyes widen at his proclamation.
“Watch me.”
“The Codex—”
“Fuck the Codex.”
The sheer bluntness of it knocks the air from your lungs. Jungkook leans in slightly, voice dropping low enough to feel less like conversation and more like a threat wrapped in velvet.
“If you thrive here, then fine. Stay. Bond a dragon. Graduate. Become the most insufferable rider Basgiath has ever produced but you will be my wife.”
“The Codex says no cadet can marry while enrolled,” you say, clinging perhaps a little too hard to the one technicality currently standing between you and total loss of autonomy.
As if a paragraph in military law is somehow stronger than the man currently looking at you, like bureaucracy is a mild inconvenience.
Jungkook’s expression doesn’t so much as flicker.
“Yes–” he says. “And eventually, you will no longer be a cadet.”
That is… annoyingly logical. You open your mouth, then close it again. He steps just slightly closer—not enough to crowd you, but enough to make the air feel tighter.
“You seem very attached,” he says, voice low and maddeningly calm, “to the idea that this was an escape.”
“It was.”
A pause. Then Jungkook tilts his head, almost considering you.
“No,” he says, almost gently. “This was an inconvenient delay, more for your father than me.”
“You’re awfully confident for a man whose intended bride fled before sunrise.” That actually gets him. A very slight exhale through his nose. Not quite a laugh, but adjacent.
“Mm.” Not enough reaction. Unacceptable.
“I’m serious.” You narrow your eyes.
“So am I, love.”
The ease with which he says it is honestly offensive. Like he’s discussing weather patterns, not the deeply inconvenient trajectory of your future. Jungkook folds his arms.
“I’m gonna trust the Gods and be patient–” he leans back, looking down at you.
“You are welcome to continue staging elaborate acts of rebellion,” he says. “They’ve been entertaining so far.”
Your jaw drops slightly and he puckers his lips, smiling at you. You must have pissed him off less than you intended. Shame.
“Entertaining?” you muse.
“You drugged an escort, escaped a guarded estate, crossed the parapet with no formal training and enrolled in the most lethal quadrant in the kingdom to avoid one conversation.” He studies you, something almost admiring, buried beneath the exasperation.
“It was, indeed, dramatic.” He adds which makes you stare at him, standing strong and proud in front of you.
“You’re impossible.” Then scoff. His gaze doesn’t waver, though.
“And you,” he says, infuriatingly calm, “are still going to be my wife.”
Heat climbs your neck so fast it should qualify as a medical emergency. Absolutely not. You turn sharply toward the door, yanking it open with significantly more force than necessary.
“And Dunne, I want this union to happen even more.” You look over your shoulder when he says that.
“We’ll revisit your delusions after I survive the first year, General.”
Behind you, his voice follows—low, steady, far too confident.
“I look forward to it.” You hate him. You really, really hate him, which is unfortunate because that voice is probably going to live in your head for the foreseeable future.
“I can’t believe you did that.”
Maelys bites down on the chicken while you sit in the dining hall for lunch, staring at you from across the table as you’ve personally offended her ancestors. The air smells like smoke, sweat, and over-seasoned meat. You stab aggressively at something that might once have been a potato.
“Which part?” you ask. “The parapet, the enrollment, or basically telling General Jeon to his face that he was inconvenient?”
“You said what?” Maelys nearly chokes on her chicken. Her hand shoots to seize her cup of water to save yourself.
“In my defence, he was being irritating.”
She sets her chicken down with exaggerated care, as if sudden movement might worsen your already alarming condition.
“You are clinically incapable of self-preservation.”
“That feels dramatic.”
“You entered the Riders Quadrant to avoid marrying a marked general and then immediately antagonised him in private.” She leans forward. “Do you have some kind of death wish I should know about?”
You glare at your tray.
“No.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“He summoned me under false pretences.” You tear off a piece of bread.
“Please. You’re lucky he didn’t summon you by physically dragging you out of formation.” Maelys scoffs. That….is unfortunately true. But even he knows better. He cannot touch you here, and he couldn’t touch you before, not with all the chaperone prying eyes.
Not during negotiations, not during formal dinners, not across carefully monitored estate visits where every interaction was observed by at least three politically anxious adults pretending not to eavesdrop.
Jungkook has always maintained a maddening level of restraint around you; even when he seemed to break it, he would rather leave you pressed to the wall with the faint memory of his warm breath on your cheek than ruin the prospect of marriage.
“He wants the alliance,” you say, though it sounds less convincing out loud. Maelys gives you a long, knowing stare.
“No,” she says flatly. “He wants you. The alliance is a pleasant administrative bonus.”
“That is an absurd conclusion.” You nearly inhale your own drink.
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“He crossed three provinces to personally attend your family’s negotiations.” Maelys leans back in her chair.
That is true.
“He declined two stronger political offers beforehand.” Also, unfortunately true.
“He somehow knew within what—an hour?—that you’d enrolled here?”
You open your mouth. Close it again. Because yes, that had also felt aggressively efficient.
“I don’t understand him,” you mutter. That, finally, seems to earn something like sympathy from Maelys.
“Well,” she says, “that at least makes two of us.”
The next time you have to see him will be after Threshing, if…you’ll bond a dragon. Because after Threshing, all bonded riders are formally presented. That’s when high-ranking officers and generals attend.
Ceremonial, strategic, deeply inconvenient. But until then? Freedom. Relative freedom, anyway.
You don’t receive any letters until you finish your first year, and for the sake of your sanity, you don’t subject your mind to venturing into the thoughts of how fuming your father must be. Your province needed the alliance with Tyrrendor, military and civilian enforcement.
Tyrrendor’s military reach, trade access, and civilian enforcement agreements would have strengthened your territory more than any alliance your father could realistically secure elsewhere.
But you technically didn’t break the engagement, you simply stalled the I do part for the foreseeable future of three years. During which you can find out how to get out of it fully.
Without, of course…dying.
Until then, your father has to settle for whatever Jungkook demands…without you in the picture.
Threshing comes dangerously quickly, and as you expected, General Jeon did not seek you. He couldn’t, not with reasonable cause. Not after that disastrous conversation in the war room. Not in the weeks that followed. Not during training. Not after squad challenges. Not even during the handful of events where high-ranking officers briefly appeared to evaluate first-years like livestock with better weapon access.
As far as what you heard from Maelys or the battle brief, he was busy and kindly said….you were too.
“You’ll be fine, it’s not as scary as it looks,” one of the second-year cadets of your wing says to you. You spoke to him on occasion during sparring matches or the gauntlet, but beyond that, you never really talked to anybody; people were sort of…avoiding you. Which is not surprising at all, considering who you are beyond the walls of Basgiath.
You’ve been carrying your reputation like a second set of armour since the moment you crossed the parapet, which is to say: heavier than necessary, and entirely unhelpful in close combat. You shift your weight, rolling your shoulders as if that might settle the tension coiling beneath your skin.
By the third hour, your muscles are screaming. Not dramatically. Not in a way that would earn sympathy. Just a steady, grinding ache that settles into your bones like it plans to live there permanently.
The valley beyond Threshing is quieter now—most dragons have already chosen or discarded their cadets. What remains is the aftermath: injured pride, broken bones, and the rare cadet still stupid enough to believe there’s something left for them out here.
You adjust your grip on your blade as you move between jagged stone outcroppings. You’re running out of time; it’s almost dark. You need to find her. From one of the professors, you got to know she likes to hide and make the cadet earn her so you knew you wouldn’t find her in the open field. It’s worth a try, even if you’d be leaving unbonded tonight. That would sure suit general Jeon.
One you now only hear in whispers at family gatherings when adults thought children weren’t listening. A dragon your great-grandfather rode. The last bonded rider of your bloodline. A legend your family stopped speaking about properly after the war—like silence could erase history. But you remember. You remember sitting too close to the hearth, listening anyway. You were very little when you saw her with your own eyes.
Red dagger tail. Crimson scale ridge. Old-world intelligence. Ferocious loyalty.
And a name spoken with reverence.
Virelia.
You step carefully over fractured rock, scanning the narrow cleft ahead. Something feels… wrong here. Not danger. Recognition. Your foot slips. The ground gives way beneath you before you can correct.
“Shit—”
Gravity wins.
You fall hard.
Stone scrapes along your side, your shoulder slamming into jagged rock as you tumble into darkness. The world spins—dust, pain, impact—and then stillness. For a moment, there is only your breathing and the distant drip of water somewhere deeper inside the earth.
Fuck. How far down did you fall into the cave?
“You have got to be joking,” you mutter into the dark. Your voice echoes back at you—thin, swallowed quickly by the stone. The cave doesn’t bother responding beyond that. No comforting signs of life. No convenient lantern-lit exit. Just cold air and the slow, rhythmic drip of water somewhere deeper inside the earth.
Fantastic.
You push yourself up anyway.
Pain flares immediately along your side, sharp enough to steal your breath for a second. Blood runs warm down your temple, sticky against your skin when you swipe at it with the back of your hand.
“That’s just perfect,” you mutter into the dark, wiping it away with the back of your hand. “Really elegant way to die, honestly.”
You take another careful step forward. Then another. The cave feels wrong in a way you can’t name—too still, too aware, like the air itself is holding its breath.
Blood has dried hot along your temple and every movement sends a dull ache through your side. You ignore it. Pain is irrelevant now when you’re running out of time. The cave widens and the air changes. Not colder. Not warmer. Heavier. Like the space itself has been occupied for longer than anything alive should be able to measure.
Your breath slows without your permission. Something is here. That thought makes your stomach tighten.
You round the fractured edge of stone—
—and stop.
Because she is there. Or at least you hope it’s her. You cannot see her colour, nor tail, but something tells you your search is over, you can feel it deep down. Maybe even your life if she decides that you’re not worth being her rider and eats you–
That’s such a nonsensical thought.
The dragon’s large head lifts and her chest expands. A low sound builds in her throat—not warning, not hesitation.
Decision.
Then—
Fire.
It erupts upward in a violent, controlled column of crimson-gold flame. The ceiling of the cave explodes in light. Heat slams into you so hard you stagger back, throwing an arm up instinctively as molten brightness floods the space. Stone blackens instantly, ancient rock cracking and hissing as centuries of cold are erased in seconds.
The roar is deafening. Not just sound—pressure. A living force that vibrates through your bones. You drop into a crouch on instinct, shielding your face as embers rain down around you like burning snow.
For one terrifying heartbeat, you think—she’s rejecting me.
That this is it. That you’ve misread everything. That you’ve fallen into a cave just to be incinerated by a dragon your family never even deserved to name aloud.
But then—
you feel it.
Not rage or rejection. Control. Absolute, terrifying control. The fire doesn’t spread. It doesn’t consume the cave. It clears it.
Burning away loose stone. Shattering weak rock. Carving open a jagged path upward through the ceiling like the mountain itself is being rewritten.
Light pours in.
Moonlight. Cold air rushes down through the new opening, mixing violently with the heat until the entire space shimmers between fire and night.
We’ll be late, girl.
“…Late?”
A pause. Then, with the patience of something that has watched civilizations make worse decisions:
Yes, I don’t like being late, but someone had to fall down and hit her head.
That lands something into your stomach. Isn’t she funny large–
I can hear you. Let’s go or I’ll let you walk your way back. She huffs a hot air in your direction and looks up.
You whip your head toward the opening she just carved—toward the sky, the valley, the world outside this cave that is still full of cadets, dragons, chaos, and one very specific general you have been doing your best to avoid thinking about.
Virelia exhales once, smoke curling lazily from her nostrils as if time itself is optional, then she steps forward so you can climb her.
“We’re absolutely going to be late–” and your voice catches as you scramble to your feet, adrenaline snapping back into place.
A faint ripple of amusement answers you.
Then move your ass.
Air slams into you as Virelia tears upward through the opening she made herself, massive wings catching moonlit currents with predatory ease. The valley drops beneath you in a dizzying rush of cliffs, forest, and scattered dragons still circling lower fields.
Gods.
This is flight.
You used to talk more. Virelia remarks dryly in your mind. The cold air bites through your leathers, sharp enough to sting against the blood drying at your temple.
“YO-HOOOOOOOO!” You scream from the top of your lungs. “BETTER?”
Virelia releases a powerful huff through her nostrils, warm air curling past your legs. Approval. You decide to count that as affection. And for one reckless, glorious second—
nothing exists except this.
I didn’t think you’d find me, little one.
“Me neither!” You scream back to her. Virelia banks slightly, moonlight washing over the crimson ridges of her scales until she looks less like a creature and more like a moving ember against the darkening sky.
So you…a rider?
The last person reckless enough—or brave enough—to choose dragons over obligation. After him, your house had changed. Or maybe simply corrected itself. No more riders. No more unnecessary risks. Just politics. Land management. Strategic marriages. Children raised to be useful in ways that required less dying. You stare out at the horizon.
“My father would probably rather eat stone than admit I’m here by choice.”
I gathered as much.
You grin faintly.
“So you do judge people.”
Constantly.
That feels correct. A comfortable silence settles between you. Wind whistles past. The Threshing field is still active, though quieter now. Torches have been lit around the perimeter, their flames flickering gold against deepening twilight.
You are definitely late. Very late. Catastrophically late.
“Wonderful,” you mutter into the wind. You’re about to land. Virelia begins her descent with terrifying calm. Unlike you.
Your stomach flips as the field rises to meet you, details sharpening with every beat of her wings—officers near the command tents, upper years gathered in loose clusters, dragons resting across the valley like living mountains.
And then—
people start noticing. At first, it’s subtle. A few heads tilting upward. A pause in conversation. A second-year student nudges someone beside them. Then the effect spreads outward in visible waves.
You dismount Virelia once she lands; the ground vibrates under her weight. You’re dizzy and light-headed from your fall, but you have to make it to the scroll keeper to sign your names.
Your eyes scan the gathered officers—
and immediately land on him. Standing near the command line as if personally summoned by narrative cruelty itself.
Jungkook.
His eyes are not on you more than they are on your dragon. You glance towards Virelia one more time, but her focus is also not on you or anybody else in particular, they are looking up beyond on the cliff where the dragons of the board and commanders are alongside Jungkook’s….oh.
“Lia?” You call her name to get her attention, but she isn’t turning her head.
Hm?
“How’d you know I was looking for you?” You ask and then realize “and how’d you no my father–” you stop yourself mid sentence. Oh no. You feel it—her awareness shifting, a slow amusement brushing against your mind like heat curling from banked coals.
Your great-grandfather was my last rider, we figured–
“Who’s we?”
You stare at Virelia for one long, terrible second. Then at the cliff. At the black dragon. At the way, his entire focus has narrowed onto Virelia with unnerving intensity. Not casual interest. Not curiosity. Something far more instinctive. Ancient. Possessive.
Oh.
Oh, no.
Your stomach drops so violently, you’re surprised it doesn’t physically hit the ground. The pieces slam together in your mind with horrifying precision. You turn slowly toward Virelia. Disbelief first. Then betrayal. Then the pure, unfiltered horror of comprehension.
“…No…” Virelia remains infuriatingly calm. You lower your voice, as if speaking softer will somehow make this less real.
“No!”
Her silence is a confirmation so loud it may as well be shouted. Your eyes widen.
“You cannot possibly be serious.”
“That dragon?”
A pause.
Then, with all the dignity of a creature ruining your life through logistics:
Yes.
Your jaw drops. No. Absolutely not.
Of all the dragons in all of Navarre—
of all the ancient, powerful, terrifying creatures you could have bonded—
yours had to be mated to his.
This is not luck. This is targeted harassment from the gods.
You look back. Jungkook. He’s no longer standing still. He’s crossing the field now. Fast. Not rushed enough to look undignified. But with enough purpose to make your pulse spike. Your entire body goes on alert on instinct. Not because of him. Not entirely. Because you suddenly become excruciatingly aware of how you must look.
Gods.
Blood. You are still covered in blood, and soot, and cave dust. Your sleeve is partially torn. There is dried crimson all over your temple, your knuckles, your throat. Your hair is somewhere between windblown and post-apocalyptic. You look less like a newly bonded rider and more like something Lia dragged home as a conversation starter.
Wonderful. Just perfect. You straighten instinctively, which is ambitious considering your ribs currently feel like shattered architecture. Jungkook closes the distance. His expression remains controlled. Unreadable. Infuriatingly composed. Until he gets close enough. Then he properly sees you and everything changes.
It’s subtle. So subtle, most people would miss it. But you don’t. His eyes sweep over you once. Quickly. Efficiently.
Temple.
Blood.
Shoulder.
Sleeve.
Hands.
The visible stiffness in your posture. Assessing damage. Calculating.
And then—
his jaw tightens.
“You’re injured.”
“It’s mostly decorative.” You immediately bristle. His gaze lifts slowly to meet yours. Unimpressed.
A truly extraordinary amount of judgment packed into one look. Behind him, his dragon descends from the ridge with powerful, controlled grace, landing several yards away with a heavy impact.
The ground trembles. Virelia shifts beside you immediately. Not away. Toward him. Toward his dragon.
You close your eyes briefly thinking that this might be a dream, but it isn’t.
The black dragon lowers his head slightly, releasing a low sound from deep in his chest. Not threatening. Not territorial. Something intimate enough to make you deeply uncomfortable on principle. Virelia answers with a softer rumble. You physically flinch.
Jungkook glances toward them. Then back at you. His expression shifts by approximately half a degree. Which, on him, is basically emotional upheaval.
“You bonded Virelia.”
It wasn’t a question when he already knew the answer. He fucking knew she was your grandfather’s dragon and that the most logical step for you would be to look for her in the field.
“Yes,” you say dryly. “Though I’m beginning to suspect there were external influences involved.” You cross your arms despite the immediate protest from your ribs.
His gaze flicks, almost imperceptibly, toward the two dragons. Virelia and his black dragon are still entirely too occupied with each other, their attention narrowed into something old and intimate and deeply inconvenient. The black dragon lowers his head further, brushing his snout along the side of Virelia’s neck with slow familiarity. The gesture is unmistakably affectionate.
Jungkook watches you for a beat too long, something dangerously close to amusement threatening the corner of his mouth.
“You seem distressed.”
“Your dragon is emotionally compromising mine.” You stare at him.
“That is not how dragon bonds work–”
“That sounds exactly like something a person benefiting from this arrangement would say.” You look at Jungkook. “This is somehow your fault.”
“Is it?” His brow lifts faintly.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“You knew they are bonded!” You gesture wildly toward the dragons. Virelia, infuriatingly, looks entirely at ease. Like she hasn’t just detonated your life with ancient reptilian matchmaking.
“How would I know you’ll go looking for her out of hundred dragons out there?” Jungkook exhales slowly. Not frustrated. Not surprised. Just… resigned in a way you deeply distrust.
Before either of you can continue this deeply productive conversation, movement stirs around you. The gathered officers are closing in. Board members, commanders, scribes. The whole dreadful administrative ecosystem.
A rider in command leather steps forward, clearing his throat with the solemnity of someone about to ruin your evening.
“Cadet Y/S.”
“Yes?” You already hate him.
“The Board requests your immediate presence.”
Why would your first successful day as a rider conclude in anything other than bureaucratic suffering? You pinch the bridge of your nose. Behind you, Virelia shifts, wings rustling softly as if none of this concerns her in the slightest.
Traitor.
Virelia and Kaelor are a confirmed mated pair, which you had no idea before you ventured far enough to find her. Only for her to betray you–
I did not betray you.
You nearly laugh, a short offended sound you manage to disguise as a cough.
Sure, you just let me bond with you when you knew you had a mate whose rider is my betrothed I specifically came here to escape.
You were looking for me.
Yes.
And you found me.
That is not the point.
You wished to become a rider.
Well….kinda.
You wished to avoid a life chosen for you by others.
Possibly–
So I gave you what you asked for.
I wanted to be away from him–
Why?
Mentally scrambling for an answer that feels simple enough to survive being spoken aloud.
Because he acts like I’m already his.
Well–
Don’t.
You won’t admit it. You won’t admit defeat when there is still a lot to fight for.
When he looks at me it feels like he already knows what I’ll do before I do it.
And you dislike being known.
That is—
rude but uncomfortably accurate.
I dislike being predictable.
That is not the same thing.
No, it isn’t and that is somehow worse.
Because suddenly this feels less about escaping a marriage and more about escaping the deeply destabilizing possibility that Jungkook sees through you with alarming consistency.
That he reads you too well. That he understands parts of you you’ve worked very hard to keep inaccessible. He spent the whole year learning everything about you. Courting you, trying to capture your heart, only for you to screw him over by becoming cadet.
And all that—
that is terrifying.
The Board, after what felt like an offensively long amount of discussion over your life as though you were a scheduling inconvenience rather than an actual person, reached what they proudly called a reasonable compromise.
Due to the confirmed mating bond between Virelia and Kaelor, prolonged separation was deemed operationally unwise—not only for dragon wellbeing, but for rider stability and flight performance. Which, translated from military language into something more honest, meant: your dragon would become increasingly insufferable if kept from her mate, and everyone preferred avoiding that scenario.
As such, a formal exception was entered into Basgiath records granting you temporary leave every third day to fly to Tyrrendor under supervised authorization. The destination? Aretia—but, more specifically, a smaller fortified island territory under General Jeon Jungkook’s jurisdiction.
Officially, these visits were classified as necessary dragon accommodations and advanced rider instruction. Unofficially, the Board had managed to weaponize your betrothal into a logistical arrangement so absurdly intimate it felt like a personal insult.
You were now, by written military decree, required to report to your betrothed every three days so your dragons could spend time together. A line of text in an official record that would haunt you for the foreseeable future.
So it’s been a few months of you two flying back and forth. They even allowed Jungkook to substitute for some of the classes you’d miss. He always gets what he wants; his high standing allows him to do so.
The morning air is sharp with sea salt and early frost as Virelia cuts through a pale sky, her massive wings beating steadily over the endless stretch of water separating Tyrrendor and Drakskar.
Drakskar was less an island and more a weaponised hidden outpost carved into rock. Watchtowers lined the perimeter, their silhouettes sharp against the grey horizon, while the estate itself sat at the highest point like something designed by a man who considered comfort suspicious. It was isolated, brutally practical, and impossible to reach without a dragon. Which, you suspected, was exactly how Jungkook liked it.
Waves crashed violently below, white foam exploding against jagged black shoreline. There was no softness here, no ornamental architecture, no attempt at charm. Just defense. Height. Distance. A place built for command, secrecy, and people who preferred being unreachable.
Only Virelia knows precisely where the place is, and now…you.
The Board still believes your authorised residence during leave rotations is Aretia proper. Which, to be fair, had been true at first. For approximately four visits. Long enough for your presence there to become an immediate logistical headache.
Too many people. Too many guards. Too many officers with eyes and functioning pattern recognition. And, according to Jungkook, far too many security vulnerabilities.
His exact phrasing had been: If someone wanted to leverage you politically, Aretia is the first place they would look. A sentence that had somehow resulted in you being quietly relocated to Drakskar.
You were now being housed on Jungkook’s aggressively isolated island stronghold like a very politically inconvenient treasure. You are still undecided on how to feel about this. Actually. No. That is a lie. You know exactly how you feel.
Annoyed.
Vileria lands with practised precision in the centre of the stone courtyard, claws scraping against weathered rock as her wings fold in around you.
Maybe next time I don’t have to land at all?
You slide from Lia’s back onto the weathered stone with significantly more grace than you had during your first humiliating weeks as a rider.
No stumbling.
No nearly-dislocated shoulder.
No accidental public embarrassment.
Months of flying had finally taught your body how to move with Virelia instead of against her. Dismounting now feels almost natural, boots hitting the courtyard with an ease you would have once found deeply suspicious. But not quite ready for flying dismount yet.
Virelia lowers her head slightly.
If you like me to fall face-first on concrete, be my guest.
“That would certainly stain your beautiful face with bruises.” A familiar voice echoes from the other side of the courtyard.
Jungkook stands near the base of the stone staircase leading toward the upper terrace, one hand resting loosely against the hilt of a training blade at his hip.
Dark riding leathers. Hair windswept by the violent coastal air in that annoyingly effortless way that feels strategically designed to worsen your life. He must have land just minutes before you. But you didn’t see Kaelor in the sky; he must be down in the cave.
He looks entirely too comfortable here. Of course he does. This is his island. His fortress. His aggressively isolated piece of weaponised rock in the middle of nowhere.
Beside you, Virelia emits what feels suspiciously like amusement through your bond. Traitor. You ignore her. Mostly because Jungkook is already approaching. His gaze shifts from your face to your harness, then your gloves, then briefly to the still-settling position of Virelia behind you.
Assessment mode.
Again.
Honestly, at this point, you’re considering asking if he was born like this or professionally trained to be incapable of greeting someone normally.
“You landed well,” he says. That almost sounded like praise. Almost.
“I know.” You cross your arms.
“Confidence.”
“I’m trying it out.”
“It suits you.”
You stare. Again.
There is a beat of silence in which the sea crashes violently below the cliffs, and your brain very helpfully forgets how language works. He’s being way too nice today. Usually, his teaching style consists of relentless criticism.
Your footing is weak.
Your grip is inefficient.
Again.
Always followed by some variation of: I’m trying to keep you alive long enough to become a competent rider.
Even Virelia doesn’t let on what is going on in his head and you don’t know how to use the bond you all have to your advantage just yet. Simply because…you have yet to manifest a signet. No manifested power. No sharpened access to the deeper mechanics of your bond.
Something is clearly wrong. You eye him suspiciously as you follow him toward the western terrace, where you usually train. When exactly he changed his mind about you being a rider remains a mystery. In the beginning, he tolerated it at best, but you knew deep down he wanted to pull you out of there numerous time.
He allowed it, technically, because he had promised he would. But there had always been an undercurrent to it—an expectation that perhaps eventually you would realise Basgiath was too brutal, too dangerous, too much. That you would leave yourself if he gave you the chance.
Now?
Now he trains you like he fully expects you to survive. To stay. To thrive, even. Which is significantly more disorienting. You haven’t managed to figure out what shifted.
The worst part of your arrangement here, however, is not the logistics. Not the forced travel. Not even the fact that you are now essentially military paperwork away from being professionally supervised by your own betrothed.
No. The worst part is sparring. Without question. Because sparring with Jungkook is a uniquely miserable experience. Not because he is cruel. Though he can be ruthless.
Not because he is impossible to beat. Though he absolutely is. But because sparring requires proximity. Far too much of it. You get way too close in those sessions, and he enjoys that way too thoroughly.
You spit a strand of hair out of your mouth.
“This island is actively hostile.”
Jungkook glances toward the darkening sky. Heavy clouds have begun gathering over the sea, low and bruised, swallowing what remained of the afternoon light.
Rain.
Imminent.
The coastal kind, which on Drakskar likely translates to biblical punishment. He lowers his blade.
“We’re moving inside.”
You don’t argue. A rare and deeply humbling occurrence. Mostly because your fingers are already beginning to numb despite the suspiciously well-fitted gloves currently betraying your principles. He gifted them to you on your second visit when you complained that your hands are always cold here even when the sun is shining.
Jungkook leads you through a side corridor branching off the main fortress and down a curved stone staircase you haven’t explored before.
The air shifts gradually as you descend. Less salt. Less cold. Warmer. Humid, almost. Interesting. The corridor opens suddenly into an enormous glass conservatory built into the cliffside. You stop walking. Oh.
Floor-to-ceiling arched windows rise overhead, framed in black iron and fogged faintly at the edges from the warmth trapped inside. Rain begins tapping softly against the glass almost the moment you enter, droplets racing downward in silver lines.
The space is absurdly beautiful.
Wild greenery spills from enormous stone planters—climbing ivy, dark ferns, flowering vines twisting around wrought iron columns. Strange herbs and medicinal plants line raised beds near the centre, their leaves glossy in the filtered evening light.
It is the softest room you have seen on this island. Which feels almost scandalous.
“Did you build this?”
“No.”
“How disappointing.”
A faint brow raise.
“You seem surprised I didn’t personally construct an entire glass botanical structure.”
“I’m still learning where your unnecessary competencies begin and end.” That almost earns another smile. Almost.
You stop beside a citrus tree growing improbably well near one of the windows. Rainwater streaks down the glass behind it, blurring the violent coastline beyond. The contrast is strange.
“This feels suspiciously peaceful for somewhere you spend time voluntarily.” You glance over your shoulder.
Jungkook has removed his outer jacket now, setting it over the back of a chair near the mats. Rolled sleeves. Bad. Deeply unhelpful visual. He catches you looking. You immediately focus very intently on a nearby fern. Botany is suddenly fascinating.
“This space belonged to my mother,” he says.
You freeze.
That—
you did not expect. Slowly, you turn back toward him. His tone is neutral. But quieter somehow.
Less guarded. Something about the admission feels unexpectedly intimate. Not because the information itself is dramatic. But because it sounds unpolished. Unstrategic. Simply offered.
“Oh.” An incredibly eloquent response. Well done. You glance around again, this time differently. Not as an anomaly in this island. But as something preserved.
That changes things. Subtly. Enough.
“She liked plants?” A small pause.
Then:
“She liked things that required patience.”
He must have inherited that part of her, because Jeon Jungkook must be the most patient and thorough man you’ve ever met.
No other general would ever let you get away with this. Everyone had apparently been deeply convinced Jungkook would drag you out of Basgiath by your elbow within a week and punish you for your misbehaving.
As far as Maelys has very helpfully informed you, most commanders in Navarre would have treated your enrollment as either an insult or a logistical inconvenience to be corrected immediately.
Not accommodated. Not entertained.
But he didn’t and now you’re almost at the end of your first year, which means one thing: your time is shortening, and you still haven’t thought through how you’ll get out of this, which now seems very impossible with the fact that your dragons are mated.
Several rounds later, you are beginning to suspect Jungkook is enjoying this far more than necessary. Not the sparring itself. Though he is, infuriatingly, still barely winded while you are starting to feel every muscle in your body protest.
No. He is enjoying you being frustrated. A deeply different problem. Wood clashes again, dull and ringing in the warm conservatory air. You drive forward with more force than precision, aiming a strike toward his left shoulder. He blocks immediately. Predictably.
You twist, trying to force an opening. He counters. Your blades lock. Too close. Again. This is becoming an issue.
Your breathing is heavier now, chest rising faster from exertion while warmth has begun gathering annoyingly beneath your leathers. The conservatory is warmer than the terrace.
Humid. Dense with heat trapped beneath glass and rain. And sparring, as it turns out, is significantly less enjoyable when your body has decided to become acutely aware of temperature.
“This is tactical bullying.” You break apart from the lock with a frustrated sound.
“You’re overcommitting.” Jungkook lowers his blade slightly, dark hair fallen messily across his forehead now from movement.
“You say that like it’s a character flaw.”
“It is.”
Rude. You lunge again. He sidesteps. You miss. Badly. Your momentum carries you farther than intended, and Jungkook catches your wrist before you can fully lose balance. His hand is warm around your wrist. Your body stills instantly, and you swear all you hear is your heartbeat and his ragged breath.
For one deeply unfortunate second, neither of you moves. Rain drums harder overhead. Your pulse immediately begins behaving like it has lost all military discipline. Jungkook releases you first. A tactical retreat you are grateful for.
He steps back, gaze briefly dropping to the collar of his shirt where damp fabric has begun sticking lightly against skin. Then, with infuriating calm, he sets his training blade aside.
What is he—
Absolutely not.
You stare in mounting disbelief as he pulls the shirt loose over his head in one efficient movement and tosses it onto a nearby bench.
And—
well.
This feels like targeted psychological warfare. Your brain stops functioning for approximately three full seconds. Which, in combat terms, is catastrophic.
Jungkook is built exactly like a man who spends his life fighting wars and making deeply controlling logistical decisions.
Broad shoulders. Defined muscle cut sharply beneath warm lanternlight. A scattering of old scars crossing his torso and ribs like quiet evidence of every life he has apparently survived.
There is a relic mark curling darkly over one shoulder and along part of his collarbone, disappearing lower where your eyes absolutely should not be following. This is deeply inappropriate. You look away immediately. Then, accidentally look back. A tactical failure.
Your throat feels dry. Too dry. The conservatory suddenly seems approximately ten degrees warmer. You tighten your grip on your weapon. Trying very hard to recover some degree of composure. Trying harder not to notice absolutely anything. A losing battle. Jungkook settles back into his stance. Completely unbothered.
The audacity. What does he think he’ll achieve?
You’re getting distracted by the handsome general.
Virelia’s voice cuts through your scalp. The sheer betrayal of it nearly has you dropping your blade on principle.
Excuse me? You grip the practice sword harder, glaring at absolutely nothing in particular. Do not start.
It is an observation. A fairly obvious one. Virelia sounds unbearably amused.
You are supposed to be on my side.
I am. This is very entertaining.
Fantastic. Wonderful. Your own dragon has decided to become a commentator on your rapidly declining emotional stability.
Across from you, Jungkook remains infuriatingly composed, blade angled lazily at his side as though he is not currently responsible for approximately eighty percent of your internal distress.
You narrow your eyes at him. This is somehow his fault too. You haven’t worked out how yet, but spiritually? Certainly.
“What?” he asks. His tone is neutral. Suspiciously neutral. Like he’s aware something has changed and is waiting to identify the threat.
You blink. Had you been staring? No. Absolutely not… Probably.
“Nothing.”
A pause.
Then Jungkook glances briefly upward, as though he could somehow locate Virelia through several floors of stone and an aggressively rainy sky and smirks. He is surely talking to Kaelor. You hate when he does that.
Don’t you dare tell him Lia!
You are flustered. All the fucking time. Virelia remarks helpfully.
I am not flustered.
Your pulse is elevated.
I’m sparring.
You have sparred before.
Traitor.
Absolute traitor.
You inhale once through your nose, attempting to recover what remains of your dignity.
Jungkook rolls one shoulder, loosening his grip slightly before resetting his stance. Still shirtless. Still unfairly calm about it.
Thunder rolls somewhere over the sea. The lanternlight catches gold against the sharp line of Jungkook’s jaw, across old scars, along the planes of muscle in his shoulders and arms.
You look away so quickly it nearly gives you whiplash. Absolutely not. Not happening. Not acknowledged. You raise your blade again with renewed hostility.
Enough.
If he insists on being distracting, then you are at least going to make him work for it.
You lunge.
Fast.
Not reckless this time. Focused. Jungkook blocks immediately, but you’re already anticipating it. You pivot left, letting his blade glance off yours before dropping lower and shifting your weight.
He moves to counter—
too late.
You duck beneath his arm, twist sharply, and hook your foot behind his ankle with far more force than elegance. A dirty move but an effective one. His balance falters, just enough for him to fall and before he can fully recover, you use the opening.
One hand catches his forearm that holds his weapon and pins it to the ground. The other drives your practice blade upward—
stopping with the flat edge pressed firmly against his throat.
Silence. You are breathing hard. Chest rising too fast. Hair is partially stuck to your forehead from heat and exertion. Your pulse is so loud it should qualify as a military announcement. But none of that matters right now.
Because for once—
finally—
Jungkook is still. Not because he chose to be. Because you put him there. His back pressed to the cold stone ground while you straddle him, your body far closer to his than is remotely strategic. Victory, glorious and intoxicating.
“There.” Your mouth curves before you can stop it.
“I win.” Breathless. Triumphant. For one beautiful second, satisfaction floods through you. Pure and untouched. Then you realize exactly how close you are.
Oh.
That is—
less ideal. Your smile falters by approximately half a degree. Jungkook hasn’t moved. Hasn’t even attempted to disarm you. Which feels suspicious. His chest rises once beneath you. Steady. Controlled. Far too calm. Slowly—dangerously—his eyes lift to yours.
Not to the weapon. Not to your hand. Just you and something in his expression changes, subtly, but enough. The playfulness is gone. The instructor’s detachment is gone with it. Replaced by something lower. Darker. Focused in a way that immediately sends heat racing beneath your skin.
Your grip tightens involuntarily. A terrible instinct.
“You should have followed through.” His gaze flicks once toward the wooden blade at his throat. Your heart stumbles. That is not remotely what this moment needed.
“With a wooden sword?”
“Everything can be made into a weapon.”
There is something deeply unfair about the way he says that. Like it means two things at once. You narrow your eyes. Mostly because you are losing control of this situation at an alarming rate.
“Do not make this weird.”
That—somehow—makes his mouth twitch. Barely, but enough.
“You’re the one straddling me.”
You freeze. Horror. Immediate. You glance downward. And yes. Yes, this is visually catastrophic. Wonderful. You should simply throw yourself into the ocean. The conservatory windows are right there. Easy access.
You let his hand go and move to step back—
but Jungkook’s hand closes lightly around your waist to keep you in place.
Not forceful. Not trapping. Just enough to stop you. Your entire body stills. Oh no. Your pulse is now actively treasonous. Slowly, your gaze lifts back to his.
“You did well.” His voice is lower now. Almost lost beneath the rain hammering against the glass overhead.
That should not be the thing that undoes you.
And yet.
Something about the quiet sincerity of it—here, now, like this—hits harder than any teasing ever could. Your pulse immediately abandons all remaining loyalty to your dignity.
Jungkook is looking at you like he has forgotten every single thing outside this room exists.
“What are you doing?”
Jungkook’s thumb shifts almost imperceptibly against your waist. A tiny movement. Devastating consequences. His gaze flicks once to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. Your stomach drops somewhere into the ocean below Drakskar. His voice is low enough that you barely hear it over the storm.
“Stopping you from running away.”
That—
that is not helpful.
His hand remains steady at your waist.
Grounding.
Possessive in a way that makes your entire nervous system light up like a distress signal. Your voice is barely above a whisper now.
“You are making this very difficult.”
“I’m aware.” His gaze doesn’t leave yours.
At least he has the decency to admit it. That should annoy you. Instead, it makes something warm and traitorous unfurl low in your chest. Terrible, absolutely terrible.
You look down briefly, mostly because maintaining eye contact has become a high-risk activity. A mistake. A fatal one.
Because all that does is make you more aware of proximity, of his sweaty, muscular torso right under you.
You exhale slowly. Trying for composure. Failing. Spectacularly.
When you look back up to his face, Jungkook is already watching you with an intensity that feels almost unfair. He sits, still keeping you in place, straddling his hips. You instinctively put your hands on his chest to push yourself in case he’d let his hands fall from your waist. Which doesn’t happen and now you’re in more trouble.
If that position felt close before, this is even worse. Close enough that one more inch would be a terrible idea and judging by the way Jungkook’s gaze lowers once more, very briefly—
he is thinking the exact same thing.
The firm grip of his hand still settled at your waist, not restraining exactly—but making it very clear you are not being allowed another graceful retreat.
Not this time.
Not when you are already here.
Not when you are practically straddling his hips in the middle of a conservatory during a thunderstorm like the gods themselves have lost all subtlety.
Your entire body feels like a tactical liability. Jungkook’s hand shifts just slightly higher at your waist.
The fact that for all his possessiveness, for all his maddening certainty and terrifying competence—
he has never once taken what wasn’t willingly offered.
Your breath catches. Something in your chest shifts.Dangerously. Your gaze flickers from his eyes to his mouth. Back up again. A fatal hesitation.
Jungkook goes still beneath you. Not frozen. Focused. Like he is one breath away from losing whatever carefully maintained control he has been operating under.
“If you keep looking at me like that—” His voice is low. Rougher now. “Fuck that.”
The words barely leave his mouth before his hand at your waist tightens just enough to pull you the rest of the way in.
And then his lips are on yours.
Gods.
Every coherent thought simply evaporates. Gone. Reduced to static.
Because Jungkook kisses exactly the way he does everything else—like he has spent an unreasonable amount of time thinking about it and is now executing with terrifying precision.
The kiss is warm and immediate and entirely capable of ruining your week. Possibly your life.
You kiss him back. Which is arguably the most reckless thing you have done since enrolling at Basgiath.
Out of…pure curiosity.
Not because the way Jungkook kisses you feels alarmingly like something you could get addicted to with catastrophic efficiency. Certainly not because his hand is still warm against your waist, thumb brushing absentminded circles there like he has forgotten he is doing it.
No. Scientific inquiry. That is all.
You kiss him back again—more deliberately this time. As if testing a theory. A hypothesis. One requiring immediate and repeated verification. For research purposes.
Jungkook makes a quiet sound against your mouth that completely dismantles whatever remained of your internal logic.
That—
you hate how much you like this kiss. Something is irresponsibly pulling you to continue kissing him back.
“We shouldn’t—” you manage to mutter through the smooches of your intertwined lips.
“Yes, we should—” he replies, as breathless as you are.
You feel the tip of his tongue demanding an entrance you are hesitating to give, but when his hand slides to grasp your ass, you cannot help but yelp into his mouth. The kiss deepens, growing messier as your tongues tangle together. Jungkook tastes faintly of mint and something uniquely him that makes your head spin. Saliva mixes as the kiss grows increasingly frantic, your breathing coming in ragged pants between moments of feverish connection. Jungkook’s hand tightens on your waist, pulling you flush against him as his other hand moves to cup the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. The slight pressure against your scalp sends another wave of desire through you.
The kiss becomes a dizzying spiral of sensation—wet heat, probing tongues, and the occasional scrape of teeth against lips that sends jolts of pleasure through you. Jungkook sucks gently on your tongue, drawing it deeper into his mouth before releasing it to resume. You’re completely lost to sensation, your earlier hypothesis forgotten as you abandon yourself to the overwhelming pleasure of his kiss.
When you briefly break apart to gasp for air, Jungkook’s lips immediately seek yours again, as if unable to bear even a moment of separation and as if the thunder wasn’t loud enough, the epiphany of what you just let happen is louder.
Mortified.
Somewhere deep in the bond, Virelia radiates a wave of smug satisfaction so intense it nearly gives you psychic whiplash.
Were you observing that?
Yes, we were.
You close your eyes for half a second. Of course they were. Of course the dragons are worse than the humans.
The distance between you is still dangerously small—small enough that your breath keeps catching on the space where his mouth had just been, small enough that your pulse refuses to settle back into anything resembling normalcy.
His forehead brushes yours again, slower this time. Controlled, but not entirely steady. Like he is trying to reassemble something he just deliberately broke and failing. You swallow.
It does not help. You have to get away.
“That cannot happen again.” You stand up from him abruptly, taking advantage of his guard falling. You walk away a few steps, your back turned to him.
Something in Jungkook’s expression changes when you look back at him still sitting on the ground.
He exhales once, slow, like he is physically containing a reaction before it becomes visible.
When he speaks, his voice is lower than before.
“Why?”
You straighten slightly, forcing your thoughts back into alignment, back into something resembling reason.
“Because it—” you start, then stop, because anything you say next feels dangerously inadequate for what just happened.
Because it was a mistake.
Because it changes things.
Because it cannot be repeated.
All of those feel correct, yet none of them feels strong enough.
“You kissed me back.”
“That doesn’t change anything,” you say quickly.
“Doesn’t it?” Jungkook’s gaze sharpens slightly.
Your stomach drops. Because there it is again. That unsettling certainty. Like he has already accounted for this outcome in a future you haven’t seen yet.
“Everything happens for a reason. Dunne be my witness Y/N–” he says instead, voice steady enough to cut through the heat still lingering between you.
“You don’t get to reduce this to fate,” you say quickly, forcing steel back into your voice. “Not when you’ve been steering every outcome since my father said yes–”
Jungkook doesn’t deny it. That is the worst part.
“I didn’t steer Lia, bonding with you was her own decision Kaelor just told her you entered the quadrant—” he says quietly. So he did tell her afterall.
He’s telling the truth. She says. But you refuse to believe he didn’t persuade her any further.
“That doesn’t make it destiny–” Your throat tightens as you speak to both of them.
“No,” he agrees, calm as ever. “It makes it confirmation.”
Before you can respond, the corridor outside grows louder. Footsteps. Voices. The approaching certainty of interruption.
Jungkook exhales once, like he is setting something aside—not abandoning it, just postponing it.
“This doesn’t end here,” he says, quieter now.
Not a threat but a structural fact. You feel it in your bones anyway.
The door opens.
Cold air spills into the warm conservatory, breaking the fragile heat between you like a snapped thread.
“General Jeon. The dinner will be ready in half an hour if you wish to dine—” A steward stands in the doorway.
“Prepare the table,” he says evenly still looking at your rose colored cheeks.
“As you command, General.”
The dining hall in Drakskar is nothing like Basgiath. It’s small and private. It is carved into the cliff like everything else—long stone walls, high arched windows facing the restless ocean. Wind rattles faintly against the glass panes. Inside, everything is too controlled. Too quiet. You sit where you are told to sit. A long stone dining table entirely too large for two people, lit by low candlelight that softens absolutely nothing.
Just you..and him again.
You got used to being alone with Jungkook. He never took advantage, up until today’s sparring lesson, which after some thought, you admit you didn’t do anything to stop it.
Sea fish rests on your plate, seasoned with herbs probably from the conservatory, alongside roasted vegetables and fresh bread still warm enough to steam when torn apart.
It should be comforting, but anxiety is beating you to it. You don’t wanna talk about it. But your mind would be at ease if you two established some boundaries. You didn’t need them before but after today…you’re not entirely sure.
He eats with infuriating calm. You, yourself, focus on your food with militant precision.
Knife.
Fork.
Fish.
Chew.
Do not make eye contact. A flawless system. It lasts approximately three minutes.
Then—
“We should talk about it–”
You close your eyes briefly. There it is. Of course. You don’t even bother looking up.
“No.” Across from you, a beat of silence and a deep groan.
“That was not a question, Y/N.”
You set your fork down slowly. Very slowly. As slowly as you look up to him. He’s already watching you. Not with the detached composure he uses in meetings or strategy briefings or while dismantling your sparring technique with surgical precision. This is different. Like this conversation has occupied his thoughts since the second you fled the conservatory. Or perhaps even longer.
You fold your hands neatly in your lap, mostly so he cannot see how restless your fingers suddenly feel.
“There is nothing to discuss.” A lie so transparent it should embarrass you.
Jungkook leans back slightly in his chair, studying you with that maddening patience that somehow always feels more dangerous than outright confrontation.
“You kissed me back.”
Heat immediately floods your face. A physiological betrayal. Unacceptable.
“I got carried away–will never happen again.” Your jaw tightens while you breathe in as much air as you can muster in your lungs.
“Will it not?” The calmness of the question is almost worse than if he had argued.
“No.” You say sharply. One dark brow lifts. “It was a lapse in judgment.”
“A lapse in judgment,” he repeats, nodding his head with a stead rhythm. “You’ll realise that we’ll do much more once you’ll come to your senses?”
Your grip tightens around your glass.
“Excuse me?” you stare at him across the candlelit table, genuinely offended by the sheer audacity of his existence.
“You continue speaking as though our relationship is temporary—Y/N, you’re my—.”
“Because it is–” Your brows knit with anger as you interrupt him. Jungkook exhales once through his nose, gaze never leaving yours.
“No.” Just that. Flat and certain. The single syllable lands harder than anything louder might have.
“I am still a rider at Basgiath and when–” You straighten slightly in your chair.
“And I am still the man you are betrothed to.” He snaps back at you, clearly losing his patience but you simply stare back at him with the same anger that reflects in his eyes. The candlelight catches against the sharp planes of his face, throwing shadows across the relic mark disappearing beneath his collar.
“I have been very patient with you.” That gets your attention. Not because the words are dramatic. Because they are true. Painfully, inconveniently true. It took him years up until now to dare to kiss you. And kiss he did. If you close your eyes long enough, you can still feel him on your tongue.
He could have made your life significantly more difficult. Instead, he gave you distance. Space. Too much time, perhaps. Enough for you to mistake patience for surrender. A tactical error.
“You enrolled in the Riders Quadrant believing it would place enough distance between us to make this avoidable.” When he says it aloud like that, it sounds embarrassingly naive…and perhaps it was….at least partially.
“But–” a faint pause, as if he stopped to answer Kaelor in his mind. Virelia is oddly quiet this evening, usually she jabs at you with snarky remarks about how you should give this a shot. Or that it would make your life entirely easier if you’d just bend and accept this union.
“Your dragon is mated to mine.”
The unavoidable, catastrophic truth of your existence. You’ll never be away from him. Can’t. As though fate itself saw your carefully constructed escape plan and laughed.
“You will continue returning to this island–”
Your pulse does something deeply unhelpful.
Because hearing it laid out like this—
so plainly, so clinically—
makes the situation feel even more absurdly intimate than it already is.
“Until you stay here as my wife—” Jungkook’s gaze holds yours steadily. “Willingly.”
He stands up, throwing the napkin he had on his lap onto the table and walks right to where you’re sitting. You don’t pivot to see him, instead, you keep your gaze fixed stubbornly on the arched windows ahead, where the black ocean churns violently beneath moonlight. White foam crashes against jagged cliffs below. A fitting visual representation of your internal state.
Behind you, you hear the quiet shift of fabric as Jungkook rests one hand against the back of your chair. An impossible awareness at your shoulder. You can feel him bending down, his nose nudging your hair away before he whispers into your ear.
“The sooner you accept that there is no version of future in which we remain separate,” he says quietly, “the easier this will be for you.”
And with a warm kiss to your cheek, he leaves the dining room.
Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck him.
Your room at Drakskar is quieter than Basgiath ever was. You sit at the edge of the bed, fingers absently unfastening the leather straps at your wrists one by one. The room is dimly lit by a single candle already burning low, throwing amber light across rough stone walls and the neatly folded blankets at the foot of the bed.
The mattress dips slightly beneath your weight. You let out a slow breath and lean back onto your palms, staring at the wooden beams overhead. This was manageable before—
that is what keeps circling in your head.
Before today, whatever strange arrangement had formed between you and Jungkook was at least functional. Predictable, in its own infuriating way.
You came to Drakskar. You trained. He criticized approximately every aspect of your technique like it was a sacred duty. You returned to Basgiath. Simple. Contained. Annoying, but manageable. Then today happened.
Because the second darkness settles behind your eyelids, your mind immediately betrays you. His lips.
Warm.
Intentional.
The way everything in your body had gone utterly still for half a heartbeat—not from shock, not entirely, but from the unbearable realization that this was happening. The heat of his skin beneath your palms because apparently at some point you had decided holding onto him was an excellent idea.
A truly catastrophic lapse in judgment. You groan softly and drag both hands over your face. You should have never kissed him back. You should have slapped him the moment he let you breathe again.
That is the worst part. Not the kiss itself. Gods, no. If anything, that may somehow be the more alarming issue. No. The problem is that you had wanted to.
Like some traitorous part of you had been waiting far longer than you were prepared to acknowledge. Which is absurd. Completely absurd.
You sit up abruptly. As if changing position will somehow disrupt your own thoughts. It does not. You kick off your boots with more force than necessary and begin removing the rest of your leathers, folding them onto a nearby chair with rigid efficiency.
You should stop thinking. Immediately. A wise decision. One you are unfortunately denied.
Because suddenly—
heat floods through you so sharply you physically jolt. Your breath catches in your lungs.
What is it?
A pulse. Hot and immediate, racing through every nerve like liquid fire. Your hands grip the edge of the mattress.
“Oh, no–”
Another wave hits. Stronger. Deeper. Is…is Lia channeling her magic? Right now?
A warmth low in your stomach unfurling with alarming speed, curling outward through your limbs until your skin feels entirely too sensitive. You just gotta get to bed and sleep it through. Right?
You make it approximately six minutes.
Six.
A humiliatingly short amount of time before pride, dignity and every sensible instinct you possess lose the ongoing war against whatever this is. You yank your chamber door open and step into the corridor, breathing sharply as cooler air brushes overheated skin. They are mating. She started to channel right when they are fucking mating. You feel almost every single bit of it.
You don’t know where you’re running off barely dressed, but it seems that there is a red thread in front of you that you follow.
It does not help. Nothing helps. The fortress is mostly quiet at this hour. You walk faster. Then faster still. Not running. Certainly not. Just… urgently relocating.
Another pulse rolls through the bond. You stop so abruptly your palm hits the wall beside you.
“Oh, for the love of all the gods.” Your forehead briefly meets stone. Cold. Marginally useful. Virelia offers nothing except a smug warmth that feels deeply personal at this point.
How do I stop this? You are met with silence.
You push off the wall and continue. You need distraction. Water. Fresh air. Possibly divine intervention.
Any of the above.
What you do not need is company.
Which is why naturally, when you round the final corner and push open the heavy doors to what you vaguely hoped was an empty common room—
you freeze.
Because of course.
Of course.
There is one person here.
Seated near the massive hearth, one arm resting lazily along the back of a dark leather sofa, a glass of amber liquid loose in one hand. The entire setting looks offensively intimate. But that is not the worst part.
No.
The worst part is what he is wearing.
Or rather—
what he is not.
AGAIN.
Jungkook is wearing only loose black sleep trousers slung low on his hips. That is it.
Nothing else. Bare chest. Bare shoulders. Bare arms. Fucking again. You physically stop breathing for half a second. Fucking again.
He looks up. Sees you and immediately knows something is wrong.
Or rather—
not wrong.
His gaze sharpens with quiet recognition. A slow, deeply knowing expression settling across his features. Not smug. Worse. Aware.
“No–I–ehm–” You stutter. Defensively. A warning or maybe a plea. Hard to tell.
“Running from something?” he asks, voice low and rough. Jungkook sets his drink down on the low table beside him with measured calm.
“I think Lia started to channel and they are–”
“You lasted longer than I expected.” He interrupts you.
“You expected this?” Your mouth falls open. Pure offense.
“Our dragons are mated.” He arches one brow as if this was indeed inevitable. “It was inevitable.”
You step backward slightly unfortunately, your body betrays you again with another sharp wave through the bond, warmth curling low and immediate enough to make your knees feel briefly unreliable.
You grip the doorframe. Jungkook watches the motion. Entirely too calmly. The fire crackles behind him. Outside, thunder rolls faintly somewhere over the ocean. There has been a storm the whole day.
“I’m fine. I just needed air,” you lie, taking a step back toward the hall. He turns then and the intensity in his eyes makes you freeze.
“Don’t lie to me, Y/N. I can feel it too, you know. What they’re doing.”
Another pulse of heat courses through you at his words and you grip the back of a nearby chair to steady yourself.
“That’s them. Not us.”
“Is it?” He rises slowly, muscles flexing with the movement. “Then why does your heart race when I look at you? Why do your pupils dilate like you want me to devour you?”
He crosses the space between you, stopping just short of touching. The heat radiating from his skin feels like a physical caress.
“You can’t hide from this," he murmurs, fingers tracing the line of your jaw. “From us.”
“We shouldn’t—” Your body betrays you, leaning into his touch despite your mind screaming at you to pull away.
“Why not?” he challenges, thumb brushing your lower lip. “This is not the last time they are mating, it will help to ease the–”
The mating bond surges again—stronger this time—and you gasp as pleasure coils tight in your belly. Jungkook’s eyes darken with understanding and something else—primal satisfaction.
“Feel that?” His voice drops to a husky whisper. “Your body wants this. Wants me–”
His voice drops to a husky whisper as his thumb presses harder against your lip, parting them slightly. “Tell me you don’t feel it. That emptiness inside you that only I can fill.”
You can’t answer. The mating bond of your dragons pulses through you again, a searing wave of desire that makes your knees weak. Your hands, which had been clenched at your sides, now reach instinctively for him, fingers curling around his biceps.
“That’s it,” he murmurs in approval, his other hand sliding around your waist to pull you flush against him. “Stop fighting me.”
His tongue sweeps against yours with practiced dominance, tasting and taking as his hands grip your hips, pulling you flush against him. The thin fabric of your clothes does little to dull the sensation of his hard body against yours.
You moan into his mouth, hands coming up to grip his shoulders as the dragon bond pulses through you again. Every nerve ending feels electrified, hypersensitive to his touch. His fingers work the fastenings of your tunic, deftly loosening them until cool air kisses your heated skin.
“Jungkook,” you gasp as his lips trail down your neck, teeth scraping lightly over your pulse point. “We can’t—”
You’ve said these words today already, but this time you don’t believe yourself one bit. It’s easing the painful knots in your body.
“We fucking can,” he corrects, nipping at your collarbone. “We will.” His hands slide beneath your tunic, palms rough with calluses from dragon riding as they map the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine.
The mating bond intensifies again and you arch against him helplessly as pleasure coils tight in your belly. Jungkook chuckles darkly, the sound vibrating against your throat.
“Our dragons are enjoying themselves,” he murmurs, lifting you effortlessly until your legs wrap around his waist. The position presses you intimately against his hardness and you both groan at the contact.
“Why shouldn’t we?” He moaned. Jungkook carries you in front of the fire, laying you down gently on the armchair near it despite the urgency in his movements.
Jungkook kneels before the chair, his eyes dark with hunger as they sweep over your body. “I’ve been wondering what you taste like,” he murmurs, fingers tracing the edge of your tunic. “Since that first day I saw you.”
Your breath hitches as he slowly lifts the fabric, exposing your stomach, then higher still until your breasts are bare to the warm air and his heated gaze.
With practiced movements, he strips away the last of your clothing until you’re completely exposed before him. The vulnerability should terrify you, but all you can feel is anticipation as his eyes drink in every inch of you.
“Perfect,” he breathes, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to your inner thigh. “All mine.”
His mouth continues its upward journey, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. When he reaches the apex of your thighs, you’re already trembling with need. His thumbs part your folds gently, exposing your slick center to his gaze.
“Look at that…your body knows who it belongs to.” He teased, voice thick with satisfaction, smiling into your sore skin.
Before you can respond, his hot mouth kisses your sex making you moan from satisfaction. His tongue flicks against your clit, exploring every inch of you with a thoroughness that makes your head spin, until you’re writhing in the chair. Your legs slide onto his shoulders, covering the dragon tattoo on his back. Your hands fisting in his hair as you hold him to you.
Jungkook groans against you, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure through your body.
“Jungkook–” you gasp, hips bucking against his mouth.
He responds by sucking gently on your clit, drawing it between his lips as his tongue continues its wicked dance. The dual sensation is overwhelming, pushing you closer to the edge with each passing moment.
“So close,” you manage, breath coming in ragged pants. His tongue delves deeper, thrusting into you in a rhythm that makes your toes curl. One hand slides up to grip your breast, thumb circling your nipple in time with the movements of his mouth. The combination is too much—too intense, too perfect.
“If you come–” he heaves “you’ll come clenching my cock.”
He doesn’t wait for your answer. Instead, he doubles his efforts, tongue thrusting deeper as his thumb presses harder against your nipple and when he senses your trembling, he tears himself away from your cunt.
He wipes his chin from your juices and looks into your eyes for any kind of resistance. When he finds none, he grips your hips, pulling you down to the ground with him, only to spin you so your ass is up.
His large hand presses your naked chest onto the chair. His hand remains firm between your shoulder blades, holding you in place as you hear the rustle of fabric behind you. He hooks one of his fingers into the black sleeping trousers and pushes them down.
You daren’t look back to see him. Afraid of your own body’s reaction upon doing so.
The head of his cock presses against your entrance, teasing, threatening. You push back instinctively, desperate for the fullness he promised, but his grip on your hip tightens, holding you still.
“Promise.” He demands.
“Promise what?” you manage, voice ragged with need despite the position of submission.
His free hand traces the curve of your spine, a stark contrast to the firm pressure holding you down.
“Promise you won’t run again. That this—” he presses forward slightly, enough to make you ache without giving you what you need to release the pain that is holsting through you “—is ours. Not just tonight, but always.”
The mating bond keeps surging through you one with his words, a searing wave of desire that makes your knees weak, that makes you not think clearly. You need this to stop and he…is your only release. You want to resist, to maintain some semblance of control, but your body betrays you, pushing back against him again.
“Say it, Y/N.” His voice drops to a husky whisper. “Swear that you’re mine.”
“I—” you begin, but the words catch in your throat as he circles his hips, the head of his cock teasing your entrance in a way that makes you tremble.
“Say it, love” he commands, thumb pressing into the dimple above your ass. “Or I’ll stop. I’ll leave you here, painfully wanting, while our dragons finish what they started.”
The threat is effective. The thought of being left like this—aching, empty, desperate—is more unbearable than surrendering to his claim.
“I promise,” you whisper, the words tasting like defeat and something else—relief. “I won’t run again. I’m yours.”
“Good girl,” he praises, and then he’s pushing into you—slow, deliberate, stretching you until you’re completely filled. The sensation is overwhelming, a perfect mix of pleasure and possession that makes your head spin.
“Feel that?” he murmurs once he’s seated fully inside you. “This is where you belong. Wrapped around me, taking what I give you.”
His movements start slow—deep, measured thrusts that stoke the fire building in your core again. Each push forward is punctuated by a possessive word or phrase.
“Mine.”
Thrust.
“Made only for me.”
Thrust.
The bond pulses in time with his thrusts, amplifying every sensation until you’re pushing back against him, meeting him thrust for thrust. His pace increases, one hand gripping your hip while the other slides around to find your clit.
There is something so satisfying about the way his head hits all the right spots inside of your cunt, your walls clenching around him as a silent thank you for pleasuring them.
You are lost in him, in between his praising words how good you’re for him and the way his cock stretches the rim of your cunt. The pressure builds like a storm gathering over the Drakskar—inevitable, devastating, absolute. Your cheek presses against the chair, the leather texture sticking to your skin as Jungkook drives into you with a rhythm that has lost its patience. He is no longer teasing. He is claiming.
“Look at you, love” he pants, the sound of his voice ragged, ruined. “Taking me so well. Made to be fucked by your husband, weren’t you? Even if you won’t say it yet.”
The word husband sends a spike of heat through your belly, dark and forbidden. You want to deny it, to remind him that you ran precisely to avoid that title, but your body arches into him, meeting each thrust with a desperation that makes a liar of you.
“Jungkook—” You gasp as his fingers on your clit press harder, circling in time with the snap of his hips. “I can’t—it’s too much—”
“Not yet.” He pulls out suddenly, leaving you hollow and keening at the loss and before you can draw breath to protest, he’s flipping you onto your back on the furs before the hearth. The firelight paints his skin in gold and shadow, highlighting every lean muscle, the dragon-scale scars that mark him as Kaelor’s rider, the absolute focus in his eyes as he settles between your thighs.
This position is different. Intimate. Inescapable. Woman and man. Wife and husband. Apart…you are yet to be wed and this would be absolutely scandalous if anyone got to know he bed you before you tied the knot. He isn’t…your first. But he sure thinks he’ll be your last.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, the word almost a purr as he settles his weight more fully against you, his cock pressing hard and insistent against your entrance. “I’m the one whose name you’ll scream when you’re desperate, whose seed you’ll carry.”
He enters you slowly, torturously slow, watching your face with an intensity that feels like it could burn through steel. You are stretched around him, filled completely and the intimacy of this position—face to face, heart to heart—makes you want to look away. But his hand catches your chin, holding you captive to his gaze.
“Look at me,” he demands, his thrusts becoming relentless, punishing, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the chamber like war drums. “Look at me when I claim you. When I fill you. When I breed my future wife for the first time.”
You feel him swell inside you, feel the tension coil in his spine, feel through the bond his absolute determination to fill your womb, to plant his seed so deep you’ll feel it for days, to ensure that even if you ran again, you would carry him with you. You know it can’t result in the outcome he’d probably want due to the fertility suppressant you are taking, but you know it’s Kaelor speaking through him and this…is merely a desire for now.
His hips snap against yours with such deliberate precision it makes you catch onto him. You bite down on his shoulder to stop yourself from screaming how good this feels. How good is his cock hitting your cervix, making you gasp loudly each time it does.
“Show me you accept it. Accept me. Show me you want my child growing inside you.”
The orgasm crashes over you with the force of a dragon’s wingbeat, tearing a scream from your throat that echoes off the stone walls. Your body seizes around him, milking him, your walls clamping down in rhythmic pulses that draw out his own release.
Jungkook buries his face in your neck too, his teeth finding the juncture of your shoulder, biting down hard but not enough to break skin as he spills inside you with a groan that sounds like your name and mine and finally all tangled together.
The bond flares blindingly bright, Virelia and Kaelor’s pleasure cresting and breaking through your consciousness as Jungkook marks you from within, hot and deliberate and endless, his hips jerking in short, possessive thrusts as he empties everything he has into you.
He collapses atop you, his weight a blanket that you should push away but can’t, his cock still twitching inside you, his breath ragged against your sweat-dampened skin. For long moments, there is only the sound of the Drakskar wind and your thundering heartbeats, synchronized through the bond.
“I love you,” he murmurs against your temple, his voice rough, sated, and still terrifyingly possessive. “I’ve been loving you for very long time–”
You go still beneath him, your fingers pausing their tracing of his scars, your breath catching in a way that has nothing to do with the aftershocks of pleasure still rippling through you. He has laid himself bare in a way that frightens you more than his dominance ever could. It is one thing to be claimed by Jungkook the rider, the relentless general. It is another to be loved by him.
“—and I won’t stop until you’ll be truly mine.”
“Truly yours,” you repeat, your voice barely a whisper, testing the weight of the words.
He shifts above you, his hips rolling in a slow, deliberate circle that makes your breath hitch, a reminder of where he’s still seated deep within you.
“Your heart is still running–” He leans down, his teeth grazing your earlobe, his voice dropping to a growl that vibrates through your bones. “And I will chase it. I will chase you. Through every argument, every denial, every time you look at me and see the contract instead of the man.”
The dragon bond flares, Kaelor’s determination bleeding into Jungkook’s, a mirror to Virelia’s restless stirring in your own mind. You feel his love through it—not soft, not gentle, but fierce and unyielding as stone, as fire, as the dragons themselves.
“You’re mad,” you breathe.
“Mad for you,” he agrees. “Mad enough to burn the world down if it tries to take you from me.”
He captures your mouth in a kiss that tastes like desperation and devotion, his tongue sweeping through yours in a rhythm that matches the snap of his hips against yours.
“So run if you need to,” he murmurs against your lips, his hand sliding across your body, his thrusts intensifies, eager to make you cum again.
“Hate me if you must. But know that I will be here. Every time you fall, I will catch you.”
The pleasure builds again, relentless and you arch beneath him, meeting his thrusts, your body betraying your fear even as your heart pounds warnings.
“Every time you hide, I will fucking find you.”
He drives you to the edge with devastating precision, his cock hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, and when you come—screaming, shattering, breaking apart beneath him, yet again—he follows, spilling inside you with a groan that sounds like a prayer and a battle cry tangled together.
“Until you look at me and see not your cage, but your sanctuary.”
I N T E R L O G U E
You exploited her.
Kaelor is coiled somewhere in the caves below, wings tucked, scales black as obsidian in the dim light, but his rage burns bright enough to sear through the connection.
Jungkook presses your sleeping form against his chest tighter.
I didn’t.
You let her go through our mating heat when you could teach her how to shield.
I could have, he admits to the darkness, to the dragon, his thumb tracing idle patterns across your stomach—possessive even in his guilt. Jungkook buries his face in your hair, inhaling the scent of sea salt and sex and something uniquely you.
I felt her burning and I chose to let her burn.
Why? After all the work you've done to have her.
Because once she learns to shield, she’ll use it against me. Against my love for her.
And that terrifies you? That she could shield herself from you?
I’m afraid of waking up to silence. Of reaching through the bond and finding walls.
When she wakes—truly wakes, not dazed by heat and hormones—she will know what you denied her.
Your hand clenches against Jungkook’s forearm, nails digging crescent moons into his skin, and he wonders if you’re fighting him even now, unconscious, building those walls in the dark.
We’ll see.
Far beyond the chamber walls, Drakskar breathed beneath the night like something ancient and half-awake, all black stone and sharpened edges, guarding its secrets with the same ruthless devotion as the man beside you.
author’s note: i’ve been obsessing over the dragon bond/mating bond concept from Fourth Wing ever since reading chapter 22 and couldn’t stop thinking about how much darker and more possessive it could become if shielding was taken out of the equation entirely. i also drew a lot of inspiration from Game of Thrones while writing this—especially the isolated island atmosphere, political marriage dynamics, morally grey devotion and so on. So I hope there are some fairies that will enjoy this Jungkook fantasy au at least a little bit. Love you all!
The Grumpy Girlfriend Protection Program | One-shot
Pairing: Jungkook x (f.) Reader
Genre: sunshine bf x grumpy gf, golden retriever! jungkook, black cat! reader, office worker! reader, veterinary student! jungkook, fluff, comedy, thriller, mystery (slight), action, angst.
Summary: Jeon Jungkook has always been the sunshine in every room; warm, kind, and completely oblivious to danger. Luckily, you, his grumpy, overprotective girlfriend have made it your personal mission to keep him safe. But when the threat shifts to you instead, Jungkook proves that even sunshine can scorch, and for you, he’d burn.
Word count: 22.8k+
Warnings: reader is very protective, themes of stalking and obsession, usage of drugs (not reader or jungkook), fight scene, violence, multiple flashback scenes.
MOODBOARD
A/N: hugeeee thanks to my dear friend sy (@btswit7 ) for going through my fic and suggesting edits! ilysm. sorry this took so long for me to write. i swearrr this fic was supposed to be fluffy, cute and around 10k words but I got carried away 😔 (not sorry for that). i might've absolutely butchered the tattoo shop scene pls forgive me (I've never been to a tattoo shop before idk how it works) this is also my first time writing an action scene it prolly sucks but wtv.
The sun hung high in the cloudless sky, casting a golden glow over the city. A gentle breeze drifted through the streets, the warmth of the morning wrapped around you like a comforting embrace, just the right kind of day that practically demanded an escape from the ordinary. And what better way to spend it than sprawled out on a checkered blanket, a basket full of food beside you, and your ever-so-enthusiastic boyfriend, Jungkook, grinning at you like this was the best idea in the world?
That’s right. It was picnic day. After a gruelling week at work, all you wanted was to stay in bed, sleep until the afternoon, have a late lunch, and then (ideally) go right back to sleep. But Jungkook, being the ever-optimistic, early-rising, productivity-loving man that he was, thought weekends were best spent on morning picnic dates at whatever random park he had decided on that week.
There was nothing you hated more than disappointing your sweet boyfriend, so cancelling the picnic dates altogether wasn’t an option. After extensive negotiations (read: you groggily whining while he laughed and refused to budge), you managed to compromise—morning breakfast dates became brunch dates. Because let’s be real, every extra second of sleep counts.
On the way to your picnic, you were stopped by a teenage boy, probably 17 or 18, who practically shoved a clipboard into your faces. With the practised enthusiasm of a seasoned salesman, he introduced himself, flashing a grin as he extended a hand in greeting. Then came the pitch.
“Donations for a local animal shelter,” he announced, voice laced with urgency. A shelter you had never heard of.
“The puppies and bunnies are all sick, sir, and the kittens are underfed,” he continued, his face contorting with the sheer heartbreak of it all. The kind of expression that would probably work on unsuspecting souls. Jungkook, being Jungkook, was already pulling out his wallet. And you were having none of it.
Before he could hand over a single bill, you yanked the wallet straight out of his hands. Jungkook blinked at you, stunned.
“Did you even check if it’s a real shelter?” you asked, unimpressed.
Jungkook glanced at the boy, then back at you. “Looks pretty real to me.” You sighed, taking a look at the "official website" the scammer eagerly pulled up on his phone. One glance was all it took.
“That’s a Wix template, you dumbass,” you deadpanned, shooting Jungkook a look. And to drive your point home, you dialled the actual shelter’s number. A moment of silence.
Then, like clockwork, the boy’s phone started ringing. The scammer stiffened, eyes wide with panic. And then, without as much as another word, he bolted down the street before you could report him to someone.
Jungkook pouted, stuffing his wallet back into his pocket. You rolled your eyes. “I can’t believe you almost fell for that.”
“One of these days,” he muttered, crossing his arms, “you’re gonna stop me from donating to a real shelter.” You snorted, nudging his shoulder as you started walking again. “Yeah, well, until that day comes, I’ll keep saving you from getting scammed by guys who probably spent five minutes on Google slapping together a fake charity.”
Jungkook huffed, kicking a loose pebble down the sidewalk. “He had a clipboard. People with clipboards always seem legit.”
“Oh, right, because clipboards are the universal sign of trustworthiness,” you deadpanned. “Next time, I’ll be sure to scam you with one myself.”
He shot you a playful glare. “I’d see through you in a second.” You smirked. “Would you, though?”
Jungkook opened his mouth, then shut it again, squinting at you like he wasn’t entirely convinced. You just grinned, patting his arm. “Exactly.”
You sit cross-legged on the checkered blanket, arms crossed, watching as Jungkook digs through the picnic basket like a child on Christmas morning. He’s practically vibrating with excitement, pulling out sandwiches, fruit, and what looks like an obnoxiously yellow thermos you don’t remember packing.
You squint. “Did you sneak in banana milk?”
Jungkook pauses, looking entirely unrepentant. “No.” You stare. He stares back. The thermos stares between you, the undeniable evidence of his crime.
Finally, he grins. “Okay, maybe.”
You let out a slow exhale, reaching for one of the sandwiches while he happily pours himself a cup of his beloved banana milk.
“I don’t get how you function sometimes,” you mutter, unwrapping your food.
“I function beautifully,” he corrects, flashing you a smile that’s far too bright for someone who just lied to your face. “You’re just too grumpy to appreciate it.”
You roll your eyes. “Right. Because nothing screams ‘functioning adult’ like getting scammed five minutes before a picnic.” Jungkook gasps dramatically, clutching his chest. “I was being charitable!”
“You were being a prime target,” you deadpan. He huffs dramatically, taking an exaggerated bite of his sandwich as if it’s the ultimate form of protest. Cheeks puffed out like a bunny, he mumbles through his mouthful, “You stress too much.”
You raise a brow. “I wonder why.” He ignores your sarcasm, swallowing before continuing, “Maybe if you—” He suddenly stops, mid-thought, his eyes lighting up with a spark of mischief.
Oh no. You’ve seen that look before. It never leads to anything good.
"You should feed me."
You nearly choke on your drink. Coughing, you set your cup down with a thud and blink at him. “What?” Jungkook leans forward, resting his chin in his palm with the most infuriatingly smug expression. “You know,” he drawls, wiggling his eyebrows, “since you like taking care of me so much.”
You stare at him, unamused. Then, without breaking eye contact, you take the smallest, most unimpressive bite of your sandwich—just to spite him.
Jungkook groans, slumping back. “You’re no fun.”
“You knew that when you fell in love with me.”
His lips curve into something thoughtful, eyes flickering over your face like he’s considering something. Then, in one swift motion, he reaches over and swipes a strawberry from your plate, popping it into his mouth before you can react.
You gasp. “Jungkook!”
He grins, entirely unapologetic. “Yeah, but I like a challenge.” Without hesitation, you swat his hand, aiming for another grab. He yelps, laughing too hard for someone who just got smacked, dodging your next attempt with the reflexes of a seasoned strawberry thief.
"Unbelievable," you mutter, shaking your head. "A menace to society."
Jungkook only grins wider. "And yet, you still love me."
And just like that, it’s the both of you, bickering, teasing, him being too soft, and you pretending you don’t secretly like it. Despite everything, you’re glad he dragged you here. Because for all his nonsense, for all the chaos he brings into your life, Jungkook makes the world a little brighter.
You hated Monday mornings with a burning passion. If you walked into work and saw someone being all cheerful and optimistic, you’d have the overwhelming urge to dump ice-cold coffee over their head, just to make their day as miserable as yours. Of course, you wouldn’t actually act on that particular intrusive thought. Not unless you had a sudden desire to get fired.
Every day, it was the same soul-sucking routine. Log into your computer, answer emails, prepare for meetings, and trudge through an endless list of mind-numbing tasks that make you question all your life choices. You were staring blankly at your screen, fingers moving mechanically as you typed up a report when your phone buzzed.
Kook 🐰💜 [11:10 AM]: Miss me yet?
Your fingers pause on the keyboard. Buzz.
Kook 🐰💜[11:10 AM]: Or are you too busy being all serious and grumpy at work?
Kook 🐰💜[11:11 AM]: Bet you’re smiling right now, though.
You bite your lip. You are not smiling. Absolutely not.
“Okay, what is that face?”
Jimin’s voice cuts through your concentration like a knife. You snap your head up to find him leaning against your desk, arms crossed, a knowing smirk already in place.
“There is no face,” you say quickly, locking your phone screen and shoving it away. Jimin gasps dramatically. “Oh my God, it’s him, isn’t it?”
You groan, rubbing your temples. “I swear to—”
“Ohhh, it totally is!” Jimin snatches your phone before you can react, scrolling through the notifications like he has every right to be nosy.
If there’s one person who never lets you live in peace, it’s Jimin. Coworker, best friend, professional pain in your ass, he’s all of the above, wrapped in a smug little package. You first met him when you started this job, and somehow, between the forced team projects, shared complaints about the boss, and mutual hatred for monday mornings, you ended up stuck with him for life. Not that you’d ever admit you’re grateful for it.
Unfortunately, he knows it anyway.
“Jimin, I will end you.”
But it’s too late. He’s already grinning like the devil himself. “Look at you. Getting all giddy over a text. My, my, how the mighty have fallen.”
“I’m not giddy.”
“Oh, you absolutely are.” He mimics your earlier expression, clutching his phone to his chest with a dreamy sigh. “Oh, Jungkook, my sweet precious sunshine, text me more. I can’t possibly get through this workday without knowing you’re thinking about me.”
You throw a stapler at him.
He dodges effortlessly, laughing. “Relax, lover girl. It’s cute. Gross, but cute.” You huff, snatching your phone back. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” Jimin plops down in the chair next to you, still smirking. “Now tell me, what’s golden boy up to?”
You stare at the screen for a moment, fingers hovering over the keyboard before you eventually settle on a simple reply.
You [11:14 AM: Okay.
…Okay, maybe you are smiling a little.
Jimin sees it immediately. And you already know you’re never going to hear the end of it.
The moment you step into the break room—finally free from Jimin’s relentless smirking, you let out a breath and pull out your phone, scrolling through your recent calls before dialling Jungkook. It barely rings twice before he picks up, his voice warm and teasing, like he already knew you’d call.
“Hey, baby,” he greets smoothly, amusement lacing his tone. “Miss me already?”
You roll your eyes, setting your lunchbox on the table with a thud. “In your dreams, Jeon.”
Flipping open the lid, the rich, savoury aroma of bibimbap immediately washes over you. The vibrant colors of the ingredients are neatly arranged, looking almost too perfect to eat—almost. You can tell Jungkook took his time making it, carefully placing each topping exactly where it should be, ensuring it looked as good as it tasted.
Your heart does something traitorous in your chest, but you ignore it. Jungkook chuckles at your silence, clearly pleased with himself. “I assume this is your way of telling me my cooking is amazing?”
“Not even close,” you say, grabbing your chopsticks. “Jimin wouldn’t shut up about you, so I figured I’d call and annoy you instead.” A deep, rumbling laugh comes through the speaker, the sound sending warmth curling through your stomach. “Mhm. Sure, love. You could’ve just admitted you wanted to hear my voice.”
Your eye twitches. “That’s not—”
“Shh, no need to be shy. I won’t judge.” You groan, tilting your head back against the chair, but the small smile tugging at your lips betrays you. He’s impossible, and worse, he knows it.
“Whatever,” you mutter. “What are you doing this weekend?”
“Mmm.” There’s some shuffling on his end, followed by the faint rustling of sheets like he’s lying down and getting comfortable. “I was thinking… instead of our usual park picnic, you could come with me to get my sleeve reworked.” That makes you pause, chopsticks hovering mid-air. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” he says, voice a little more casual. “It’s been a while, and I wanna touch up some parts. Maybe add something new.”
You lean back in your chair, considering it. You’ve seen his tattoos up close plenty of times—traced them absentmindedly, let your fingers follow the inked lines whenever he had an arm wrapped around you. There’s something mesmerizing about them, the way they flow seamlessly over his skin, each design an intricate part of him.
You definitely wouldn’t mind watching the process.
“That’s fine with me,” you say after a beat. Then, under your breath, you mumble, “But if the artist messes up, I’m fighting them.” Jungkook snorts. “Of course you will.” His voice takes on that teasing lilt that makes you want to reach through the phone and flick his forehead. “You’re so cute when you get all protective.”
Your face heats up instantly. “Oh my god, eat your lunch.”
“I will. But only if you say you love me first.” You nearly choke. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” His grin is obvious, even through the phone. “Say it, and I’ll go eat.” You huff, glancing around the empty break room just to make sure no one’s around. Then, in the lowest possible whisper, you mumble, “…Love you.”
A beat of silence.
And then, even quieter, “Love your bibimbap too.”
Jungkook hums, unreasonably satisfied. “Love you too, baby. Now go eat before Jimin catches you blushing.” Your eyes widen, and you hang up immediately.
Unfortunately, when you turn around, Jimin is standing in the doorway, arms crossed, looking far too smug for your liking.
“So,” he drawls, tilting his head. “How’s Jungkook?” You groan, slamming your head onto the table. You are never going to live this down.
Jimin’s laughter echoes in the room, pure evil.
Jungkook’s apartment is the kind of place that makes it dangerously easy to never leave. It’s cozy with warm lighting, soft blankets draped over the couch, and the faint scent of vanilla and fabric softener lingering in the air. You tell yourself that’s the main reason you always find yourself here instead of your own place, but, if you were being completely honest, there are a few other factors at play.
For one, his snack collection is legendary. His kitchen cabinets are stocked with an endless supply of goodies, including a lifetime’s worth of Twinkies, your weakness. And then there’s Jungkook himself, but you’re not about to admit that. Especially not to him.
Curled up on his couch, you lazily flip through his Netflix, eyes scanning titles without really registering any of them. The ambient noise of the apartment, the hum of the heater, the occasional rustling of pages from Jungkook’s workspace, only adds to the drowsy comfort settling over you. Just as you’re about to give up on finding something to watch, Jungkook suddenly plops down beside you, sketchbook in hand.
The cushion dips under his weight, and you barely manage to suppress a startled flinch. He doesn’t say anything at first, just leans back against the couch with a content sigh, flipping the sketchbook open across his lap. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, curiosity piqued despite yourself. "Okay," he says, grinning as he settles beside you on the couch. His fingers drum against the edge of his sketchbook before he flips it open, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. "Wanna see what I’ve been working on?"
You nod, humming in interest. "Mhm. Sure."
The moment the pages spread out before you, your breath catches. Intricate designs fill the book, some half-finished, others shaded to perfection. There are fine, precise lines, bold strokes, and an almost obsessive attention to detail in every drawing. You can tell he's poured hours into this, into crafting something that isn’t just art but a reflection of himself.
"Damn," you murmur, fingertips tracing lightly over the paper. "You did all these?" Jungkook grins, his dimples making an appearance. "Yup," he says, clearly pleased with your reaction.
You take your time flipping through the pages. There’s a sketch of a skeletal hand doing the rock on sign, a detailed microphone showcasing his love for music, lyrics from his favorite songs inked in elegant script, and the word Bulletproof scrawled in a graffiti style, right beneath it, a note written in his unmistakable handwriting: cover-up for eye tattoo. And then, sitting proudly in between these edgy, personal pieces, is a woozy face emoji.
You huff out a small laugh. His tattoo ideas range from deeply meaningful to outright ridiculous.
But then you pause. Nestled between his designs is a rework of his tiger lily tattoo—his birth flower. But entwined around it, curling gracefully between the petals, is another flower. Chrysanthemums.
Your birth flower.
The realization sinks in, slow and warm. Jungkook goes still beside you, barely breathing. You don’t miss the way his fingers twitch, or the way his ears turn bright red when he realizes that you understood. Then, like a man caught in the act he snatches the sketchbook away, snapping it shut so fast you barely have time to process it.
"Aha—! Anyway—" He clears his throat, ears burning. "That one wasn’t, uh—I wasn’t supposed to show you that yet."
Your lips twitch. "Mhm. Jeon, I see what you did there."
"What?" he says too quickly. "It’s just, you know, it looked nice with the lilies." His voice cracks. You arch a brow. "Looks nice? That’s all?" Jungkook nods a little too fast. "Yeah. No big deal."
You don’t believe him for a second.
So, naturally, you lean in, lowering your voice just enough to watch him squirm."You sure about that, baby?"
Jungkook.exe has stopped working.
With a groan, he buries his burning face into your shoulder, mumbling something incoherent against your sweater. You laugh, warmth blooming in your chest, fingers threading absentmindedly through his hair. Yeah. No big deal.
The weekend sun was just beginning to climb when Jungkook pulled up outside your place, the low hum of his car engine a familiar sound by now. You barely had time to lock your door before he leaned over, effortlessly pushing the passenger door open with that usual bright grin of his. “Morning, baby,” he greeted, fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. Without missing a beat, he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss against your cheek—warm, lingering just a second longer than necessary. “You sleep well?”
You slid into the seat, closing the door behind you with a huff, eyes narrowing at him. “No, because someone was blowing up my phone with memes and ‘fun facts’ about toxic tattoo inks at two in the morning.” Jungkook had the audacity to look proud. “I just thought you should know! What if they use cheap ink, huh? Gotta protect this masterpiece.” He gestured vaguely at his arm, where his tattoos peeked out from under the sleeve of his shirt.
You sighed, clicking your seatbelt into place. “Just drive.”
As he shifted gears and pulled onto the road, you let your gaze wander around the car, taking in the familiar scent of his cologne, the faint hum of the engine, and the steady rhythm of the music playing low through the speakers. His hand, warm and absentminded, found its usual place on your thigh like it belonged there, thumb tracing gentle patterns against your skin. It was peaceful. The kind of easy, comfortable silence that only came from knowing someone so well.
But then, something caught your attention.
Your eyes drifted to the backseat, where his sketchbook sat, slightly ajar as if hastily tossed there. A few loose sheets stuck out from the pages, filled with the intricate designs you’d seen before. You reached for it instinctively, but before you could grab it, the scenery outside made you pause.
“...Wait.” Your brows furrowed as you looked out the window. The streets weren’t familiar, the route different from what you expected. You turned back to him. “This isn’t the way to your usual place.” Jungkook hummed, like he’d been waiting for you to notice. “We’re trying a new one today.”
You turned to him, suspicious. “Why?”
His grin widened, full of mischief. “Jin got a job there.” That took you a second to process. “Seokjin?”
“My cousin, yeah.” Jungkook drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, glancing at you briefly before turning his attention back to the road. “He’s a receptionist now. Lured me in with staff discounts.” You scoffed, shaking your head. “So, let me get this straight—he got a job there yesterday, and today you’re already showing up to cash in?” Jungkook gasped, all faux offense, clutching his chest as if you’d just wounded him. “I would never use my dear cousin like that.”
You gave him a deadpan look.
His lips twitched, the act crumbling instantly. “…Okay, maybe a little,” he admitted, flashing you a boyish grin. “But hey, cheaper tattoos, and I get to support my hyung? Win-win.” You rolled your eyes, unable to stop the amused smile pulling at your lips. “Does he even know we’re coming?”
“He does,” Jungkook replied, his grin not fading. “He actually told me to wait for him before I get started with the consultation.”
And that’s how you and Jungkook ended up stuck in the lobby of the tattoo shop, waiting for over thirty minutes for Jin to show up.
Jungkook exhaled loudly, rolling his shoulders before pulling out his phone and dialing Jin for the sixth time. His other hand absentmindedly tugged you closer by the wrist, a small, unconscious habit of his whenever he was growing impatient. “Jin said he’d be here soon,” he muttered, eyes flickering to the entrance yet again, as if willing his cousin to walk through the door. “Told me to get comfy and wait.”
You smirked, shifting slightly in your seat. “He did? So, naturally, he’s gonna be late.” Jungkook groaned, tilting his head back against the couch. “He promised, okay? Swore he wouldn’t ditch me this time.”
“That’s cute.” You patted his thigh mockingly. “You still believe him.” Jungkook shot you a halfhearted glare before flicking his gaze to the empty reception area for what had to be the hundredth time. His foot bounced impatiently against the floor, but before he could make another complaint, the sound of a door opening drew both of your attention.
A woman with sleek, silver-dyed hair emerged from one of the back rooms, her sharp gaze scanning the lobby before landing directly on Jungkook. Her expression immediately shifted into a perfected customer-service smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She crossed her arms, tilting her head slightly. “What are you here for?”
“Sleeve rework,” he replied casually, rolling his shoulder as if to emphasize the ink beneath his sleeve. “You’re the one getting the sleeve reworked?” she asked smoothly, completely ignoring your presence. “Seokjin’s cousin, right?
Jungkook nodded, his own expression polite but confused. “Yeah, but he isn’t here yet. Jin told me to wai—”
“Oh,” she cut in, her lips curving just slightly, a little too knowing. “Well, that’s okay. I’m sure he would’ve referred you to me anyway. I could start taking care of you now.”
Something about the way she said it made your jaw clench.
Jungkook, oblivious as ever, only hummed. “Uh, I mean… I guess we could start the consultation?”
You didn’t like the way she was looking at him.
As she moved closer, the glow of the overhead light caught on her name tag—Nari. The name meant nothing to you, but something about her demeanor put you on edge.
Jungkook settled into the chair, stretching his arm out as Nari prepped her station. You remained seated across from him, phone in hand, pretending to scroll while keeping a close eye on the exchange. Nari pulled on a pair of gloves, her movements fluid and practiced as she leaned in, examining Jungkook’s inked skin. “Your ink is solid,” she murmured, fingers ghosting over the intricate designs. “Whoever did this knew what they were doing.”
Jungkook grinned, clearly pleased with the compliment. “Yeah, my old artist was great. Just wanted some refinements, you know?”
“Mm,” Nari hummed in agreement, grabbing a marker to outline a few areas. Her gaze lingered on his arm longer than necessary, her lips curving slightly. “You’re adding new work too, right?”
Jungkook nodded. “Yeah, just some floral details around the tiger lily.”
That was supposed to be the end of it. But then Nari tilted her head, eyes flickering up to his face before dropping back to his arm, and subtly, but not subtly enough she licked her lips.
“I love doing florals on guys,” she said, voice dipping into something softer. “There’s just something about the contrast, you know?”
Your grip on your phone tightened. Jungkook, completely unaware of the shift in tone, simply lifted his arm to show her the faded edges. “Yeah, I wanted to add some chrysanthe—”
Before he could even finish, Nari reached out, fingers wrapping around his arm, her touch lingering.
“Oh, your skin is so nice,” she murmured, smoothing her fingers over the defined muscle as if she were admiring it rather than prepping it for work. Your eye twitched.
Jungkook blinked, a little startled by the comment but still too polite to pull away. “Uh… thanks?” Nari only smiled, nails grazing his forearm ever so slightly as she adjusted his position. “Good canvas makes all the difference.”
You swore you could hear your patience snapping like a twig. Jungkook looked slightly uncomfortable but still handed over his sketchbook, flipping to the page with his design. “This is what I had in mind for the rework,” he said, tapping the paper.
Nari barely glanced at the intricate details before tilting her head, her gaze flickering back to him instead. “You drew this yourself?”
Jungkook nodded. “Yeah.”
“Wow,” she hummed, leaning in slightly, the corner of her lips quirking up. “That’s impressive. Not many clients walk in with this level of detail.” From where you sat, you rested your chin on your hand, unimpressed.
Jungkook offered a small, polite smile. “I just like having a clear idea before I commit.” Nari's smirk deepened. “That’s really attractive,” she mused, fingers skimming the edge of the sketchbook instead of actually turning the page. “A guy who’s artistic and decisive? Rare find.”
You blinked. What.
Jungkook cleared his throat, shifting in his seat like he wasn’t quite sure how to respond. “Uh… thanks?” Nari finally flipped to the next page—though at this point, it felt more like a courtesy than genuine interest. “And you did all of these?”
Jungkook nodded again. “Mhm.”
“That’s insane,” she gushed, dragging her fingers over the lines like they were worth framing. “You could easily be a tattoo artist yourself.” Jungkook chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t think I have the patience for it.”
“That’s a shame,” Nari sighed, her fingers lingering a little too long on the sketchbook. “With hands like yours, I bet you’d be amazing at it.”
Your expression went flat. Jungkook just coughed into his fist, visibly flustered. “Uh—”
You snapped before you could stop yourself. “If you’re done with the consultation, I think you should get started with the sketching.” Your voice was even, but the words were clipped. “Unless this is just a fan club meeting now.”
That made Nari pause.
Jungkook turned to you, lips twitching as if he was trying not to laugh. Nari dared to send you a sharp glare, like you had just interrupted something sacred. But she grabbed a fineliner anyway, her movements slow and deliberate, as if making a point.
You didn’t waver. Arms crossed, you kept your gaze locked on her hands, watching every unnecessary adjustment she made—each one turning into soft, lingering touches against Jungkook’s skin. It was infuriating, the way her fingers skimmed his arm like she had every right to.
And then she bit her lip.
A coy smile played at the edges of her mouth, subtle but unmistakable. Jungkook, completely oblivious as always, remained relaxed in the chair, only wincing slightly when the cold surface of the fineliner pressed against his skin.
You were far from relaxed.
Shifting in your seat, you clenched your jaw, fingers curling against your arms. Maybe—maybe—she was just a touchy person. Maybe you were overanalyzing this. Maybe it was nothing.
“So,” Nari began, her voice light and conversational, “do all your tattoos have a meaning?” Jungkook, still staring at the ceiling like this was any other consultation, nodded. “Most of them, yeah.”
“What about this one?” She tapped the tiger lily, her fingertips trailing over the ink just a little too leisurely. Jungkook smiled, unaware of the way your patience was fraying. “That one represents passion, confidence… all that stuff. It’s also my birth flower”
Nari hummed, like she was committing that information to memory. “And the chrysanthemums?”
At this, Jungkook hesitated. For the first time, he flicked his gaze toward you, something unreadable passing through his eyes. Your posture stiffened, waiting. He cleared his throat. “They mean a lot to me.”
Nari tilted her head, expectant.
You leaned forward, expectant.
But Jungkook just chuckled lightly before answering, “They’re my girlfriend’s birth flower.” His tone was proud, almost smug, as if relishing the chance to say it out loud. A smirk tugged at your lips. That should be enough to shut this down, enough for her to finally get the message—
Except Nari barely reacted.
If anything, she just hummed again, dragging her eyes across his arm like she hadn’t even heard him. “Hm. Bet they’d look really pretty on you,” she mused, her tone as sweet as syrup. Then, without missing a beat, she added, “Then again, I bet a lot of things do.”
Your head snapped up. Jungkook tensed slightly but played it off with an awkward laugh. “Uh… thanks?”
Oh, hell no.
Maybe it was the way she said it. The way her voice dripped with something just a little too sweet, like she wasn’t just appreciating his tattoos but the person wearing them. Maybe it was the fact that her fingers were still lightly dragging along his forearm, slow and deliberate, like she had every right to touch him like that. Or maybe—just maybe—it was the fact that Jungkook, ever polite, ever oblivious, wasn’t saying anything to stop her. Either way, your patience is officially gone.
You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees, voice smooth but sharp enough to cut. “So, is this your usual customer service?” you asked, tilting your head. “Or is my boyfriend just getting the VIP treatment?”
Nari barely spared you a glance. “Oh, don’t worry. I take very good care of my clients.” Your smile was saccharine, all teeth. “I bet you do.”
Jungkook shifted, fingers gripping the armrest as if bracing himself. “Baby—” You ignored him. “I thought professionalism was a basic requirement for tattoo artists. But I guess it’s optional here, huh?”
Nari’s smirk twitched, but she held her ground. “I’m just making conversation.”
“Right.” You nodded slowly, voice dripping with faux understanding. “Because flirting with your client while his girlfriend is sitting right here is so normal.”
Jungkook, bless his clueless heart, looked between the two of you like he’d just walked into a battlefield with no armor. His lips parted—he should say something, anything, should try to calm you down before things escalated, but the words never came.
Because truth be told, seeing you like this, so protective and so fierce was kind of hot.
Nari’s eyes narrowed, her confidence flickering just a little. “I wasn’t flirting.” You let out a mock gasp, pressing a hand over your chest in exaggerated horror. “Oh, my bad.” Your tone was syrupy, dripping with fake innocence. “I must have misheard when you basically drooled over my boyfriend while I was sitting right here.”
Nari let out a sharp huff, her irritation finally surfacing. She set the fineliner down with a little too much force, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and condescension. “Look, do you want me to finish this or not?”
You opened your mouth, already armed with a sharp retort—
“No.”
Jungkook’s voice cut through the air, calm but unwavering.
Nari blinked. “What?”
Jungkook rolled his shoulder back as he sat up straighter, his usual easygoing expression replaced with something unreadable. “I’ll get it done somewhere else.”
She scoffed, crossing her arms. “Seriously? Just because she’s insecure?”
Oh. That did it. A slow, burning heat unfurled in your chest. The audacity, the sheer nerve to say something like that when she had been the one crossing every possible line. You barely registered standing up, only aware of the way your pulse pounded in your ears as you took a step forward.
“Excuse me?”
But before you could let loose, Jungkook was already moving. His hand found yours, his grip warm and steady as he gently pulled you back. “Let’s go,” he murmured, his voice low but insistent. Nari rolled her eyes, leaning back in her chair like she couldn’t care less. “Your loss.” Jungkook didn’t bother responding. He just grabbed his jacket, intertwined his fingers with yours, and led you out of the shop without a single backward glance.
The second the door shut behind you, the tension that had been coiling in your muscles finally snapped.
“I swear—” you started, still fuming, but Jungkook sighed, squeezing your hand in his. “I know, baby,” he said, his voice softer now, the warmth of it cutting right through your frustration. “I know.”
You exhaled sharply. “She was touching you.” Jungkook let out a low chuckle, rubbing his temple. “I literally had no idea she was flirting.”
“You never do.”
That earned you a grin. Jungkook tilted his head slightly, leaning down just enough that his nose nearly brushed yours. His eyes locked onto yours with a familiar fondness. “But you do.” His voice was teasing, but there was something else there too. Something softer. Something that made your breath catch, just a little.
You scowled, but he just wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close. “Jealous?” he teased. You scoffed.
His smile turned fond. “Cute.” You smacked his chest. “Shut up.”
Jungkook barely flinched at the hit, his grin only widening. He tightened his hold around your waist, pulling you in until there was hardly any space left between you. “That’s not a no,” he murmured, his voice dipping just enough to make your stomach flutter. You narrowed your eyes, tilting your chin up defiantly. “I wasn’t jealous.”
Jungkook hummed, unconvinced. His fingers skimmed over the small of your back, the touch light but deliberate. “Mhm. Sure.”
You huffed, crossing your arms. “She was unprofessional.”
“True.”
“And disrespectful.”
“Very.”
“And her eyeliner was uneven.”
Jungkook snorted, finally breaking into a full laugh. “Okay, now you’re just being mean.” You shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but the way he was looking at you, like you were the most amusing thing in the world made your face heat up. His laughter faded into something softer, something unbearably fond. “You know you’re cute when you’re all worked up, right?”
You scowled, jabbing a finger into his chest. “I said shut up.” Jungkook grinned, catching your hand with ease before lacing his fingers through yours. “Make me.”
Your breath hitched. His gaze flickered to your lips for the briefest second, and suddenly, the air between you shifted—
“You guys done with the tattoo already?”
A loud, familiar voice shattered the moment like glass hitting the pavement.
Both you and Jungkook turned your heads in unison, only to find Jin standing a few feet away, looking between the two of you with an expression far too amused for your liking. Jungkook groaned, running a hand down his face. “Hyung, seriously?”
Jin blinked. “What? I was just asking.” His gaze flickered over Jungkook’s arm, eyes narrowing as he took in the faint ink lines still marking his skin—the rough sketch of the tattoo, untouched by the needle. His brows furrowed.
“Wait. You didn’t actually get it done?”
Jungkook huffed, crossing his arms. “No. Because the tattooo artist was too busy flirting with me.”
Jin’s face twisted in confusion. “Huh?”
You, still somewhat bristling from the whole ordeal, rolled your eyes. “She was all over him. Barely even looked at his designs before trying to eye-fuck him.” JIn’s jaw dropped. “Wait, are you serious?”
Jungkook nodded, his expression flat. “Dead serious.” Jin winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Damn. I had no idea she was like that.”
At least he had the decency to look sorry.
Jin sighed, rubbing his temple dramatically. “Alright, fine. Since I unknowingly threw you both into the lion’s den, I owe you.” He clapped his hands together. “Lunch is on me.” Jungkook raised a brow. “You? Paying for food? Willingly?”
Jin scoffed. “I can be generous, you know.”
You snorted. “That’s new.”
Jin ignored you. “Come on, let’s eat. My treat. Think of it as compensation for the mess I accidentally dropped you into.”
Jungkook hummed, pretending to consider. “I mean… if you’re paying, I’m definitely ordering the most expensive thing on the menu.”
Jin rolled his eyes. “As if you wouldn’t do that anyway.”
Jungkook just grinned. “True.”
You laughed, your earlier irritation melting away. “Alright, fine. You’re forgiven. But only if I get to pick the place.” Jin groaned. “Why do I feel like I’m about to regret this?” Jungkook laced his fingers through yours, his thumb brushing against your skin. “Because you probably will.”
Jin sighed but motioned for you both to follow. “Hurry up before I change my mind.” With that, the three of you headed off, leaving the unpleasant encounter behind in favor of good food.
Nari leaned against the counter, arms folded tight as she glared out the shop’s large window. Outside, you stood near the curb, your gaze fixed on Jungkook and Jin as they chatted. You weren’t speaking, just watching with that quiet, unreadable expression. But somehow, that made Nari even angrier.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered under her breath.
“What is?”
The question came lazily from the man who had just strolled up beside her. He shook out his wrists after finishing with his last client, pulling off his gloves and tossing them into the trash. His attention remained casual, uninterested until Nari gestured toward the window with a sharp tilt of her chin.
“Her.”
His eyes followed her gaze. His posture was still loose, still easygoing until he saw you. For the briefest moment, his entire body went rigid. His casual demeanor cracked, just slightly, before he smoothed it over with a slow smirk.
“Huh.”
Nari, oblivious to the shift, let out a scoff. “She threw a whole fit because I was being nice to her boyfriend. Completely embarrassed me in front of him and acted all possessive, like I was some kind of threat.” She tapped her nails against the counter, still glaring at you through the window. “And now, thanks to her little tantrum, he refuses to get his tattoo done here.”
The man hummed, tilting his head. “Jealous girlfriend type, huh?”
“Exactly.” Nari huffed before turning to him with a slow, calculating smile. “You’re good at handling people, right?” He lifted a brow. “Depends on what you mean by ‘handling.’”
She leaned in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Do you think you could… I don’t know, do something about her? Save Jungkook from her?” For a moment, he didn’t respond. His gaze flicked back toward the window, settling this time on Jungkook himself.
And just like that, his smirk thinned.
Jungkook stood beside Jin, hands in his pockets, his head tilted slightly as he listened to whatever Jin was rambling about. But every so often, his attention shifted to you. The way his fingers brushed absently over your back, the way his expression softened whenever he glanced your way, like keeping you close was second nature.
The man’s fingers curled into a fist. “Figures,” he muttered under his breath.
Nari frowned. “You know him?” A sharp exhale. A shake of his head. “Not personally. But I know of him.”
She perked up at that, her curiosity piqued. “Oh?”
His tongue ran over his teeth, jaw working as he leaned against the counter. When he spoke again, his smirk had returned but there was nothing amused about it. “Let’s just say… I have unfinished business with her.”
Nari blinked at that, lips parting slightly as she took in the underlying venom in his tone. Then, as if catching on, she let out a slow, delighted hum. “Well then,” she murmured, turning back to the window, watching you through narrowed eyes. “Wouldn’t it be fun to mess with her a little?”
His gaze never left you. He watched as Jungkook reached out, tugging the sleeve of your jacket into place with an unconscious sort of familiarity, the kind that spoke of years spent together.
The kind of familiarity that should have been his.
The corner of his lips lifted, the smirk sharpening into something colder. “Oh, sweetheart.” His voice was smooth and teasing, laced with something far more sinister.
“I’d love to.”
You groggily blink your eyes open, immediately regretting it as the soft glow of the morning filters through your curtains. Too bright. Too early. Too… awake. You bury your face into your pillow, grumbling incoherently, unwilling to leave the comforting warmth of your bed. It’s Sunday. A day meant for sleeping in, doing absolutely nothing, and ignoring all responsibilities.
Then, you feel it—the weight of an arm loosely draped over your waist, the warmth seeping through your thin shirt. Your sleep-addled brain takes a moment to process before it clicks. Jungkook.
Right. He stayed over last night.
A sleepy sigh escapes your lips as you shift slightly, pressing closer to his warmth. His scent lingers on your sheets, wrapping around you like a second blanket. You peek up, still half-asleep, and catch the sight of him lying beside you, propped up on one elbow, his phone held in his free hand. The soft glow of the screen illuminates his face, casting delicate shadows over his sharp jawline. He’s already awake, completely engrossed in whatever he’s scrolling through.
Too awake for your liking.
“Five more minutes,” you mumble sleepily, voice muffled against the pillow. Your words slur together, more of a plea than a statement, as you instinctively nuzzle into Jungkook’s chest, seeking warmth.
A deep chuckle rumbles from him, low and fond, the kind that makes your heart squeeze without permission. His arm tightens around you in response, fingers lazily tracing light circles against your back. “Five more minutes? Baby, you said that like… an hour ago.”
You don’t respond, only snuggling deeper into his embrace, fully intent on ignoring him. Jungkook exhales dramatically, an exaggerated, put-upon sigh. “You’re gonna sleep the whole day away.”
“That’s the plan.”
“You’re literally wasting the morning.”
“Mm,” you hum noncommittally. “Not wasting if I’m warm and comfortable.” Jungkook pokes your cheek, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he tries to stir you. “C’mon, let’s go out. We could get breakfast, maybe go on a walk—”
“No.” You blindly swat his hand away.
Jungkook groans, flopping onto his back in frustration. “Why did I fall for someone lazier than me?” You crack one eye open, just enough to see his pout. Smirking, you shift slightly and mumble into the pillow, “Because I’m cute.”
Jungkook huffs. “…I mean, yeah, but that’s not the point.”
Jungkook finally manages to wrangle you out of bed—a feat that takes a ridiculous amount of whining, bribing, and sheer force of will. He practically drags you across the apartment, his grip firm around your wrist, ignoring every single one of your grumbles and half-hearted protests.
“You are,” you mumble as he steers you into the kitchen, “the absolute worst.” Jungkook snorts, already rummaging through the cabinets for coffee beans. “Oh, I’m sorry. Was I supposed to let you rot in bed for eternity?”
“Yes.”
Jungkook ignores you, expertly working the coffee machine like a man on a mission. You slump against the counter, still half-asleep, head lolling dramatically to the side as you watch him move around like an overly energetic golden retriever. Then, your phone buzzes on the counter. You lazily glance at the screen, skimming the weather forecast—
Rain incoming.
Your spine straightens, sleepiness vanishing in an instant as you whip your phone up to show Jungkook, shoving the screen in his face with an almost evil sort of glee. “Oh no~” you sing-song, tone dripping with faux disappointment. “Looks like we can’t go out.”
Jungkook’s brows furrow as he squints at the screen, reading the forecast. His expression quickly morphs from mild confusion to full-blown horror. “…It wasn’t supposed to rain today,” he says slowly, almost like he can will the reality away.
“Guess we have to stay in.” You sigh dramatically, clutching your chest like it pains you. “Damn. What a shame.”
Jungkook groans, slumping against the counter like his entire soul has left his body. His dreams of a fun, eventful day were shattered. “You’re lying,” he accuses weakly. “This is a personal attack.”
You shake your head, voice dripping with fake sympathy. “I don’t control the weather, baby.”
Jungkook glares. “But if you could, you’d make it rain every day, wouldn’t you?” A smirk tugs at your lips. “Absolutely.”
Jungkook throws his head back with a dramatic, suffering groan, sliding down the counter like a man defeated. You watch him in amusement, lifting the coffee cup he had just made for himself and taking a slow, satisfied sip. The moment the taste hits your tongue, Jungkook’s entire body snaps upright.
He watches, utterly betrayed, as you lower the cup with a pleased hum.
“…Did you just steal my coffee?”
You blink at him, all innocence. “You made this for me, didn’t you?”
Jungkook scoffs, expression scandalized. “No! I made it for me!”
You shrug, taking another sip as you meet his glare with zero remorse. “Tastes great, babe. Thanks.”
Jungkook clutches his chest like you’ve personally wounded him. “You’re the actual worst.”
“And yet,” you hum, leaning against the counter with a satisfied smirk, “here you are, hopelessly in love with me.”
Jungkook stares at you for a long second, lips pursed. Then, without warning, he lunges. You yelp as he wraps his arms around your waist, lifting you with ridiculous ease and tossing you over his shoulder.
“JUNGKOOK—”
“NOPE,” he interrupts, already marching towards the living room. “If I can’t have fun outside, I’m gonna make you suffer with me inside.” You kick your feet uselessly, fists pounding against his back as he effortlessly carries you away. “Put me down, you muscle bunny!”
Jungkook only laughs, completely unfazed, before spinning on his heel and tossing you onto the couch like you weigh nothing. You land with a soft ‘oof,’ bouncing slightly against the cushions as he flops down beside you, stretching out like a starfish. “You are so dramatic,” you grumble, attempting to shove him away with your foot.
Jungkook just grins, easily catching your ankle and tugging you closer instead. “And yet, you love me anyway.”
You huff, too lazy to argue.
Before you can protest further, he shifts, rolling onto his side and resting his head comfortably on your lap. His eyes flutter shut almost instantly, his breath evening out as he settles in like he belongs there. At first, you stiffen, but as the seconds pass, your fingers instinctively weave through his soft, dark hair. You barely even realize you’re doing it, the motion coming as naturally as breathing.
Jungkook hums at the feeling, half-conscious, but content. His face is completely relaxed and unguarded in a way that makes your chest ache. He looked so soft like this. So warm. So… safe. And something deep inside you just melts.
Your fingers slow, combing gently through the strands, nails lightly scratching his scalp. A soft scowl tugs at your lips. Because this? This is a version of Jungkook you’d fight the entire world to protect.
Jungkook must feel your gaze because, after a moment, he cracks one eye open and peeks up at you. “You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice still laced with sleep. You blink, quickly masking your expression with a huff. To cover up the warmth creeping up your neck, you flick his forehead. “Just making sure you’re still breathing.”
Jungkook snickers, stretching lazily. “Aww, are you worried about me?”
You cross your arms, unimpressed. “Obviously. You’re fragile.”
Jungkook immediately bursts out laughing, full-bodied and carefree, his entire frame shaking against your lap. “Me? Fragile? Baby, I could bench press you.”
You roll your eyes, completely unfazed. “Yeah, well, I could stab someone for you.”
Jungkook’s laughter dies instantly. His eyes widen slightly, blinking up at you as if processing your words. Then, ever so slowly, a grin spreads across his face.
“…Okay, that’s really hot.”
You scoff, flicking his forehead again. “Pervert.”
Jungkook just smirks, completely shameless. “What can I say? I like my girlfriend a little unhinged.” You roll your eyes, but before you can retort, a deep rumble of thunder echoes outside.
Jungkook groans, throwing an arm over his face. “Great. So we really are stuck inside all day.”
You don’t even bother hiding your glee. “Tragic.”
With an exaggerated sigh, Jungkook shifts, burying his face into your stomach like a sulking puppy. You try to shove him off, but he only clings harder, grumbling nonsense against your his hoodie.
“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur, fingers idly threading through his hair again. Eventually, he shifts, lifting his head to look at you properly. His expression softens laced with something so fond it makes your breath hitch. He doesn’t say anything. Just laces his fingers through yours, absentmindedly tracing patterns against your palm.
Then, suddenly there's a sharp poke to your side and you jolt with a squawk, trying to wiggle away. “Jungkook!” He grins, eyes twinkling with mischief. “If we’re staying in, we should do something.”
You glare at him, still half-prepared to smack him upside the head. “Like what?”
His smirk deepens. “You know exactly what.” For a second, you just stare at him. He stares back.Then, without breaking eye contact—he grabs the game controllers.
Jungkook’s sunshine boyfriend energy disappears the second the race countdown starts. Gone is the sweet, cuddly man who had been wrapped around you like a koala just minutes ago, now, he’s leaning forward, brows furrowed, fully in the zone.
“Loser does the dishes in both apartments,” he announces, rolling his shoulders like he’s prepping for war. You scoff, cracking your knuckles for dramatic effect. “You’re about to regret that.”
The moment Lakitu drops the starting light, Jungkook launches forward like he’s been possessed by the spirit of every pro gamer ever. Meanwhile, you barely get past the first turn without slamming into the barrier. You spam every single item box you can get your hands on, determined to take him down with sheer pettiness if not skill.
Then there’s a miracle. Jungkook is just about to cross the finish line when you hit him with a perfectly timed blue shell.
BOOM.
His character spirals into the air, crashing down just inches from victory. You zoom past him at the last second.
“IN YOUR FACE, JEON.” You throw your arms up like you just won an Olympic gold medal. Jungkook stares at the screen in stunned silence. Then, slowly he turns to you. You suddenly get the feeling you’ve made a terrible mistake.
“Okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, cracking his knuckles. “No more playing nice.”
The next race starts and you get absolutely destroyed.
Jungkook goes full demon mode, drifting around corners with terrifying precision, dodging every single attack like he can see the future. He launches red shells, banana peels, lightning bolts— you don’t even know how he’s getting this many power-ups.
It’s a massacre. One round. Two rounds. Three. You lose every single one. By the end, your controller is nearly embedded into your palm from how tightly you’re gripping it. Jungkook, on the other hand, is lounging back against the couch, arms stretched behind his head, smug as hell.
He tilts his head, smirking. “Do you yield?”
You scowl. “I hope you step on a Lego.”
Jungkook just laughs, grabbing your wrist and yanking you into his lap before you can escape. The controllers are discarded, forgotten as you end up tangled together on the couch. His arms snake around your waist, holding you in place as you halfheartedly struggle.
Then—he boops your nose.
You blink. Once. Twice. Then groan, flopping dramatically against his chest. “I take back every nice thing I’ve ever said about you.”
Jungkook only hums, smug and unbothered. “Even though you lost, I still think you’re the cutest.”
You smack his arm. “I will actually fight you.”
“Mm. As long as it’s not in Mario Kart, I like my chances.”
Jungkook’s phone buzzes against the coffee table, the vibration cutting through the comfortable silence. He lazily reaches for it, glancing at the screen. His brows knit together for a second before his face smooths over into a grin.
“Oh, my mom’s planning a family dinner. She wants you to come.”
You, mid-sip of your newly-made coffee, nearly choke.
“…Huh?”
Jungkook tilts his head, amused. “What? You act like this is the first time she’s invited you.”
You pause, tapping your fingers against the cup. His family liked you. You knew that. His mom always sent you home with extra food whenever you visited, and his dad made it a point to tease Jungkook about “finally settling down” whenever you were around. Jungkook leans closer, watching you expectantly. “So? You’ll come?”
You exhale dramatically, pretending to be deep in thought. “…Maybe.”
Jungkook narrows his eyes. “Maybe?”
You smirk. “I’ll go on one condition.”
He leans in even more, suspicious. “What?”
You set your cup down with a slow, deliberate motion. Then you look him dead in the eye. “…Admit that I’m better at games.”
Jungkook snorts. “Not happening.”
You grin. “Then I’m not coming.”
Jungkook blinks. Then, before you can react, he pounces.
“YOU’RE COMING.”
“JUNGKOOK—”
You barely have time to throw your drink onto the table before he tackles you down onto the couch, arms caging you in as he buries his face into your neck. His weight presses you into the cushions, his laughter muffled against your skin.
“You little brat,” he mutters, nuzzling into you. You squirm, but he’s relentless, peppering lazy kisses against your jaw just to distract you.
“Say you’ll come,” he murmurs, voice laced with amusement.
“Say I’m better.”
Jungkook grins against your neck. “Hmm. How about this—you come to dinner, and I’ll let you win next time.” You gasp, shoving at his chest. “Let me win?!”
His laughter shakes both of you, but he doesn’t budge. “I’m trying to be generous, baby.”
“Jungkook, I swear—”
The argument quickly devolves into a mess of tangled limbs and laughter, neither of you backing down. Jungkook is still half on top of you, his arms lazily wrapped around your waist, completely unwilling to let you escape. His warmth seeps into you, making it harder to even think about moving. You sigh, dramatically slumping against the couch cushions. “Fine. I’ll go to dinner.”
Jungkook’s head snaps up instantly. “Really?”
You roll your eyes, poking his cheek. “Yeah, yeah. But I’m expecting VIP treatment.”
Jungkook grins, wide and bright, before leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. “Deal.”
Outside, the rain picks up, sheets of water blurring the world beyond the glass. The streetlights flicker, their glow reflecting off the puddles collecting on the pavement. But just beyond the window, Neither of you notice the figure standing on the balcony of the building across the street a dark silhouette barely visible through the downpour.
He watches. He waits.
The overhead lights in your office cast a dim, sterile glow, humming softly in the near silence. The usual buzz of the workplace has long since faded, leaving only the occasional click of your keyboard and the distant sound of the air conditioning whirring. You rub your tired eyes, exhaustion settling deep in your bones as you scroll through the last few emails of the day.
Just as you’re about to tackle the next document in your never-ending pile, your phone vibrates against your desk, the soft buzz cutting through the quiet. You glance at the screen, and a familiar name lights up:
Kook 🐰💜 [6:15 PM]: Still working?
Kook 🐰💜 [6:15 PM]: Come over after work?
A small smile tugs at your lips despite the fatigue weighing on you. You reach for your phone, letting your gaze drift to the towering stack of documents beside you before sighing. There’s no way you’re finishing up anytime soon. With a resigned exhale, you type out a response.
You [6:16 PM]: Working overtime. I’ll text when I’m done.
His reply comes almost instantly, as if he’d been waiting for your response.
Kook 🐰💜 [6:16 PM]: It’s late. Want me to pick you up?
Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a second before you shake your head, rolling your eyes fondly. It wasn’t like you weren’t capable of getting home on your own. The walk to your apartment was barely ten minutes, and you’d done it countless times before without issue. You hated the idea of relying too much on someone else, even if that someone was Jungkook. He was always eager to drop everything for you, to take on your burdens like they were his own, and while a part of you adored that about him, another part resisted it. You never wanted to feel like you needed saving. You could handle yourself.
You [6:16 PM]: I’m fine. My apartment’s nearby, remember?
There’s a brief pause before his next message comes through.
Kook 🐰💜[6:18 PM]: At least text me when you’re home.
You bite back a smile, shaking your head.
You [6:18 PM]: Yes, yes, Mr. Protective.
A second later, your screen lights up again with a message that’s nothing but a row of emojis. You let out a soft chuckle, shaking your head as you set your phone down. Stretching your arms over your head, you glance back at the unfinished work in front of you. The night is far from over, and exhaustion lingers in your limbs, but you push through.
Two hours later, the office is nearly deserted. Rows of empty desks stretch out before you, their monitors dark, abandoned by coworkers who were lucky enough to call it a day. Somewhere in the distance, the faint murmur of a janitor echoes through the halls, a quiet reminder that you’re not entirely alone. Still, the stillness feels heavy, pressing against your shoulders as you rub your tired eyes and blink at your laptop screen.
“Still here?”
The familiar voice startles you, pulling you from your work-induced daze. You look up to see Jimin standing by your desk, a bag slung over his shoulder and an amused expression on his face.
You let out a sigh, leaning back in your chair. “Unfortunately.”
He crosses his arms, leaning casually against the cubicle wall. “Overtime?”
“Yeah.” You stretch your stiff fingers before clicking through your files. “Trying to get ahead of things since I’m taking a day off for Jungkook’s family dinner.”
Jimin raises a brow, clearly holding back a smirk. “You? Taking a day off? Who are you, and what have you done with my workaholic friend?”
You snort, rolling your eyes. “It’s one day, Park.”
“Still. Didn’t think you’d willingly take time off for a boyfriend’s family event.”
You shrug, shifting your attention back to your laptop. “I’m being a supportive partner. And also avoiding Jungkook’s pout if I don’t go.”
Jimin chuckles. “Yeah, that tracks.” He checks his watch, then nods toward the exit. “Well, it’s already past eight. I can drop you off—my car’s in the basement.”
You pause for half a second, tempted. It would be easy, safe. A quick ride home without having to walk through the dark streets alone. But something in you resists. You’ve always prided yourself on being independent, on handling things yourself. You weren’t about to start needing an escort home like some helpless protagonist in a thriller movie. Besides, your apartment wasn’t far, and you could take care of yourself just fine.
You shake your head. “I’ve still got work left. Need to refine a client presentation before tomorrow.”
Jimin frowns, clearly debating whether to push the issue. “You sure? I don’t mind waiting.”
You give him a small, reassuring smile. “Go home, Jimin. I’ll be fine.”
He hesitates for a moment longer before exhaling in defeat. “Alright. Text me when you get home, yeah?”
“I will.”
Satisfied, he ruffles your hair in a way that makes you swat at him, laughing as he dodges your weak attempt at retaliation. “Night, workaholic,” he teases before heading out, his footsteps fading down the hall.
And just like that, you’re alone again, the dim glow of your laptop screen casting long shadows across your desk.
It’s nearing eleven o'clock by the time you finally leave the office, exhaustion pressing down on your shoulders like a weight you can’t shake. The automatic doors slide shut behind you, sealing the building in eerie silence. Outside, the streets stretch before you, quieter than usual, the world dipped in shades of silver and black under the dim glow of the streetlights.
The scent of rain lingers in the air, damp and heavy, even though the drizzle had stopped hours ago. The pavement glistens under the flickering glow of streetlights, reflecting the distorted shapes of the empty road ahead. A chilly breeze whispers through the deserted streets, curling around your skin like invisible fingers. You shiver, tugging your coat tighter around you, telling yourself it’s just the cold. You exhale slowly, watching your breath fog in the night air, and begin your walk home. It’s not far—barely a ten-minute walk. You’ve done this route countless times before. It should feel familiar. Safe.
But tonight… something feels off.
At first, it’s just a small shift in the air, a faint prickle at the back of your neck that strange, creeping sensation of being watched. It crawls up your spine, makes the hair on your arms stand on end.
You shake it off, adjusting the strap of your bag. You’re just tired. Paranoid. That’s all. The streets are always eerie this late of course they are. There’s no one around, just the distant hum of traffic blocks away, the occasional flicker of a neon sign from a closed shop. But then when you’re halfway home, just as you pass the turn near the old bookstore you hear it.
A faint, subtle sound, a footstep, echoes just a second too late after your own. Your breath catches in your throat as you freeze, and the sound stops too. The silence is suffocating, pressing in from all sides. Slowly, so painfully slowly, you turn to glance behind you.
Nothing.
Just an empty sidewalk, stretched too long and too dark behind you. The streetlights buzz faintly, their glow flickering, casting strange, distorted shadows on the wet pavement. Your own heartbeat pounds against your ribs, a heavy drumbeat in the stillness. You swallow, trying to shake the feeling creeping under your skin. You’re imagining things. You have to be. The city is full of noises like cars in the distance, leaves rustling, a stray cat darting between alleyways. That’s all it is.
Still… your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag as you push forward, steps quicker now. But the feeling doesn’t go away. It lingers. Pressing against your skin like static, buzzing at the edge of your awareness. You’re not alone.
You almost pull out your phone. Almost. Jungkook would pick up in an instant and he’d tell you to stay on the line, that he was coming to get you. But you don’t.
Because what would you even say? Hey, I think I’m being followed, but I’m not sure, and I don’t want to sound like an idiot? No way. Jungkook would freak out, and you weren’t about to send him into a panic over something that was probably nothing. So instead, you pick up your pace, each step sharper, more urgent. The streetlights above seem dimmer now, their glow barely cutting through the shadows pooling at the edges of the road.
Your building is just a few turns away. You make it past the first one, then the second. Then you hear it again—not just a sound this time, but a shift, a presence. Someone is there. Your heart hammers as you whip around faster this time.
Nothing.
Your own shadow stretches long on the pavement, its shape warping under the flickering lights. The alleyway to your right is yawning and dark, a gaping mouth of blackness that seems to pull at the edges of your vision. Your pulse is a thunderous roar in your ears.
You’re not imagining this. This is real.
And now, your body knows it too and every instinct is screaming at you to move. So you do.
You rush forward, walking as fast as you can without breaking into a sprint. Your breath quickens, your fingers curling into fists, every nerve in your body on high alert. Just a little further. Just one more turn.
And then finally your apartment building comes into view, looming in the darkness like a beacon. Relief crashes over you so forcefully that you nearly stumble. You don’t turn around again. You don’t want to know if someone is standing there. Watching.
You force yourself to stay calm as you punch in the building’s entry code with unsteady fingers, stepping inside the safety of the lobby. The door shuts behind you with a heavy click, locking out the night.
You practically rush inside, the cool air of the lobby offering little comfort as your fingers tremble over the keypad. Your breath is shallow, coming in uneven gasps as you punch in your passcode. The numbers blur slightly in your vision, whether from exhaustion or the lingering tension clawing at your mind, you’re not sure. The beep of the lock disengaging feels deafening in the stillness. You push the door open, stepping inside so quickly that you nearly stumble over your own feet. The door swings shut behind you with a soft but final click, sealing you in the safety of your apartment. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.
For a moment, you just stand there, listening. Nothing but the hum of your refrigerator, the faint creak of the building settling, and the sound of your own breathing, ragged and uneven in the silence. You don’t stop moving until every lock is in place.
Click. Click. Click.
Each one echoes louder than it should, like an affirmation that you are, in fact, secure. That no one followed you. That no one is outside, waiting. Still, the unease gnaws at you, refusing to settle. So, you make your rounds. Checking. Double-checking. Triple-checking.
You pull the curtains shut, firmly, ensuring no sliver of the outside world can seep in. You check the windows next, pressing your fingers against the glass, as if expecting to feel warmth from another presence, a breath on the other side. But there’s nothing. No shadow moving in the darkness, no faint imprint of something or someone having been there.
Finally, with a deep breath, you force yourself to move, shedding your coat, kicking off your shoes with sluggish movements. The exhaustion from the long day crashes down on you all at once, dull and heavy. Your limbs feel leaden as you shuffle toward your bedroom, every step slower than the last.
The warmth of your bed is almost enough to chase away the unease, the mattress soft, inviting and safe a stark contrast to the cold anxiety curling at the edges of your consciousness. You exhale, forcing yourself to relax, letting your body sink into the familiar comfort of your sheets.
But even as your eyes grow heavy, your mind refuses to let go completely. That nagging sense of being watched still lingers. Faint but present. And just before sleep claims you, a final thought slithers through your mind.
What if you weren’t imagining it? What if someone was still out there? Watching. Waiting.
Jungkook drives with effortless ease, one hand lazily gripping the steering wheel while the other taps against the radio in rhythm with the song playing softly through the speakers. The hum of the engine blends with the melody, filling the quiet space between you, neither of you needing to speak. The road stretches ahead, endless and open, disappearing into the horizon. A faint trace of salt lingers in the air, creeping in through the half-open window, a quiet reminder that you’re getting closer to Busan.
You sit in the passenger seat, your gaze flickering between the blur of passing scenery and the man beside you. The steady motion of the car, the warmth of the moment, it all feels oddly soothing. After days of unease, of tension wound so tightly in your body that even sleep felt like a battle, you finally feel yourself exhale.
“Can’t believe you actually agreed to take a day off for me,” Jungkook teases, his grin nothing short of triumphant as he spares you a glance. “Is this what love does to people?”
You roll your eyes, but the small smile tugging at your lips betrays you. “One time, Jeon. Don’t get used to it.”
Jungkook chuckles, shaking his head like he doesn’t believe you for a second. His smile spreads wide, bright enough to make your chest ache with something unspoken. He reaches over without hesitation, his fingers giving your knee a playful squeeze before returning to the wheel. The touch is fleeting but warm, grounding in a way you hadn’t realized you needed.
You should tell him.
The past few days have been unbearable due to the creeping paranoia, the feeling of eyes tracing your every move and the subtle shifts in your apartment that made your skin crawl. It’s like living with a shadow just out of reach, something you can’t see but can feel pressing in from the edges. You don’t scare easily, but this has been different.
Your fingers twitch against your lap. One word. That’s all it would take. Jungkook would listen like he always does. He’d furrow his brows, tilt his head in that concerned way he does, and tell you not to brush it off. He’d probably get all worked up, insist on staying over, refuse to let you out of his sight.
And yet, looking at him now being so carefree, his bunny-like smile tugging at his lips as he taps his fingers against the beat makes you hesitate. He’s happy. Peaceful. This moment is untouched by the weight sitting on your chest, and for once, you don’t want to taint something good.
So you take a slow breath, forcing yourself to relax against the seat. You tell yourself it’s fine. That you’re just being paranoid. That if anything truly happens, you’ll deal with it.
You exhaled slowly, willing yourself to stay in the present, to focus on the soft hum of the radio, the rhythmic tap of Jungkook’s fingers against the steering wheel. But the memory pulled at you, dragging you under before you could stop it—
You had come home after another long day at work. Your shoulders were aching from hours spent hunched over your desk. You had barely registered the familiar scent of your apartment as you pushed the door open, the soft creak echoing into the stillness inside.
Everything had looked normal at first.
Your shoes sat neatly by the entrance, exactly where you had left them. The kitchen counter was cluttered with the remnants of that morning’s rushed breakfast.
But the air had felt… different. Slightly off. As if someone had been there. Your heartbeat had stumbled, picking up speed before you could rationalize it. You had told yourself it was nothing. Just the exhaustion making you paranoid.
And yet, as you had stepped further inside, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. The sound was the first thing that struck you. Cheerful, repetitive, out of place.
Your TV was on.
Not just on but playing Mario Kart. The character selection screen looped in the background, the upbeat jingle clashing against the heavy silence that filled your apartment. You hadn’t touched your console in days. Not since you and Jungkook played together last Sunday. Your pulse quickened.
Your eyes flickered to the couch. It had been moved just slightly. Barely an inch out of place, but enough for you to notice.
A slow, creeping unease settled into your bones as you stepped further inside, your movements cautious. Your apartment wasn’t large. There weren’t many places for someone to hide. And yet, your skin prickled with the overwhelming sensation that something or someone had been here.
Your breath hitched as your gaze fell on your bedroom door, slightly ajar. You had closed it that morning. You were sure of it. With measured steps, you pushed the door open fully. And that’s when you saw it.
Your bed—completely in ruins. The sheets were tangled, pillows tossed carelessly, the once-smooth blankets now bunched in the center as if someone had been lying there. Your stomach twisted with unease because this morning, just before leaving for work, you had made your bed. Yet now, the sheets were rumpled, disturbed in a way that sent a chill crawling up your spine. Someone had been here.
Your pulse thundered in your ears as you took a shaky step back, your eyes darting around the room. Everything looked normal aside from the bed, the couch and the TV but the air felt wrong. Tainted. Like someone had occupied this space in your absence.
Your mind raced as you checked the locks. Still in place. No broken windows. No signs of forced entry.
So how— Your breath hitched as a thought struck you. With trembling fingers, you grabbed your phone and immediately dialed Jungkook. He picked up after a few rings, his voice slightly breathless, like he had been running. “Hey, baby. Everything okay?”
You swallowed the lump in your throat, gripping the phone tightly. “Yeah,” you lied, forcing your voice to stay steady. “Where are you right now?”
"Still at the clinic," he answered easily. "Was assisting with a surgery on a Pomeranian. Poor guy had a blockage so it took longer than expected." Your stomach dropped.
If Jungkook wasn’t here… then who was?
Your fingers curled around your phone, knuckles whitening as you fought to keep your breathing even. “Got it,” you said, trying to sound casual. “Just checking.” There was a pause. Then, Jungkook’s tone softened. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah.” Another lie. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Before he could press further, you ended the call.
The only sound left was the distant loop of Mario Kart, mocking you.
The weight of the memory lingered, suffocating, but the warmth of the car, the low hum of the radio, and Jungkook’s familiar presence slowly pulled you back. You blinked, staring at him.
Jungkook was happily rambling about his mom’s cooking, hands moving animatedly as he drove. “—and she always makes extra, like extra extra, because she knows I eat a lot. But now she’s even more excited since you’re coming—oh! She even tried making those cookies you love—”
His voice was light, full of an excitement you didn’t want to taint. A small part of you wanted to tell him. But another part, the part that didn’t want to see that deep crease of concern on his forehead, didn’t want to take away his peace, told you to keep it to yourself. For now.
You turned your head, looking out the window, watching the scenery blur past. You didn’t notice the way Jungkook’s eyes flickered toward you, his brows knitting together for just a moment before he forced his usual smile back onto his face.
Jungkook pulled into the driveway, parking with practiced ease. You had been here more times than you could count, yet there was always something comforting about stepping into his childhood home like the faint scent of home-cooked meals wafting through the air and the familiar sight of the wind chime swaying gently by the door.
Jungkook turned to you with a grin, one hand still resting on the steering wheel. “Mom probably made enough food to feed a small army.”
You chuckled, already knowing that was true. “She always does.”
Before you could even step out of the car, the front door swung open, revealing his mom waving enthusiastically. “You’re finally here! Hurry, come in before the food gets cold!” His mom pulled you into a hug the second you stepped inside, squeezing you tight.
“You’ve lost weight,” she huffed, pulling back just enough to inspect you with a critical eye. “Are you eating properly?”
You laughed, but before you could respond, his dad stepped forward with a warm smile, offering a firm handshake. “It’s good to see you again,” he said, his voice as steady and kind as ever.
“It’s good to see you too, Mr. Jeon,” you replied politely. “Mrs. Jeon, thank you for having me—”
Before you could finish, his mom smacked your arm lightly, her expression scandalized. “Yah! How many times do I have to tell you? It’s Mom and Dad.”
Your face heated instantly. “R-Right. Sorry… Mom.”
Jungkook snickered under his breath at your obvious embarrassment, and his mom beamed, clearly pleased. “That’s better,” she said, linking her arm with yours as she led you further inside. “You’re family, sweetheart. No need for formalities.”
The house smelled incredible of rich simmering broth and freshly cooked rice. The warmth of it all settled deep in your chest, making you realize just how much you had missed this. As you stepped into the living room, your gaze landed on a few baby toys scattered near the couch, a soft blanket draped over the armrest. Before you could ask, his mom sighed.
“Junghyun and his wife wanted to come with the twins, but the girls were too fussy today.”
Jungkook pouted dramatically, crossing his arms. “I still haven’t met my nieces.”
His mom shook her head, unimpressed. “You could visit them, you know.”
The dining table was packed with dishes his mom had gone all out, as always. Various side dishes, steaming hot soup, perfectly grilled meat, and a mountain of rice sat invitingly before you. It was a feast, one you had grown familiar with over the years, yet it never failed to impress you. Before you could even reach for anything, Jungkook was already piling food onto your plate, stacking it with precision. “Eat,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You know the rules.”
His mom beamed, clearly pleased. “At least someone in this house listens to me.”
You chuckled, picking up your chopsticks, but the moment was shattered when your phone lit up beside your plate, vibrating with an insistent ping. You glanced down, your stomach twisting into a knot.
Your pulse quickened. The messages came one after the other.
Unknown [1:10 PM]: You think you can stay safe by staying away from here?
Unknown [1:10 PM]: You think he’s gonna save you?
Unknown [1:10 PM]: I am always watching you, doll.
Your breath hitched. Cold fingers of unease crawled up your spine, but you forced yourself to stay composed. Your hands thankfully didn’t shake as you turned your phone upside down and set it to silent. Jungkook had noticed. His gaze flickered to the screen before you flipped it over, his brows knitting together in quiet concern. He looked like he wanted to ask, but you didn’t give him the chance.
The vibration had caught his parents’ attention too. “Oh dear, is that work?” his mom asked, concern lacing her voice.
“Yeah,” you lied smoothly, forcing a small smile. “Just some messages I need to deal with later.”
You weren’t sure if Jungkook believed you, but he didn’t press. Instead, he reached out under the table, squeezing your knee reassuringly before focusing back on his food. You tried to do the same, pushing down the paranoia clawing at your chest.
Dinner flowed with easy conversation. His parents asked about your work, laughing when Jungkook grumbled about how much time it took away from him. They also teased him relentlessly about how attached he was to you.
“Three years, and he still acts like you’re going to disappear if he looks away,” his dad joked, shaking his head fondly.
You snickered, nudging Jungkook’s foot under the table.
But Jungkook just shrugged, completely unbothered. “Can you blame me?” he said simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Dinner continued with warmth and laughter, his parents seamlessly shifting the conversation to Jungkook’s studies.
“So, how’s school going?” his dad asked, scooping some more rice onto his plate. “Third year already, huh? Feels like just yesterday you were running around pretending to be a zookeeper.” Jungkook groaned. “Dad.”
His mom chuckled. “What? You were obsessed with animals. You even tried to ‘rescue’ the neighbor’s cat by sneaking it into your room.”
You gasped dramatically, turning to Jungkook. “Wait, I didn’t know about this!”
Jungkook sighed, shoving a bite of food into his mouth like he could physically escape the conversation. “That was years ago.”
His dad laughed. “And now look at you, halfway to becoming a real vet.”
“Not halfway,” Jungkook corrected between bites. “But yeah, it’s been tough. Classes are intense, and the practicals are even harder. Two days ago, I had to assist with a surgery, and let’s just say I wasn’t prepared for how long it would take.”
His mom’s eyes softened with pride. “You’ll be amazing, sweetheart. You’ve always had such a big heart for animals.”
Jungkook ducked his head, ears tinged pink. You smiled, nudging his foot under the table again. “She’s right, you know. You’re going to be an incredible vet.”
Jungkook glanced at you, his bunny-like smile appearing for just a second before he returned to his food. But the warmth of the moment did little to push away the unease creeping up your spine. The phone lay silent beside your plate, but you couldn’t shake the eerie feeling.
Just as the conversation was settling into a warm, familiar rhythm, the front door slammed open with the force of a small explosion.
“The prodigal son returns!”
Jungkook groaned, not even bothering to look. “Why. Are. You. Here.”
Jin strutted in like he was making a grand entrance at an award show, tossing his jacket onto the couch with an unnecessary flourish. “Heard there was food,” he announced before turning to you with a smirk. “And obviously, I had to make sure my dear cousin hasn’t scared you off yet.”
Jungkook scoffed. “You scared me off first.”
Jin ignored him completely, already making a beeline for the dining table. His mom, unfazed by the theatrics, clapped her hands together. “Oh, perfect timing! Sit, eat.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Jin said cheerfully, dropping into the seat beside you. He grabbed a pair of chopsticks like a warrior unsheathing his sword, ready for battle.
“So,” he drawled, nudging you playfully. “Three years and you still haven’t run for the hills? Impressive.”
You smirked, taking a sip of your drink. “I’ve considered it.”
Jungkook gasped dramatically, clutching his chest like you had personally stabbed him. “Betrayal! In my own home!”
“Technically, it’s our home,” his mom corrected.
“Exactly!” Jin said, pointing his chopsticks at Jungkook before shoving a mouthful of rice into his mouth. Jungkook’s dad, ever the composed one, leaned back in his chair and regarded Jin with an amused shake of his head. “So, how’s the tattoo shop? Are you still working reception?”
Jin waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, that? I quit.”
Jungkook’s mom sighed, as if she had already seen this coming.
Jungkook’s dad pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jin, you just started that job.”
“Yeah, and I just quit that job,” Jin said brightly. “But don’t worry—I’ve moved on to better things.”
Jungkook raised a brow. “Should I even ask?”
“I now work at a pastry shop.” Jin declared, as if he had just announced a groundbreaking scientific discovery.
Jungkook blinked. “You?”
“Yes, me.”
Jungkook’s dad sighed. “Jin, you have to start thinking about stability. You can’t keep jumping from one job to another like this.”
Jin only laughed, waving him off like the thought of responsibility was a foreign concept. “Oh, please. Stability is boring. I get bored too fast—I need thrill, excitement, the rush of something new.”
“You sell croissants,” Jungkook deadpanned.
“And I do it with flair,” Jin shot back, popping a piece of fried chicken into his mouth. “Speaking of which, I brought some samples! The head baker said they were too ‘experimental’ for customers, but I figured you guys would appreciate my artistic vision.” He reached into his coat pocket because of course he carried pastries in his coat pocket and plopped two small, questionably green muffins onto the table.
Jungkook recoiled. “What is that?”
Jin grinned. “Matcha and kimchi fusion.”
Jungkook’s dad sighed again. His mom simply patted Jin’s hand, as if she had long since accepted his chaotic ways. Jin wipes his hands dramatically after placing down his abomination of a pastry creation, then immediately turns to you with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“So,” he starts, leaning in with the air of someone about to cause chaos. “On a scale of one to dear god, someone save me, how difficult is he to live with?”
You barely have time to react before he fires off another.
“Any plans to upgrade from ‘boyfriend’ status?” Jin asks, voice dripping with faux innocence.
Jungkook chokes so hard on his food that you have to thump his back. His mom gasps in concern, while his dad just continues eating like this is any other Thursday night.
Jin smirks in triumph. “Ah, so is there a wedding?”
Jungkook, still recovering, glares murderously. “You are so not invited to the wedding—”
Jin claps his hands together. “Confirmed!”
Jungkook doesn’t hesitate. He grabs a spoonful of rice and hurls it straight at Jin. Jin dodges like a seasoned warrior. “Oh, it’s war now.”
A second later, a piece of kimchi smacks Jungkook right in the cheek. Jungkook gapes at Jin. “You did not—”
“Oh, I did.” Jin wiggles his eyebrows before launching another attack. What starts as a petty sibling squabble escalates into all-out warfare. Jungkook lobs a dumpling; Jin retaliates with a piece of radish. Rice goes flying. You duck just in time to avoid getting hit by a rogue piece of tofu.
“Jeon Jungkook!” his mom shrieks, voice cutting through the chaos like a knife. “Kim Seokjin!”
They both freeze mid-throw, like guilty kids caught red-handed.
His dad sighs, a long and tired sigh, the kind that speaks of years of dealing with this exact scenario. He calmly reaches for his drink. “Can we please have one dinner without someone launching food across the table?”
Jungkook and Jin exchange glances.
Then, as if telepathically synchronized, they both lift their chopsticks and point at each other. “He started it.”
You snort. His mom groans. His dad sips his tea in silent resignation.
The night air is crisp, carrying the distant hum of crickets and the occasional rustling of leaves in the trees that line Jungkook’s backyard. The stars above twinkle through gaps in the branches, their light soft and distant. Out here, away from the city’s chaos, everything feels quieter like the world has shrunk to just the two of you. Jungkook slips an arm around your waist, pulling you close. “Sorry about him.”
You chuckle, leaning into his warmth. “I like him. He makes things interesting.”
“Interesting until he’s grilling you.”
“True,” you admit, grinning. “But I can handle him.”
Jungkook huffs a quiet laugh, resting his chin atop your head. You exhale, letting your eyes flutter shut for a moment, savoring the security of his presence. It’s moments like these that make you forget the paranoia and the unease clawing at the edges of your mind.
But it never truly leaves.
The feeling of being watched. The weight of unseen eyes crawling over your skin. The messages you’ve ignored all night. They all linger in your mind. You glance up at Jungkook. He’s still smiling, talking about how his mom packed you extra leftovers. “She thinks you don’t eat enough,” he says fondly, shaking his head.
You should tell him.
The words sit heavy on your tongue, pressing against your teeth. One sentence, and it would all be out in the open.
But you don’t.
Instead, you nod, forcing a small laugh. “She really doesn’t take no for an answer, huh?”
“Never,” Jungkook confirms, squeezing your waist. His touch is warm, grounding. But even that warmth doesn’t reach the cold pit in your stomach.
“Jungkook!” His dad’s voice calls from inside. “Come here for a second.”
Jungkook groans, reluctant to move. “Stay here, I’ll be back,” he murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before disappearing inside.
The moment he’s gone, the silence presses in. You hesitate before pulling out your phone, unlocking it with a swipe of your thumb. The notifications are still there, messages from Unknown piled up like unanswered warnings.
The last one catches your eye.
Unknown [1:10 PM]: I am always watching you, doll.
Your breath stutters.
The phone suddenly feels heavy in your hands, like a weight dragging you down into something inescapable.
No.
Your pulse pounds in your ears, drowning out the gentle chirping of crickets, drowning out reason. A suffocating sense of dread settles in your chest as you stare at the word, doll. There was only one person who ever called you that.
Only one voice that had whispered it against your skin, had laughed it into your ear, had let it drip from his tongue like a slow poison.
Kim Taehyung.
The room was thick with the stench of alcohol and sweat, the air heavy with cigarette smoke that coiled toward the ceiling in lazy spirals. Dim lighting flickered from a dying bulb, casting long, distorted shadows across the stained walls.
Taehyung sat slouched in a tattered armchair, his body sinking into the worn-out fabric. His limbs felt like lead, the weight of intoxication pressing down on him, making his movements sluggish, his thoughts hazy. A half-empty bottle dangled loosely from his fingers, the condensation dripping onto his jeans, but he barely noticed.
Around him, his friends were strewn across the room in various states of intoxication, some laughing at nothing, their voices slurred and senseless, while others lay sprawled out, lost to the world. Taehyung exhaled a slow, heavy breath. Everything felt distant and detached until a stray thought cut through the fog: you.
His lazy smirk faltered. His fingers twitched against the armrest, tightening before relaxing again. His vision blurred at the edges, but the memories were sharp. Unwelcome. Unrelenting. His jaw clenched. He willed himself to push it away, drown it in the haze, let the high carry him somewhere else. But it never worked.
It never did when it came to you. His body was here, slouched in a torn armchair, but his mind was somewhere else. Three years ago.
"I don’t love you anymore."
The scent of espresso and warm pastries was suffocating. The quiet hum of conversation around them felt like static in his ears. But none of it fucking mattered. Not when you were sitting across from him, staring at him like he was nothing.
The words barely registered at first. His mind lagged behind reality like a glitching tape, playing back a version of events where this wasn’t happening.
"What?" His voice was sharp, disbelieving. "What the fuck did you just say?"
Your gaze didn’t waver. "I said I don’t love you."
The words cut. They didn’t hit all at once they sank in slowly, like a blade sliding between ribs.
Taehyung laughed. "Bullshit."
He leaned forward, jaw tight, fingers curling into the edge of the table. "You’re being dramatic. You always do this shit when you want attention."
Your expression didn’t change, but something about it made his stomach turn. You weren’t crying. You weren’t shaking. There was no hesitation or guilt or any of the things he had relied on to keep you in line. This wasn’t like before.
Your voice was flat. "You ruined this, Tae. You ruined me."
His laugh was louder this time, bitter and sharp. "Oh, so I’m the villain now? After everything I did for you?"
"Everything you did to me."
His breath stuttered.
And then you kept going. You fucking kept going.
"You controlled me. You isolated me. You made me feel like I was insane every time I called you out on your bullshit."
His hands curled into fists. "Oh, fuck off—"
"You threatened me, Tae. You threw shit. You punched walls, grabbed me so fucking hard I had bruises for days. And every time, you’d crawl back, begging, saying you didn’t mean it—"
His teeth clenched, fury bubbling beneath his skin. "Because I didn’t!"
"You dangled your own life over my head like a leash."
His blood turned cold, the first sliver of panic slicing through the rage that had consumed him moments ago. He wasn’t winning. The realization struck hard. His grip tightened on the table, nails digging into the cheap wood as if he was bracing for impact. You weren’t supposed to fucking say that. You weren’t supposed to know.
He forced a laugh, but it came out desperate. "And what, you're suddenly a fucking therapist? Psychoanalyzing me like I’m some fucking monster?"
Your voice was quiet, but it sliced straight through him.
"I don’t need to psychoanalyze you, Taehyung. I lived through you."
The air left his lungs. His vision blurred at the edges, rage and panic clashing, drowning him.
All of a sudden, ‘his’ name fell from your lips like a gunshot.
Jungkook? That pathetic little nerd? The one he used to shove into lockers, humiliate just for the fun of it? The same one who flinched if someone raised their voice too loud?
He let out a breathy, disbelieving laugh, but there was nothing funny about this. His hands shook from the effort of holding himself back.
"So that’s what you’ve been doing, huh?" His voice was sharp, venomous. "Nursing him back to health after I fucked him up?"
You exhaled, shaking your head, unimpressed.
Then, he snapped. "You fucked him, didn’t you?"
He spat the words like a curse, like they burned his tongue. Even as he said it, he knew you wouldn’t. You were a self-righteous bitch with all your morals, your bullshit standards. You wouldn’t dare. But the thought of it, the idea of you with him made his head spin, made his vision go dark at the edges.
His voice dropped to a hiss. "That little fucking loser? You let him touch you? You let him—"
His hands ached. He wanted to grab you, to shake you, to make you look at him.
"He’s a pussy, doll." His voice cracked, something wild and desperate bleeding through. "He won’t take care of you like I did."
You scoffed, expression unreadable. "You never took care of me, Tae."
"What the fuck does he have that I don’t?" His voice rose, teetering between fury and desperation. "Tell me."
You just stared at him, and that look—that fucking look—
It was over.
It was fucking over.
Panic clawed at his ribs, lodged itself in his throat, made his vision blur and his hands shake. So he did what he always did when he lost control.
"I’ll kill myself if you leave me."
The words came out fast and sharp, a desperate lifeline thrown into the storm. It had always worked before, always made you hesitate, always made you stay. But this time, you simply exhaled a breath of relief, as if you had finally broken free.
And then, for the first time, you smiled.
"Look at you." Your voice was soft. Almost pitying. "Still trying to manipulate me."
Something inside him snapped.
His vision blurred, his body moved and the next thing he knew, the coffee cup on the table was in pieces, shattered porcelain scattering across the floor.
The café had gone silent.
The whole fucking world had gone silent.
You stood, your chair scraping against the tile. Unbothered.
You walked away. No hesitation. No tears. No fucking remorse.
And for the first time, Taehyung had nothing.
Nothing left to say. Nothing left to hold onto.
The cigarette burned down to the filter, searing his fingers. He didn’t flinch. Taehyung’s jaw clenched, knuckles turning white as his fists curled against the armrest. The high didn’t feel so numbing anymore, just agitating. His skin felt too tight, his thoughts too sharp, too loud.
For almost a year, he had drowned you out with drugs, alcohol, distractions, anything to blur the edges of what you had done to him. To make himself forget the way you walked away without looking back. But the moment he saw you again it all came rushing back.
The obsession. The hunger. The need to undo it all.
You thought you walked away for good?
No. You were always his. Even when you hated him. Even when you ran. And now he was going to take back what was his.
One way or another.
After returning from Busan, you stayed over at Jungkook’s place.
You didn’t want to sleep alone. Not after the messages. The number was blocked now. You hadn’t received anything since. But still… you didn’t feel comfortable going back home yet.
Jungkook hadn’t questioned it. He just smiled and let you in, happy to have you around. But the more time you spent with him, the harder it became to ignore the guilt settling in your chest.
Because Jungkook didn’t know.
You hadn’t told him about the messages. About the unease creeping up your spine every time your phone vibrated. About the name that had resurfaced in the form of a single word:
“Doll.”
It shouldn’t have meant anything. Anyone could use that word. It was common, impersonal.
But not to you.
Not when you could still hear his voice saying it. Not when you remembered how it had dripped from Taehyung’s lips sometimes sweet, sometimes cruel.
“Be good for me, doll.”
“You know I only act like this because I love you, doll.”
“You’re nothing without me, doll.”
The thought alone made your stomach churn. You weren’t even sure if it was him. Maybe it was just paranoia. Maybe it was just a coincidence.
Yeah. It had to be. So you pushed it down, shoved it into the corners of your mind where you didn’t have to look at it. You told yourself you were keeping this from Jungkook to protect him.
But now, as you sit at your office desk, your mind is miles away from the reports in front of you. You tap your pen against the surface, gaze unfocused.
You don’t notice Jimin watching you from across the room until he finally speaks.
“Everything okay between you and Jungkook?”
You blink, snapping out of your daze. “What?”
Jimin leans against your desk, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “You seem off. Thought maybe you two had a fight or something.”
You force a small laugh, shaking your head. “No, nothing like that. Everything’s fine.”
Jimin doesn’t look convinced. His sharp gaze lingers for a second too long, like he’s waiting for you to crack. But he doesn’t press.
And you’re grateful for that.
Lunchtime rolls around when you finally check your phone.
The morning had been filled with client meetings, thankful for the welcome distraction. For a few hours, you managed to keep your mind from spiraling. But the moment your screen lights up with a string of unread messages from an unknown number, reality crashes back in.
Your stomach plummets.
Unknown [10:28 AM]: Did you really think blocking me would make me disappear, doll?
Unknown [10:28 AM]: How cute. Almost as cute as you playing house with your little pet.
Unknown [10:29 AM]: Speaking of pets… your boyfriend’s been working so hard. Diligently studying to save all those poor, dying animals.
Unknown [10:30 AM]: How pathetic.
Unknown [10:31 AM]: Wanna see?
Your breath catches.
The next message has three images attached. With shaking fingers, you tap them open.
First image: Jungkook in class, focused, scribbling down notes. Second image: Him in the lab, sleeves rolled up, handling equipment with practiced ease. Third image: Now. Jungkook at lunch, head slightly tilted as he listens to someone, chopsticks resting in his hand.
Your blood turns to ice as your vision tunnels, the world narrowing to a single horrifying realization—Jungkook is right there. Someone… no, not just anyone. It has to be Taehyung. He is near. He is watching. And if he is close enough to take these photos, then he is close enough to do something worse. Your phone nearly slips from your grip as pure, heart-stopping terror crashes into you. Jungkook is in danger. The first message was sent almost an hour ago, which means Taehyung has been near him this whole time. Watching him. Stalking him.
Your first instinct is to call the cops. Your fingers hover over the dial pad, heart hammering until your screen lights up again. As if he had been waiting for you to see his messages.
Unknown [12:01 PM]: I know what you’re thinking, doll.
Unknown [12:01 PM]: Call the cops, and I’ll slit your pretty boyfriend’s throat right where he sits.
Your breath locks in your chest, hands trembling so violently you almost drop your phone.
No. No, no, no.
You don’t think you just move.
You bolt out of your office, barely registering Jimin calling after you. His voice is distant, but you can’t stop. You don’t have time. You race to your car, hands fumbling with the keys as you throw yourself into the driver’s seat. The second the engine roars to life, you’re speeding down the street, ignoring every traffic rule, every red light.
There’s only one thought pounding in your skull, louder than the frantic beat of your heart—
Get to Jungkook. Now.
You pull up to Jungkook’s university, barely throwing the car into park before shoving the door open. Your legs feel unsteady as you rush out, breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. Your hands tremble as you fumble with your phone, fingers slipping as you dial Jungkook’s number again and again. No answer. You try once more, the ringing tone stretching unbearably before it goes to voicemail.
The campus is alive with movement students chatting, laughing and going about their day, blissfully unaware of the sheer terror gripping you. You push through the crowd, scanning faces wildly, your heart pounding against your ribs. Where is Jungkook?
People glance at you, their whispers buzzing at the edge of your hearing, but you don’t care. You try his number again. Still nothing.
A sickening thought slithers into your mind— What if Taehyung already got to him? What if you’re too late?
Finally, your eyes land on him.
Jungkook stands in the courtyard, laughing with a couple of friends, completely oblivious to the danger shadowing him. The world around you blurs as relief crashes over you like a tidal wave.
Alive. Unharmed.
Your knees almost buckle, the tension in your body unravelling just enough for you to let out a sharp, shaky exhale. Your breath stutters as the panic begins to subside, but the urgency still thrums beneath your skin. Then Jungkook sees you.
His laughter dies mid-sentence, his brows knitting together in concern as his eyes rake over your disheveled form. His friends glance at you curiously, but Jungkook is already moving toward you.
"Y/N?" His voice is gentle but urgent. "What’s wrong?"
You shake your head quickly, forcing a weak, unconvincing smile. "It’s nothing," you say, voice tight. "But we need to leave. Now."
Jungkook blinks, his confusion evident. "What? I have an afternoon lecture."
You tighten your grip on his wrist, desperation seeping into your voice. "Jungkook, please. We need to go home."
His brows draw together, concern deepening in his soft gaze. "Why?" His voice remains gentle, but there's a quiet insistence beneath it. "What’s going on?"
When you don’t answer, Jungkook exhales softly before taking your hand, leading you away from the courtyard and into a quieter corner. His touch is firm but never forceful.
"Y/N, talk to me." His voice is barely above a whisper, but there’s an edge of worry to it. "What’s wrong?" His dark eyes search yours, trying to unravel the truth you refuse to say.
You swallow, avoiding his gaze. "It’s nothing, I swear—"
His jaw tightens, his fingers twitching at his sides. "That’s not true."
Jungkook doesn’t raise his voice, but the frustration is clear. He takes a slow step closer, his warmth now suffocating. "You’ve been acting different for weeks. Distant. Jumpy. And now you show up here looking like you’ve seen a ghost and expect me to just go along with it?"
You flinch at the quiet intensity in his words, but still, you don’t answer. Jungkook’s voice rises just a little, but the hurt in it is undeniable. “Do you not trust me?”
You bite your lip, guilt pressing down on your chest like a heavy weight. “Of course I do, Jungkook, it’s just—”
“Then tell me.” His fingers rake through his hair, his brows drawn together, frustration flickering in his dark eyes. But his voice stays soft, laced with something almost pleading.
“I’m not a child, Y/N.”
The words land harder than you expect, sinking deep. Silence stretches between you, thick with unspoken truths and the weight of his quiet disappointment. You know you should tell him. You should warn him. But… you can’t.
Jungkook exhales slowly, his jaw tightening as he watches you struggle with whatever it is you’re refusing to say. His frustration is evident, but his voice remains gentle, laced with quiet insistence.
“I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s going on,” he says firmly. “If you won’t, I’ll just stay here.”
Your stomach drops. No. He can’t stay here. Not when you know Taehyung is watching. “Jungkook, please,” you whisper, gripping his wrist tighter.
“Then tell me, Y/N.” His gaze softens, but the unwavering determination in his eyes sends a surge of panic through you. You have no choice. You have to tell him something—anything—just to get him to listen.
“Someone’s been watching you,” you admit in a rush, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know who, but it’s not safe.”
Jungkook stiffens. His expression shifts from frustration to shock, then to something unreadable. “Watching me?” he echoes. “Y/N, what—why wouldn’t you tell me earlier?”
You look away, guilt gnawing at you. “I didn’t want you to worry.”
He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s still skeptical, still confused, but he can see the genuine fear in your eyes. And that alone is enough to make him give in.
“Alright,” he finally murmurs. “Let’s go.”
Relief washes over you, but just as you think you’ve convinced him to leave, your phone vibrates. It's another message.
Unknown [12:17 PM]: Ah, there you are, doll. So desperate to save your boyfriend? Cute. But I’m not done playing yet.
Your breath hitches.
Taehyung is watching you right now. Your fingers tighten around your phone as your eyes dart around the campus, paranoia seeping into your every movement.
Jungkook immediately catches the way your face drains of all color. His fingers gently close around your wrist before you can react, his other hand swiftly taking your phone from your grip.
“Jungkook, wait—”
But it’s too late. His eyes scan the message, and you feel his entire body go still. His brows knit together, his lips parting slightly as he rereads the words, processing the threat laced between them.
“Who…” His voice is quiet at first, controlled. Then, a little sharper. “Who the hell is this?”
You swallow hard, panic clawing at your chest. You should’ve been more careful. But now there’s no avoiding it. Jungkook looks up at you, eyes searching. “Y/N,” he says softly, but there’s an undeniable firmness in his tone. “Tell me.”
You take a shaky breath, forcing the words out before you can hesitate.
“I… I think it’s Taehyung.”
Jungkook blinks. For a moment, he just stares at you like you’ve said something completely incomprehensible. Then, he shakes his head, a disbelieving scoff leaving his lips.
“Taehyung?” He lets out a breath, his brows furrowing. “No. That’s impossible. We haven’t seen him in years.”
You can see the way his mind is racing, trying to rationalize it, trying to convince himself that it can’t be true. But then piece by piece it all starts to click. The way you’ve been acting. The paranoia. The half-truths. Everything makes sense now.
Jungkook’s expression shifts, his grip tightening slightly around your phone. He looks at you again, this time with quiet intensity. “Tell me everything.”
You take a deep, unsteady breath and finally let it all out. Every message. Every chilling threat. The way Taehyung has been watching, lurking in the shadows, getting closer and closer. How you’ve been living in constant fear, too terrified to sleep, too paranoid to breathe. How you blocked him, but he always found a way back. The photos of Jungkook the proof showing that Taehyung has been near him all along.
Jungkook doesn’t say a word. He just listens. His hands slowly curl into fists at his sides, his jaw tightening, but his eyes stay locked on you, soft and unwavering. By the time you finish, your throat is tight, and your vision blurs slightly. You blink rapidly, forcing back the tears threatening to spill. You quickly wipe at your eyes before Jungkook can notice.
But he does.
Without a word, he steps forward and wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his warmth. You freeze for a second, startled, but then you let yourself sink into the embrace. His arms are strong and steady, anchoring you as if he’s shielding you from everything that’s been haunting you.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice softer than ever. “You don’t have to hold it in, Y/N.”
Your breath shudders. “I-I’m fine,” you whisper, even though your grip on his hoodie tightens. Jungkook shakes his head slightly. “No, you’re not. And that’s okay.” His hand runs up and down your back in slow, soothing motions. “You don’t always have to be strong on your own.”
Something in you cracks at his words. A single tear slips down your cheek, and this time, you don’t wipe it away. Jungkook holds you tighter, his voice firm but gentle. “You should’ve told me sooner.”
“I know,” you whisper. “I was scared.”
“I get that.” He exhales, resting his chin lightly on top of your head. “But you’re not alone in this. I’m here now. And I won’t let him hurt you.”
When you finally pull away, his hands stay on your shoulders, grounding you. Now, you have to decide.
Go to the police? It’s the logical choice, but Taehyung already made it clear what would happen if you did. Jungkook’s life isn’t something you’re willing to gamble with. Confront Taehyung yourself? It’s reckless, dangerous, and probably a mistake. But part of you feels like it’s the only way to put an end to this.
Jungkook watches your face carefully, reading the thoughts swirling in your head. Then, his jaw tightens, his voice steady but firm. “If you think I’m letting you do this alone, you’re out of your mind.”
For the first time in weeks, the suffocating loneliness eases because no matter what happens next, Jungkook is with you. Suddenly your phone vibrates again.
Unknown [12:51 PM]: Such a heartwarming moment. But how far will he go to protect you?
And then another message. A photo.
It’s a picture of you and Jungkook. Right now.
He’s still here.
"Y/N?" Jungkook’s voice is soft but sharp with concern. "What is it?"
You turn the phone toward him, and the moment he sees the message, his entire body stiffens. His jaw clenches, fingers curling into fists. His voice is low but firm when he speaks.
"We’re leaving. Now."
You don’t argue.
Jungkook grabs your wrist, pulling you through the crowd of students, his grip tight but reassuring. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears as you scan the area frantically, eyes darting from face to face.
But you don’t see him. He could be anywhere.
Jungkook doesn’t slow down until you reach his car. He unlocks it in a rush, practically shoving you inside before slamming the door shut behind him. His hands grip the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles turning white. Only when he locks the doors and exhales a shaky breath does he turn to look at you.
"He’s here, Y/N." His voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it.
You swallow hard, gripping your phone. "I know."
Jungkook starts the car. "We’re going home. Then we figure out our next move." You nod, but the unease lingers.
Because Taehyung isn’t done playing yet.
Jungkook paces the length of his living room, fingers running through his hair in frustration. You sit on the couch, gripping your phone tightly, going over every possible option. Jungkook is still talking, still trying to come up with a solid plan but his voice fades into the background as your eyes remain glued to your phone screen.
Unknown [1:37 PM]: Come alone. Midnight. Your apartment.
Unknown [1:37 PM]: Don’t make me repeat myself, doll.
Your grip on the phone tightens. Your pulse roars in your ears. If Jungkook sees this, there’s no way he’ll let you go. He’ll insist on coming with you. And that’s exactly what Taehyung wants, a reason to hurt him. Swallowing hard, you quickly lock your phone and shove it into your pocket before Jungkook notices.
“Y/N?”
You snap back to reality to find Jungkook watching you carefully. “Yeah?”
“I was saying…” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe we should stay at a hotel tonight. Just in case. I don’t want you anywhere near that apartment if Taehyung’s been watching you.”
Your stomach churns with guilt, but you shake your head. “No. I think we should just stay and act normal. If we start running now, he’ll know we’re scared.”
Jungkook’s eyes darken. “We are scared, Y/N.”
You force a small, tired smile. “But we can’t let him know that.”
He exhales, clearly frustrated but unable to argue. “Fine. But I’m not letting you out of my sight.” You nod, pretending to agree.
But deep down, you already know that the moment Jungkook falls asleep tonight, you’re leaving.
Alone.
It’s a little past midnight when you finally slip out of Jungkook’s apartment.
You hesitate at the door, glancing back at his sleeping form. Even in the dim glow of the bedside lamp, you can see the tension on his face. He had been restless for hours, his body stiff with unease, as if sensing that something was wrong.
You had pretended to fall asleep just so he could relax. It worked eventually. But now, as you step out into the cold night, a bitter weight settles in your chest.
Jungkook would never forgive you for this.
But this is the only way.
You move quickly, keeping to the shadows as you make your way to your apartment. The streets are eerily quiet, the distant hum of the city muffled by the pounding of your heart. Every step you take feels heavier like you're walking toward something inevitable.
Suddenly you hear a second set of footsteps.
You don’t have time to react before a hand clamps over your mouth, muffling your startled gasp.
Before you can struggle, an arm wraps around your waist in a vice-like grip, dragging you off the sidewalk. The world tilts as you're yanked into a dark alleyway. Your pulse hammers against your ribs as you thrash against the hold, but it’s uselessm his grip is unyielding, effortlessly strong.
A low, deep chuckle brushes against your ear, sending a sickening shiver down your spine.
"Took you long enough, doll."
Taehyung had grown impatient waiting for you to show up. Without warning, he forcefully turns you to face him, his grip unrelenting. The sudden contact sends a jolt of fear through you, and seeing him again after all these years feels like being doused in ice water.
Time has changed him, but not enough. His face is still achingly familiar from the sharp jawline, the tattoos that snake up the expanse of his neck to the piercing eyes that burn with something much darker.
A part of you always knew this day would come. You had told yourself that the way Taehyung left without so much as hurting you was too good to be true, but maybe, just maybe he had realised he was in the wrong and disappeared into the past like a bad dream. But now, standing here with his breath hot against your skin, you realize how foolish you were to think he’d ever let you go.
"You thought I wouldn’t come back for you?" he whispers against your ear, his voice sickeningly soft.
Your breath stutters. You try to shove him away, but he’s faster amd stronger. His grip tightens as he forces you back, slamming you against the cold, unforgiving brick wall of the alley. The impact knocks the air from your lungs, and before you can recover, his fingers press into your jaw, tilting your face up toward him.
The streetlamp above casts a sliver of light over him, illuminating the twisted smile on his lips.
"I gave you everything, and you threw me away for him?"
Resentment drips from every word, his voice cracking with something raw.
"I should’ve taught you a lesson years ago."
Your heart hammers in your chest, panic locking your limbs in place. But before you can even react—
A force rips Taehyung away from you, sending him crashing onto the pavement with a brutal thud.
Jungkook stands over him, breath uneven, fists still clenched from the impact. His usual softness is nowhere to be found—his expression is cold, lethal.
“You thought I wouldn’t notice?” His voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it that makes the air feel heavier.
Taehyung chuckles darkly. “I knew you’d come running.”
Jungkook doesn’t take the bait. His eyes flick to you, scanning for any sign of injury, before settling back on Taehyung with something dangerously close to disgust.
“You don’t get to lay a hand on her,” Jungkook says, his voice steady. “Not now. Not ever.”
Taehyung chuckles again, pushing himself up with an air of arrogance. He rolls his shoulders, cracking his knuckles as if this is all a joke to him.
"You?" He scoffs, eyes glinting with amusement. "Defending her?" His gaze flickers to you, sharp and accusing. "I bet she never even told you what she did to me."
Jungkook doesn’t flinch nor does he hesitate. His voice is calm, unwavering. "She didn’t do anything." He steps forward, eyes locked onto Taehyung like he’s daring him to try again. "I know she’s mine. And I know you’re just a lying, manipulative piece of shit."
Taehyung's smirk vanishes.
In a flash, he lunges.
Jungkook barely dodges, twisting to the side just in time, but Taehyung is relentless. He moves fast, and Jungkook isn’t a fighter he doesn’t have brute force or years of experience throwing punches. But what he does have is speed, quick reflexes and the sheer, unshakable will to protect you.
A fist catches Jungkook’s side, making him stagger back, but he barely registers the pain before Taehyung moves toward you again.
And that’s when Jungkook stops thinking.
His hand finds a broken pipe lying in the dirt. In one swift motion, he grips it tight and swings, slamming it straight into Taehyung’s stomach.
A sharp gasp rips from Taehyung’s throat as he doubles over, coughing violently. But he’s not down. Not yet.
Jungkook doesn’t wait. He reaches for you, his fingers wrapping firmly around your wrist. His eyes meet yours, urgent and fierce.
"Run."
The pounding of your footsteps echoes against the pavement, your lungs burning as you push yourself to keep running. The night air is thick, every breath heavy with exhaustion and fear.
Behind you, Taehyung is gaining. His ragged breaths cut through the silence, his footsteps unrelenting.
“You think you can run from me?” His voice is sharp, twisted with amusement and fury. A metallic glint catches the dim streetlights indicating he has a knife now.
Panic seizes your chest.
Jungkook’s grip tightens around your wrist. He doesn’t slow, doesn’t hesitate just yanks you sharply to the side. Your vision blurs as he drags you toward a dark, skeletal structure.
A construction site.
You stumble into the half-built building, weaving through stacks of bricks and steel beams. The scent of dust and concrete fills your lungs as you press yourself into the shadows, trying to quiet your frantic breathing.
Jungkook releases you only to crouch down, scanning the ground. His fingers curl around a rusted wrench, heavy in his grip. It’s not much, but it’s something.
“Stay behind me,” he whispers, his voice steady despite the fear you know he must be feeling. Your heart slams against your ribs. Your thoughts are spiralling. You should have been more careful, quieter when slipping out of the house. You can't believe you're the reason Jungkook is in danger, that he is the one standing between you and the threat. It should be you protecting him, not the other way around.
The footsteps slow. Taehyung has followed you inside.
A chilling silence settles over the space.
Then, a low chuckle.
“You can’t hide forever.” His voice is laced with amusement, the scrape of his knife dragging along metal making you flinch. “Come on, Jungkook. You really think you can protect her?”
Jungkook doesn’t move, his stance solid, wrench gripped tightly, shoulders squared. The tension is suffocating, every second stretching unbearably. You don’t dare breathe. Then Taehyung moves. The knife slices through the air.
Jungkook barely dodges, instinct driving his body before his mind catches up. The blade misses him by inches, but there’s no time to think, theres no time to breath, only react.
With everything he has, he swings the wrench. It connects hard against Taehyung’s wrist.
The knife clatters to the ground.
But Jungkook doesn’t stop this time.
His fist collides with Taehyung’s jaw, the impact ringing in the empty construction site. The force of it sends Taehyung staggering back, his body slamming against a stack of bricks. He’s weak now, unsteady, but still smiling like he’s enjoying this.
And then, in a last, desperate attempt, he speaks.
“You really think you’ve changed, Jungkook?” Taehyung breathes, voice laced with mockery. He spits blood onto the dust-covered ground, laughing through the pain. “You’re still the same pathetic kid I used to toy with. Weak. Spineless.”
Jungkook’s breath hitches.
“You’ll never be enough for her.”
The words land heavier than any punch ever could. For a split second, Jungkook falters. The old wounds, the taunts, the bruises, and the humiliation come rushing back. The memories claw at the edges of his mind, threatening to pull him under.
He remembers the way they used to laugh at him, the cruelty in their voices, the way they looked at him like he was nothing. Like he would always be nothing. He was the loser, the punching bag, the boy who never fought back. Every insult had carved itself into his skin, every shove had left something deeper than just bruises. They made him believe it. That he was worthless. That he would never be enough.
And then there was you. You. The only light in the darkness, the only person who had ever looked at him without disgust. He fell so hard, so helplessly in love with you, even though you belonged to Taehyung. It was cruel, really. The way fate played its hand. You were Taehyung’s girlfriend, yet you were the only one who saw Jungkook. The only one who stood up for him when Taehyung and his gang pushed him down. When he was at his lowest, you were there, offering kindness.
But how could you have chosen him? Him? A pathetic loser who had spent years as the butt of every joke, the weakling who was too afraid to fight back. He hears the echoes of their laughter, the mocking whispers that still live inside his head. Maybe they were right. Maybe he really is nothing. Maybe you made a mistake choosing him.
Taehyung’s voice is smooth and insidious, wrapping around him like a noose. The doubt, the shame, the years of self-hatred it all pulls him under, dragging him back to a place he swore he’d never return to. His fists loosen at his sides, his body feels too heavy, like he’s sinking into the past, like he's losing himself all over again.
But then—you.
You, standing behind him. The warmth of your presence, the unwavering belief in your eyes. The way you never once hesitated to love him, to choose him. His heart pounds against his ribs, pushing away the suffocating weight of the past.
No. No.
He is not that boy anymore. He is not weak. And he will not let Taehyung twist his mind, not when he has you to protect.
The hesitation vanishes as Jungkook moves, striking once, then again, each blow fueled by something raw, something deeper than anger—something desperate. His jaw is clenched, muscles taut, as if he is holding back years of something buried deep inside, something he never let himself feel until now. You have never seen him like this. Then another hit. And another.
His knuckles split, blood dripping onto the cold concrete, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. Not until Taehyung stops moving.
The only sound left is Jungkook’s ragged breathing. His chest heaves, his hands shaking.
His eyes, dark and unfocused, burn with an intensity you have never seen before. It is not just fear, nor is it just anger. It is something far more terrifying in its certainty, something that does not waver, something that does not break. It is an unrelenting, all-consuming protectiveness, the kind that leaves no room for hesitation, no space for doubt. And the most haunting part of it all—you know he did it for you.
“Jungkook.”
Your voice is sof t but it cuts through the chaos like a blade.
He freezes.
His chest rises and falls in uneven bursts, his knuckles raw and bloodied. His grip on the wrench trembles, muscles locked so tightly you wonder if he even hears you.
Then he looks at you, and in that moment, something inside him fractures. The fury that had burned so fiercely in his eyes splinters, crumbling into something far more fragile: fear. But it is not fear for himself. It is for you. For what could have happened. For what he almost became.
You take a step closer, carefully, like you’re approaching a wounded animal. His breathing is ragged, his body strung so tight it might snap. But he doesn’t move away when you reach for him.
Fingers brushing against his wrist, you gently pry the wrench from his grip. His hand is still trembling when it slips from his grasp, clattering onto the ground.
“It’s over,” you whisper, your voice steady even as your own hands shake. “I’m okay.”
Jungkook swallows hard, his throat working around unspoken words. The wail of sirens cuts through the heavy silence, distant but growing closer. Someone must have heard the commotion and called the police.
Taehyung groans from where he lies sprawled on the ground, too weak to move, too beaten to fight. But you barely spare him a glance.
Jungkook exhales shakily, his entire body trembling with the aftermath of it all. His fists are still clenched, his knuckles still bleeding, but his eyes are different now.
They are not just the eyes of your sweet, oblivious boyfriend anymore.
He steps closer, hesitant, hands hovering over your arms, your waist, checking, searching, needing to convince himself that you’re still here. That you’re real.
“I could’ve lost you,” he breathes, his voice rough, breaking at the edges.
The weight of his words settles deep in your chest.
You reach up, cupping his face, your thumb skimming over the small cut on his cheek. He flinches at the touch, but not from pain he just wasn’t expecting something so gentle.
“But you didn’t,” you murmur.
Jungkook’s breath shudders out of him. His lashes flutter shut for a second, his jaw tightening like he’s holding something in, something overwhelming, something too big to put into words.
Then, in a voice so quiet, so broken, it almost shatters you
“I was so scared.”
And just like that, everything collapses.
The rage, the adrenaline, the fear everything he had forced himself to carry, to bury, it all crumbles in one breath.
You don’t hesitate. You pull him into you, arms wrapping around him, and he clings back just as tightly. His grip is almost desperate, his fingers pressing into your back like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go.
Then, suddenly, he tilts his head down, capturing your lips in his.
The kiss is not careful. It’s not soft.
It’s raw. Desperate. Heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid.
His lips press against yours with an urgency that steals your breath, like he’s trying to pour everything he feels into this moment. His hands tighten around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, as if he wants to lose himself in you, in the feeling of you alive and warm in his arms.
Your fingers tangle in his hair, anchoring him to you, and he sighs into your mouth—a broken, trembling sound that sends a shiver down your spine.
When you finally pull back, foreheads pressed together, Jungkook’s breath is warm against your skin, uneven and ragged.
He’s still shaking.
And you hold him tighter, letting him feel it all.
The flashing red and blue lights spill across the pavement as the police cars screech to a stop.
Jungkook pulls away just enough to look at you, his hands still cradling your waist, like he’s reluctant to break contact. His eyes search yours, and for the first time since this nightmare began, you see something unshakable in them.
Taehyung’s screams cut through the air as he thrashes against the officers, his wrists locked in cold steel. His voice is hoarse, spewing empty threats, venom dripping from every syllable—
“This isn’t over!” he snarls. “You think you can take her from me?”
Jungkook doesn’t react. He doesn’t even spare Taehyung a glance.
Instead, he lifts a hand, brushing his fingers lightly against your cheek, grounding himself in the fact that you’re safe.
His voice, when he finally speaks, is low, steady. A quiet promise.
“I won’t let anyone hurt you again.”
And for the first time you believe him.
Because this isn’t the same Jungkook who was oblivious, who used to let things slide, the one who always saw the good in people even when they didn’t deserve it.
This is the Jungkook who stood his ground.
The Jungkook who fought for you.
And if the world ever tried to take you away from him again, he wouldn’t hesitate.
The park is quiet, bathed in the soft glow of late morning light. Birds flit between the branches, their songs blending with the gentle rustling of leaves. A cool breeze brushes against your skin, carrying the scent of freshly baked pastries from the open basket beside you.
Jungkook sits across from you on the checkered picnic blanket, absently poking at his croissant with a fork. His knuckles are bandaged and a faint bruise lingers on his cheek just below the strip of medical tape.
You watch him, waiting.
He hasn’t said much about it. But the way he holds himself now, shoulders squared just a little more, gaze a little steadier it feels different.
“You know,” you start, plucking a strawberry from the fruit bowl and tossing it into your mouth. “For once, I wasn’t the one saving your ass.”
Jungkook snorts, shaking his head. “Don’t remind me,” he mutters, but there’s a small, lopsided smile tugging at his lips. “I’m still getting used to it.”
“You should be proud,” you tell him, shifting onto your knees so you’re closer. “Not just because you fought. But because you didn’t let him win.”
Jungkook exhales, rolling his jaw like he’s still processing the weight of it. “I used to think…” He hesitates, gaze flickering down to his hands. “That I’d never be the kind of guy who could protect someone. That I’d always be the loser who let things slide.”
You reach out, fingers curling over his bandaged knuckles, squeezing gently. “You were never a loser, Jungkook.”
You trace a light touch over the bruise on his cheek. “And if you’re measuring strength by how many fights you win, you’re missing the point.”
Jungkook’s lips twitch, his fingers tightening around yours. “Oh yeah? And what’s the point, then?”
“That you were strong even before this,” you murmur. “You didn’t need to throw a punch to prove that. But I think… you finally see it now, don’t you?”
He doesn’t answer right away, but the tension in his shoulders eases. Then, with a soft chuckle, he tilts his head and smirks. “So what you’re saying is… you’re swooning over me right now.”
You roll your eyes, but your laugh gives you away. “Unbelievable. One heroic moment and your ego skyrockets.”
“What can I say?” He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “I’m basically a knight in shining armor now.”
You groan. “You’re literally covered in bandages, Jungkook.”
“Battle scars,” he corrects smugly.
“You are so—”
He cuts you off with a kiss.
His lips taste like the strawberries you were just eating, but there’s something else too, something warmer. The quiet relief of knowing you’re here. That you’re safe. That you chose him, again and again.
When you finally pull away, Jungkook rests his forehead against yours, exhaling quietly. “I wouldn’t hesitate,” he murmurs. “If it ever happens again. If the world ever tries to take you away from me.”
Your heart clenches. You press a kiss to his bruised cheek, whispering against his skin. “I know.”
For a while, you just sit there, basking in the quiet hum of the park, in the way his fingers stay laced with yours. The past still lingers, but it doesn’t hold you down.
Warnings: subbish & sleepy!Yoongi, switch!Reader, neck kisses & bites, lots of touches, handjob, cuddly penetrative sex in cowgirl position, he cums very quickly <3, creampies, hints of breeding kink, this is just a sweet lil smut hehe <3
Wordcount: 1.7k
a/n: it rained the morning i wrote this and this is where my thoughts drifted off to. it's short and sweet and cozy <3 because this is what yoongi deserves <3
Yoongi wakes to gentle kisses on his neck and fingers dancing over his tummy. The relaxed little sighs of you as you kiss him, mix with the distant sound of morning rain.
Yesterday you and he went on a date. You took a drive and went for a movie, then you ate and talked until the restaurant had to close. Yesterday was such a good day. Today is going to be a good day as well. This is the first thought which runs through his mind, followed by how much he loves waking up with you close to him.
Yoongi purrs, rolling his head to the side to stub you with his nose. He steals a kiss, smiling into it. You do as well, cradling his cheek and caressing his skin with your thumb.
“Mornin”, his voice is raspy from sleep and incredibly warm.
“Morning”, your voice is a little deep still and filled with happiness.
“Up for long?”
“No, just a few minutes. Wanted to enjoy you”, you say and nudge his head back into its previous position so you can kiss his neck again.
Yoongi tingles, shivers running down his spine.
“This feels good”, he sighs, keeping his eyes closed.
“Mhm, enjoy. Wanna make you feel good.”
You dance your hand back to his tummy and let it disappear under his shirt. The blanket covers you as well, keeping your bodies warm as you share this intimate moment.
“It’s raining”, he talks quietly.
“I know. It’s nice, means we can stay in all day”, you talk quietly as well.
“So no rainy walks?”
You smile against his neck. He knows you so well. You love rainy walks.
“Maybe later. For now, I want to cherish you.” You nibble on his favourite spot. “And make you feel good.”
You dance your fingertips along his lower tummy, tracing the little dents his hip bones naturally create when he lies down and his tummy sinks in a little. He is incredibly soft there and also very sensitive. He can’t take your touches for long before he has to squirm and let out a shy chuckle.
You give him a break, drawing hearts on his waist.
“Ticklish?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re so soft there. Couldn’t help myself.”
“Liked it. Just…sensitive.”
“Mhm, you’re perfect.”
Yoongi blushes, having to exhale shakily. He is perfect. He thinks that he is a lot of things, but perfect is definitely not one of them. To think that you see him like this makes him feel really good. And giddy. And shy. And loved.
Yoongi feels really loved when he is with you.
“This is so nice”, he sighs, chasing your touch.
“Mhm, so nice”, you agree, swirling your fingers back to hip bones to trace them. Your lips explore his neck in the meantime, turning his sleepy brain a little foggy.
If this is actually a dream, Yoongi hopes never to wake up.
He was weird about being touched in the past, but when your fingers are on his body he doesn’t want it to stop. It is paradise.
A warm, tingly paradise, which feels especially cozy this morning.
You kiss the shell of his ear, whispering in your sweetest voice. Yoongi shivers as an effect of it.
“Just tell me to stop, okay?”
“Okay.”
He knows what will happen, holding his breath for it. He wants this. So much so that heat shoots between his legs within seconds, surprising your fingers with a hard and needy length to play with. Yoongi normally sleeps in boxer shorts. Tonight’s pair is black with dark grey stripes and an elastic band at the hem. You don’t slip your hand under said hem, but slip it inside the slit in the front.
“Oh? Already?” your surprise excites him, making him throb.
“Yeah is…is nice.”
“Shit, that’s sexy”, you whisper and pull out his cock through the slit. You let go of it for a second so you can lick your fingers to wet them. You connect your tongue with his neck afterwards, tracing the sensitive spots while your wet fingers wrap around his cock.
Yoongi furrows his brows at the touch. Electricity courses through him.
You pick up a slow rhythm, lingering on his tip and upper inches most. The position and tranquillity of the morning asks for such a rhythm. You don’t want to jerk him, pump him or milk him dry. No, you want to explore him, make him fall so deep into pleasure that he doesn’t want to leave. This is meant to build up, to be something you can savour and later think back on with a tingly stomach.
“Does this do something for you?” you ask him.
“Yeah, like, a lot”, he gets out, squirming his hips in a very slow rhythm. They flinch for a little moment whenever you linger on his tip and slow down again when you move to another spot. Your lips are soft on his neck and your tongue is really warm. Yoongi swears that it couldn’t get any better than this and then you bite him.
You goddamn bite his neck.
And Yoongi is a goner.
He gasps your name, arching his back and curling his toes. He is yours. He is entirely yours.
You kiss the tender spot afterwards, playing with the droplets of precum on his flushed tip.
“Was this good for you?” you ask him.
“Yeah…more”, he begs, rolling his head to the side.
You fulfill his wish, biting him where it feels the best. And so it happens that Yoongi breaks the cozy morning silence with his first moan. Of course it makes your stomach tingle like crazy. His voice is made for sounds of pleasure.
“God Yoongi, I love being with you”, you say, biting him again just so can hear him moan. You twist your fingers around his tip at the same time, applying pressure. You need him to moan again. It is all you crave.
Yoongi gives it to you gladly and a little shakily. His cock leaks all over your fingers and his legs are like puddy. He feels a deep warmth radiate from his cock up to his stomach and down his legs.
“___ a-ah”, he chokes out, tensing his stomach. You are a little quicker in your movements and keep lingering on his tip. This is a lot to handle for his sleepy, droopy body.
“Yoongi, my love, god I just”, you trail off. You have no words, letting your body do the talking.
You climb his lap and bush your shorts aside, sinking him into you while you swallow his surprised gasp.
Your fingers bury themselves in his morning hair, ruffling it even more and tugging just enough to make him shiver.
Your press your chest against his’, rocking back and forth on his cock.
“___.”
“Yoongi, my Yoongi. You feel so good inside me.”
“Good. You- ah- good. You feel good, ah. Too. Good too a-ah.”
Big hands come to grasp you, fingers dimpling your butt because they are desperate enough to do so. He doesn’t guide you, as a matter of fact, he doesn’t even meet your movements. He just lies there, taking the slow ride and thinking to himself that he is going to climax any second now.
He feels so good. You are warm and perfectly heavy on top of him, you kiss him so well and play with his and your heart races and he gets hugged by your warm walls and, and, and. There are a million different reasons why Yoongi feels good and why he is close.
He has to break the kiss and tell you.
“I’m close.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s…it’s fucking amazing, not gonna lie.”
You smile, dancing his lips to his ear.
“You’re a delight, my love”, you whisper and give him a glimpse of heaven by biting him right under his ear.
“Ah!” Yoongi yelps and tries desperately to stop your hips.
He is successful, but it comes too late. Yoongi is too far gone. It is already enough for him to simply be nestled in your soft walls. He paints your insides with his warm orgasm, clasping your butt for it while his mouth is agape in a soundless moan.
You mewl his name, resting your lips against his neck as he pumps you full. You swear that you can feel each load he releases. It fills your tummy with so much warmth and makes you so wet. You don’t want it to stop, but of course it has to. Yoongi’s poor balls can only produce this much in the morning. They are still a little sleepy, forcing him to experience the last wave of ecstasy dry.
Yoongi comes down with a shudder, pressing out your name before he has to gulp repeatedly.
You lift your head, resting on your elbows and tracing his features. His eyes are closed, his cheeks are slightly flushed. You outline his forehead, his brows and closed lids. You trace his nose and his lips and caress his cheeks and chin. You end it by tugging strands of his black hair behind his ears and massaging his lobes.
“I love you”, you whisper.
“I…love you…too. Ahmg”, he gulps again and exhales, finally opening his eyes.
You smile at him, cradling his cheeks.
“Sorry”, he mumbles.
“For what?”
“I tried to hold it, but-”
You silence him with a thumb against his lips. Yoongi makes puppy eyes at you, mouthing at your finger.
“Don’t apologise. This was perfect. I wanted this morning to be about you and it was.” You kiss his lips. next his nose. Lastly his forehead. “You deserved this after the amazing date yesterday.”
You meet his eyes and smile. Yoongi retorts it.
“Besides, I have a wish for today.”
"What wish? Tell me, I’ll do anything.”
You snicker, “really? Anything?”
“Anything. After what you just did.”
“You’re cute. I think you’re gonna like my wish then.”
“Tell me.”
“Wanna spend today slowly getting me more filled with you? You know, cum inside me and plug me and then at night you take it out and fuck me properly.”
“Woah princess, what the fuck? My cock just twitched.”
“I felt it.” You boop his nose. “Soo are you down?”
“Of course I am, fucking hell, you don’t gotta ask.”
“Awesome”, you lean in for a smiley kiss, one Yoongi eagerly retorts.
Truly, there is nothing better than rainy mornings with you.
IN WHICH. . . You walked away from Riki when desire began to demand more than what you could give. What started as reckless, carefree and intense nights ended the moment feelings threatened to surface, forcing you to choose distance, safety over fire. Months later, you have a boyfriend who loves you with an honesty that felt like redemption. Until you met his father. Riki is older now, sharper at the edges with his gaze still carrying the same quiet hunger that you can never forget. It's up to you to choose between the son or father, where the most dangerous love is the one that should never be rekindled.
23.5k wc⠀❀⠀non-idol + modern au ♪♪ dilf! nishimura riki x fem! reader 𐧘 explicit mature content, dark romance, forbidden romance, age-gap relationship (reader's 25 and riki's 43), morally gray characters, infidelity, emotional manipulation, , unprotected sex, degrading kink, daddy kink, recording during sex, blowkob, cunninglus, blackmail, public humiliation. lmk if i miss anything!
from author: hi oomf... @cherryw0n, here's a reupload of dilf riki <3 (bye not blr slapping the mature content onto this fic, fuck u blr)
You were living your ideal, dream life to the fullest.
Being engaged to your fiance—Doohwa, who you met at one of your work events, working at a full-time job so you can have enough funds for your upcoming wedding.
The basics had already been planned and discussed. It will be happening five months from now. Five months where you will officially and finally belonged to the man of your dreams.
You remembered telling your family and relatives. All of them had the same reaction—rendered speechless, staring at their screens as you showed off the engagement ring that was proudly wrapped around your ring finger.
Some of your relatives were so overjoyed that they started crying on-call, much to you and Doohwa's embarrassment.
Currently, you were in the living room of your shared apartment with Doohwa. According to him, his father had returned home after spending the past four weeks flying from one country to another and Doohwa wanted to take this chance to introduce you to his father, to build a closer connection and relationship.
You had never met him before back when you were dating. According to your fiance, his father was a busy man—with his career being a freelance architecture.
You don't know much about that specific industry but what you do know was how the man was highly regarded and respected, due to his talents.
You had finished getting dressed and was now waiting for him to come and pick you up after he was done with work.
As time passed, your eyelids gradually felt heavier. Before you knew it, you had fallen asleep on the couch…
EIGHT MONTHS AGO...
You had finished your final examination and as per the standard culture you and your small group of friends shared—it was time to party. After all, you didn't spent the past two to three weeks cramming, inhaling energy drinks and further ruining your already ruined sleep cycle for nothing.
As much as you loved partying like your life depended on it, you wanted to get good grades so you can graduate without regrets.
You were the first to arrive at your usual place—a bar called Hidden Eve that's located on a few streets away from your campus. It's a cozy place with the drinks both being good and are at an affordable prices, especially in today's society.
You stood outside, hugging your thick coat around you, shivering involuntarily when a strong gust of cold, chilling wind blew past you. Winter wasn't even here yet but you were already bundled up like a walking rice-ball.
Thankfully, you didn't have to wait long as your friends had arrived. One of them laughed when they saw how red your nose had became.
"Looks like Rudolph the Reindeer has some competition," she teased, causing the whole group except for you to burst out laughing.
You light-heatedly rolled your eyes, knowing they were merely joking. "Haha. Very funny. Now let's go in and drink before i can't feel my hands and legs anymore."
With that, all of you entered the bar. The small bell hanging on top of the door made a 'ding ding!' sound as it was pushed open.
Warm amber lights glowed from vintage sconces along the brick walls, casting the space in a soft, honeyed haze. Low wooden beams crossed the ceiling, darkened with age while trailing ivy and dried floral curled lazily around iron fixtures.
The bar counter stretched along the left side, polished oak worn smooth by years of elbow and spilled confessions, its shelves covered with glass bottles that shimmered like jewels under the dim lights.
For once, the place was crowded.
Voices overlapped in a constant hum—laughter, murmured conversations and the occasional clink of glasses with customers toasting to something. Every seat seemed to be occupied, bodies packed close together and strangers brushed shoulders without apology.
The air smelled faintly of citrus, alcohol and something smoky beneath it all, grounding and intoxicating.
Jazz music played low and steady from hidden speakers, a slow, sultry rhythm that seeped into your bones rather than demanding for attention. It made the bar feel alive, pulsing, as though it was breathing along with the people inside it.
To you and your friends, this was home.
You followed them as they moved to the counter on the right with ease while chatting and laughing with one another. Thankfully, there were some space enough for the four of you to squeeze in together.
You weren't listening to what your friends were talking, absentmindedly nodding your head here and there as your eyes aimlessly drifted, scanning the sea of faces around you.
And that's when you saw him.
You knew he's a staff, with how he came out from the back door and was dressed in black from head to toe, the kind of uniform meant to blend in and go unnoticed.
It failed for him.
The fitted black shirt clung lightly to his frame, sleeves rolled just enough to expose his forearms as he adjusted the cuff with practiced ease. A slim apron was tied around his waist, hanging low against dark jeans that perfectly further accentuated his long legs. You swore at first glance, his legs would make up half of his height.
He wore accessories—a simple double pair of rings hanging on his earlobes and his hands were decorated in silver, glowing rings. It glimmered like jewels underneath the dim lights, drawing attention to his long and slender fingers. His midnight-black hair was slightly damp, as if he had just washed it, stray strands falling carelessly over his forehead. He pushed them back once, distracted, before reaching for the towel draped on his shoulder.
You pretended you didn't choked on air when you saw him running his hand through his hair, unable to tear your eyes away from him as you watched. You weren't sure why but there was something mesmerizing about the way he moved—efficient yet unhurried, every motion was deliberate.
He slipped behind the counter, exchanging a few words with his co-worker and immediately got to work, hands busy as he prepared glasses and checked bottles, like this was all second nature to him.
He hasn't noticed you yet.
And you decide to change that.
Ignoring your friends, you walked around them and approached him with a sudden burst of confidence. Maybe it was the aftereffects of finishing your examinations. Maybe it was the way he carried himself but whatever it was, you wanted him to notice you.
Every step you took reduced the distance between the two of you and you stood before him, with the high counter being the only thing hindering your way.
Thankfully, he had his back facing you as he was busy preparing drinks for an order. Which gave you a front-row seat of staring (or drooling because you're only human) at his broad back, the way you can see his back muscles moved whenever he shook the mixture in a Boston Shaker, only for it to paint a… different image in your mind.
You rapidly shook your head, getting rid of the indecent thought, clearing your throat to muster the remains of your courage left.
"Excuse me, I would like to order," you called out, ensuring to raise you voice a little to make yourself heard.
Your words were a mix of half-lie and half-truth. After all, it would be foolish of you not to order anything when you're a regular at Hidden Eve. He raised his head and turned, looking at you over your shoulder.
And then, he fully turned to face you and oh god, he looked devastatingly handsome.
He had the kind of face that made people paused without realizing why. Sharp yet youthful. Every featured was carved with an almost predatory elegance. His eyes were the first thing you noticed—dark, intense and puma-like, heavy-lidded with a quiet intensity that felt instinctual rather than learned.
There was something watchful in them, something that made you felt seen even when his expression remained unreadable.
His nose was straight and defined, giving his profile a clean, striking line. His lips—full, thick and plump, rested in a neutral curve that made you wondered how it'll feel when pressed against yours.
It also made you wondered if he was a good kisser or not. His jawline was sharp and unforgiving, the kind that catches the light whenever he tilted his head slightly, shadows tracing along the hollow of his cheekbones.
"What do you want to order?" He asked, setting down the shaker as he gave you his fullest attention, cocking his head to the side. The movement caused his earrings to sway side to side.
Your mind blanked out. Even though you had been here many times, it's like the menu you had long remembered by heart had been erased from your memory. You opened and closed your mouth, resembling a gaping fish out of water.
At this point, you were making a complete fool of yourself by standing there, head empty with not a single thought in it.
"…Can I order you or are you only available for dine-in?"
Fuck.
The words slipped out of your mouth before your mind could processed it. Thankfully, the people around you were either busy getting drunk or chit-chatting with their friends to pay you any mind—something you were immensely grateful for.
You gulped and fidgeted with the hem of your coat, twisting and pinching the fabric between your fingers.
After what felt like eternity, the guy chuckled, lips curved upward. His shoulders shook as he laughed. Even though it was crowded and noisy, your ears could only registered the sound of his amused chuckle—the sound low, deep and husky.
You never felt like this before—the effect a complete handsome stranger had on you, but you weren't complaining one bit.
"You're funny, I'll give you that but no, I'm not. Sorry to disappoint," he answered, looking at you with his head tilted to the side, amused.
"But if you want, I can make a drink for you. Call it a personal recommendation from the best bartender," he continued. "So? What do you say?"
You couldn't trust your voice at that moment, wordlessly nodding your head in a daze. He noticed it. Of course he does but he didn't point out loud. Instead, he hummed and began moving about with experience and confidence, like he knew what he was doing.
You watched as he reached for a glass without hesitation, fingers long and steady as he inspected it under the lights before setting it down. Ice followed—measured and deliberate, the sound sharp and clean against the hum of the bar. He moved like he had done this a thousand times, muscle memory guiding him for every step.
Bottles came next.
He selected them with utmost care, only briefly reading labels before uncapping them, the soft clink lost beneath the music. A pour of something dark and smooth, followed by a lighter spirit that caught the light as it flowed.
He didn't rushed. Didn't overthink. Each motion was precise, practiced and almost intimate—like the drink wasn't just being made, but considered.
Every now and then, his eyes flicked up.
Just for a second but enough to check if you were watching.
And you were.
Right from the very start.
He added a twist of citrus, fingers pressing the peel just enough for the liquids to mist over the rim before dropping it in. The scent reached you first—warm, sharp and addictive. He stirred once and twice, then slid the drink across the counter toward you.
"There. Not on the menu," he said, meeting your gaze again.
The glass was cold beneath your fingers when you took it, condensation already forming. One sip was enough to tell you everything—you didn't know what it was called, but it was smooth, layered and deceptively gentle before the heat bloomed low in your chest.
He watched your reaction closely, eyes narrowing slightly, waiting expectantly. When your expression shifted from surprise to reluctant approval, the right corner of his mouth lifted.
"Told you," he murmured, pleased with your reaction.
"I won't be too confident if I were you. I'll have you know that I'm quite picky with my drinks," you retorted, internally wincing at how weak your words and voice sounded.
"Right," the attractive stranger—bartender, drawled. "I'm sure I can impress you with skills so I am pretty confident."
Huh. Never thought you have a thing for confident men but here you are, attempting to shoot your shot on someone who you just met for the first time.
It also made you wondered why you haven't seen him before in your previous few trips to Hidden Eve, but you simply shrugged it off that he was a newly-joined staff.
You rested your elbows on the bar with your half-drank glass resting before you, flashing him a coy smile. "Well, color me impressed then. Wanna get out of here?"
The stranger blinked.
Once. Twice.
He let out a laugh, the sound light-hearted and kind. It was the kind of tone where you knew this was going—not according to your plan.
"Bold, but no thanks, I'm good. Nice try though," he politely shot down your offer.
You parted your lips, wanting to say something but a large group of people entered the bar. He glanced at you, almost like he was hesitant on whether he should still tend to you or move to help his co-worker in making the large order.
Seeing this, you flashed him with what you hoped was an reassuring smile and waved him off. No words were exchanged.
He nodded, glancing your way one final time before speeding off, easily reaching his co-worker in less than ten large strides and began to help him make the drinks. Now that you were left alone, you decided it was time to regroup with your friends.
It was easy to spot them. They managed to find themselves a table, either half-drunk or completely drunk with no in-between.
"Look who's here to bless us with her presence!" One of your friends shouted at a loud voice, unaware of the startled looks she got from the people around her.
Your face burned as you sat down, placing your drink down on the table. "Shut up, I wasn't gone for that long."
Another one who was sober the entire time, giggled as she playfully nudged her elbow against yours. "Don't think we didn't saw how you were flirting with the bartender back there. He's cute too."
You smiled unknowingly, only to realize it a few seconds later. Your friends wasted no time in teasing you. Some even made the loud and immature kissing sounds, much to your embarrassment.
You flipped them off but despite your reaction, you were already laughing, feeling the waves of their happiness and the current moment you had with them.
"You guys are so annoying," you complained, giggling at how your friend threw an arm around your shoulders and pulled you in to ruffle your hair.
"We love you too. Now drink! We're not leaving until you're shit-faced!"
The second time you met him was at Hidden Eve again, which wasn't a surprise since he is working there. Except you went alone, without your friends. They had decided to go on a shopping trip for the whole day and that was something you couldn't handled.
You didn't have the stamina nor energy to spend your day walking around, browsing at countless shops and feeling your wallet getting lighter and lighter.
Besides, you were on a mission. A mission to get to know the bartender.
After that first encounter with him, you were very determined to have him. No matter what. And if there was anything about you, it was the fact that you can be a persistent person when the situation called for it. Said situation meant now—with you wanting the bartender's number, name and if possible, to sleep with him.
It was close to six-thirty when you entered Hidden Eve and with how they had opened thirty minutes ago, there was only a few people in there, drinking to their heart's content.
You stood near the door, letting your eyes scanned the surroundings while trying to locate a certain someone, unaware that your presence was noticed by one of the bartenders.
"Looking for someone?" An amused voice asked, scaring you.
Your head snapped to your right, startled.
A man stood just a few steps away behind the bar, one elbow leaning against the counter as he wiped down a glass with an unhurried ease, like he has all the time in the world.
He looked relaxed, like someone who had seen all kinds of customers walking through Hidden Eve's doors and could read them within seconds.
His lips curved into an amused smile, eyes flicking from your face to the door and back again, clearly entertained by the way you had been caught red-handed.
"Woah, easy. Didn't mean to scare you," he said lightly.
You swallowed, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag as you tugged it closer, to protect yourself. From what? You weren't sure. "I—"
The word died before it could became anything else.
He raised an eyebrow, clearly noticing and then glanced around the bar once more—empty stools, quiet corners and only a handful of patrons nursing their drinks.
"Let me guess, you're looking for someone," he said, stating it like it was a fact. Like this had happened before.
Heat crept up your neck. You hesitated, debating whether to lie. But your eyes betrayed you, instinctively darting toward the counter, the hallway behind it, anywhere but him.
That was enough for him to know your intention.
He let out a soft laugh. "You've got a terrible poker face."
Your embarrassment must've been obvious because his smile softened, losing its teasing edge. "Don't worry, you're not the first who came back looking for him. Won't be the last either."
Before you could asked what he meant or who exactly he was, he set the glass aside and nodded towards the narrow corridor beside the bar. "If it's him you're looking for, he stepped out a few minutes ago."
Your breath caught. You knew who he was referring to without his name mentioned.
"He does that sometimes before he starts. Smoke break. Clears his head, or so he says," the bartender went on casually, eyeing you with an unreadable look on his face, his doe-like eyes focused on your figure.
You opened your mouth, question after question piling up this time but again, no words came out. The man noticed. Of course he did.
"He won't be long," he added, tone almost reassuring. "Back door's past the storage room. Just follow the hallway and you'll be able to find it."
He gave you one final knowing look before turning back to his work, like the interaction had already ended. Like he had told you something that was probably, against a stranger's violation of privacy.
Left with no choice and no excuse to linger, you took a breath and moved past the bar. Your shoes echoed softly against the floor as you slipped into the narrow corridor.
The warmth and low music of Hidden Eve dulled with every step, replaced by cooler air and the faint, unmistakable scent of cigarettes drifting from somewhere ahead.
Your pulse picked up.
You didn't know why you were nervous. You barely knew him. And yet, here you are, pushing the back door open as your eyes looked around and then, you saw him.
He stood a few steps away, leaning against the wall with one foot propped up behind him, posture loose in a way that suggested this was familiar to him.
A cigarette rested between his fingers, glowing faintly as he took a slow drag, the ember brightening before dimming again. Smoke slipped past his thick lips in a steady exhale, rising and dissolving into the night air.
His other hand held his phone, thumb scrolling absently as if whatever was on the screen couldn't captured his attention. The soft light from it cast subtle shadows across his face, sharpening his features—the sharp and deadly line of his jaw, the slight furrow between his eyebrows and the way his eyelashes lowered as he focused.
Even when he's dressed in black, sleeves deliciously and sinfully rolled up, he looked effortlessly out of place but perfectly at ease, all at once. There was something private about the moment, something you felt like you had stumbled into by accident.
You froze at the doorway, unsure whether to announce your presence or retreat.
As if sensing you, he paused mid-scroll. He lowered his phone slightly, eyes lifting from the screen and landing on you. The surprise was brief, barely there, but you caught it. His gaze lingered—assessing and curious, before the corners of his mouth tugged upward in the faintest hint of a smile.
"You lost?" He asked, voice roughened a little by the cigarette.
The question itself was casual but the way his eyes stayed on you wasn't.
"N-No," you answered, wincing at how you stuttered over that one, singular word.
You fiddled with the hem of your right sleeve as you stood there awkwardly, unsure of what to say.
He didn't looked away, eyes locked onto you like a sniper locked onto their target. "You're the girl from before. The one who tried to hit on me," he pointed out.
A part of you wanted to giggle out loud. At the fact that he actually remembered you—a random, nameless strange. Another part of you wanted to crawl into a hole and bury yourself. At how he remembered you as the girl who tried to hit on him. Sure he wasn't wrong but he could have said something else, other than that.
"It'd be great if you could remember me as anything else but that," you replied and your words made him chuckled.
You watched as he took another puff of his cigarette, exhaling it through his parted lips with his head tilted back slightly. And fuck, the sight instantly made your mind drifted—to how good he'd look with you straddling his lap as you ride him. If possible, you want him to blow you the smoke from his mouth, somewhat like a kiss.
He took one, final puff before dropping it onto the dirtied ground, extinguishing it by crushing it with his right shoe. You watched as he dropped his left foot onto the ground, pushed himself off the wall he was leaning on and moved to your direction.
You stood there, staring at him with wide eyes until he stopped before you, leaving some distance between the two of you.
"So, you here for a drink or trying to hit on me again?" He casually asked, the calmness and how easily he asked you made you choked on air.
"Don't get too cocky now. Not everything's about you," you weakly retorted but deep down, the both of you knew you were lying.
He didn't believed you. He arched an eyebrow and since when such a simple, meaningless action looked this attractive? He slowly nodded his head, lips pursed in a thin line. Something pink poked out from his lips and your eyes instinctively flicked down before snapping it back up.
However, he had noticed it. Of course he did.
"Sure about that? No one other than Heeseung knows I'm back here. Which meant he was the one who told you where I am," he said.
Heeseung? That must be the other guy's name.
You nervously swallowed. "..What would you do if I say yes?"
"Nothing, it's not like I can kick you out of the bar when you didn't do anything wrong. Besides, you're not the first person who tried to hit on me," he shrugged his shoulders, shifting to the right so he can head for the door, opening it and moved to the side.
"After you. If you want, I can make another drink for you. Except you need to pay this time, can't keep giving drinks away for free," he smirked.
And like the whip fool you are, you obliged and stepped in with him hot on your heels. The bar was still quite empty, considering how it was close to seven, which meant today will be a slow day.
You moved to the bar as he slipped behind the counter, throwing on the apron to tie it around his waist. You sat on the nearest vacant high-stool, placing your bag on your lap as you stared at the menu, pondering over which drink to order.
"What are you planning on getting?" He asked.
You continued to scan the menu, eyes landing on a drink name that piqued your attention. "The Elden's Fall."
He hummed, leaning in slightly to see what you had picked. "Bold choice. Sure you can handle the heat?"
Before you could ask what that meant, he had already looked away and got straight to work.
He moved fast—too fast that it startled you for a moment. A clean glass appeared in his hand out of thin air, like it was summoned by magic. Ice shortly followed, the sharp clink echoing softly beneath the music from the speakers.
He reached for bottles without hesitation, fingers wrapping around them with practiced familiarity, pouring with a precision that spoke of long hours and muscle memory.
You watched, mesmerized by the show he put on.
There was no wasted movement. No second-guessing. He worked like he trusted himself completely, measuring by instinct rather than sight, switching bottles, shaking and straining. Each step flowed seamlessly into the next. The shaker rattled briefly in his hands before he set it down, already reaching for a garnish.
In less than a minute, he slid the glass towards you, the liquid catching the warm bar light. The color was rich in color and deceptively inviting and alluring.
"Here. Elden's Fall," he announced.
You blinked. "That was… fast."
He smirked. "When you've worked here for a while, you can pretty much make anything even with your eyes closed."
You wrapped your fingers around the glass, feeling the chill seeping into your skin. The first sip surprised you—smooth at first, then warming, with a subtle bite that lingered pleasantly on your tongue. Riki watched your reaction closely and like before, waiting with an expectant look on his face.
When you raised your eyebrows slightly, he nodded, satisfied. "Told you."
"Do you do this with every customer you talked to?" You asked as you placed the glass down on the counter with a soft, inaudible 'clink'.
"Do what?" He asked. Whether he was acting innocent or oblivious, you weren't sure.
"Whatever," you gestured to the both of you, "this is."
He chuckled, drying his hands on a nearby towel. "What? Talking to a customer and preparing their drink? It's part of the job."
You rolled your eyes but the way your lips twitched upwards say otherwise. "You know that's not what I meant."
"Do I?" He cocked his head to the side, a faint smile still playing on his lips as he leaned against the counter.
You hummed, unconvinced. "Funny. You didn't look this attentive the first time I saw you."
The bartender was unfazed, arching an eyebrow. "That's because I was busy and it's peak hours."
"And now?"
"Now it's quieter and from the looks of it, the pace won't change until it's closing time," he answered calmly. His gaze dipped to your glass, then rose again, lingering this time. The way he looked at you sent shivers down your spine. You felt seen—a rare feeling.
The air between you shifted. It was subtle, almost imperceptible but you knew something had changed.
You took another sip, buying yourself a few more seconds. "So what, you just choose to spend time talking to me instead of working? Wonder what your boss will say."
"Heeseung doesn't really care as long as I get my job done. Lucky him, I'm fast on my legs and hands," he shrugged off your words with a dismissive flick of his hand.
This time, it was your turn to arch an eyebrow. "Heeseung's your boss? The one who snitched on you?"
He chuckled, nodding. "Yup, that's him. He's like a older brother to me and was nice enough to offer me a job when I needed money. Flexible working hours. Having your friend as your boss, being able to make different drinks and," he paused—deliberate, with a sly smile that made heat pooled in your stomach, "talking to pretty customers like you is a bonus."
You set the glass down again, fingers absently tracing the condensation. "Careful. That almost sounded like flirting."
"Almost? You're the one who came in looking for me. If anyone's flirting, that'd be you," he pointed out.
You opened your mouth to argue, then stopped.
He let out a soft laugh, quieter this time. "Relax," he said, despite how his expression said anything but that. "If I flirted with every customer, I'd never get any work done."
"And yet, here you are. Not working," you countered.
"Break's over," he said, eyes flicking briefly to the bar clock then back to you. "But I don't mind taking my time."
Your pulse betrayed you, quickening at the unspoken implication. He straightened, reaching for another glass as someone down the bar waved him over. Before turning away, he looked over his shoulder and added, "Finish your drink. If you want another… well, you know where to find me."
He walked away, leaving you sitting there on the stool, with your heart racing like you had ran a marathon, flustered and breathless. It was only when you left an hour later did it hit you that you didn't get his name.
Again.
The third time you bumped into him was once again, at Hidden Eve. This time however, you weren't alone. Your friends wanted to come along, stating that they wanted to see you fumble for the third time and how they will do anything but to support you.
Which brought you to your current situation—you and your friends managed to find a table for yourselves while looking at the menu, wanting to try something different instead of ordering the usual drinks.
And then, someone approached your table, gaining your attention.
"Looks like you ladies are struggling and thought I could help," a familiar silky smooth male voice spoke up, making himself heard through the music playing from the speakers.
All of you looked up and everyone except you were confused, not knowing who he was.
"Are you Heeseung?" You asked warily and your friends snapped their heads to you at lightning speed that it was a miracle they didn't dislocated their necks.
The man—Heeseung, blinked twice and then recognition appeared on his face. "Oh, it's you. You're the one who came over last week. I remember you."
"You what?"
"So the reason why you abandoned the all girl's day was because you came here? To flirt with your boyfriend?"
"Damn, so how did it go?"
Your friends wasted no time in bombarding you with questions until you weren't given the chance to defend yourself. But then, why do that when they were merely speaking the truth.
Your cheeks and ears turned red as you averted your eyes, unable to look at them. Heeseung, on the other hand, was having the time of his life laughing at your current situation.
"Oh, I'm glad someone find this funny. Are you here to make fun of me or helping us?" You scowled, throwing him a light-hearted glare.
Heeseung raised his hands in mock surrender. "Woah, calm down. Looks like somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Let me know if you want something light or heavy then we can start from there."
You and two of your friends went with light, not wanting to get drunk while the rest went with heavy. Heeseung didn't asked for more questions.
Instead, he turned and walked away, heading to the bar like a man on a mission. You and your friends shared a confused look as you watched Heeseung moved like he owns the place.
And he does.
After all, he is the owner.
It took him less than ten minutes to finish making the drinks. He placed them on a round, circular-shaped tray, balanced it with his left palm like an experienced waiter as he approached your table. A charming smile was stretched on his face as he stopped before you and your friends.
"Hello ladies, here are your drinks," he announced, setting all of the glasses down.
Two of them were in a beautiful shade of white and blue. The other three had the same shade of bold and dark red mixed with yellow and orange. The two different colors left trails behind, making the drink looked like it had three different layers. All of you took your very first sips, making the same amazed expressions in unison.
Heeseung smiled, obviously proud and satisfied with your reactions. "What do you think? It's good, right?" He asked, trying to fish for compliments.
Your friends giggled, hooked by both his charms and his notably good features. "Yes, it's better than what we had so far."
"Hey, those drinks were personally selected by me. Please be more mindful of your words or you're hurting my oh so fragile heart," Heeseung protested, resting a hand on his chest with a faux hurt look on his face.
You rolled your eyes, choosing to observe from the sidelines as the bartender talked to your friends while you took a few slow sips here and there. You weren't sure how much time had passed. It could be minutes or hours.
"Hyung, there you are. Stop flirting with the customers and get your ass back to work. We got a huge order to make."
That voice.
Your body stilled. Your fingers tightened its grip around your glass. You didn't had to look up to know who had approached your table. To know who was standing beside Heeseung, talking to him in such a familiar manner—like they had known each other for a while.
However, your body betrayed you, choosing to go against your mind and heart, despite how they were yelling at you to not look his way.
Your eyes drifted up and there he stood. Dressed in the same, standard all black uniform from head to toe with an apron tied around his waist. Nothing about him had changed since you last saw him, which was two weeks later. But god, he always looked good to the point where you found it extremely unfair.
His eyes jumped from one face to another, lingering longer than usual on yours—long enough for you to catch it. But he looked away when you blinked, making you wondered if your eyes were playing tricks on you or you were hallucinating.
"Right, I'll be there," Heeseung answered his co-worker and turned to you and your friends with an apologetic but charming smile, "sorry but seems like work calls. Enjoy the drinks and no, it's not on the house."
Your friends dramatically booed and giving him the thumbs-down gesture as he walked away with his co-worker—the very same bartender who you tried to hit on. Not once but twice.
Your eyes unconsciously followed him, trailing after his tall figure as he moved through the sea of people until he slipped out of your sights, leaving you to sigh under your breath.
There goes my final chance.
Shrugging the thought aside, you decided to focus on enjoying the current moment you have. The moment with your friends while living in temporary happiness.
"That's the spirit! Bottoms up, everyone!" Your friend on your right hollered.
This went on for the next two to three hours. As time passed, more and more people entered Hidden Eve until it was packed with people. It was in full swing, with the sound of customers laughing as they chatted among themselves, along with the clinking of glasses as they made a toast to something.
Three of your friends who had chosen the heavy option had long passed out after making a complete fool of themselves—shouting nonsense at the top of their lungs while fighting against your poor, futile attempts of getting them to calm down.
You were the only sober one left as your two other friends—the very same two friends who chose the light options, were lightweights. But thankfully, they were easier to handle and were now passed out by the table.
You had long finished your drink and one glance at your phone told you the time was close to one in the morning. You decided it was time to go home but here comes the most difficult part—waking your drunk friends up while calling a cab for them.
You managed to wake the two of them up and after sobering them up with water, the three of you half-carried and half-dragged your other friends out of the bar.
You barely managed to take more than three steps before you tripped over someone's foot. The floor was about to welcome you with open arms with how close you were about to face-plant into it when a familiar, firm and warm hand grabbed your right shoulder, both stopping and rescuing you in the nick of time.
You glanced over, choking on air when it was none other than the attractive and handsome bartender.
"You good? Looks like you need a little help," he asked, steadying you with both hands. You ignored how you could still felt his warmth emitted from his palms when he withdrew his hands.
"Uh, I think I can manage," you answered, readjusting your friend who had buried her face in the crook of your neck while mumbling something inaudible under her breath.
He hummed, looking over your head, lips quirked upward in an amused smile when he saw the similar states they were in. "Right, I think I should help you before one of your friends dropped someone. Won't want that to happen, do we?"
"I—"
He didn't wait for your response, already moving before you could finished your sentence. You watched as he tended to you. Not your friends but you. He easily threw your friend's right arm around his shoulders with one hand supporting her by the waist—always above the waistline of her jeans, high enough to tell he was a respectful man. Unlike those kinds of men.
When he noticed that you were simply staring at him with a dumbfounded look, he arched an eyebrow. "What? Is there something on my face?" He inquired.
You coughed, averting your eyes to anywhere else but him. "N-Nothing. I'll open the door and call a cab."
You were quick to flee, ears faintly registering his amused chuckle as you opened the door wide enough so him and your other friends were able to half-walk and half-stumble out of the bar.
The moment the door closed, silence engulfed all of you with the music now reduced to a muffled hum in the background. You pulled out your phone and much to your relief, you were able to hail a cab.
"Alright, the driver's coming in seven minutes," you announced to your sober friends, who nodded in acknowledgment as they went to sit on the nearest bench, giving the two of you privacy.
Silence took over the space.
Until he spoke up, breaking it with his low voice.
"Did you gave up?" He asked.
You blinked. "On what?"
He shot you a knowing look, looking downright amused. "You know, I've been waiting for you to shoot your final shot but you didn't. What a shame. Can't believe you left me hanging for the whole day and you're already leaving when it's only one."
You made a noise that strangely sounded like a strangled animal. "I—I didn't want to disturb you, not when you were busy with your job. And besides, it's not like I'm the only one who tried to hit on you."
You couldn't helped yourself with the last sentence and with how petty you sounded. The words slipped out before you could stopped yourself.
It was only when you finished speaking was when the realization and mortification hits you at once without warning. The bartender, however, burst out laughing at the sight of your flustered face.
The sound was warm and unrestrained, spilling out of him in a way that caught you completely off-guard. It wasn't fake—it was real, full-bodied and dangerously charming.
The kind that made your ears flushed red and your heart stuttered at once.
"Is that jealousy I hear?" He teased when he finally calmed down, eyes still crinkled at the corners as he readjusted his grip on your friend who was now using him as a standing lamppost to support herself. "Didn't know you're the jealous type."
"I'm not—" You protested, only for you to stop when you realized what he was doing, with how his grin stretched wider across his face. "I didn't mean it like that."
He hummed, unconvinced but didn't prod further. "Relax. I like it."
What the fuck does that even mean?
The conversation flowed easily after that, like something had finally clicked into place. You talked about nothing and everything—the origin of Hidden Eve, your academic life and your lazy, useless group-mates in your previous group projects and so on.
Talking to him was easy. Like you had nothing to worry about. Like he had somehow eased your burdens without you knowing.
However, you were brought back to reality when a car stopped before you and you recognized the plate number as the cab you had booked.
"Oh, my car's here," you reluctantly said, hesitant.
"Guess it is. C'mon, I'll help you and your friends in getting them in," he said, being the first to open the backdoor as he easily and gently placed your friend in the backseat.
He even helped your other two friends and shortly after, three sleeping girls had fully occupied the backseat. Your two friends took the middle row and you were about to walk around the cab, so you could sit in the passenger seat when the bartender grabbed your wrist in a gentle grip.
Like he was giving you an option to push him away.
"Hey, you don't have to, you know," he murmured, stepping closer while tugging you towards him.
Your breath hitched. "What?"
He leaned in slightly, close enough for you to smell his lingering cologne and the faint smell of cigarettes lingering on his body. "I'm off soon. My place isn't far. We could keep talking… somewhere quieter."
It wasn't a demand or an suggestion.
It was an invitation.
And you would be a fool to turn him down.
You didn't get the chance to remove your shoes or take in his apartment, for you were immediately pressed up against the nearest solid surface—the wall on your left. Your startled gasp was swallowed by a intense, dizzying kiss.
You didn't pushed him away, hands reaching out to grip onto the front of his shirt to pull him closer until you're squished chest-to-chest, not wanting to be separated from him.
Your knees buckled when he sensually ran his tongue along the seam of your lips. You obliged, parting your mouth, whining when he gave a light, teasing nip on your bottom lip.
It was hard enough for it to sting but not hard enough for it to bleed. His hands moved like it had a mind of its own, touching and mapping you greedily.
Goosebumps formed on your skin at how cold his hands were—the effects of the current chilling weather.
"Your hands are cold," you murmured against his lips, eyes half-lidded with him looking right at you.
"Really? Didn't noticed. Guess you need to help me warm them up," he drawled and you couldn't hold back the light giggle at his words.
"That was corny," you pointed out.
"Hey, god forbid a guy from trying to be corny," he retorted, faux hurt evident in his voice but you saw the teasing glint in his eyes.
He was about to kiss you again when you slapped your hand over his lips, causing him to furrow his eyebrows in confusion.
"Before we continue, you still haven't told me your name. And I'd like to know the name of the man who I managed to charm, thank you very much," you said.
He stared at you.
Blinked once.
Twice.
"..You can't be serious."
You solemnly nodded. "No, this is a serious matter to me. I treat this very seriously."
The bartender snorted, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "cute" under his breath.
His hand slipped under your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. You gulped at how his eyes darkened in unrestrained, pent-up desire and lust. The desire to take you right there and then.
"Listen up, doll. Name's Nishimura Riki. You better remember it because I'll have you screaming it when I'm done with you."
Beep beep!
The sound of a car horn going off made you got up from the couch. You looked around, mind still half asleep and that's when it hit you—Doohwa was already waiting outside.
You quickly rushed to freshen up—rinsing your mouth, ensuring your make-up wasn't smudged and your appearance was decent enough to be acceptable.
Satisfied, you grabbed your small bag and left after locking the door behind you.
Doohwa's face lit up at the sight of you as he pushed himself off the car, pulling you into a warm and loving embrace when you got close enough. You laughed, returning the gesture while letting him pressed multiple kisses on your cheek.
"Hi, sweetheart. You ready?" He asked, pulling back so he could see your face.
You nodded, flashing him a smile of your own. "Yup. Ready as I'll ever be. I hope your dad would like me."
Doohwa chuckled as he opened the passenger door for you. "I've told you before, he's a nice and understanding man. Besides, you got nothing to worry about. If he ever says anything weird, just tell me and I'll beat him up for you."
You let out a surprised laugh, watching as he walked round the car and slide into the driver's seat. "What? That's your father, Doohwa. You can't just beat him up."
Your fiance merely shrugged his shoulders. "I'm just doing what anyone would do."
You chose not to say anything else, not wanting to prolong the conversation any further. Doohwa drove off, leaving a trail of smoke and dust behind in his wake.
The drive to your destination took you an hour and a half off as his father stayed in a well-off area and you weren't surprised to find yourself in the city.
After parking the car, the two of you got out. Doohwa lead the way to a house with you lingering behind. You fiddled with the strap of your bag as you stood on the porch while he went to knock on the door twice, firm and resolute.
Knock knock.
Doohwa moved back until he was standing beside you, shoulder-to-shoulder. Your ears registered the sound of a pair of approaching footsteps that gradually grew louder and louder until the door was opened from inside.
Your eyes widened. Breath hitched in your throat. Heart stopped—more like it slammed so hard against your ribcage you thought it might have shattered them.
The man standing in the doorway was not a stranger.
He was taller than you remembered, broader shoulders with the sharp edges of youth smoothed into something colder, more dangerous and more tempting.
Time had carved authority into his features, lines at the corner of his puma-like eyes speaking of years lived without softness. His hair was dyed black, except for a specific part that was in the shade of silver or gray, looking like a streak of moonlight.
He may have changed but you can still recognized him.
Nishimura Riki.
Older. Grown. Devastatingly familiar and still fine as always, aging like fine wine.
For a brief moment, his composure cracked. His eyes—those same eyes that once traced every inch of you, flickered with unmistakable recognition. Shock passed through them so quickly but was immediately buried beneath a mask of control so practiced that it terrified you.
"Doohwa." he greeted his son calmly, voice deeper than before, steadier. "You're early."
His gaze shifted to you.
The air turned suffocating.
You felt Doohwa's shoulder brushed against yours again, unaware of the way your body had gone rigid, unaware that the man in front of him had once known the exact sounds you made when you fell apart, letting him broke you down—part by part. A private and exclusive performance put up for him.
You didn't know how to react, not when Riki's eyes lingered on your parted and lipstick-coated lips a second too long—just long enough for the past to surge violently back to life.
Nothing was said. Nothing had to be.
He moved to the side, allowing the two of you to enter his home.
Riki's apartment opened up into a spacious living area, immediately striking in its quiet luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined one side of the room, sheer curtains pulled back to reveal reveal the city stretching out below with glass and steel reflecting everything beneath you. The view alone spoke of money, of success earned and sustained.
Everything inside was deliberate.
Muted tones dominated the space—charcoal, warm beige, deep wood and was balanced by clean, white lines. A low leather sofa was in the middle, placed on top of a textured rug, facing a sleek entertainment unit that was seamlessly built into the wall.
There were no unnecessary decorations and no clutter. Everything placed in their respective positions was done with both purpose and intentions.
Your gaze aimlessly drifted further as you stood there, the hushed conversation between father and son turning into white noise as it blended into the background.
This place didn't belonged to the Riki you met at Hidden Eve. The bartender dressed in all-black and making drinks faster than you could blinked.
No, this apartment belonged to a man who had built a life out of stability and control, a man whose success was etched onto every possible surface.
The current Riki standing a few feet away from you—his broad back and taller figure was different. Seeing both father and son together was when you realized you had been a fool.
How could you not noticed the way they looked similar? Your fiance shares some of his father's features—his unfairly tall height, slightly build figure and the way he carried himself. With nothing but confidence and silent attention.
The kind of attention that drew people in without them knowing. Which was how Riki got you wrapped around his thumb.
But what happened in the past was done. There was nothing you could do to return to it.
"(Name)? You alright?"
You blinked, snapping back to reality when Doohwa called out your name and noticed both men were now looking at you but the way they looked at you was different. One was worried while the other was amused.
Amused like he knew the exact thoughts running through your mind. Like he knew that you were trying to remain calm and not lose your mind.
Like he knew that you felt ashamed of yourself for hooking up with his father back then.
"(Name)? Do you wanna head home instead?" Doohwa asked in a softer tone as he approached you, checking your temperature with one hand pressed against your forehead.
"You don't have a fever, do you?"
You shook your head, forcing yourself to look at him while ignoring Riki's heavy and intense gaze that was boring holes into your head. You flashed your fiance a smile.
To make yourself feel better and definitely not to send a message to Riki, you rested your hand on Doohwa's wrist. From the corner of your eyes, you saw the way Riki's jaw tightened.
Good. Let him see.
"I'm fine, don't worry. I'm just a little tired from the drive," you answered, playing the role of the polite and well-mannered daughter-in-law.
Doohwa nodded, thankfully buying your lie. He then turned to his father with a oblivious smile on his face. "So, do you need help in making dinner?" He asked.
Riki scoffed and rolled his eyes. He pulled the long sleeves of his gray sweatshirt up, revealing his lower arms. You hated how your eyes immediately zoned in on the newly revealed skin, even though you had seen it before. Riki subtly smirked when he caught you staring.
Of course he did.
"No need, just make yourselves at home and it'll be ready soon," he waved off his son's offer and words, pointing to the couch and walked into the kitchen without waiting for his response.
This is going to be a long night…
Riki ended up making seafood pasta for the three of you. At first, you didn't want to eat as you weren't hungry but your stomach chose that moment to betray you by grumbling out loud, much to your embarrassment and horror.
The two men glanced at one another before they burst out laughing, leaving you standing there while trying to resist the urge to jump out of the nearest window. Eventually, the three of you settled down by the dining table and begin eating.
It was quiet for the first fifteen minutes, with none of you uttering a single word and the occasional clink-clanking of your utensils against your plates. You pointedly avoided Riki's gaze, able to feel him staring at you from across the table.
To make matters worse, you were seated directly opposite of him while Doohwa was completely oblivious to the thick and tense silence between the two of you.
That was until, Riki broke the silence by asking a harmless, almost seemingly innocent question.
"So, mind introducing your girlfriend to me?" He asked, eyes flicking to your direction for a quick, fleeting second. It was so fast that you wouldn't have caught it if you weren't already looking at him.
Doohwa paused mid-bite, fork frozen in mid-air. He glanced at you and you nodded, resting your hand above his underneath the table—the very same hands that wore the matching rings. He swallowed his mouthful of food, nearly choking on it and placed the fork down on his plate.
"Uh, actually, she's not my girlfriend," he started off.
You resist the urge to facepalm. Riki, on the other hand, arched an eyebrow and waited for his son to finish speaking. He leaned back in his seat, his long legs stretching out before him.
You flinched when he purposely knocked his feet against yours, causing you to grip onto your dress with your free hand. Riki didn't looked at you, like he knew the effect he had on you, even though some time had passed.
Doohwa raised your intertwined hands, proudly showing off the rings wrapped around your ring fingers. "We're engaged."
Silence.
Riki didn't moved at all, like he had been frozen. He furrowed his eyebrows, not in confusion but in something sharper—calculation. The proud ease he had carried moments ago was gone, now replaced by a carefully curated blank expression that doesn't reached his eyes.
His eyes flicked down to your intertwined hands, zeroing in on the rings that caught the lights.
His jaw tightened. Such a subtle reaction, the kind of reaction that only someone who knew him well or had once known him intimately, would notice. The muscle in his cheek flexed once. Twice, as if he was biting back the words threatening to slip from his tongue.
"Engaged."
He said quietly, testing the word and how it felt on his tongue—like it was foreign to him. He looked up, finally meeting your eyes and there it was.
Recognition.
Not of the situation but the sheer irony of it all. Of the past violently colliding with the present. You saw the way his eyes darkened, the way his breath slowed just a fraction too late. He looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time.
Except now, it was layered with years, choices and consequences.
The rest of dinner passed in a blink of an eye, with both father and son catching up on what they had missed out. You weren't listening as you stared at a random spot of the table, your empty plate staring back, almost like it was mocking you.
Laughing at how cruel fate was—for you to now be engaged to the son of a man who you used to sleep with. It's a miracle that Doohwa didn't knew about your past, as he didn't asked back when he was dating you.
But now, here you are, sitting there, it made you wondered: should you have told him? If you did, how would he react? Would he call off the engagement immediately? If yes, how were you going to explain to your parents and friends?
You could imagine their reactions—horrified and disgusted if they were to find out. Worst case scenario was how they will refuse to acknowledge your presence and kicked you out, leaving you to fend for yourself.
"…me), hello? Are you still there?"
You snapped out of your trance, raising your head to see that they were looking at you. Your eyes instinctively landed on Riki's face first before you looked away, forcing yourself to maintain eye contact with Doohwa.
"Yea?" You asked, grateful that your voice didn't cracked or stuttered.
"I was thinking if you're fine with staying over the night," your fiance. He was quick to slip in another sentence when he saw the mild confusion on your face. "That is, if you don't mind, of course. But if you don't want to, then we can just drive home since it's already getting late."
One look thrown in the clock's direction told you it was close to ten and at this time, the streets were completely empty and dark. Not that great for driving. You hesitated, chewing on your bottom lip.
The last thing you wanted was to stay in the same roof as Riki but you didn't want to be that one fiance who tried to stop their partner from spending quality time with their family.
Or single parent, in this case.
Which was why you ended up nodding your head, although reluctantly. "Fine, we can stay over."
You pretended not to notice how Riki's lips curved upward in a faint, knowing smile. Not wanting to be in the same room as him for another second, you quickly stood up from your seat, startling the two of them.
"I—I'll go and wash the dishes," you muttered under your breath, quickly grabbing the plates and fled to the kitchen, like your life depended on it, leaving a confused Doohwa and a quiet Riki behind as you disappeared from their sights.
You silently washed the dishes, scrubbing every inch of the plates with the sponge to buy yourself more time. You were so engrossed in your current task that you didn't registered another presence, who had entered the kitchen without you knowing. Which was why you nearly dropped the plate into the sink when he spoke up.
"You always know how to pick the right ones."
You spun around on your feet, staring at Riki who leaned against the fridge with his arms loosely crossed. He chuckled at your wide eyes and startled reaction, his eyes shamelessly scanned you from head to toe. His gaze was intense enough to make you squirmed on the spot.
"What are you talking about?" You asked.
Pushing himself off the fridge, the older man shortened the distance in no more than six large strides. You leaned back, wanting to stay as far away as possible but it was futile when the cool surface of the counter dug into your skin.
You could feel your dress getting soaked in the water near the sink area, causing you to shiver as the now cold fabric clung onto your skin.
Riki chuckled, bracing his right hand on the edge of the counter while the other confidently rested on your hip—like he knew exactly where to touch you to make you all putty in his grip. He leaned in, not close enough for him to kiss you but close enough to make you ached for it.
"You know what I'm talking about. Could've just said you missed me," he murmured, angling his head to the side so he could whispered into your right ear, his hot breath grazing against your skin with every word he spoke.
"Tell me, does he fuck you better than me, hm? Does he know you like your hair being pulled? Does he know you like being edged until you're a begging mess?"
His sudden crude and filthy words drew an involuntarily whimper from you. Shame hit you like a tidal wave when you realized what just happened.
"Stop," you protested but the way your voice came off weak only made Riki continued, wanting to push you over the edge.
The hand that was braced at your side moved to cup your chin with his thumb resting against your bottom lip. You knew you should pushed him away, that he shouldn't be touching you like this—like he owns you.
But you couldn't. Couldn't moved or do anything. Instead, you let him do as he pleased.
Just like the good old times.
Riki smirked, tilting your chin up. Your breath hitched when he leaned closer. Now, he was close enough for his lips to graze against yours in the lightest kiss. Only either one of you had to lean in and you would be kissing already.
"You say stop but look at you, already letting me do what I want," he purred, voice low and velvety smooth.
His eyes darted down to your parted lips, looking like he was about to cross the final, invisible line.
"(Name)?" Doohwa called out your name.
The sudden appearance of his voice felt like someone had delivered a slap to your face. You jerked your head back, freeing yourself from his grasp and managed to shove Riki away, ignoring how a part of you wanted him to come back, already missing his warmth.
You couldn't find it in yourself to look at him, blindly walking past him as you left the kitchen and headed to the living room—the direction of where Doohwa's voice came from.
"Hey, there you are—woah, are you alright? You looked a little red," he said, only to stop when he saw how your cheeks were slightly red.
"I'm fine, just tired. Why did you called me?" You shook off his concern, relieved that he had saved you without him knowing.
"Ah, right. There's a guest room available for you, so you can take it," he said.
You blinked. "Wait, what about you?"
Doohwa sighed. "I need to head to work. Got a sudden call from my boss and he said he needs me to come in."
"What? But it's already late! And it's a Saturday too," you pointed out.
You didn't want to be left alone with Riki, not after what nearly happened back then.
"I know, but this is the kind of risk I have to take when it comes to being a lawyer. I'm really sorry. I'm not sure how long I'll be away so if I'm not back tomorrow morning, you can ask my dad to drop you off," he apologized, stepping closer to pull you into a soft and loving embrace as he kissed your forehead.
Sighing, you leaned into his chest and returned the gesture. "..Fine, text me when you reach and when you're done. Don't make me worry about you."
"Can't promise that—ow! Did you just flicked my forehead!?"
Rolling your eyes, you shooed him out of the apartment after kissing him on his lips and closed the door. This time, you could sensed his presence without turning around.
"Don't even think about it," you said as you turned around, crossing your arms as you glared and scowled with your entire might at Riki.
"I didn't even say anything," he pointed out, looking offended like you had thought the worst of him.
And you did.
"I don't trust you," you muttered under your breath but he caught it.
"Oh, that's rich coming from someone who ran away the moment it gets too much," he retorted.
His words which contained the harsh, brutal truth made you flinched. It was also the way he said it—with venom seeping into his voice, how his shoulders tensed up and how he narrowed his eyes.
From where you stood, you were gravely reminded of that fateful night. The night when Riki wanted to be something more. Something that involved you having to tie your life with his. Something that required you to commit.
You remembered how you refused, how the two of you ended up arguing and how you stormed out of his house, ignoring how he shouted your name—with both anger and hurt laced in his voice. How Riki had no choice but to watch your retreating figure until you were out of his sight.
After that night, you had cut ties with him—blocking him everywhere and avoided him like the plague. At first, it was hard since you were so used to having him in your life that you felt lonely. But you didn't went on one-night stands. You couldn't focused on anything and it was a sheer miracle that you even graduated in the first place.
And now, here you were—trying to hold your ground as your past had came back to haunt you.
"I told you that I don't do relationships," you croaked out.
Riki barked out a cold, bitter laugh as he approached you, closing the distance with every step he took. "You say that but don't think I didn't seen the way you looked at me," he fired back.
"What are you talking about?" You frowned, confused but you didn't moved, standing where you are as the man gets closer and closer.
"Don't play dumb with me, (Name). I've seen it, every time when you think I'm not looking," he said, voice low and edged with something dangerously close to resentment. "The way your eyes lingered. The way your breath changed when I get too close. You don't get to pretend none of that means anything."
You weakly scoffed, shuffling your feet about on the spot as if that could buy you time. "You're imagining things."
"Am I?"
Riki stepped closer, close enough that you could feel his warmth, his presence pressing into your space the same, effortless way he used to.
"Because this feels a lot like before. Late nights and stolen looks. You acting like it's nothing while I'm the one left wondering where I stand."
"That's not fair," you replied, your voice trembling despite yourself. "I was honest with you from the start. I told you I didn't want more."
"And then you stayed!" Riki snapped, having lost the last few shreds of his patience and self-restraint. You flinched at the sudden loud volume of his voice.
"You kept coming back. You let me touch you like it didn't mean anything. Like I didn't mean anything. Like I was just someone for you to use," he continued, not giving you any room to speak.
The words hung heavy in the air. You couldn't looked him in the eyes any longer, letting your gaze dropped to the floor. "I left because it was getting complicated."
Riki went silent, staring at you with an incredulous look before he chuckled. But the sound contained no emotions. It was simply exhaustion and frustration.
"No. You left because it was getting real," he corrected you, not feeling any form of remorse when you cowered underneath his gaze.
"You disappeared without looking back. No goodbye. No explanation. Just gone. And now you're here, engaged to my son, telling me you don't do relationships like that's able to erase what we had!?"
"I didn't ran away. I chose a different route," you whispered but deep down, the both of you knew that was nothing more than a pathetic excuse.
Riki sharply exhaled, like he had reached the end of his restraint.
"I've had enough," he muttered, more to himself than to you.
Before you could react, he was in front of you, one hand on your waist while the other tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes. His face was inches away now, breath warm against your skin, eyes searching yours with something raw and unguarded.
He leaned in and then stopped.
It was like time froze. He stayed there, forehead resting against yours. You knew what he was doing. He was giving you time. Space and a choice. The choice of pushing him away and telling him to stop.
But you didn't.
Your silence was enough to act as a response.
Something dark and resolved flickered across Riki's face before he took the leap of faith, closing the distance.
His lips crashed against yours with force. Not reckless but desperate. Like he had been holding back for years. Like he had been dreaming about this.
Wanting to feel the intoxicating feeling of your soft lips against his. The kiss was deep and consuming, all of his pent-up frustration and unfinished words was poured into the kiss.
You let him tilt your head to the side while deepening the kiss. You had done this before—kissing but this? This was different. Unlike the old times when you kissed just for the sake of it, this felt more real and raw.
You obediently parted your lips, granting him entrance and just like before, Riki ran his tongue along the seam before exploring your warm, wet mouth with one slow and thorough lick.
The sensation was enough to make your head spin and ears burned at how the loud lewd sounds echoed in the living room. Your knees buckled, threatening to give way but Riki was faster.
In one smooth and fluid movement, Riki had blindly maneuvered you to the nearest wall surface that was located behind you. You gasped into his mouth when your back landed against the firm, cool surface of the wall.
With Riki's taller frame completely hovering over you, you had nowhere else to run.
Not that you wanted to run in the first place.
"W-Wait—" You protested but your voice died in your throat when Riki lifted you up, leaving your feet uselessly hanging in the air.
You squeaked; startled and out of pure instinct of the numerous times you had done this, you wrapped your legs around his waist. Riki grinned into the kiss—something you purposely ignored.
You knew he will be smug about it, about how things haven't changed and how you still reacted the same way, back when you were younger.
The way Riki kissed you was completely different from Doohwa. Unlike your fiance who treats you gently, with such care, love and devotion, Riki was the completely opposite. He kissed you like he wanted to claim and devour you, both inside and outside.
Your mind spun, hands now gripping onto the front of his sweatshirt to ground yourself into the current moment.
You flinched when he nipped at your bottom lip, the sharp and stinging sensation making you let out a whimper that was greedily swallowed by Riki. Without you knowing, your hands began moving like it had a mind of its own.
You moved to grab a fistful of his abyssal-like hair, tugging at it which elicited a low groan from him—the sound sending shivers down your spine and heat pooling in your stomach.
You couldn't even crossed your legs with how they were wrapped around his waist. After what felt like forever, Riki broke the kiss. He rested his forehead against yours as the both of you spent a few minutes catching your breath.
You couldn't looked away from him and with how close he was, you could see nothing but pure desire and lust behind them.
The sight of it was so overwhelming that you turned your head to the side. But Riki didn't liked that.
"Ah ah, look at me," he murmured, voice low and raspy as he grabbed your chin and turned you back to him.
To Riki, nothing could compared to how you looked before him. Your eyes were wide and dazed. Your lips were swollen and the lipstick you wore was smudged around the corners. He was certain that his lips was probably stained as well, but he didn't cared.
Riki's eyes darkened as a dark and twisted smile stretched across his face, resting his thumb on your bottom lip while he pressed down on it, watching how you obliged him by letting him do as he pleased.
"You have no idea how long I waited for this," he cooed.
He then moved back and placed you back down onto your feet. He steadied you when your body swayed slightly. He raised his hand, tucking a few stray strands of hair behind your right ear.
The smile on his face was anything but soft and loving. No, it looked almost dark, twisted and something else. Something that made him seemed like he knew something you don't.
"I'll stop here for now. But next time," he paused briefly, leaning down so he could whisper into your ear, "next time, I won't stop."
Riki didn't wait for your response, turning to walk away while leaving you standing there as reality gradually sink in of what you had just done.
~
Needless to say, you didn't slept well that night. You spent the entire night tossing and turning on the bed in the guestroom. Riki was generous enough to leave a spare set of clothes on the bed when he showed you to the guestroom.
You ignored how the clothes belonged to him and how they completely engulfed you with the black sweatshirt reaching your thighs and how you had to pull the strings of the sweatpants until it's tight enough so it won't dropped.
Every time you closed your eyes, your mind went back to the kiss. To how Riki kissed you effortlessly and to the way he looked at you with that glint in his eyes.
But most importantly, you couldn't stopped thinking about the things he said before he kissed you. How hurt and frustrated he was with you back then.
Somehow and someway, you managed to catch some sleep. When you woke up and checked your phone, it was already close to ten in the morning. You got out, headed to the guest bathroom where there was an extra set of toiletries for you to use.
Once you were done with your morning routine, you left the room and headed to the kitchen, mouth watering at the fragrant smell of bacon, coffee and scrambled eggs.
Riki glanced up at the sound of your approaching footsteps. The way his jaw clenched and how he had to physically hold himself back at how good you looked, dressed in his clothes didn't went unnoticed by you.
"You're awake. I made breakfast. Doohwa told me to drop you off later," he said, gesturing to the table.
You silently nodded as you took your seat and helped yourself to the food. Riki sat opposite of you but unlike you, he didn't eat. Instead, he stared at you. To say it was nerve-wrecking would be an understatement. It felt like you were a prey and he was the predator, watching you while hidden in the shadows before making his move.
And he did.
"So, did you sleep well?" He inquired.
The sudden question made you stilled.
To anyone else, it would had been an innocent and harmless question. But you knew better. You knew the meaning behind it. Riki knew the effect he had on you. He knew you didn't slept at all. He knew you couldn't stopped replaying the kiss in your mind, over and over in an endless cycle.
He knew you were starting to have doubts.
You gripped onto the chopsticks, eyes staring at a random spot of the table. You wanted to lie, to tell him that "yes, I slept well" but this was Riki. Someone who had known you better than you knowing yourself.
Which was why you placed your chopsticks down with a silent 'thud' on your bowl.
"We need to talk," you started, mustering the most serious look on your face, not wanting him to see you lose your composure.
Riki arched an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side. He leaned back in his seat and threw an arm onto the back of the chair situated on his right. The way he portrayed himself—laid-back and easy was enough to make your left eyebrow twitched subtly in mild annoyance.
"Oh? What about?" He asked, having the audacity to act like he was innocent. Especially after the bold move he pulled yesterday.
You swallowed down the tempting urge to just yell at him, knowing that will bring you nowhere. "You can't do that again, Riki. It's highly inappropriate and if Doohwa were to know, he—"
"Woah, why are you making it sound like I'm the bad guy here. If I remember correctly, you kissed me back too."
You opened and closed your mouth. Riki smirked, knowing you couldn't say anything. Not when he had you cornered and when he was merely speaking the truth.
You awkwardly cleared your throat, bringing a mixture of bacon strips and scrambled eggs into your mouth as you chewed, anything to buy yourself more time while your mind struggled to find a response.
"Regardless of who kissed who, it's still highly inappropriate, Riki. You need to understand that I'm engaged to Doohwa now," you forced yourself to speak, because you wanted him to understand that you had moved on. That your life no longer revolved around him.
Riki stared at you with an unreadable expression on his face. And then, he rose to his full height and walked round the table, heading to your direction while remaining uneasily calm. You pressed yourself against the chair, gripping onto your utensils for dear life, like it could protect you from him.
The walking definition of sin and temptation.
When he was close enough, Riki placed one hand on the back of your chair while the other smoothly slid under your chin, holding your face on his index finger.
Your body betrayed you. Your breath caught. You found yourself leaning into his touch before your mind could processed it.
"You say all that but the moment I laid my hands on you, you're all quiet," he taunts you, leaning down until the tips of your noses brushed against one another.
"Admit it, you still love me," he demanded in a soft but authoritative tone, enough to make you squeezed and rubbed your legs together.
Both of you didn't do anything at first, merely having a staring competition while daring the other party to make the first move. To let their guard down and give in to the temptation.
Clink clink!
The sound of your metal utensils dropping to the table pierced through the silence. Your hands shot out, grabbing a fistful of Riki's hoodie that had no right in making him looked more attractive than he already was. You caught the faintest flicker of surprise in his eyes as you roughly tugged him down to smash your lips against his.
Riki froze for a few seconds but when he realized what was happening, he eagerly reciprocated it and easily took the lead. He moved to stand between your legs while resting his right knee on the empty space on the chair, dangerously closed to your clothed cunt.
You had to tilt your head all the way back and you knew you'll be getting a horrible neck cramp tomorrow. But right now, you couldn't find it in yourself to care.
"Is this your way of saying yes?" He chuckled, mumbling the words against your lips, refusing to pull back like the distance could kill him.
"Shut up. You piss me off, you know that?" You snarled, refusing to acknowledge his question and cut off his laughter by kissing him again.
Unlike before, Riki's hands began greedily tracing the outline and silhouette of your body—trying to figure out how much you had changed. He boldly slid his large, warm hands underneath the sweatshirt—his sweatshirt, smirking into the kiss at how you subtly arched into his touch when he slid his hand up your spine, slowly and teasingly.
"You look hot when you're pissed. Maybe I should piss you more often," he joked and before you could retort with something snarky, he pulled back from the kiss, leaving a visible trail of saliva that snapped into half and sank to his knees.
You watched with bated breath, both hands gripping onto the edge of the chair you were seated on. Your breakfast was long forgotten at this point.
Riki tapped on your thigh twice and you obeyed, slightly lifting your hips up, aiding him in the removal of your—well, his, sweatpants. He raised an eyebrow when he noticed you didn't worn anything underneath it.
"No panty? Dirty girl. Did you touched yourself last night?" He questioned you, not bothering to remove the sweatpants and letting it pooled around your ankles.
Riki threw your right leg over his shoulder, grabbing onto your thigh to tug you forward. You let out a surprised sound when your body slid down and lurched forward until you were in an awkward position—half-kneeling and half-sitting on the chair.
Heat crept up the back of your neck at how focused Riki was as he stared at your bare, throbbing and aching cunt that fluttered while being on the receiving end of his puma-like gaze. He didn't asked for permission or warned you, diving in like he hasn't eaten for months. His tongue darted out, licking from the opening up to your clit.
To tease you and further pushed you over the edge, he gave a light, fleeting suck that drew a loud and high-pitched broken moan from the depths of your throat.
"F-Fuck, Riki," you moaned, head tilted back until it's bent backwards over the back of the chair as you canted your hips forward, craving for more.
The older man paid you no mind as he alternated between slow, flat stripes and quick, kittenish licks, the rapid change giving you whiplash. You couldn't keep up, mind blanking out with how good he was. Not even Doohwa had gotten this far with you, even though you were already engaged.
Riki glanced up from where he knelt—between your legs, like he was a loyal worshiper. His eyes lingered on your facial expression—how you bit down on your bottom lip, how your eyes were squeezed tight and how you furrowed your eyebrows as you struggled to hold back the noises.
That won't do.
Determined to hear it, he buried his face deeper and with his other hand, he spread you apart with his middle and index fingers. You let out a strangled whine as he pushed his tongue in, moving past your wet, soaking folds.
Heck, you could even felt his nose bumping against the hood of your clit just right.
"Fuck, look at you. Riding my face like that. Has my son not done this before?" He groaned.
If Riki could, he wished to spend an eternity between your legs, having his mouth on your pussy—eating it for breakfast, lunch, tea, dinner and supper. He couldn't get enough of how sweet and addictive you taste.
The indirect mention of Doohwa's name made you let out a weak mewl, mind already too far gone as you continued rocking your hips against the sharp outline of his nose. Broken moans, gasps and chanting of Riki's name fell from your lips like a sacred prayer.
"Riki.. oh god, d-don't stop.. fuck, pleasepleaseplease," you pleaded, voice dripping with such neediness that it made his cock twitched against the loose restraints of his sweatpants.
Riki moaned, the sound muffled and the vibration against your pussy was enough for you to reach your climax. Your legs spasmed out as your entire body trembled from the overwhelming and intense feeling.
You would had kicked him right in the face if he didn't held you down by your waist firmly.
Riki didn't stopped, tongue still lapping away while ensuring not a single drop had gone wasted. Eventually, he pulled away with the bottom half of his face covered in your slick. His plump lips looked even more irresistible than it already was, making you dryly swallowed. Riki didn't broke your eye contact, wiping your slick away with the back of his right hand.
What he did next nearly made you jumped on him, right there and then.
He brought his now soaked hand to his mouth and licked your slick up, like a cat greedily lapping from a plate of milk. You couldn't looked away, like your body had betrayed you as you stared at him, in both disbelief and something else you refused to acknowledge.
Something else that is related to you wanting to kiss the living life out of him, like a vampire. As if knowing what you're thinking, Riki smirked and stood up.
"Thanks for breakfast," he simply said before walking away, leaving you seated on the chair with your sweatpants still around your ankles as you struggled to wrap your mind around the mere fact that you had crossed a line and was now in a very dangerous territory.
What's worse was the fact that you wouldn't mind doing this again.
~
Whatever happened afterwards was a blur to you. You don't remembered finishing the remains of your breakfast, washing the dishes and changing back to the dress you wore yesterday. You don't remembered getting into Riki's car as he drove you back to you and Doohwa's home. You don't remembered him sneakily slipping something—a neatly folded piece of paper into your purse before you noticed it.
At first, things were normal. Both you and Doohwa were focused on your respective work life and the never-ending list of responsibilities that came with it. Doohwa had to spend more time in the office—reason being was his company had shortlisted him for an upcoming promotion. When he told you about it, you were on cloud nine and you went all out.
You made his favorite dishes and even going the going extra mile of pulling out the bottle of red wine that was given to you from your parents as a housewarming gift. The two of you spent the entire night drinking and chatting to your hearts' content.
Things were normal, until they weren't.
"I'll get going now," you announced to your co-worker, who nodded and bid you farewell.
"Bye and have a good weekend!" She said and you smiled, throwing her words back at her as well.
You stepped out of your company, already searching for Doohwa's car when you came to a stop. Your eyes landed on a certain tall figure, who casually leaned against his car with his arms loosely crossed across his chest. There were a few passerby who did a double take when they saw him, no doubt flustered by his looks. Some even giggled and whispered among themselves, wondering whose boyfriend or husband does he belonged to.
They were completely oblivious to the truth.
You swore your face turned as pale as a ghost. As if sensing your presence, he looked up and easily located you from where he stood. Riki arched an eyebrow, watching you. It's obvious he was waiting for your next move, curious to see what you would choose: fight or flight? If this was the old you, you would had immediately turned and bolted.
But now that you had grown up and became a young woman, you chose fight. Holding your head high while ignoring how every step you took only made your heartbeat quickened, you approached him and stopped before him.
"What are you doing here?" You asked, not bothering to sound polite or even greet him. "And more importantly, how do you know where I work?"
Riki was unfazed with your bluntness and merely smirked. "Doohwa called me. Asked if I could give you a ride home. Told me he won't be coming home tonight since he needs to work hard for his promotion."
You blinked and then narrowed your eyes at him. "And why should I believe you? How do I know you're not lying?" You asked, eyeing him warily.
Sighing, the man reached into the pocket and pulled out his phone. He unlocked it, opened the Messages app and turned it to show you the messages his son had sent him. You had to squint your eyes to get a clearer look at it.
Doohwa:
Hey dad, could you help to pick (Name) up after work?
I won't be able to do it since I'll be working overtime…
Here's her company address: XXX-XXXXXXXX.
"That piece of shit. He could've at least called me," you muttered under your breath as you moved back when you realized you were standing too close to him.
"He did. But I think your phone died. He tried calling you too but all of it went to voicemails, which was why he came to me instead," Riki answered, tucking his phone aside and pushed himself off the car he was leaning on.
"Get in, we can grab something to eat then I'll drop you off," he said, opening the passenger door for you.
A part of you wanted to walk away, stating that you don't need him to drive you home but another part of you wanted this. You ended up getting in and he closed the door after you. Riki walked round his car and got into the driver's seat. One quick scan of the black, sleek and polished design of the interior of the car told you enough.
"Looks like someone's earning a fortune," you pointed out, unable to hide the sarcasm that managed to seep into your voice.
"Oh, thanks. It's all part of the job," he casually answered and somehow, your left eyebrow twitched with how causal he said it. Like he was better than you.
You swallowed the rising and tempting urge to lose your temper and asked another question. "Where are we going?"
"You'll see."
You scoffed as you hugged your work bag close to your chest, like it could shield you from him. "Don't tell me you're kidnapping me or something."
Riki glanced at you and something akin to mischief twinkled in his eyes. "Relax. If I do that, we'll be heading to my place in no time."
Your cheeks burned at the implication behind his words, making you tightened your grip around your work bag. "You're disgusting."
"You say that but you literally let me eat you out."
"Riki!"
Out of all places you had in mind, you didn't expect for him to pull up in front of a familiar place. A place where it all began. You got out of the car after Riki parked it, staring at the bar with a bewildered look on your face. Footsteps approached you until he stood beside you, hands shoved into his pockets.
"What do you think? You like my surprise?" He asked, unable to hide the wide grin stretching across his face.
Your eyes darted between the name and his face. You barely managed to conceal the surprise that had already made itself known, awkwardly clearing your throat. "Don't tell me you're feeling nostalgic and decided to bring me here for a memory refresh."
He chuckled; amused and shook his shoulders. "Maybe. Maybe not. Who knows."
You frowned, clearly disliking how he's being vague. "You—"
"Ah ah, stop arguing with me. If you hate it so much, you can walk away right now. I won't stop you," he interrupted, watching you with a knowing glint.
He knew you wouldn't walked away. He knew you would stay with him. He knew you would let him do as he pleased—like what happened before. When you said nothing or didn't walked away, Riki smirked and gestured for you to walk ahead of him. You shot him a glare and if looks could kill, he would have died on the spot as you walked past him, even purposely bumping your shoulder against his, just because you're petty.
Riki said nothing as he followed you, purposely brushing his shoulder against yours. He opened the door for you, allowing you to enter and when you did, you had to pause, stand by the doorway to take in everything.
It was still the same.
There were no major changes done. The lighting, the atmosphere, the furniture and even the interior was exactly the same. You were so caught-up taking in your surroundings that you weren't even aware someone standing behind the counter spotted the two of you.
"Yo, what the—(Name)? Is that you?"
You snapped back to reality when someone called out your name over the music playing from the speakers. Before you knew it, Lee Heeseung had appeared in your sights. One look at him told you that he had aged well, just like the man currently standing beside you. Heeseung pulled you into an embrace without warning. You stilled for a few seconds but returned the hug and patted him on his back.
What you didn't know however, was how Heeseung playfully stuck his tongue out at Riki over your shoulder, causing the younger man to scowl. Heeseung broke the hug and smiled down at you, briefly and respectfully scans you from head to toe.
"Looks like adulthood's been treating you well. You grew up to be a fine woman, with all due respect, of course," he complimented you.
And you laughed for the first time today, waving off his words with a bashful smile on your face. "Stop it. You and your sweet words."
Heeseung chuckled. "What can I say? I'm a natural sweet-talker. You guys can grab yourselves some seats and if Riki wants, he can make the drinks as I'm kinda busy," he continued while pointing at his ex co-worker.
"You sure that's allowed, hyung?" Riki teased.
His ex-boss rolled his eyes. "I'm the owner of this place. What are they gonna do? Fire me? Hah, I'd like to see them try. But seriously, just do it if you want to. I need to go. Maybe we can talk again later."
Heeseung ruffled Riki's hair—much to the younger's annoyance. He gave you a friendly smile before disappearing into the sea of people. Your eyes scanned the place, managing to find an empty table and sped-walked towards it. You were the first to sit down, placing your work bag on your lap as you stared at the menu that was placed on it.
Riki, on the other hand, plopped down in the opposite seat of yours as he observed you with an unreadable look on his face. "You two look awfully cozy back there," he commented.
You didn't glanced up, scanning both the food and drinks sections. "Heeseung? Yeah, we became good friends after he made me and my friends drinks. Too bad they weren't on the house though."
"Yeah, and he's also someone who couldn't keep his hands to himself," he grumbled under his breath.
"Did you say something?" You asked, raising your head.
"Nothing. What are you planning on getting?" Riki immediately changed the subject.
You eyed him for a while but didn't brought it up, choosing to go with the flow instead. "I was thinking of getting the steak and probably something non-alcoholic for the drinks," you answered while pointing at the dish you mentioned.
Riki had to lean forward to get a closer look, his shadow being cast across both the menu and table when he does so. "Non-alcoholic? Didn't take you as the boring type."
"What's that supposed to mean?" You glared at him for the unknown time.
Seeing your reaction, he smirked—knowing he had you right where he wanted you to be. "I'm just saying. Non-alcoholic on a Friday? C'mon, it's a Saturday tomorrow. You need to loosen up a little. Unless you're scared."
The last word nearly made you see red.
"Scared? Oh, I'll show you what scared really looks like," you retorted.
Riki smirked as he stood up. "That's my girl. Be right back. I'll make your order."
Before you could say anything, he headed backdoor to where only staff was granted access, leaving you seated by the table, cheeks flushed at how he had called you his girl.
~
"Wait—!"
You weakly protested but your voice died down in your throat when Riki moved abruptly.
Bam!
The door slammed shut behind you as he used his weight to pin it closed. The sound echoed throughout the quiet and still apartment. His hands grabbed both sides of your head as he maneuvered you backward until your back was against the wall, trapping you there—not hurting or rough but desperate. His breathing was uneven now, chest rising and dropping fast as his forehead briefly dropped to yours, like he was fighting to control himself.
To control himself.
"Don't. Don't say anything," he said in a hoarse voice.
And he kissed you.
It was frantic, nothing like the controlled restraint he had shown before or the way he kissed you back then. This was different. More intense. More needy. More desperate. His mouth moved hungrily against yours, like he wanted to swallow you whole. Like he couldn't bear the thought of watching you letting someone else that's not him talking to you, making you laughed and smiled freely.
Riki's hand slid down to your jaw, thumb pressing there with poorly contained tension as he deepened the kiss, angling your head to the side, like he knew exactly how to steal your breath. Your palms were sweating profusely, mind spinning from the remaining alcohol in your veins and you felt unusually warm.
But, you couldn't pinpoint the exact reason why.
You tried to break the kiss, tried to stop him but Riki was stubborn. He growled, impatient and frustrated when you repeatedly delivered light whacks to his shoulders.
"Do you have any idea how hard it was? Watching you smile at Heeseung like that? How you kept entertaining him?" He murmured against your lips between each kisses, voice low and rough, sending shivers down your spine and the all-too familiar sensation of heat pooling in your stomach.
It's like your body only reacted this way when you're with Riki and not Doohwa.
You barely had time to process it before he kissed you again, slower this time but the intensity behind it remained the same, enough for you to openly and wetly pant against his lips. It felt possessive now, more deliberate—like he was reminding the both of you who was here first. Who still remembered.
His other hand rested at your waist, grounding and anchoring you to him, like he was afraid you will disappear the moment he loosened his grip.
"Every time hyung talked to you, you looked at ease. Like it was nothing. And I was right there, pretending it doesn't get under my skin," he continued quietly, jealousy bleeding through despite his best, futile attempts to keep it buried.
He rested his forehead against yours, your breaths mingling as you two breathed in the same space. You couldn't looked away, not when his eyes were dark and searching. Searching for any signs of you not wanting this, before it was too late.
"But it did. It got under my skin," he admitted.
"Ri—!"
You didn't managed to utter out his full name as he kissed you once more—not rushed or frantic, but full of weight and meaning, like a confession he could no longer keep inside. You couldn't keep up with him, not when your legs threatened to give way. You would've toppled to the ground if Riki didn't steadied you in the nick of time.
And then, your vision was tilted to the left.
Riki easily carried you in his arms bridal-style and headed to the bedroom—not the guestroom but to his own bedroom. Instead of placing or throwing you onto his bed, he pinned you against the wall the moment you stepped foot into the room, kissing you until you're breathless and your lips were swollen. You let him removed your clothes—the black blazer you wore to protect yourself from the cold, leaving you in your inner, plain black blouse and loose, black pants.
With lots of self-control behind it, he broke the kiss, chuckling at the disappointed whine you made at the sudden distance. He stopped you when you chased after him, causing you to furrow your eyebrows at him, confused with his intention.
"Get on your knees for me, doll," he demanded, voice firm and authoritative—leaving no room for objections.
Not that you were planning on going against him in the first place.
You compiled, involuntarily shivering at the usage of the pet-name—the very one he used back then. Your clothed knees hit the carpeted floor of his bedroom, sweaty palms resting on your lap as you looked up at him. Riki looked down at you and seeing you like this—willingly on your knees while batting your eyelashes at him, unaware of the effect you have on him.
"Fuck, you look pretty like this," he breathed out, resting his hand on top of your head as he grabbed a fistful of your hair with his fingers.
"Go on, I don't have all day," he drawled, cocking his head to the side as he looked down at you expectantly.
Your eyes darted between his face and the visible bludge in his pants that's right before you. To test the water, you raised your trembling hands. Out of excitement or nervousness, you weren't sure and you pulled the zipper down slowly. The sound of it being tugged down was loud, echoing throughout the four walls of the room, a foreshadowing of what's to come.
Riki didn't moved, watching and letting you pulled his pants and Chrome Hearts boxers until it's low enough, finally freeing his hardened cock proudly standing upright. Riki shivered at the light, fleeting sensation fo the cool wind brushing against his sensitive cock. Precum formed at the tip. You had to pause for a moment, unable to conceal the surprise that appeared in your eyes at how… well, huge he had gotten.
The last time you had sex with him, he wasn't even this big yet. It's times like these where you get reminded that the man standing before you now was longer the same as before.
Glancing up at him through your eyelashes, you scooted forward on your knees, so you can get closer without having to strain your neck. Instead of wasting time with foreplay or teasing him, you jumped right in. You swallowed him in one go, your gag reflex being non-existent. You slacked your jaw, pushing forward while ignoring the way your throat convulsed around the thick grith of his cock.
Riki groaned, head falling back to reveal his neck with his veins popping out. "Fuck, your mouth's still so good."
You moaned, the sound muffled and sending vibrations down the length of his cock, drawing a curse from the man above you. You began bobbing your head, hollowing your cheeks as you traced the protruding veins along the sides of his cock. You even reached out to caress his heavy balls, grazing your nails against the outline, causing his thighs to twitch at the mere contact.
With borderline shaking hands, Riki managed to pull out his phone from the pockets of his pants. What was supposed to be an easy task of unlocking the device and opening the camera app proved to be a difficult task. Especially with how warm and tight your mouth felt. He couldn't stopped replaying the image of you taking him whole without gagging in his mind, like it was on loop.
"Fuck," he hissed through his gritted teeth and clenched jaw at a particular harsh from you.
You chose that moment to pull away, making an audible "pop" sound and pressed your lips against the mushroomy tip, lips curled up in a smile at how it visibly twitched in your grip.
"What's wrong? Can't unlock your phone?" You cooed, teasing and taunting him. "Need some help?"
Riki paused and looked down at you, phone held in his left hand. The next thing you knew, he roughly tugged you forward by using your hair as the reins, until the tip was pressed against your lips, but you refused to let him in, stubbornly keeping your mouth closed. His eyes hardened at your disobedience.
"You forgot you're not the one in-charge here, doll," he snarled, giving another tug of your hair as your head jerked backward at an awkward angle where you're forced to look at him.
"Open up. Or else," he warned you.
Your mouth instinctively opened and this time, Riki was well-prepared. He held his phone before him, the camera app already opened. He clicked the record button and the timer went off as he filmed him shoving you down on his cock. His sudden action elicited a muffled, choking sound from you. Your eyes widened with tears prickling at the corners, blurring your vision slightly but Riki didn't cared.
He thrusted into your mouth, not giving a damn about your comfort as he used you as a fleshlight while chasing after his pleasure. He didn't cared that you were drooling as well, with it trickling down your widely-stretched mouth. Some even rolled down to his balls. The temperature difference of your warm and thick saliva against his cool and tight balls sent shivers down his spine.
Riki couldn't tear his eyes away from the video as he recorded your fucked-out facial expression—your half-lidded teary eyes, your lips obscenely stretched wide to accommodate the thick grith of his cock in your mouth and how he could even see the outline of himself down your throat at every snap of his hips. You could barely breathed, having to inhale and exhale through your nose.
He didn't warned you as he spilled hot and thick cum down your throat, painting it in the shade of white. You weren't even fazed with the salty taste in your mouth, letting it rest on your tongue, waiting for his permission for you to swallow it. Riki pulled his now limp cock out of your bruised, swollen lips with a loud "pop" sound. He tilted your face up with his thumb on your chin, zooming in with two fingers until it's focused on your mouth.
"Open your mouth. Let me see it," he cooed.
You obeyed him, opening your mouth as wide as you can and then, he shoved two fingers down your throat without hesitation. You audibly gagged on it, your throat tightening around the sudden intrusion. This time, tears rolled down your face as he dipped his fingers into the mini pool of cum resting on your tongue before spreading it over your entire mouth, ensuring every inch was covered in it, like he was spreading butter on bread.
Satisfied, Riki withdrew his saliva-coated fingers but instead of wiping it clean, he returned to his previous position—thumb on your chin. You still had your mouth opened, looking at him with wide and innocent eyes.
Except you were anything but innocent.
You thought he'd asked you to swallow but he moved, bending over at waist level with his phone angled out of the way but he was still recording you. You let him further tilt your chin back and then—
Spat.
Your heart stopped beating. Riki had just spit into your mouth. He knowingly smirked at your reaction—how your brain malfunctioned on the spot. He tapped twice on your bottom lip with his index finger—the very same finger that was in your mouth a few minutes ago.
"Swallow it," he demanded.
And who were you to say no?
You obeyed, making a show of you swallowing everything—his cum and his saliva. When you did, you parted your lips to show your now cleaned mouth and he nodded, satisfied. Riki stopped the recording, pocketing his phone. He pulled you up to your feet to capture your lips in a intense, feverish kiss, not caring that he's able to taste himself on your lips which only further intensified the feeling.
He turned you around and made you moved backward until your knees knocked into the side of the bed. You fell backward onto the clean, neat and tidy sheets with a 'thud' sound. Riki was quick to be on top of you and trailed kisses down your neck, drawing a soft and pleased sigh from you. You tilted your head back, eyes closed in bliss with your chest pressed against his.
"Can I take this off?" He asked, voice unusually soft despite the rough way he manhandled you a few minutes ago.
You blinked but nodded your head. "Y-Yeah, you can."
Your ears turned red at how you stuttered but thankfully, Riki didn't comment on it. He finished unbuttoning the rest of the buttons of your blouse and you lifted yourself up from the sheets, allowing him to slide it off until the fabric is brunched around your elbows.
He quickly made quick work of his clothes, stripping until he's naked. Your eyes flicked down and you saw it—a red kiss mark tattoo on the side of his stomach. Your eyes lingered longer than usual but you forced yourself to look away. However, you knew you were caught red-handed with the knowing smirk Riki sent you.
"Like what you see?" He asked, voice low and deep.
You couldn't helped yourself, pushing yourself up to get a closer look. You reached out but your hands froze mid-air, looking at him, waiting for permission. Riki nodded and you took that as your sign, resting your right palm above the tattoo. You traced the outline of it with your fingers, ears registering the sharp inhale from Riki.
"You… When did you get this?" You murmured, voice soft.
"I got it when we were still…" His voice trailed off but you knew what he wanted to say.
When we were still having that friends-with-benefits relationship.
Riki awkwardly cleared his throat, resting his hand above yours—completely covering your hand from his view.
"What do you think? Do you like it?" He asked. If you were to listen closely, you could detect shyness behind it—like a young boy seeking approval from his mother.
You didn't answered him verbally, choosing to answer with your action instead. You gently pried his hand away from the tattoo, able to feel his confusion but it vanished when you leaned forward, pressing your lips against it, in the exact same position and angle.
The mere contact of your plush but still swollen lips against the kiss mark tattoo made him visibly jolt. Riki's breath hitched in his throat, eyes widening with genuine surprise at your unpredicted and bold action. You let your lips lingered against it for a while before pulling away. Riki snapped back to reality and cupped your face, kissing you with neediness that it made your head spun.
You let him pushed you back until you were laying on the bed. Riki broke the kiss, taking in the sight of you laying beneath him with your hair spread out like a messy halo. Feeling flustered with his gaze, you covered the bottom half of your face with the back of your palm, eyes averted to the side. But Riki clicked his tongue in disapproval. He reached out, grabbed your hand and pinned it on your left, smoothly intertwining your fingers together.
"Don't hide from me. You're beautiful," he reassured you, eyes filled with nothing but utmost sincerity.
You stared at him, taken aback by how honest he was. You didn't know how to respond and merely meekly nodded your head, not trusting in your voice. Riki chuckled, amused with your reaction. He didn't completely removed your blouse, leaving it hanging around your elbows as he made quick work of your pants, now leaving you in your matching set of underwear—a plain, black set of bra and lace panties.
Riki tossed your pants onto the floor, eyes zoned in on the evident wet spot, right over where your pussy was. He rested a finger on the wet spot, moving it upward with his eyes on your face—observing your reaction. He faintly smirked at how you gasped, hips canting forward, craving more of it.
Tugging the soaked and thin fabric aside, he let out a low and impressed whistle at how your pussy was drenched, with visible, thick and sticky strings of your arousal being stretched to the side, along with the movement.
"Look at you, already drippin' for me," he breathed out, amazed with how wet you are as his finger inched closer, now fully touching your bare pussy, savoring the little and soft whimpers spilling from your lips.
"Too bad that useless son of mine doesn't know how sweet you taste."
The moment he finished speaking, Riki dived in. He flattened his tongue as he ran it along your puffy, dripping folds, collecting your slick that couldn't stopped dripping. The sheer contact of his rough tongue against your sensitive pussy drew a loud and shameless moan from you.
Your back arched off the bed, legs now tightly wrapped around his head, locking him in place. You were worried that you were suffocating him but the thought flew out of your mind when he pushed not one, but two fingers in until he was knuckles-deep in.
Riki had to control himself when he felt how tight you were around his fingers, making him wonder: would you be able to take his cock? But as the saying goes, 'if there's a will, there's a way'.
The double penetration of his tongue and fingers made you see stars exploding behind your eyelids. Riki easily located that delicate spot located against your gummy and velvety walls. He expertly curled his fingers in just the right angle, drawing more angelic sounds from your lips.
"Ngh—F-Fuck, Riki, oh god," you moaned, throwing all ounces of shame and self-discipline out of the window at how he pressed his thumb down on the hood of your clit before moving it in a slow, circular motion in clockwise direction.
You weren't even aware that you started fucking yourself back on his fingers as he pumped them in and out at a steady interval. The bedroom was filled with your moans and the lewd sounds of him eating you out like there's no tomorrow. You couldn't registered what you were saying. It could be his name or you blabbering anything that sounded suspiciously like please and more.
Whatever it was, it seemed to have an effect on Riki with how he audibly moaned into your pussy, burying his face deeper like he wants to die between your legs with his tongue tasting your slick, treating it like sweet nectar from a sunflower.
"G-Gonna cum," you panted, warning him while trying to push him away but Riki was persistent. He ignored your weak and feeble attempts to shove him away as he continued to abuse your poor pussy.
All it took was for him to move his fingers in a scissors-like motion, spreading you opened and a slow, teasing flick with the tip of his tongue for you to come undone. Your stomach muscles tightened from the orgasm as overwhelming pleasure washed over you. Riki still didn't moved away, relentlessly eating you through your climax. It was only when you went pliant against the sheets was when he finally let you breathe.
He pushed himself up onto his knees, his pink tongue darting out to lick at the wetness coating his thick and plump lips. "Fuck, have you had sex with Doohwa before?" He asked.
The sudden question right after he gave you the most intense orgasm of your life made you stared at him, like he had spoken in a different language. It took you a few seconds for your mind to catch up and you shook your head, still in a daze.
"No, we didn't. We only kissed and made out, that's all. Never gone further than that," you admitted, oblivious to how your words made something in Riki twitched.
"So, he hasn't touched you here before?" He asked, scooting closer and boldly cupped your bare, overly-sensitive pussy, drawing a soft whine from you at the sudden contact.
Again, you shook your head but he wasn't pleased with the lack of verbal response.
"I needs words, doll. Answer me," he instructed, pushing the tip of his index finger back in, watching as how your head fell backward.
"N-No, he didn't—nonono!" You cried out at how he pulled his finger out, ignoring the way you pathetically clenched down on him, attempting to make him stay.
Riki lets out a dark and low laugh at the crestfallen look on your face and let out a faux coo, even furrowing his eyebrows in faux concern and pity. "Aw, poor baby. Sure you want my fingers?" He asked, chuckling at how you eagerly nodded your head, eyes half-lidded.
"Are you sure? Thought you want my cock instead," he continued.
The way your eyes widened and lit up at his words nearly made him laughed, if it wasn't for the mood of the current situation. Riki moved you upward until your head was resting on a pillow.
He placed another pillow underneath your hips as he situated himself between your spread out legs. He couldn't get enough with how sinful you looked—laying there while looking at him with wide and doe-like eyes, ready to take him.
Ready for you to become his.
Riki forgo the condoms as he didn't have them anymore. Not after he had Doohwa with one of his one-night stands. He reached over the bed, picking up his phone. This time, he was able to easily unlocked it and opened the camera app, pressing the record button.
He tilted the phone down, ensuring to capture the angle of him aligning himself against your weeping entrance but instead of pushing in, he rubbed the tip against your folds, collecting your slick as he coated it over his cock, acting as temporary lube.
"Beg for it, darling. Wanna hear you beg," he said, the recording perfectly capturing everything.
You whined, fingers gripping onto the pillow beneath your head with your nails digging into it. You tried to cant your hips forward, hoping he could just slide in but Riki held you down by your hips, his strength easily overwhelming yours.
"I say beg for it. Show me how much of a desperate woman you are, wanting someone else's cock instead of your fiance," he taunts, his crude words drawing a pitiful and needy whimper from you.
"P-Please, wan' you," you begged, frustrated tears burning in your eyes but Riki didn't gave in.
Not yet. He wants to push you further.
"Try again. You can do better."
You sniffled pathetically. At this point, your mind was no longer intact within your body. Which was why you barely comprehend the words that slipped from your mouth, like it was nothing.
"Please daddy, wan' your cock," you pleaded and fuck, the way you addressed him. That one singular word struck something deep and feral in Riki.
He didn't dropped his phone or stopped the recording. Instead, you felt his hard, thick cock pressed up adjacent in your cervix in a singular shove, his chest heaving up and down erratically as desire gleamed in his dazed eyes.
You felt the air being punched out of your lungs with how deep his cock was. You swore he could hit the entrance to your womb—something you didn't know was possible.
Until now.
"Shit, you're so tight," he cursed, zooming in to capture the lewd moment of your pussy lips stretched obscenely wide around the grith of his cock.
"Ki, move, please" you whispered.
Riki raised an eyebrow. "No, that's not what you called me just now."
You looked at him, mind struggling to process his words and that's when it hit you. Riki hummed at your hesitation.
"Guess you don't want it then," he shrugged his shoulders, pretending he was about to pull out but as he expected, you stopped him.
"No, don't!" You protested.
"Yes? What do you want, doll? Use your words," he coaxed you, ensuring that your face wasn't captured in the recording.
You paused for a few seconds, trying to pluck up the remains of your close to non-existent courage. "Please fuck me… daddy."
Riki audibly groaned at the last word, his cock twitched inside of you. He pulled out until his tip is still inside you and then pushed back in, slamming his hips against yours.
His balls slapped against your ass cheeks with every deep and harsh thrust from him. The older man grit his teeth at how you tightened around him.
He changed the angle slightly, easily finding the same spongy spot and wasted no time in abusing it, the tip of his cock kissing it with every thrust.
The new change of angle drew more high-pitched and breathless moans from you as you lay there, body shuffling up and down.
The bed-frame kept smacking against the wall with a series of loud and heavy thud, thud, thud.
You weren't even sure if Riki's neighbors were around but you hoped they weren't. Not with how loud you were being.
"Takin' me so well. You're made for me, aren't you?" He groaned, tossing his phone aside but he didn't stopped the recording. It landed camera down on the sheets and now, it was merely recording the loud, lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin.
Riki looked down, smirking when he saw a ring of white, thick liquid forming at the base of his cock. He reached out, hand spreading your fat pussy lips apart, watching as you took more of him.
"Ngh, d-daddy—hah, please, moremoremore," you chanted, eyes rolling up to the back of your head.
Riki lets out a breathless chuckle, leaning down so he can whisper into your ear, hand still spreading you apart for him. He didn't slowed down, still maintaining the ruthless pace he set earlier.
"Bet he won't fuck you this good, would he? Maybe I should show him the clips, hm? Show him how much of a slut you are, letting his dad fuck you. Begging for an older man's cock when you're engaged," he downright sneered, his words drawing a needy mewl from you and he continued.
"If you didn't walked away, you would had this a long time ago," he murmured under his breath, almost like he was talking to himself.
Riki's eyes trailed down to your stomach, able to make-out the faint outline of his cock. He watched as the bump moved up and down, along with him.
Seeing your stomach having a bulge because of him made his mind spin. Thoughts start to creep in—how would you looked carrying his child? Would it be a boy or a girl? Would they have your eyes, your smile and your laugh?
Just the thought of you being pregnant with his child is enough to give him a newfound motivation. The motivation to knock you up and doing this behind his beloved son's back only made it even more tempting and sinful.
"You'd like it, don't you? Carrying my kids, pretending you aren't getting fucked by his own father," he taunts, words dripping with nothing but mockery. But to you, it felt good, in a way you couldn't described.
You couldn't speak, not when you felt the all-too familiar sensation of your stomach tightening. Riki knew you were close, with how your breathing grew more ragged and heavier. He buried himself up to the hilt and you tipped over the edge.
Your mouth dropped open, forming a silent 'O' shape as your pussy convulsed around his cock, milking him dry as he followed suit—spilling thick and hot semen, painting your creamy walls white.
Marking you as his.
You laid on the stained sheets, mind too far gone and too exhausted to move your limbs or even raised a single finger. Riki, on the other hand, didn't pulled out. His cock was still inside of you. The only form of warning you got was him flipping you over until you were pathetically on your hands and knees, that were trembling, barely able to contain your weight.
Riki draped himself over you, his chest pressed against your back with his chin resting on your shoulder. His hand trailed down, gently running his hands along your pussy lips, savoring the way you shivered and how you unconsciously leaned into his touch.
"Don't think I'm done with you yet, doll. We need to make up for the lost time," he whispered into your ears and that's when you knew, you were in for a long, long night.
~
You told yourself that would be the final time you do… whatever this is with Riki. But no matter what you were doing—be it working, spending time with Doohwa or planning your wedding ceremony, your mind couldn't stopped thinking about him. Couldn't stopped thinking about the way his hands touched your body, knowing exactly where to touch, to make you crumble before him, reducing you to a flushed and pliant mess.
To make matters worse, Doohwa was constantly away—due to him gradually spending more time in his office while desperately chasing after his promotion. This only gave you the perfect excuse to keep this up. While your fiance was busy working with his life put on the line, you were busy… well, getting the best fucking of your life.
You should feel guilty for doing something as unforgivable as cheating on him. But then again, whenever you looked at Riki or when the two of you are alone in the same room, it was like gravity had pulled you together. Clothes were hurriedly removed, like they were nothing but nuisances and were getting in the way.
You had ran out of fingers and toes to count how many times Riki had you moaning his name. As far as you were aware, he had taken you on every possible flat surface in his apartment—the kitchen counter, the many walls he has, the dining table and the list goes on. Heck, you even found out that you were quite flexible too, with how he had you in a mating press or with your ankles nearly pressed against your ears as you were forced to take his cock, over and over again.
Time slipped past in a blur and before you knew it, the day had officially arrived.
The day of your wedding.
Normally, the bride would be thrilled or over the moon at the thought of finally being wedded to their fiance—who will soon be their husband. However, you were feeling anything but joy. You couldn't hear the compliments thrown your way from your family or friends. You couldn't hear the well wishes that fell from their lips and how some were borderline tearing up.
Currently, you were in the bridal suite after spending the past two to three hours letting the make-up artists and stylists making you as beautiful as possible, until you couldn't recognized the woman in the reflection. You stared at yourself, like you were looking at a complete stranger. The make-up wasn't bad in any way but what they didn't know was the sea of emotions in your heart and mind.
"You look gorgeous."
You instantly snapped your head to the door and there he was, standing there with his hands shoved into the pockets of his black pants. Just like everyone else, Riki had wore a tailored-made suit but somehow, he was able to pull off the look effortlessly, making him looked like he was a model ready to walk the runway soon.
And of course, he chose today to wear the glasses. A pair of black-rimmed glasses that rested on the bridge of his nose. The very same glasses that made you lost your mind when you saw him wore it for the first time, resulting in you eagerly sinking to your knees when he was having an online meeting as you unbuckled his pants and—
"You're not supposed to be here!" You exclaimed, rising from your feet, pulling your long wedding dress up to not trip over it as you approached him.
Riki chuckled, not moving from his spot. "It's fine, I'm not the one you're marrying so the rule doesn't apply to me," he paused briefly, letting his eyes roamed down your figure without any ounce of shame and he stepped forward, causing your breath to hitch.
"And besides, I have a very special surprise for you," he murmured, lowering his head to brush his lips against yours, approval glimmered in his eyes when you didn't pushed him away.
You nervously gulped. "…What kind of surprise is it?"
Riki straightened himself and stepped away. "Now telling you will ruin it. But don't worry, it's not something bad."
He sniggered at your bemused expression and bid you farewell as he left the suite, gently closing the door behind him.
After the guests had taken their seats, the ceremony kicked off. The doors opened, revealing your father, wearing a suit, on the other side of the door. He stared at you in shock before his eyes softened—which only made you felt even worse, like you were about to vomit right there and then. Still, you mustered the best smile you can, slipping your hand around his arm as the two of you—father and daughter, began walking to the room where everyone was waiting.
Everyone with Riki included as well.
Soon, you arrived before a closed pair of doors. You tightened your grip on your father's arm, who rested his hand above yours, giving it a gentle squeeze to reassure you. The staff took that as their sign to open the doors and countless eyes instantly snapped to your direction. The guests rose from their seats, clapping and some even started throwing flowers as your father walked you down the aisle.
You looked to the front—seeing Doohwa wearing a suit and from the looks of his face and glossy eyes, he was on the verge of bursting into happy tears. You instinctively looked towards Riki, who stood a few feet away and the sight of his expression—calm and knowing, made you felt unsettled. His words replayed in your mind and you quickly looked away, pretending to not noticed the way he smirked at your reaction.
You reached the end of the aisle and robotically climbed up the small flight of stairs, with the staff helping you by lifting the back of your long dress and veil up. And then, you found yourself standing before Doohwa with the officiant now making his appearance as he stood between the two of you, a smile on his face.
"Today, we are gathered here to…"
You tuned out the rest of the wedding vows. Physically, you were looking at Doohwa while holding his hands but mentally, you were thinking about someone else. Someone who was not him, your future husband. The man who you were supposed to spend the rest of your life with. Your eyes flicked down to your stomach, resisting the urge to touch it as you didn't want to draw any attention to it but you knew something had shifted inside you.
Something that was related to you possibly being pregnant with Riki's child.
"..you agreed to take (Name) as your wife?" The officiant asked, directing the question to Doohwa, snapping you back to reality.
"I do," he answered without missing a beat. Without hesitation and you envied him.
"And you, (Name), do you agreed to take Doohwa as your husband?" He asked.
Everyone waited for your response, practically at the edges of their seats.
"I—" You opened your mouth and then, Riki made his move.
The screen on your right, which was playing a simple but romantic backstory of how the two of you met turned into a black screen. The crowd was confused as they murmured among themselves. At first, they assumed it was a techinal difficulty and that's when you saw something that made your heart dropped.
It was an audio.
The sound of skin slapping against skin, moans—your moans and Riki's grunts played from the speakers. Everyone in the room went still, unable to believe what they were hearing. Some of the parents rushed to cover their children's ears, to protect their innocence. Some were downright revolted as they quickly connect the dots, their previous happy expressions was now replaced with disappointment and resentment.
You couldn't find it in yourself to look at Doohwa, not wanting to face him after the secret you had hide with you for so long, was now revealed to the public. The audio went on for a few more seconds before it was cut off.
Silence.
Doohwa turned to you, his hands slipping from yours.
"What…?" His voice cracked but he regained his composure, expression now cold and void of any emotion. "Explain yourself."
You couldn't say a thing. Your vision blurred, the white of the ceremony, the flowers and the guests. Everything melted into indistinct shapes. You were now at the center of attention but for the wrong reasons. The echo of the audio still rang in your ears, like it was mocking you.
"I asked you something! Explain yourself," he demanded, taking a step closer, his shoulders trembling as he seethed with rage.
When you still didn't speak, his disbelief was replaced with something else—anger and just like the crowd, disgust.
"You slept with him. You fucking slept with my father," he spat out, each word sharp enough to draw blood if he were to mold it into a weapon.
Gasps rippled through the room. Whispers turned into murmurs and murmurs turned into silent but hostile judgment.
"You dare to stand in front of me, promising me forever and letting me put a ring on you, knowing you're with him," he continued, voice cracking the more he spoke and you were tempted to say something, anything.
But, what could you possibly say when all he said was the truth?
This time, tears freely rolled down your cheeks, not caring that your make-up was smudged. And until now, you didn't know what you could say to defend yourself.
"How could you!? How could you cheat on me? How could you do this?" He was shouting at the top of his lungs now.
And his outburst was a signal to the crowd, allowing them to freely voiced their uncensored thoughts.
"Shameless."
"How vile."
"She trapped him."
"No morals at all."
Each word struck you harder than anything else.
Your chest felt tight, breath shallow. You could feel the walls gradually closing in as the weight of every stare and every words bore down on you, until your legs were trembling below your dress. Someone laughed—short and derisive. Someone else cursed under their breath. Someone pulled out their phone, no doubt recording the whole thing.
You couldn't breathe.
"I—I didn't—" Your voice broke. "It wasn't—"
But no one wanted to hear it. Not when you had been painted as the villain.
You turned and ran. Your heels echoed sharply against the marbled floor as you fled down the aisle that was meant for vows, past the flowers, past the life you were supposed to have. Insults followed you like a swarm of angered bees—spatting words at you, anger, betrayal and disgust. The doors burst opened as you shoved through them, cold air hitting your face as you stumbled out, lungs burning as you gasped for breath.
And then—
"Did you like my surprise?"
You stilled, knowing who it was without turning around. But still, you slowly turned around, like how a ghost would be in a horror movie. Riki stood a few feet away from you—as cool and collected as always but this time, there was something dark and twisted in both his eyes and expression. Like he had planned this. Like he knew this will happened.
"You… You ruined my life," you accused while pointing at him.
The man merely blinked. "Don't put all of the blame on me, doll. You agreed to it. You were the one who willingly came to me too, so you don't get to act innocent."
You flinched, physically recoiling like a hostile cat. "I—"
Riki barked out a cold, humorless laugh as he closed the remaining distance, invading your invisible and personal line. He cupped your face, tilting your head back, forcing you to meet his eyes. "How about this: you come with me and we move to another country?"
"What?"
He let out a condescending sigh, like he was talking to a child. "Since you're no longer wanted here, you should come with me. We can move to Australia. I have a job offer there where I'm needed to work on a long-term project. Come with me and I can take care of the both of you."
Your breath hitched at the word 'both'. "How did you—"
"Did you think I'm someone who does things without planning them?" He cuts you off, getting the front-row seat of watching as realization hits you.
Your eyes widened, lips parting as you stared at him in horror and disbelief. "You… You planned all of this from the start? You made me carry your child and now you want to kidnap me? Taking me away from the people I love?"
Riki had the audacity to roll his eyes. "People you love? Oh please, they don't even loved you anymore. Not after what they just heard."
You clenched and unclenched your fingers, teeth grinding down on one another so hard that you would have shattered a tooth. "…What do you want from me?"
"Simple. I want you to come with me. And once you do, you won't regret it," he said, resting one hand on your waist.
You swallowed hard.
Your eyes flicked past him—to the now closed doors that you were facing thirty minutes ago, before your life flipped upside down. The whispers hasn't stopped. You could still feel them crawling under your skin, rewriting you into something ugly and unforgivable.
"I can't. There's nothing left for me if I go with you," you whispered but you didn't freed yourself from his grasp.
He leaned in, close enough for him to whisper into your ear. "There's nothing left for you if you don't come with me."
The last thread snapped. You thought of Doohwa's eyes when he looked at you a few moments ago. Of the ring that now felt heavier than before. Of how the word love had been stripped of meaning in front of everyone you knew.
And most importantly, the public humiliation you just suffered.
You laughed, hollow and broken. "You sure I won't regret it?" You asked, despite knowing his answer doesn't matter, not when he had you in the palm of his hands.
Riki didn't hesitate, just like Doohwa. "I swear."
You nodded.
The moment you did, his grip tightened. It wasn't painful but it was full of certainty. Possessive. Like he knew all along that you will say yes. He guided you away from the room, hand still holding your waist as he dragged you to the backdoor, where his car was intentionally parked there.
You didn't look behind you.
As you disappeared into the car with him, the door closed with a final and resolute thud, only one thought quietly echoed in your mind:
You didn't know whether you had saved yourself or you had willingly stepped into something far worse.
in which you a devoted wife, comfort your stressed husband with a loving meal, your support and an intimate passionate night
pairing — husband dom!jungkook x housewife sub!femreader
genre — established relationship, slice of life, domestic vibes, slight angst, romance, smut, fluff
warnings/tags — 18+, explicit smut, possessiveness, smoking as a form of stress relief, emotional comfort and vulnerability, stress and anger, devotion, emotional and physical intimacy, oral sex (m. receiving), blowjob, cock sucking and palming, face fucking, hair fisting, deep throating and gagging, making out, hickies/marking, bruising, rough sex, dirty talk, praise kink, slight degradation, oral sex (f. receiving), breast play, nipple play, nipple sucking, he is obsessed with her tits, fingering, clit stimulation, slight orgasm denial, overstimulation, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, slight breeding kink, creampie, crying from pleasure and pain, scratching, love confessions, aftercare
wc — 5.2k
masterlist
the late afternoon sun streamed through the curtains.
you stood in the kitchen, barefoot, dressed in one of jungkook's oversized black t-shirts.
it hung loosely on your petite frame, carrying the lingering scent of his cologne—a comforting reminder of your husband.
as you busied yourself preparing his favorite dinner.
your hands moved with quiet confidence, slicing vegetables. the kitchen was a place where you poured your heart into every dish you made for jungkook.
tonight, you wanted everything to be just right.
earlier when he’d called you during his lunch break, his voice had been different, weary—a stark difference from his usual warmth.
he hadn’t said much, but you knew him enough to know that he had a rough day at work.
as his wife, you always wanted to create a warm home for him, a place where he could leave the world's burden behind and just focus on you.
be himself.
you hummed a small tune to yourself, focusing.
cooking for jungkook was your way of showing love, an act of devotion that spoke louder than words.
especially when your shyness sometimes held you back from being vocal about your love for him.
as the clock neared the timing of his arrival, you glanced at the front door, heart fluttering, but worry still laced your thoughts.
jungkook would be home soon.
and you wanted to be ready for him.
you smoothed the t-shirt over your thighs, you absolutely loved wearing his clothes—it felt like a piece of him was with you.
all the time.
your hair was pulled into a messy bun, few strands framing your face, and you wore no makeup in your natural state.
exactly the way your husband preferred.
the sound of a car pulling into the driveway soon brought you out of your thoughts. your pulse quickening as you heard the heavy thud of the car door.
you bit your bottom lip before turning quickly.
you turned off the stove, wiped your hands on a towel, and took a deep breath.
wanting to brace yourself for whatever mood jungkook might bring home
the front door soon opened, and there he was—jeon jungkook, stepping inside with his broad frame like a king dressed in a tailored black suit.
his commanding presence filling the room.
you can see that his broad shoulders were strained against his suit, dark hair slightly ruffled as if he’d raked his hands through it in frustration.
a habit of his that you knew by heart.
his jaw was clenched, brows drawn in a frown, his heaviness made your heart clench as he dropped his briefcase by the door and yanked his tie, loosening it with an irritated tug.
seeing him like this—so handsome yet so clearly tired and exhausted made your heart ache.
“hey.” you said, softly.
stepping out of the kitchen, moving towards him. your hands fidgeting together, a nervous habit of yours and you looked at him.
unsure how to reach him when he was in this state.
jungkook didn’t answer right away.
instead, he walked to the living room in a few long strides and sank down onto the couch, head tipping back against the cushions.
he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lighting one with the help of his lighter. he took a deep drag, exhaling, the smoke curling upwards.
the sharp smell of tobacco mixed with the lingering smell of dinner.
and you watched him quietly, heart twisting at how wounded he seemed.
you stood near the kitchen, fingers twisting his t-shirt, watching him smoke in silence.
his gaze fixed somewhere far off, distracted, free hand tapped on his thigh restlessly.
cigarettes were rare for him, something he only turned to when the stress was too heavy for him to handle.
you hated seeing him like this but you also knew he needed a moment before he’d finally let you in.
finally, you got the courage and decided to approach him, steps slow and careful.
“kookie.” you murmured.
using the nickname that always seemed to soften him even on his darkest days.
you stopped in front of the couch, close enough to feel the warmth and anger radiating off him and you looked down at him with wide worried eyes.
“are you okay?”
jungkook's eyes met yours and for a moment the harshness in his face disappeared.
his gaze softened as he took you in—your small frame in his t-shirt, bare legs and flushed cheeks.
he took another drag before stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray on the coffee table.
without a word he reached for you, large hands wrapping around your waist and pulling you onto his lap.
you let out a gasp.
he drew you close, body tightly held against his. his arms encircling you, strong and possessive, and he buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in deeply.
you felt his lips brush your skin in a tender kiss that sent a shiver down your spine.
“god baby...” he murmured.
voice rough against your neck, heavy with exhaustion
“you're the only thing that makes this day worth getting through.”
your cheeks warmed at his words and you wrapped your arms around his neck.
using one hand to run your fingers through his dark hair.
“i’m here, kookie.” you whispered, voice trembling with emotion.
“always”
he kissed you, lips claiming yours with a slow, gentle kiss, allowing you to taste him—smoke and something so him.
you melted into him, in the warmth of him.
his hands roamed all over your back, cupping your ass, pressing you closer to him, coaxing a moan out of you, swallowing it with his tongue.
you felt the tension in his body begin to loosen, shoulders easing as he lost himself in you.
when he pulled back, his eyes searched yours.
forehead against yours, warm breath hitting your lips.
“i had a shit day, baby,” he admitted, voice quieter now, less sharp but still heavy.
“work was a fucking mess.”
you cupped his face gently, thumbs brushing his cheeks.
“want to talk about it?” you asked, voice soft and encouraging.
you shifted in his lap, straddling him so you could face him fully, knees sinking into the couch on either side of him.
his hands settled on your thighs, fingers tracing lazy circles in your bare skin.
and you felt your chest warming at the familiar closeness you were receiving from him.
jungkook sighed, head tipping back against the couch, he started at the ceiling.
“the new client we’re dealing with—they’re a nightmare,” he started, voice filled with frustration.
“they keep changing the contract, demanding more work without wanting to pay for it. my team’s been working their asses off for weeks, and today during the presentation, the client boss had the balls to call our work basic, fucking ‘basic,’ baby. after all the late nights and endless work, the bullshit we’ve put up with”
you listened closely, heart aching for him.
jungkook was a senior manager in a company and while he always loved taking challenges, sometimes the relentless demands of his job wore him down.
way too much.
you reached for his tie, fingers working to take it off as he spoke, paying attention to him talking out his feelings while you take care of him.
your touch gentle and soothing.
“that’s not fair,” you said softly, sympathy lacing your voice.
“you work so hard, koo… they don’t appreciate you enough.”
he lets out a bitter chuckle, hands tightening on your thighs as he speaks.
“no kidding. and then, to make it worse, one of my team members screwed up the project during the meeting. i had to jump in and fix it on the spot in front of everyone and the client just sat there smirking like they’d won something.”
you frowned, hands pausing at his tie.
“that’s awful,” you murmured.
“you shouldn’t have to deal with that. you’re always cleaning up other people’s mistakes.”
“you also deserve to be taken care of… who will look after yours, mhmm?” you huffed.
clenching his shirt in your fist like you were trying to prove a point.
jungkook’s eyes softened at your cuteness, looking at you, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“you’re too good to me, you know that?” he said, tenderly
“i come home ranting like this, and you just… listen. you make it all feel lighter.”
your cheek warmed and you look away, suddenly shy under his gaze.
“i just want you to feel okay,” you mumbled, focusing on unbuttoning the top of his shirt.
“you do so much for us, always working tirelessly. i want to take care of you too.”
he smiled, a genuine smile that only you bring out of him, making your breath hitch in happiness.
“you do, sweetheart.” he hummed, hands sliding up your waist, squeezing gently.
“more than you know”
you finished loosening his tie and draped it over the couch arm, lazily, running your hands down his chest, feeling the hard muscles underneath his shirt.
“why don’t you go take a shower?” you suggested, softly.
“it’ll help you relax. i'll warm up the dinner for you meanwhile.”
jungkook's eyes fixed on you for a moment, intense and unreadable and he nodded.
“alright.” he rasped.
“but only because you’re asking so nicely.”
you giggled softly, the sound helping with the heavy mood and tension, you slid off his lap, standing in front of him.
he stood towering over you with his tallness, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your forehead.
“don’t take too long.” you teased, voice playful.
he smirked, a hint of his usual charm breaking through.
“yes, ma’am.” he quipped, allowing his palm to give your bottom a small quick slap.
you let out a squeak, lips parting in shock and shyness.
you can hear the man laugh deeply, heading towards the bathroom, disappearing down the hallway.
you shook your head, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips, and you returned to the kitchen.
your heart feeling lighter.
you turned on the stove to reheat the food, rich aroma filling the air again and you started setting the table with care.
arranging plates and needed utensils. you lastly poured two glasses of iced tea.
knowing jungkook loved its cool flavor with dinner.
in the bathroom jungkook shed all his clothing, fabric pooling on the floor. he turned on the shower.
letting the hot water stream down his shoulders, washing away the day’s frustrations.
he closed his eyes, the steam surrounding him.
he thought of you—your soft voice, gentle hands and the way you looked in his t-shirt, so small and perfect.
so his.
the tightness in his chest began to loosen, replaced by a warmth that had nothing to do with the water.
back in the kitchen, you hummed, plating the food and arranging the meat and vegetables neatly.
when you heard the shower shut off, you glanced toward the hallway, stomach twisting in anticipation.
jungkook emerged a few minutes later, hair damp and messy, now wearing a black t-shirt that clung to his hard muscles and gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips.
he looked more relaxed, jaw still slightly clenched and a faint crease in his brow.
you knew he was still carrying some of the day’s weight.
he walked into the dining area, eyes softening as he took in whatever you placed on the table.
“this looks incredible, love.” he said, voice warm with gratitude.
he pulled out a chair and sat down, gaze flickering to you when you set his plate in front of him.
“you didn’t have to do all this.”
you blushed, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
“i wanted to,” you said, softly, “you deserve it.”
he never liked whenever you overworked yourself, he even insisted at times on doing the house chores, not wanting you to work too much, but you never listened.
always wanting to take care of him.
he reached for your hand, tugging you close until you stood between his legs.
“sit with me,” he said, voice firm but gentle.
“you’re eating too.”
you nodded, a bashful, shy smile on your lips, grabbed your plate, sitting across him.
jungkook waited until you took your first bite before starting.
a habit of his that felt natural to you now.
he would always do this, never wanting to do anything first without you starting it before him.
he watched you, eyes filling with a mix of protectiveness and affection.
“good girl.” he muttered.
and you felt a familiar warmth pooling between your legs from his praise.
dinner was quiet at first.
only the sounds of clatter from plates and jungkook's occasional hum of approval.
the meat was tender and flavorful and you smiled to yourself when he reached for seconds.
his appetite felt like a silent compliment to your efforts.
you knew he loved eating so you always made sure to make a sufficient amount of food, especially his favorites.
“this is perfect, baby,” he said between bites, eyes meeting yours.
“you always know how to make me feel better.”
your heart swelled and you looked down, focusing on your own plate.
“i’m glad you like it, koo,” you said quietly, with a smile.
he chuckled, reaching across the table to tilt your chin up with one finger.
“don’t hide from me,” he teased, thumb brushing your lower lip.
“you know i don’t like it.”
“i want to see that pretty face of yours.”
you scoffed, blushing fiercely, a grin appearing on your face with no restraint.
“kookie,” you whined, embarrassed by his attention, he grins, a deep rumble escaping his mouth.
the conversation flowed easily between you two after that, a mix of light teasing and deeper moments.
jungkook talked about his new project that he and his team were starting, his voice high with excitement while he was described the parts he was most anticipating.
you listened quietly, asking questions and always offering quiet encouragement.
always giving him your full attention.
“you’re so good at what you do,” you said at one point, voice sure.
“i'm so proud of you, kookie.”
he paused, fork hovering over his plate, looking at you with an intensity that stole your breath.
“you’ve no idea how much that means,” he breathes, voice serious.
“coming home to you, hearing you say that… it’s everything.”
your chest heaved and you looked away, overwhelmed by his presence. he reached for your hand, squeezing it gently.
as if he never wants to let you go.
when dinner was done, you started clearing the table together.
jungkook insisted on helping you despite your protests.
“you cooked, i clean.” he said firmly, leaving no space for arguments.
his hands brushed yours, taking the plates to the sink. you stood side by side washing and drying the dishes in comfortable silence.
the simple act so full of love.
grounding you both.
later you both sat on the couch together, jungkook's arm draped over your shoulder, a movie playing on the television.
you knew he wasn't paying attention in it at all.
you still felt the tension in his frame, jaw still clenching, body tight and you knew his earlier ease had soon turned into unease.
you glanced up at him from his chest, feeling sad at the fact that you couldn’t help his silent struggle.
“koo…” you crooned, turning to face him.
“you’re still tense. is there anything i can do?”
wanting to help him more than anything.
he looked at you, eyes unreadable, an emotion you couldn’t quite read.
“just keep being you,” he said, gruffly.
“that’s more than enough.”
you nodded, heart racing and leaned up, hand pressing on his chest, and kissed him, gentle and reassuring.
trying to comfort him through actions.
the kiss deepened, his tongue exploring your mouth and hands slid under your shirt—his hand caressing your bare stomach, causing you to let out a shaky whimper.
“let’s go to bed.” he grunts against your lips, voice thickening with need.
you let him lead you to the bedroom, small hand warm in his big, calloused ones.
the bedroom was dimly lit from the bedside lamp and you climbed onto the bed, the fabric riding up to reveal that you wore nothing beneath.
jungkook's nostrils flared when he noticed it, gaze lingering on your soft, bare thighs.
he sat on the edge of the bed, reaching for another cigarette, lighting it. he took a slow drag eyes never leaving you, and you felt a flush creep up your neck at his predatory stare.
you watched as he exhaled, you knew he was thinking of ways to make you forget your name.
he always did that… admire his meal.
before devouring it fully.
the sight of him smoking unraveled you in ways you couldn’t explain.
“you’re so damn beautiful,” he said roughly, the cigarette lazily dangling between his fingers.
“sitting there in my shirt, looking like that”
you flushed, tugging at the hem of the t-shirt, his words sending a thrill through you.
he soon stubbed out the cigarette, reaching for you, pulling you into his lap with a hard yank.
his manhandling knocked the breath off your chest.
he kissed you deeply, tongue exploring everywhere in your mouth as the taste of tobacco and your strawberry lip balm mixed together.
something so familiar and lewd.
you mewled softly in his mouth, gripping his hair until he groaned in return.
his hand slid under the t-shirt, calloused fingers grazing your lower back before cupping your bare ass, squeezing firmly.
fingers barely touching your bare cunt, you gasp out on his ear, panting.
the sensation was like a jolt, skin tingling as you arched into him, breasts pressing against his chest.
the fabric of your shirt and his hard chest teasing your sensitive nipples, that were already hard from the cool air and his gaze.
“kookie…”
“fuck, baby.” he growls, voice rough with want.
he breaks the kiss and doesn’t waste any time before leaving hot, open mouthed kisses down your jaw to the sensitive spot below your ear.
his breath warm, stubble tickling your skin, making you let out a series of needy noises at the delicious feeling of that along with the softness of his lips.
“you sound so sweet when you make those noises, keep going for me.”
your pussy was dripping, clit throbbing already and you could feel the wetness stream down your thighs, making you squirm.
his hand steadied you, not letting you move away from him.
he pushed your t-shirt up, exposing your breasts to the cool air, nipples puckering further under his gaze.
“oh god…” you breathed.
jungkook's eyes darkened, eyes hungry, taking in your bare breasts, nipples begging for his touch and mouth.
“these damn tits.” he rasps, adoration in his voice.
his thumb brushed over the sensitive buds and the contact was so sudden, too much pleasure, that it made you cry out a soft moan.
he rolled your nipples between his fingers, pinching just enough to make you writhe, your hips rocking against his instinctively.
his hard cock strained against his sweatpants, the feeling of it pressing against your bare cunt was too much.
too much all at once.
your clit throbbed harder, the fabric of his sweatpants stimulating it, your body eagerly grinding on him.
“mhhh jungkook, please…” you pant.
your voice trembled, hands clutching his shoulders, nails digging into his muscles needily.
“patience, baby” he teased.
his lips curled into a smirk with amusement from your neediness.
he leaned down to take one nipple into his mouth, tongue swirling around the peak, hot and wet, before he sucked hard, the pull sending pleasure pain straight to your core.
“oh hahh—oh kookie—”
your voice broke in a cry as your head fell back, body arching into his mouth.
the wet heat of his tongue, along with the slight graze of his teeth, other hand kneading your breast, thumb flicking your nipple.
it was overwhelming.
you shuddered, lost in him.
lost in pleasure.
he switched to your other breast, making sure to provide you with the same attention everywhere, tongue lapping at you like he can never get enough.
“hah… shit…”
the room filled with your gasps and breathy whimpers that encouraged him.
he loved it when you were vocal.
your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging and he growled against your nipple, the vibration making you tremble.
your head dizzy.
“so damn responsive.” he chuckles darkly, lips brushing your nipples and he blows on your saliva coated wet nipple.
“ah!”
a cry tore from your throat, gripping his hair harder, his teasing too much for you.
“you’re perfect, love. my perfect girl”
you pushed his hands away, cheeks flushed.
you slid off his lap, kneeling between his legs on the floor.
a bold act of yours that rarely comes out for him to see.
his eyes widened, than darkened with lust when you tugged at his sweatpants, your fingers trembling.
you wanted to make him feel good.
he always went all the way to pleasure you and never asked for anything in return.
today you wanted it to be about him.
his cock sprang free, thick and heavy, tip glistening with precum and you swallowed hard.
you were intimidated but aching to please your husband.
the sheer size of him always surprising you despite seeing it almost every day.
you wrapped your hand around him, fingers barely meeting as you stroked slowly, feeling the hardness of him along with the throb of his cock.
“fuck, baby…” he groans, his head falling back, hand fisting the sheets.
his voice was gravel and strained, and it made your pussy palpitate harder.
you leaned down, lips brushing the tip, tongue coming out to catch the droplet of his precum, tasting his saltiness and he hissed.
he growls, hips twitching, struggling to hold back.
he wanted to fuck your pretty mouth.
wanted to take that mouth like how he would take your pussy.
your eyes meet his, his expression making you clench around nothing.
wanting to be filled, feeling empty as ever.
you slowly took him into your mouth, lips stretching around him while your tongue swirled before sinking lower.
you struggled to take the entirety of him, he was too big.
he hit the back of your throat and you were already choking, tears filling your eyes, struggling to breathe
it was too much.
you moaned around him, the vibration making him curse.
“goddamn it, baby,” he snarled, fingers tangling in your hair, guiding your head gently.
“suck your husband’s cock like that. you’re so damn good.”
you bobbed your head, hollowing your cheeks, your own noises sputtering, free hand stroked where your mouth couldn’t reach.
along with his balls, gripping the heaviness of them in your fingers, fondling them.
wet slurps, your gasps and his ragged breathing—filled the room, along with the creak of the bed from his movements.
your throat ached, eyes watering, but that didn’t stop you from taking him deeper.
loving how he unraveled.
for you.
his stress seemed to melt, replaced by raw animal need.
“fuck, you’re so pretty like this,” he rasped, thumb brushing a tear away from your cheek.
“my good wife.”
he thrust into your mouth, his grip on your hair tightening and you tried to relax your throat, letting him take control.
your gurgles and cries vibrated around him, drew curses and grunts from him.
you felt pride in how you made him feel.
“you’re gonna make me come, sweet girl.” he warned, voice strained.
his hips stuttering as you continued sucking him like you would suck a lollipop.
your favorite candy.
he finally pulled you off him with a soft, wet pop.
your lips swollen, eyes teary and cheeks flushed.
the sight made him let out an animal growl, he pulls you up to him, crashing his lips against yours.
the kiss was messy and desperate.
all tongue and teeth.
the taste of your lip balm mixing with his saltiness drove you both closer to madness.
he flipped you onto your back, legs spread wide by his hands gripping your thighs, you panted.
“koo…” you called out to him, making him shush you.
wanting to take his time with you.
the t-shirt bunched around your waist, exposing you, and he exhaled angrily.
a primal sound that made you want to squeeze your legs together, something he didn’t allow.
“look at you.” he mutters.
voice thick, he slides a finger through your swollen folds, collecting your wetness, you whined at the slight touch, racing heart matching with your pulsing clit.
“so damn wet for me. this little pussy's all mine, right?”
you blushed, gripping the bedsheets tightly, and nodded.
“yes, kookie…” you uttered, eyes half lidded.
he smirked and without any warning, slid two fingers inside, curling them to hit that spot.
you sobbed, back arching, pussy walls gripping him tightly.
you struggled to breathe properly.
he pumped his fingers inside you, thumb circling your clit, and you squirmed, moans loud and frantic as your hands bunched the sheets around you.
“that’s it, baby,” he coos, drinking in your expressions.
“let me hear you. let me know how good i make my girl feel.”
his words made you needier and you keened, the wet sounds of his fingers were too much, too obscene, and you soon felt your orgasm building.
body trembling and lips parted.
before you could come, he pulled out, and you let out a loud, needy whine, tears instantly welling in your eyes from the loss.
“noo, please…”
“patience, naughty girl.” he purred.
aligning himself with your entrance, he teased you, rubbing the tip through your folds, sliding up and down your slit but never entering.
you squirmed on the sheets.
“jungkook, please, i need you, don’t tease me.” you begged.
shyness gone, body and mind high on needing something only he could give you.
his eyes softened, his love for you filling his heart, and he decided to give in.
he pushed into you in one smooth thrust, penetrating you and you both moaned.
a shared sound of relief.
he was big, stretching you perfectly with a slight burn from the fullness even after having him fuck you for years now.
“fucking shit,” he grunts as he bottoms out.
“always so tight, so warm. such a good wife for me.”
he set a relentless pace, deep and hard and each thrust of his was hitting that spot inside you, making you full on wail onto the sheets.
“yes, yes!”
spilled from your lips repetitively.
the headboard starts hitting the wall, room filling with the noises of skin slapping against each other along with wet squelches.
his snarls, gripping your hips and pulled you into each thrust, your legs wrapping around him.
pulling him even deeper.
if that was even possible.
your nails raked his back, leaving red trails, he welcomes the pain, hips snapping faster, balls slapping against your folds roughly.
“yeah? you like that?” he growled.
his forehead met yours, eyes locked on yours, raw and full of need and he licked your collarbone, nibbling.
“take it all, baby. be a good little girl for me, come on.”
you yelped body trembling, he pounded you faster, your breasts bouncing, t-shirt tangled around your breast.
the sight of you almost naked, yet wrapped in his clothing, had him going feral in need.
he started sucking a hickey into your neck, turning it purple, you felt the force of his anger and need from his roughness.
taking out all his pent up tension on you.
what you wanted.
“jungkook!” you wailed, mind hazy from pleasure and pain, your walls clenching around him, tightening on him.
he groaned, feeling your orgasm nearing.
“come for me, baby,” he urged, voice hungry, thrusts erratic.
“come on your husband’s cock.”
he slipped a hand between you, thumb fingering your clit, and that’s it.
you shattered.
your orgasm crashing over you so fast and hard, you saw stars behind your vision
“kookie! nghh, it's too much—”
you screamed his name, voice broken, body convulsing, milking him.
he didn’t stop, chasing his own release, thrusts sloppy but deep and the overstimulation made you sob, biting your own fist to teeter you to the pain.
“you feel so good, fuck—” he shuddered, grip tightening, leaving bruises.
“gonna fill this tight cunt up!”
you clung to him and he came with a guttural curse, cock pulsing, filling you with spurts and spurts of his cum until it dripped down your thighs.
he collapsed onto you, not pulling out just yet, his heavy weight grounding you.
you panted, sweaty, his tongue entering your mouth once again, kissing you messily.
he pulled back and left a small kiss at the tip of your nose.
an action he often did after intimate moments, making you feel cherished in a way you cannot explain.
“i love you,” he gruffs, voice raw with emotion.
“so damn much”
you pouted, looking away, your shyness returning, but you never forgot to say it back, no matter the circumstances.
“i love you too, koo.”
he held you close to his chest, cuddling you.
you felt safe in his arms as the afterglow wrapped around both of you, warmth surrounding you both.
when he slowly decided to pull out of your heat, you whined at the emptiness, missing it instantly and he chuckled, nuzzling your cheek.
“my needy baby.” he teased.
you soon curled up on his hard chest, bare breasts pressing against his skin and kissed the tattoo of your name over his heart.
a delicate reminder from your first anniversary.
when he decided to surprise you with a tattoo of your name on his chest.
forever branding you to him.
he watched you, eyes softening, thinking how lucky he was to have you—his shy, sweet wife who loved him so fiercely.
as you drifted to sleep, lips parted, your cheeks flushed, jungkook brushed away a few strands of hair falling on your face, his eyes dilating with love.
his heart was full.
you were his everything.
his safe haven.
and in that quiet moment with you safe and sound in his arms, he knew he’d never need anything more in his life.
because he had the whole world right here in his arms.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4
The air was filled with the fragrance of a thousand flowers, just like it always was inside of your delivery truck, in your house, and most of all in your flower shop. They say the more frequently you smell something, you grow habituated to it and you stop registering it, and maybe that’s true but in the seven years you’ve been a florist, you have yet to take the sweet, cleansing smell for granted.
It has been a long time since you drove around delivering the bouquets yourself. You had stopped doing it ever since your small business grew a little and people started seeking you out personally for the unique designs you poured your soul into creating, and you had to hire a driver to do the delivering for you so your creative process wouldn’t get frequently interrupted.
You started this business out of passion. It was something you chose for yourself, entirely on your own, and so the sheer amount of effort that went into it never felt tiresome to you. You never made two bouquets alike, and you incorporated even the very hard to come by flowers if it meant getting your vision translated into reality just right, and so what little extra money you made -you were adamant on not overpricing your bouquets no matter how successful you got- immediately got spent on improving the little green house you bought and cared for, but that never bothered you. You weren’t in this for the money.
Even though your shop and the green house felt like your little slices of heaven, the chance to deliver some bouquets today, as suggested by Namjoon, was a lovely change of pace. You had forgotten how excited this part was, getting to see the jovial expressions on your clients faces after handing them the final product, and witnessing first-hand the happiness such a simple thing can bring to a person’s life, if even for a moment.
There was only one bouquet left to deliver, and it was the best one yet. A class of second year kindergarteners were graduating to elementary school soon and they wanted to surprise their beloved teacher with a little farewell present. That was the most precious thing you’ve ever heard and you couldn’t wait to see the surprise and happiness on the teacher’s face as the little ones proudly presented the flowers to him.
Author’s Note: You know the definition of a switch? Just look at the two characters in this story lol switch heaven
2k Requests, Masterlist
When Jungkook first came to room with you, you were less than ecstatic about it. You had only ever roomed with one other person before at the start of your freshman year of college, but you quickly got fed up with it. Not that your roommate was bad or anything. In fact, if you were being fair, you’d admit that she was a sweetheart. But you are an only child, and you were never used to sharing anything with anyone, and despite what everyone said about the joys of having siblings, you simply weren’t interested. You have none and that’s the way you liked it.
Tell that to your parents though. They were convinced that you needed the company after years of keeping mostly to yourself unless you had to, with the exception of a couple of close friends. They thought that if you keep at it, you’re going to turn insane from being in your head too much. Where they got that shit piece of pseudo-psychology you don’t know but it had enough hold on their minds to make them force you to get a room in the college dorms -yuck- and live with a stranger for an entire month.
Or it would’ve been a month anyway if you hadn’t made that poor girl’s life a living hell so much so that by the end of the third week, she was running away from your shared dorm room like the devil himself was behind her.
The series of students who came and went through your dorm didn’t last long enough to qualify as roommates. Your record was six hours, that’s how long it took to send one dude,-Hoseok, you’ll never forget the name- running for his life. It’s a shame too, he was cute, and you had to forever ruin your chances with him. But, oh well, there are much more important things in life, like having a bathroom all to yourself.
Soon enough, your college caught on to your reign of terror and they, not so kindly, asked you to vacate the premises and restore the harmony to the student body. Your parents were forced to rent an apartment for you, seeing as you weren’t allowed in the dorms anymore and they lived too far away for you to stay with them. Yeah, they could’ve withheld their money from you and taught you an important lesson about the consequences of being such a spoiled child but they loved you too much to do that. They’ve never been able to deal any real punishment to their baby girl, and that’s probably how you turned out to be so headstrong.
Little did you know, however, that your comeuppance was coming for you. It took five years, five long years where you enjoyed your solitude to the max, but just as you were enrolling in a one-year post-graduate Master’s program, instead of the peaceful send off into the working world you were counting on it to be, it turned into a shitshow of the highest degree with the arrival of a certain bunny-toothed brat.
Jungkook is the son of your family’s next door neighbours. But other than the daily ‘Good mornings’ and the occasional dinner invitation, your families weren’t really close, and the only contact you had with their shy son was that one year you tutored him in math. To be sure, you were shit at math but that didn’t stop you from attempting to make some money off the kid.
You see, Jungkook had a painfully obvious puppy crush on you, and even though you didn’t teach him shit, and what you did teach him was mindbogglingly wrong, he still never spoke a word of it to his parents, studying on his own and getting good marks just so he’d keep seeing you.
To say that you were a bitch to him would be an understatement. You’d frequently invite your boyfriends over, taking advantage of the fact that his parents were never around because of their jobs, and using his place to hook up with them, knowing Jungkook would never tell on you. You did not care or even notice much that you were breaking the boy’s heart.
Eventually, though, he got sick of your shit and asked you to stop coming over. But he still didn’t tell either of your parents, ever the sweet kid. You didn’t hear or see much of him after that, and you suspect that was intentionally his doing, until now.
As if the universe was punishing you for all your sins against the boy, it made him appear again in your life, but this time you were the one who was going to suffer.
On the last day before your Master’s program was set to start, your mum dropped the bomb on you, informing you that your old pupil was to shack up with you this year, and no amount of whining or begging or scheming was going to get you out of it. She gave you an ultimatum: either you let him room with you and look after him, or she stops giving you money and leaves your spoiled ass out in the cold to fend for yourself. Any funny business from you and you’re done.
You were in denial at first, convincing yourself that it couldn’t possibly be that bad. From what you remembered of Jungkook, he was a shy kid who did anything humanly possible to please you. You were sure that his crush must be long gone by now but he would still be the timid boy you remembered. Right?
⏤ genre: established relationship au, angst, fluff, and smut
⏤ rating: 18+
⏤ warnings: jealousy, alcohol consumption, swearing, a lot of pet names, dom!taehyung, big cock!taehyung, some teasing, spanking, fingering, praising, hickeys, handjob, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, riding, car sex, creampie, and a little bit of aftercare.
⏤ words: 5,373
⏤ summary: taehyung doesn’t like your best friend, he truly never did. kibum has always been too flirty with you, something he never liked. but this time, seeing him flirting with you at his birthday party was too much, and he felt the urge to make you understand that you’re only his.
⏤ author’s note: you can finally read and enjoy the taehyung version of beast! i pretty enjoyed reading the whole fic again and adapted it to create this new version. i want to thank you all for the support & love you’ve been showing since i released the teaser, you’re all absolute angels! happy birthday to my beloved taetae, he deserves nothing but the best! ❤️
as it turns out, i got reincarnated into park sunghoon’s gold-digging fiancée!
ʚɞ summary - after a truck sends you spiraling out of your old life, you wake in silk sheets and a diamond ring, trapped inside the body of cha y/n: the shallow, borderline-evil fiancée of ceo park sunghoon, fated to be discarded in popular webnovel melting the cold ceo’s heart. you know exactly how this ends: with sunghoon choosing your sweet wedding planner, lee soojin, on your wedding day while you stand alone, humiliated. so, of course, the most logical course of action is not to fight the plot. in fact, you’ll be the most pleasant, agreeable, and completely forgettable fiancée possible. but there’s just one problem with changing the storyline: it forces sunghoon to notice you. and the more you try to push him toward the love he is destined for, the more he pulls toward you instead. fate is one thing. desire is another. and when the man who was never supposed to even like you looks at you like you’re his world, walking away may cost far more than losing ever would.
ʚɞ tags - 18+ MDNI, f!reader, isekai/transmigration, angst, fluff, drama, slow-ish burn (?) vaginal sex (p in v), unprotected sex, breeding kink, window sex, office sex, jealous!hoon, wattpad-ish tropes yet again, sunghoon lowkey loses his mind bc the y/nussy is so good
ʚɞ w.c - 16k
THE LAST THING YOU REMEMBERED WAS THE BLARING HORN, the sound of screeching tires, and a truck’s grille filling your entire world. Then—
—nothing…?
You woke up to the pleasant smell of expensive linen and the feeling of your face pressed into a pillow softer than any cloud you’d ever imagined. Your head throbbed dully, and you groaned, pushing yourself up on elbows that felt strangely delicate, blinking against the morning light filtering through gigantic windows that showcased a city skyline you didn’t recognize at all.
What the hell?
The room looked like something from a spread from a luxury magazine. A chaise lounge in dove grey sat in the corner, next to a vanity table littered with crystal perfume bottles and jewelry boxes spilling over with gold chains and diamonds that glittered even in the soft light. You swung your legs out of the bed, your feet sinking into a plush, cream-colored rug. You were wearing silk pajamas—silk fucking pajamas!—a matching set in a blush pink that felt alien against your skin.
A full-length mirror stood opposite the bed. You stumbled toward it.
The reflection staring back was yours, and yet—it wasn’t. Your face, but perfected, hair that you usually kept in a hurriedly-brushed ponytail fell in artful, salon-fresh waves. Even your skin was flawless, glowing with the kind of health that only comes from expensive facials and a complete lack of real-world stress.
“Okay,” you whispered to the stranger in the mirror. “Okay, breathe. This is a dream. It has to me. A very, very detailed dream brought on by that last glass of soju and that novel you stayed up way too late finishing.”
The novel. Melting the Cold CEO’S Heart. It was a trashy, addictive romance you’d read on a whim, and the male lead, Park Sunghoon, was cold, ruthless, and unfairly handsome, trapped in a business arrangement—an engagement with a shallow, gold-digging socialite named… your blood ran cold as you remembered.
Y/N.
Your namesake, and the villainess of the novel. The one who was pathologically obsessed with Sunghoon’s money and status, who made the female lead’s life miserable, and who was unceremoniously dumped when Sunghoon finally broke free of his family’s shackles to be with his one true love, the sweet and humble wedding planner, Soojin.
You looked at the room around you. You looked at your perfect, manicured hands. You remembered the truck.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” you said, your voice echoing in the cavernous room.
The plot, as you remembered it, was straightforward. The real Cha Y/N would play the devoted fiancée, clinging to Sunghoon’s arm at every event, while secretly making the life of the female lead, Lee Soojin, a living hell. Sunghoon, cold to his fiancée, would find himself drawn to Soojin’s genuine warmth and resilience, and after a series of public scandals orchestrated by Cha Y/N, Sunghoon would finally snap, publicly denounce her, and run into the rain to confess his love to Soojin. Roll credits.
Your old life, by comparison, had been pleasantly predictable. You worked a mid-level office job at a small logistics firm, a job you were competent at but which offered no real passion. Your days were a blur of spreadsheets, lukewarm coffee from the breakroom machine, and polite, surface-level conversations with colleagues you’d never see outside of work hours. Your apartment was a snug, lightly cluttered one-bedroom. Your social life was limited to your best friend, Abby, who you only got to see about once a month for dinner when she wasn’t busy with her boyfriend, Heeseung. Weekends were for laundry, grocery shopping, and maybe a movie if you could muster the energy. It was fine, by all means. Safe. And, if you were being brutally honest with yourself in your most vulnerable moments, a little bit boring.
The thrill, the color, the feeling in your life came from elsewhere:
Webnovels.
They were your escape. During your lunch break, hunched over your phone at your desk. On the subway ride home, packed between strangers. Late at night, curled under your blankets with the screen’s glow the only light in the room. You devoured them. Regency romances, fantasy epics, modern-day dramas. You loved them all, but you had a particular, guilty fondness for the tropiest of the tropey: the cold, domineering male lead and the plucky heroine who thawed his heart.
You knew the formulas by heart. The accidental touch that sent sparks flying. The possessive glare across a crowded room. The misunderstanding that drove them apart for three agonizing chapters before the grand reconciliation. It was comfort food for your soul. In those pages, you could experience earth-shattering love without the risk of a broken heart.
Now, standing in this silent, opulent bedroom, the irony almost made you laugh. You’d fantasized about being in a story like this a thousand times, but—you’d always imagined yourself as the heroine, not the villainess slated for a spectacular downfall.
A soft knock at the door made you jump nearly a foot in the air.
“Miss Cha?” a polite, older woman’s voice called through the wood. “Your breakfast is ready. The car will be here in one hour to take you to Mr. Park’s office for the wedding planning consultation.”
Wedding planning. You felt, suddenly, very awake. That was today. Chapter Four, if you recalled correctly. The first official meeting between Cha Y/N, Sunghoon, and the wedding planner, Lee Soojin. The scene where the villainess would size up her rival with thinly-veiled contempt, make snide remarks about her choice of clothing, and generally establish herself as the obstacle to Sunghoon and Soojin’s true love.
Your stomach churned. You couldn’t do that. You physically couldn’t. The thought of being cruel to some innocent woman just trying to do her job made you feel ill.
But what was the alternative? If you weren’t the evil Cha Y/N, then who were you? A random office worker from another world, trapped in a fictional character’s body. If you started acting completely out of character, what would happen? Would the universe correct itself? Would you be thrown into a mental institution? Would Sunghoon’s powerful family have you quietly disposed of for being an unpredictable variable in their business merger masquerading as a marriage?
Panic, sharp and acrid, rose in your throat. You gripped the edge of the vanity table, your knuckles turning white. Think, Y/N. You have to think.
The original Cha Y/N’s fate was bankruptcy and social ruin after Sunghoon cut her off. She’d tried to fight it, to cling, to scheme, and it had only made her fall harder and more publicly.
So you had to survive. You couldn’t be that person. You wouldn’t. It was simple: do no harm, collect the checks, and get the hell out. Let Sunghoon and Soojin have their epic romance. You’d take the alimony and live quietly on a beach somewhere, far from this world of cutthroat socialites and emotionally constipated CEOs.
It was a coward’s plan, sure, but it was the only one that seemed to offer a path through this nightmare that didn’t end with you being publicly eviscerated.
You took a deep, shuddering breath and looked at the reflection again. “Okay, Cha Y/N,” you said to her. “Let’s do this.”
An hour later, you were in the back of a sleek, silent sedan, watching the city blur past. You’d chosen an outfit from the walk-in closet that felt the least like a costume and foregone most of the jewelry, wearing only small studs in your ears.
The driver held the door open for you in front of a towering glass skyscraper that seemed to pierce the clouds. The logo was etched into the side.
The lobby was cold and elegant, people in sharp suits moving with purpose across the vast marble floor, footsteps echoing everywhere. The receptionist, a woman with a smile as polished as the granite desk, took one look at you and nodded.
“Miss Cha. Mr. Park is expecting you. 67th floor, please.” She gestured to a private elevator whose doors were already sliding open.
The ride up was smooth and swift, and you watched the numbers climb, your heart doing a nervous tap-dance. The doors opened directly into a corner office.
The view was breathtaking, a panoramic sweep of the city and the river beyond. But the room itself was as cold as the man standing before the window, his back to you. He was tall, with broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, silhouetted against the bright sky. He wore a charcoal grey suit that looked like it had been tailored directly onto him.
Then he turned.
Park Sunghoon.
The description from the novel didn’t do him justice. He was handsome in a way that felt almost aggressive. Sharp jawline, dark, intense eyes under thick, perfectly shaped brows, hair styled in a way that looked effortless and expensive. But it was his expression that really hit you. There was no warmth in his gaze, no flicker of recognition or welcome for his fiancée. And how could you fault him? Cha Y/N had been a piece of work.
“You’re early,” he intoned.
“Looks like I am.” you managed, your own voice sounding too small.
He said nothing, just looked at you for a beat longer than was comfortable. Then he gestured with a faint tilt of his head toward a large meeting table off to the side. “Sit. The planner will be here shortly.”
You walked to the table, hyper-aware of the click of your heels on the polished concrete floor. You sat in the chair he’d indicated, folding your hands in your lap to keep them from trembling. He didn’t sit. He remained standing by the window, the picture of impatience and disinterest.
The silence stretched, and you studied the grain of the table, the way the sunlight caught the edge of a glass water pitcher. Anything to avoid looking at him.
You’d read about his coldness, of course you had. You’d found it thrilling in the abstract, a challenge for the heroine to overcome, but experiencing it firsthand was different. It was isolating. It made you feel invisible, inconsequential. You understood, with sudden, painful clarity, why the original Cha Y/N had become so obsessed with his wealth and status. If you couldn’t have his warmth, you’d settle for the things his name could buy. It was a pathetic, hollow consolation prize, but it must have been something to hold onto.
Another soft knock at the door.
“Enter,” Sunghoon said, not moving from his post.
The door opened, and a woman stepped in. She was around your age, maybe a year or two younger. She wore a simple, professional cream-colored blouse and a black skirt. Her hair was pulled back in a neat, low ponytail. She carried a large portfolio and an iPad.
Lee Soojin.
Your pulse quickened. The female lead. The woman who, according to the plot, you were supposed to torment.
She bowed slightly. “Mr. Park. Miss Cha. Thank you for having me. I’m Lee Soojin, from Ever After Planning.”
She was exactly as described, warm and beautiful. She had a kind, fresh face, warm brown eyes, and a smile that seemed genuine, though right now, it was tinged with nervousness as her gaze darted between you and the imposing figure of Sunghoon. She clutched a large portfolio to her chest like a shield.
“Please, come in,” Sunghoon said, and his voice was different, softer.
The meeting was awkward, to say the least. Soojin presented floral arrangements and color palettes, her voice occasionally trembling. You, desperate not to play the villain, said nothing except, “That looks lovely,” or “Whatever you think is best, Miss Lee.” You kept your eyes on the swatches, avoiding Sunghoon’s probing stare. You could feel it on you, a laser of suspicion. The real Y/N would have been picky and dismissive, finding fault with everything to assert dominance.
Sunghoon, surprisingly, engaged. He asked practical questions about logistics, timelines, vendor reliability. His questions were sharp and intelligent. Soojin, after a few stumbling starts, began to answer with growing confidence, her passion for her work shining through. You saw the exact moment he noticed it: a slight tilt of his head, a fraction of a second where his gaze lingered on her animated face instead of the brochure.
There it is, you thought, a strange pang hitting you square in the chest. The beginning. The plan was working.
But then he turned that gaze on you. “You’re not yourself today.” His tone was neutral, but the question in it was clear: What’s your deal?
You met his eyes for the first time that day. “Well,” you said, your voice quieter than you intended. “Ms. Lee seems very competent. I just trust her expertise.”
He stared at you again, then gave a curt nod, turning back to Soojin, and the rest of the meeting passed in a blur.
THE MONTHS THAT FOLLOWED WERE A BIZARRE SORT OF DANCE. You attended obligatory social events on Sunghoon’s arm, fit the role of a silent, smiling accessory perfectly. You learned the rules of this world: who to nod to, who to ignore, which fork and knife to use where and why. And through it all, you were forced into proximity with Park Sunghoon.
At first, it was nothing but ice. Silent car rides, silent meals. You didn’t think there was ever a way to hold a conversation with Park Sunghoon. But survival instinct was a powerful thing when it kicked in, and the more nervous you got, the more your immediate instinct to be yourself began to show, especially once you moved in together.
The incident that started the thaw was, of all things, congee.
It was three weeks in. A late-night business dinner had left Sunghoon looking paler than usual, the sharp lines of his face drawn tight. You’d heard him return, the quiet click of the door, then nothing. An hour later, a faint, pained sound from the kitchen. You found him leaning against the island, one hand pressed to his stomach, staring into the empty fridge with blank eyes.
“Stomach ache?” you’d asked, hovering in the doorway.
He’d just grunted in response.
The real Y/N would have called for a maid, despite the ungodly hour. You, on the other hand, having grown up middle-class, were a veteran of questionable street food and late-night stress-eating, so you simply nudged him aside with your hip and rummaged through the pantry. “Sit,” you said, your tone brooking no argument. “You’re blocking the rice.”
He’d watched, silent and wary, as you boiled the rice into a soft mush, shredding the leftover roast chicken from yesterday’s dinner and adding slivers of ginger. The kitchen filled with a warm savory scent, and when you slid the bowl across the island to him, he looked at it like it was a foreign artefact.
“It’s just congee,” you said, suddenly self-conscious. “My mom used to make it when I was sick.”
He took a cautious spoonful. Then another. You had never cooked for someone before, but seeing the almost imperceptible relaxation of his shoulders, the way the tension drained out of his body, made you realize why your mother had loved it so much. When he was done, he placed the spoon neatly in the empty bowl and met your eyes. “It was nice. Thank you.”
You’d snorted. “High praise, coming from you.”
A brief flicker of a smile touched his lips. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
That was the crack in the ice, and after that, indifference became harder to maintain. The silent car rides began to fill with your commentary on the city passing by, or his dry observations about the people you’d just met at some function. Once, you found him one evening in the library, staring blankly at a contract, his tie loose. You’d placed a cup of tea next to his elbow without a word. He’d looked up, surprised, then nodded in thanks. Another time, you’d gotten locked out on the massive balcony during a sudden rain shower. He’d found you, drenched and laughing, and instead of chastising you, he’d handed you a towel with a shake of his head, a genuine, if exasperated, smile on his face. “Only you,” he’d muttered.
Then came the charity gala for the Seoul Arts Foundation. It was a stuffy, black-tie affair, and the champagne was flowing too freely. You, nervous under the scrutiny of a hundred socialites who knew the real Cha Y/N, drank more than you should have. Sunghoon, for reasons unknown, matched you glass for glass.
It was no surprise that the car ride home, inevitably, was filled with giddiness. You were slumped in the backseat, giggling at nothing, the city lights streaking past the window like liquid silver. He was beside you, his posture less rigid, a soft, unfocused smile on his face as he watched you.
“You’re different,” he said suddenly, his voice a low rumble in the dark car.
“Am I?” you hiccupped, turning to him. His face was so close. The sharp angles were softened in the shadows.
“Mm. Before. You were so… loud. Demanding. Everything was—all about money for you.” He reached out, his finger hovering near your temple, not touching. “But now…”
“Maybe I just grew up,” you offered, the lie tasting bitter.
He shook his head slowly, his eyes searching yours with an unnerving intensity. “No. It’s not that. It’s like you’re a completely different person.” He leaned closer, his breath warm and faintly sweet with champagne. “Who are you?”
Your heart hammered in your chest. The truth was a wild, desperate thing clawing at your throat. In your tipsy state, it slipped out, covered up in a joke. “Maybe I’m from a different universe,” you whispered, a playful, dizzy smile on your lips. “One where I’m not a horrible person.”
He stared at you. Then, to your utter astonishment, his lower lip pushed out in the faintest, most fleeting pout. You had never seen an expression so disarmingly childish and vulnerable on his face, but it was gone in a second, replaced by a slight scowl. “Stop messing with me,” he murmured, but there was no heat in it. He leaned back against the seat, closing his eyes, a small sigh escaping him.
The hangover the next morning was brutal, but at least it was a shared misery. You found him in the kitchen, grimacing over a glass of water, still in his rumpled dress shirt from the night before. You wordlessly made tea, and when you handed him a mug, your fingers brushed. He didn’t pull away.
Then you got sick.
It was a brutal flu, a personal betrayal from your own immune system. One day you were fine, the next, you were a shivering, aching heap buried under the duvet in your room. The maids fluttered in and out with tea and towels, but the apartment felt cold.
You drifted in a feverish haze, only semi-aware of the passage of time. But then—
You heard the firm, quiet tread of leather soles on parquet. The room darkened as a tall silhouette blocked the light from the hallway.
Sunghoon stood there, still in his work suit, his tie slightly loosened.
“The staff said you haven’t eaten,” he stated, his voice softer than usual.
“Can’t,” you croaked, turning your head into the pillow. “Everything hurts.”
You heard him set something down on the bedside table—a small tray. Then, to your shock, you felt the bed dip near your hip as he sat on the very edge of the mattress. You kept your eyes closed, pretending to be asleep, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with fever.
For a long, long while, all you could hear was your congested breathing. Then, a touch. Light, hesitant. Fingertips, surprisingly cool, brushing the sweat-dampened hair back from your forehead. The gesture was so tender, so utterly at odds with the Park Sunghoon you knew, that your breath hitched. His fingers stilled for a second, thinking he’d woken you. When you didn’t move, they continued, tucking the hair gently behind your ear.
He didn’t say a word. He just sat there, his hand eventually coming to rest, palm down, on the duvet beside your shoulder. Then, after what felt like an eternity, he stood up. You heard the faint clink of a spoon against ceramic. “There’s broth here when you can manage it,” he murmured.
He worked from the armchair next to your bed that day, the quiet tap of his laptop keys a strangely comforting sound. He’d glance over every so often, refilling your water glass without being asked. It was the most mundane kind of care, but it made your heart squeeze. No one in this glittering, fake world had taken care of you like that. It felt more intimate than any kiss the novel had described between him and Soojin.
Life settled into a strange, peaceful rhythm that was nothing like the plot you remembered. You weren’t friends, not exactly. But you were… something. Allies due to the nature of your situation, perhaps. Your conversations became longer. You discovered he had a dry, wicked sense of humor that only emerged when he was truly relaxed. You learned he hated mint chocolate and loved coffee-flavored ice-cream. And then, one evening, you were in his study, looking for a book he’d said was in there. Your fingers trailed over the spines on a high shelf when you knocked a small, ornate wooden box to the floor. It sprung open, spilling its contents: not jewelry or documents, but a handful of old, laminated badges and a single, well-worn ice skate blade guard.
Curious, you picked up a badge. Seoul Junior Figure Skating Championship, 1st Place, Park Sunghoon, Age 12. Another: National Youth Competition, Finalist. There were photos, too. A young boy with solemn eyes and a shock of dark hair, poised on the ice, his arms outstretched. The resemblance was unmistakable.
You were staring at a photo of him, gap-toothed, holding a trophy with a rare, bright, unguarded smile, when his voice came from the doorway.
“What are you doing?”
You jumped, the photo fluttering from your hand. He was leaning against the doorframe, his expression closed off, but you saw the flicker of something—embarrassment? pain?—in his eyes before the shutters came down.
“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, gathering the items with clumsy hands. “I knocked the box over. I didn’t mean to pry.” You held up one of the badges. “You were a figure skater?”
He walked in, taking the badge from your fingers. He looked at it for a long moment, his thumb tracing the raised lettering. “It was a long time ago.”
“Why did you stop?” The question was out before you could stop it.
He didn’t answer immediately. He carefully placed the badge back in the box, his movements precise. “My father,” he said finally, his voice flat. “He decided it was a frivolous pursuit for the heir of Park Holdings. That it wouldn’t build the ruthlessness required for business.” A humorless twist of his lips. “I suppose he was right, in a way.”
The sadness in his tone made you inexplicably upset. You thought of the cold, ruthless CEO you’d read about, the one who only melted for one person. You were seeing the fossil of the boy who had been melted down and reforged into that man.
On an impulse you didn’t fully understand, you spoke. “When was the last time you were on the ice?”
He looked at you, startled. “I don’t know. Over ten years?”
“We should go.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Ice skating. We should go. There’s that new private rink at your country club. We could rent it out. No one would have to know.”
He stared at you as if you’d suggested flying to the moon. “That’s absurd.”
“Is it?” You pressed, a sudden boldness rising in you. “You loved it once. Don’t you ever… you know, miss it? Just the feeling of it?”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. He looked from your face to the open box, to the photo of his younger, smiling self. The conflict in his eyes was a war you could almost see play out in front of you. Finally, he let out a slow breath. “That’s a pointless thing to do.”
But he didn’t say no.
Two days later, his assistant quietly booked the rink for a private two-hour session at midnight. He didn’t mention it to you. You only found out when a note, written in his sharp, elegant script, was left on the kitchen island next to your keys: 8 PM. Dress warm.
An hour later, you were in the empty rink, feeling utterly ridiculous in brand-new thermals. Sunghoon was already laced up, moving with a natural grace as he carved a slow circle on the pristine ice. He made it look effortless. You, on the other hand, sat on the bench, fumbling with the laces. Your fingers felt thick and clumsy. After a minute of struggle, you felt the bench dip beside you. He didn’t ask. He just took the skate from your hands, his fingers brushing yours.
“You have to tie them tightly. Ankle support is everything.”
He bent his head, his dark hair falling slightly over his forehead as he began to lace the boot for you, his movements sure and careful. You watched, mesmerized by the sight of Park Sunghoon’s elegant, powerful hands, the ones that signed countless deals, meticulously tying a double knot for you. It felt impossibly tender. Then he did the same with the other foot, his knuckles accidentally brushing the sensitive skin of your ankle. A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold raced up your spine.
“There,” he said, looking up and meeting your eyes. “Now, stand up. Slowly.”
You did, taking one wobbly step onto the surface, and immediately felt your legs betray you. You windmilled your arms, a squeak escaping your throat.
“Careful, careful,” A strong hand closed around your elbow, steadying you. “Bend your knees. Not at the waist.”
“Easy for you to say,” you grumbled, but you bent your knees. His hand stayed on your arm, a firm, warm anchor.
“Now, glide. Don’t step.”
You pushed off, lurching forward. He moved with you, a silent, steady presence at your side. For the first ten minutes, it was a comedy of errors. You wobbled, you slipped, you clutched at his forearm with a grip that probably cut off his circulation. And through it all, he was patient. Surprisingly, infuriatingly patient.
“You’re thinking too much,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice as you stared at your feet in concentration.
“I’m thinking about not concussing myself on this ice!”
“Look at me. Not at your feet.”
You dragged your gaze up to his face. In the cool, bright light of the rink, he looked younger. The usual severity in his expression was softened.
“Better,” he said. “Now, just move with me.”
He took your hands in his, skating backwards and pulling you along. It was terrifying and thrilling. The world narrowed to the sound of blades on ice, the puff of your breath in the cold air, and the solid, reliable grip of his hands. You started to find a shaky rhythm.
“See?” he said, and you realized he was smiling. A real, proper smile that reached his eyes and made them crinkle at the corners. It transformed his face completely. Your heart did a funny little stutter that had nothing to do with skating.
“Don’t let me fall,” you said, the words coming out in a soft, breathless rush.
His grip tightened almost imperceptibly. He never looked away from your eyes. “I won’t.”
He guided you around the rink until your legs burned and your cheeks were numb with cold and laughter. Then, he demonstrated a simple spin, a blur of controlled motion that left you gaping. When he stopped, perfectly centered, he was breathing slightly harder, his face flushed.
He looked alive.
“Show-off,” you called, pushing off the wall to glide clumsily toward him.
He caught you easily when you overbalanced, his hands coming to rest on your hips to steady you. You were suddenly, acutely aware of the closeness. The heat of his body through the layers of clothing. The way his thumbs were pressing just above the waistband of your leggings. His face was inches from yours, his breath warm against your cold skin. His eyes were dark and searching.
You looked up at him, your own laughter dying in your throat. The rink was silent except for the hum of the chillers. For a heartbeat that felt like forever, neither of you moved. You could see the faint scar on his brow, the dark fringe of his lashes, the part of his lips as he breathed.
Then, a distant door clanged. The spell broke. He released your hips, his hands falling back to his sides as he took a small half-step back. “You’re getting the hang of it,” he said, his voice returning to its usual register, though it was a shade rougher and, if you listened hard enough, breathier.
All the way home, you replayed the moment at the rink over and over, the feel of his hands on you. It sparked a low, restless heat in your belly that was becoming frustratingly familiar.
That very heat continued to follow you, and it was driving you crazy. In the mornings, when he’d emerge from his bathroom, a towel slung low on his hips, his hair damp, his torso a landscape of lean muscle and faint scars you itched to trace. You’d mutter a good morning and flee to the kitchen, your face hot. Once, you came out of your room in just a thin camisole and pajamas to get water, forgetting he was working late at the dining table. The look he gave you—a slow, sweeping gaze that felt like a physical touch—had you scurrying back to your room, your skin prickling with awareness. You’d lie in your bed, in the dark, and imagine him in his room just down the hall. Was he asleep? Reading? Thinking about the company? Thinking about… you? Your mind would wander, unbidden, to the feel of his hands on your waist at the rink. To the solid heat of him when you’d stumbled against his chest. To the way his sweatpants hung on his hips. And then a slow, aching warmth would pool low in your belly, and you’d press your thighs together, frustrated and aroused in equal measure.
This was not part of the plan. Getting horny for your emotionally unavailable contract-fiancé was the fastest way to get your heart pulverized.
A WEEK LATER, SUNGHOON INFORMED YOU, OVER A BREAKFAST OF PERFECTLY POACHED EGGS, THAT YOU WOULD BE MEETING HIS FRIENDS.
“Friends?” you’d echoed, nearly choking on your toast. The novel’s Sunghoon had only business associates, rivals, and sycophants. Friends were never part of it.
“Yes,” he said, not looking up from his tablet. “Park Jongseong and Shim Jaeyun. They’re very insistent. They want to meet you badly.” He said it dryly, but you caught the slightest tension in his shoulders. “It’s a dinner on Friday, at Jay’s.”
Friday arrived, and with it, a low-cut dress that felt both too much and not enough. Sunghoon was silent in the elevator ride up, his profile sharp in the dim light. But when the doors opened into a sprawling, modern loft filled with the smell of gourmet food and the sound of jazz, his posture shifted. He placed a light, guiding hand on the small of your back.
“Sunghoon! You made it!” A man with a charming, lopsided grin and artfully messy hair bounded over, pulling Sunghoon into a brief, back-slapping hug. Jake, you guessed. His eyes, warm and curious, immediately landed on you. “And you must be the infamous Y/N.” He winked.
Another man approached, slightly taller, with a more composed elegance but a friendly glint in his eye. Jay, of course. He shook your hand firmly. “A pleasure. Come in, make yourself at home.”
The evening was nothing like the functions you’d gotten used to over the last few months, and you found that your initial nervousness bled away easily. Jay was dry and witty, Jake was sweet and genuinely funny. They teased Sunghoon mercilessly about anything and everything, and to your astonishment, he took it. He even smiled a real, relaxed smile that made your heart do that stupid little flip again.
And the best part was, they talked to you. Not to Cha Y/N, the socialite fiancée, but to you. Jay asked about your opinion on the new exhibition at the National Museum, and you found yourself in a debate about Norman Rockwell. Jake, hearing you hum along to the jazz track, pulled you into a conversation about it. You were in your element, laughing, arguing. You forgot, for a moment, the character you were supposed to be playing.
You also forgot to watch Sunghoon.
He had turned quiet, observing from his seat on the plush sofa, a glass of whiskey cradled in his hand. At first, you thought he was just back to being his usual reserved self. But as the night wore on and your laughter grew more frequent, you began to feel it—a tension emanating from him. When Jake leaned in to refill your wine glass, his hand brushing yours as he pointed to a particular album cover on the shelf, you felt Sunghoon’s gaze on you like a hand.
A few minutes later, when you got up to admire the view of the rolling countryside from the windows, Jake followed, standing close beside you to point things out. “There,” he said, his shoulder almost touching yours, “that’s where Sunghoon and I got hopelessly lost on a school trip. He was too stubborn to ask for directions. We nearly froze to death.”
You laughed, turning to him. “I can picture that.”
“Picture what?”
Sunghoon’s voice was quiet, right behind you. You hadn’t heard him approach. He slid between you and Jake with a smooth, deliberate movement. His arm came around your waist, his hand settling on your hip, pulling you back against him.
“Just reminiscing about your navigational failures,” Jake said, his grin not fading, but his eyes flicking between Sunghoon’s face and the hand on your waist.
“Mm,” Sunghoon murmured, his breath stirring the hair near your ear. His thumb moved, a slow, unconscious stroke against your dress. “Don’t believe a word he says. He was the one who dropped our map in the mud and got us lost in the first place.”
Despite the conversation not dying out, Sunghoon kept you anchored to his side, his fingers splayed on your hip, the warmth of his chest against your shoulder. Sunghoon’s interjections became more frequent in your interactions with Jay and Jake, his dry remarks steering the conversation away from anything that involved you and his friends directly interacting.
You couldn't say you didn’t expect that the journey back would be shrouded in a heavy silence. Sunghoon stared out the window, his jaw tight.
“Did you have a good time?” he finally asked, his voice devoid of inflection.
“I did,” you said carefully. “They’re lovely.”
“They seemed to think the same of you.” The words were clipped.
You turned to look at his profile. “Is that a problem?”
He didn’t answer. He just kept looking out at the passing lights, the muscle in his jaw working. The possessiveness he’d shown at the penthouse was gone, replaced by this cold, withdrawn sulk. It was so childish, and so utterly at odds with the man in the novel, who wouldn’t have batted an eye if the original Y/N had flirted with an entire football team. He’d found her disgusting, but he hadn’t cared. He’d been indifferent.
This wasn’t indifference.
The realization sent a dangerous thrill through you, followed immediately by a wave of guilt. You were messing with the script, and you had no idea what the new plot was.
Back at home, he headed straight for his study without a word. You stood in the grand living room, feeling unmoored. The heat from his touch still lingered on your skin, but the silent treatment felt worse than any cold remark. You took a deep breath and followed him.
He was standing by the window, a dark silhouette against the city’s glitter.
“Sunghoon.”
He didn’t turn.
You walked closer, your heels silent on the rug. “Are you angry with me?”
“No.” The word was short, final.
“You seem like it.”
He finally turned. In the dim light from the window, his expression was unreadable. “I’m not angry. I just don’t appreciate your…” he pretended to think. “Acting.”
“Acting?”
“The laughing. The leaning in. The wide-eyed interest in everything they said.” His tone was low, edged with something you couldn’t understand. “It was a bit much, don’t you think?”
A flash of irritation burst through you. “I was being polite. And for your information, I was genuinely interested. They’re good people, it was a normal conversation.”
“It didn’t look normal from where I was sitting.” He took a step closer. The air between you crackled. “Looked like you were enjoying their attention a little too much.”
You closed the remaining distance between you, stopping just an arm’s length away. You looked up at him, at the storm in his gray eyes. “Sunghoon,” you said, your voice tender. “They’re your friends. I was nice to them because they’re important to you. That’s all.”
But if anything, your softness seemed to make it worse.
A low, frustrated sound escaped him. He finally turned, but not to look at you. His gaze swept over his desk, the neat stacks of papers, as if searching for an escape. “That’s not the point,” he said, his voice clipped and cold.
The aching in your chest curdled into a sharp spike of annoyance. You’d spent the entire evening navigating his unpredictable moods, from his possessive display at Jay’s to this petulant silence. You’d offered an olive branch, and he was swatting it away.
“Then what is the point, Sunghoon?” you asked, the calm in your voice beginning to fray. “Because from where I’m standing, you invited me to meet the only people in your life who seem to actually like you, I had a genuinely pleasant conversation with them, and now you’re treating me like I’ve committed some kind of crime. So, please, enlighten me. What exactly did I do wrong? Was my laugh too loud? Were my interests too provocative?”
He flinched, just a tiny tightening around his eyes, but it was enough. He looked at you then, and the storm in his brown eyes was now a cold front. “You know exactly what you’re doing,” he said, the accusation falling like a blade. “You have this—” he ran his hands through his hair. “This way. You turn it on and off. For the press, for my employees, for my friends. That wide-eyed fascination. That laugh that makes men feel like they’re the wittiest person in the world. It’s an act. And a very convincing one, apparently.”
The accusation was so absurd, so wildly off-base, that for a second you were speechless. He was describing the original Y/N. Not you. You’d forgotten to act tonight.
That was the whole problem.
Your own frustration boiled over. “You are impossible, Sunghoon,” you stated, the words leaving your lips before you could temper them. “And you’re not even making sense. You’re jealous of your own friends for having a regular conversation with me. Do you hear yourself?”
You didn’t wait for an answer. The conversation was going in circles, spiraling into a void where his logic couldn’t follow. The warmth of the evening, the feeling of connection with Jake and Jay, the heat of his hand on your hip—it was all being poisoned by this stubborn, childish sulk. You were tired. The emotional whiplash was exhausting.
“You know what? Forget it,” you said, turning on your heel. The silk of your dress whispered against your legs as you strode toward the study door. “I’m going to bed. You can stand here and brood at the skyline all night for all I care.”
You reached for the polished brass handle, your fingers closing around the cool metal. You pulled.
The door didn’t budge.
A large, warm hand was splayed flat against the dark wood, just above your head, holding it shut. You hadn’t heard him move, but he was right there behind you, his body warm. The scent of his cologne enveloped you. You froze, your breath catching in your throat.
“Wait.”
His voice was close, right by your ear. It had lost its icy edge. Now it was just rough, scraped raw.
You didn’t turn. You stared at the grain of the wood, at his long fingers pressed white-knuckled against it. “Let me go, Sunghoon.”
“I said wait.” The hand on the door slid down, his arm now caging you in, his chest not quite touching your back but you could feel the heat of him through the thin layers of your dress and his shirt. “Just—please. Wait a moment.”
The fight drained out of you, replaced by a shaky, breathless awareness. You leaned your forehead lightly against the door, closing your eyes. “Why?”
A long pause. You could hear his breathing, slightly uneven. “Because you’re right,” he said, the words so quiet you almost didn’t hear them. “I’m being impossible.”
You blinked, your eyes still closed.
Huh?
He continued, the words coming out in a reluctant, stilted rush, as if being forced past a great internal resistance. “It wasn’t an act. I could see that. Tonight. With them.” He took a deep breath, his chest expanding behind you. “You were—yourself. And they liked you. Jake was practically hanging on your every word about that absurd painting with the floating clocks.”
“Dali,” you murmured automatically.
“Yes, Dali.” he echoed. He shifted, his arm brushing against yours, sending a shiver down your spine. “The point is…” he cleared his throat. “I’m not used to it.”
“To what? To people liking your fiancée?”
“To caring if they do,” he admitted. “To watching it happen and feeling like I…” He trailed off. “It’s unfamiliar. And I handled it poorly. I apologize.”
The formal, stiff apology was so like him, yet the vulnerability laced through it was entirely new. The annoyance melted away, leaving that strange, aching tenderness in its place.
You finally turned, slowly, under the arch of his arm. You had to tilt your head back to look at him. In the dim light, his handsome face was all sharp angles and shadow, but his eyes… they held a turmoil you’d never seen before.
“You were jealous,” you said, not as an accusation, but as a simple, gentle observation.
He held your gaze for a long moment, then looked away, his jaw working. A faint, almost imperceptible flush touched the high points of his cheeks. “I was. It was… illogical.”
“A little,” you agreed, a small smile touching your lips. “They’re your best friends. Jake looks at you like you hung the moon. Jay clearly adores you. They were just being kind to me because I’m with you.”
He looked back at you, searching your face. “You’re not upset?”
“I was annoyed,” you said honestly. “Because you were being a grumpy, silent statue and it was confusing. But I’m not upset.” You reached up, tentatively, and placed a hand lightly on his chest, over his sternum. You could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath your palm. “It’s okay to feel things, Sunghoon. Even if they’re messy and confusing and don’t make sense.”
He stared down at your hand on his chest, then his gaze lifted to yours. His brows were knitted upwards. “I don’t know how to do this,” he said, the words so quiet they were almost swallowed by the room.
“Do what?”
“Any of it.” The admission seemed to unlock something. The words started to tumble out, low and rushed. “This. Having someone here. Someone who—who argues with me and really listens to me and doesn’t look at my friends as potential social climbing opportunities. Someone who gets annoyed when I’m being an ass instead of just simpering. And then seeing you with them, so natural, so easy… it felt like you fit. You fit into a part of my life that has nothing to do with mergers or board meetings. And I didn’t know what to do with that. I still don’t. It’s—well, it’s kind of unsettling. It’s ridiculous. I know it’s ridiculous. Jay would laugh himself sick if he knew. He’s probably already guessed. He’s annoyingly perceptive about these things. Which is another problem, because now I’ll have to hear about it for weeks, and he’ll make some comment about me being emotionally stunted, which is technically accurate but still rude to point out, especially when I’m the one usually paying for his overpriced whiskey—”
He was rambling. Park Sunghoon, the master of terse, cutting remarks, was rambling.
You let out a breathy, incredulous little giggle.
He stopped mid-sentence, his brows drawing together again. “What?”
You shook your head, your smile widening. “Nothing. It’s just… you’re cute when you’re flustered.”
He blinked. Cute. You were certain no one had ever used that word to describe Park Sunghoon in his entire life. A series of emotions flickered across his face: disbelief, offense, and then a dawning, bewildered wonder. The faint blush on his cheeks deepened.
“I am not,” he stated, but the protest sounded almost petulant.
“You are a little,” you insisted, your thumb making a small, unconscious circle on his shirt. “All this big, brooding energy because your friends and your fake fiancée got along too well. It’s adorable.”
He stared at you, utterly disarmed. The hand that wasn’t braced against the door came up, hesitated, then gently brushed a stray strand of hair away from your face. His touch was feather-light, tentative. “You’re the most infuriating woman I’ve ever met,” he murmured.
“I know,” you whispered back.
Your eyes dropped to his lips, then flicked back up to his. His gaze was locked on your mouth. For one heart-stopping second, you thought he might kiss you. The air grew thick, your breath coming shorter. His head dipped slightly, his eyes darkening—
—but then he stopped. He closed his eyes, took a deep, shuddering breath, and straightened. The moment shattered.
His hand fell from your face, and he took a small, deliberate step back.
He cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at you. “Go to bed,” he said, his voice rough, scraping over the words. “We have the drive to my parents’ estate tomorrow.”
THE PARK FAMILY ESTATE WAS LESS A HOUSE AND MORE A DISPLAY OF WEALTH. It was all severe lines, imported stone, and meticulously manicured gardens that looked like no one was allowed to walk in them. The air itself felt several degrees cooler when you stepped out of the car.
Sunghoon’s father, Chairman Park, was exactly as the novel had foretold: a man carved from glacier ice, a crueller, harsher version of Sunghoon. His greeting was a curt nod, his eyes assessing you. His mother, on the other hand, was far more complex. She was elegant, with a smile that reached her eyes but didn't quite warm them, and she welcomed you gracefully, complimenting your dress, asking after the wedding plans with a tone of mild interest.
Dinner was a silent, formal affair. The clink of silverware against fine china was deafening. Chairman Park grilled Sunghoon on work, dismissing his answers with grunts. He ignored you completely. Mrs. Park attempted lighter conversation, asking you about your family, your interests. You answered as blandly as possible, sticking to the script you imagined the original Y/N would have used: mentions of charitable boards, designer names.
“You must be so excited for the wedding, dear,” Mrs. Park said as dessert was served, a fragile porcelain cup of tea placed before her. “It’s such a wonderful opportunity to solidify your future.”
You nodded, forcing a smile. “Yes, of course.”
“Sunghoon tells me you’ve been spending a lot of time together since you’ve started living together. Getting to know each other.” Her smile remained, but her eyes were sharp and beady. “That’s good. A strong foundation of… understanding is so important in these arrangements.”
At the word ‘arrangement’, Sunghoon, beside you, went very still.
After dinner, Mrs. Park suggested a walk in the garden. “The roses are in bloom, Y/N. Come, let’s get some air.”
It wasn’t a suggestion. You followed her out into the twilight, the scent of roses indeed thick and almost cloying. She walked in silence for a while along a gravel path that wound past sculpted hedges and a large koi pond.
“You are a very different girl from the reports I received,” she began, her voice conversational. “The Y/N we researched was rather more acquisitive. I thought that before, you knew what this marriage was.” She turned to you. “A strategic alliance for your family’s benefit and for the stability of ours.”
You kept your eyes on the path, your stomach knotting.
“But it seems this new version of you,” she continued, stopping by the pond to watch the orange and white shapes glide beneath the water’s surface. “Is quite confusing for my son, I think. He is a man who values clarity. He understands transactions.” She turned to you, her smile still perfectly in place. “Your job, my dear, is to be a compliant partner and an asset to him. Not to… confuse him by making him question the nature of the transaction.”
The gentleness in her tone made the words cut deeper. “I’m not trying to confuse him,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Aren’t you?” she asked, tilting her head. She let out a soft, pitying sigh. “You’re forgetting your place. This is a business arrangement. When the time is right, and his position is unassailable, you will both go your separate ways with the agreed-upon compensation. Any emotional complication is a breach of contract.” She placed a cold, delicate hand on your arm. “Do not make the mistake of believing this is a love story, Y/N. Remember who you are. And more importantly, remember who he is.”
Your head was spinning.
She gave your arm a faint pat. “I’ll leave you to enjoy the pond. Do find your way back before it gets too dark.”
She walked away, her footsteps silent on the gravel, leaving you alone by the darkening water.
The dam broke.
Tears, hot and shameful, welled up and spilled over. She was right. Of course she was right. You were an imposter in every sense. An imposter in this body, in this life, and now, an imposter in your own feelings. You were muddying the waters of a simple deal, risking everything for a man who was made to love someone else. The sobs came then, quiet and wrenching, your shoulders shaking as you stared blindly at the koi, your tears making small splashes in the pond.
You didn’t hear his approach. You only sensed a presence, and you quickly wiped your cheeks with the backs of your hands, turning your face away.
“Y/N?”
Sunghoon’s voice, close. Panic spiked inside you.
You couldn’t let him see.
“I’m fine,” you choked out, your voice thick. “Just—um. Admiring the pond. Give me a minute.”
“Look at me.”
“No, really, I’m—”
“Y/N.” His voice was low, but it was a command nonetheless. “Look at me.”
Slowly, you turned. The last of the twilight caught the tracks of your tears, glistening on your skin. His expression, which had been carefully neutral when he found you, shattered. His eyes widened, then darkened with fury.
“What did she say to you?” The question was a soft, deadly thing.
You shook your head, fresh tears falling. “Nothing. She didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”
“Tell me.” He took a step closer.
“She just—just reminded me of my place,” you whispered, the words tasting like ash. “That this is just an arrangement. That I shouldn’t… forget what it is. That I’m—I’m confusing you. And she’s right, Sunghoon, I am. I’m messing it all up, and I’m—” you sniffed. “I’m so sorry—”
“Stop.” The word was a whip-crack. He closed the final distance, his hands coming up to frame your face. His thumbs brushed the tears from your cheeks. “She has no right. No right to speak to you like that.”
“She does,” you cried, the frustration and heartbreak pouring out. “This is her world! These are her rules! I’m just a temporary fixture, and I’m acting like—like I’m something else. I’m sorry for being confusing. I’m sorry for the skating and the congee and for talking to your friends and for just… for just being here all wrong!”
You were babbling, tears streaming freely now. You tried to pull away, but he didn’t let you. Instead, he pulled you into his chest.
One arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders, the other hand cradled the back of your head, his fingers threading into your hair. He held you firmly, securely, as you cried into the crisp cotton of his shirt. He didn’t shush you. He didn’t tell you it would be okay. He just held you, his chin resting on the top of your head.
“Y/N,” he murmured into your hair. “You are the only thing that has made any sense in a very, very long time.”
You clung to him, your fists bunching in the fabric of his shirt. His hand moved from your head to stroke your hair, slow, calming strokes. You could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart against your cheek, and the last of your resistance melted away, and you sank into the embrace, letting him hold the pieces of you together.
You stood there for what felt like an eternity, wrapped in the silence of the garden and the sanctuary of his arms. The tears eventually subsided, leaving you hollowed out and shaky. He didn’t let go until finally, you took a ragged, shuddering breath. He leaned back just enough to look down at you, his hands moving to cup your face again. His thumbs wiped away the last of the moisture on your cheeks. His eyes searched yours.
“We’re leaving,” he said.
He kept one arm around you, guiding you firmly back toward the monstrous house, not to say goodbye to his parents, but straight to the car. He opened the passenger door for you, got in the driver’s side, started the engine, and pulled away from the estate without a backward glance.
You looked out the window, watching the dark countryside blur past, feeling the ghost of his arms around you, the sensation of his fingers in your hair. Your skin still tingled where he’d touched you. Then you snuck a glance at his profile, lit by the dashboard lights. His jaw was set, his gaze fixed on the road ahead, but the cold fury had settled into a deep, simmering resolve. He had chosen a side. And for tonight, at least, he had chosen yours.
Though, of course, life humbled you. Confusion had to come from the other side of the equation: Lee Soojin.
The wedding planning continued as normal. You made a point of being pleasant, supportive even. You praised her ideas, deferred to her taste. You were the dream client, and her initial nervousness around you melted into a warm, professional respect. You liked her. She was kind, hardworking, genuinely talented.
And Sunghoon always noticed her. It was natural that he did—that was how it was meant to go. In meetings, he was engaged, asking questions, offering solutions. You’d catch him watching her as she meticulously arranged sample centerpieces, a considering look on his face. Once, when she dropped a binder, he was out of his chair in an instant to help her gather the scattered papers. Their hands brushed. You saw the faint pink that tinged Soojin’s cheeks, the way she couldn’t quite meet his eyes afterward, and the jealousy brewing in the pit of your stomach almost became acidic.
It was exactly as the novel said. The cold CEO, melted by the genuine warmth of the commoner. You’d see them talking quietly in a corner of his office after a meeting had officially ended, and that strange pang would hit your chest again.
THE WORST WAS THE DAY OF THE FINAL VENUE WALKTHROUGH. You’d arrived separately from Sunghoon, caught in a snarl of downtown traffic.
The location was a stunning, glass-walled conservatory overlooking the river. By the time you rushed through the arched entrance, the late afternoon sun was casting long shadows across the polished floor.
You saw them before they saw you.
They were at the far end of the conservatory, standing on a temporary wooden platform that marked where the altar would be. Lee Soojin was pointing towards the ceiling, explaining something about hanging floral installations, her face animated with passion. And Sunghoon…
Sunghoon was listening. Not just listening, but absorbing it all. He stood beside her, his hands in the pockets of his trousers, his head tilted slightly toward her. The sunlight streamed through the glass panes, catching the dust motes in the air and painting them both in a soft, golden glow.
It was a perfect picture. The ambitious, brilliant CEO and the creative, warm-hearted wedding planner. He was asking a question, his expression serious but open, and Soojin smiled, gesturing with her hands as she answered.
You could see it, the rows of chairs filled with Seoul’s elite. The live music swelling. Soojin, in a simple, beautiful dress that wasn’t the one you’d picked, walking down this very aisle. And Sunghoon, waiting for her right there, on that platform, his brown eyes fixed only on her. The image was so vivid that it stole the breath from your lungs. Your chest constricted, a sharp ache that had nothing to do with the hurried walk from the car.
This was it. The real beginning of the end for Cha Y/N.
Sunghoon’s gaze finally flickered away from Soojin and landed on you, standing frozen in the doorway. The open, engaged expression on his face closed down, smoothed into the more familiar, neutral mask. He straightened up.
“You’re late.”
“Traffic,” you said, your voice sounding brittle and thin to your own ears. You forced a smile, directing it at Soojin, who had turned and was now offering you a polite, slightly nervous bow. “Sorry, Miss Lee. Please, show me what you’ve finalized.”
You walked forward, your heels clicking a sharp, lonely rhythm on the stone. As you passed Sunghoon to join Soojin by the platform, he did something unexpected. He reached out and briefly, almost absently, tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers were cool against your heated skin. “You look flushed,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “Did you run?”
The gesture was so intimate. A week ago, it might have sent a thrill through you. Now, it just felt like salt in the wound. He’s just playing his part, a vicious voice in your head whispered. The attentive fiancé in front of the help. It doesn’t mean anything. He was just looking at her like she was the most beautiful thing in the world.
“Just the heat,” you lied, pulling away slightly, your smile feeling more like a grimace.
The rest of the walkthrough was agony. You nodded and agreed to everything Soojin proposed: the arch of white orchids, the string quartet placement, the timing for the sunset ceremony. But you felt like a spectator haunting your own life. Your responses were automatic. “Lovely.” “Perfect.” “Whatever you think is best.”
You watched Sunghoon and Soojin discuss the practicalities. Lighting cues for the photographer, the route for the caterers, backup plans for rain. Their rapport was seamless. He’d ask a sharp, logistical question, and she’d have a thoughtful, prepared answer. He’d nod, a flicker of approval in his eyes, and suggest a minor refinement. She’d consider it, then agree with a bright, “Yes, that’s much more efficient!” Every shared titter over a hiccup, every moment of unspoken understanding as they examined a floor plan, felt like a tiny paper cut on your heart. A hundred small, insignificant slices that left you feeling quietly, profoundly bloody.
As she got to her binder, Soojin tripped slightly on a loose cable snaking across the floor. Sunghoon’s hand shot out, steadying her by the elbow. “Careful,” he said, his voice soft.
“Oh! Thank you, Mr. Park,” Soojin stammered, her cheeks flushing a pretty, delicate pink again. She quickly righted herself, but her gaze lingered on his face for a second too long before she busied herself with her clipboard.
You looked away, your throat tight.
A little while later, as you were examining sample table linens, Sunghoon stood close behind you, leaning over your shoulder to point at a fabric swatch in Soojin’s hand. His chest brushed against your back. “I like the ivory better, not the stark white,” he said, his voice a soft rumble near your ear. “It’ll be less harsh under the lights.”
You stiffened, every nerve ending hyper-aware.
“Yes,” you managed to whisper. “Okay. The ivory is better.”
He stayed there for a moment longer than necessary, and then he straightened up, the warmth leaving your back.
The walkthrough concluded with polite bows and assurances. Soojin promised to have the revised layouts emailed by the morning. Sunghoon gave a curt nod. “Your work is impressive, Miss Lee. Thank you.”
The praise, so directly given, made Soojin beam. “Thank you, Mr. Park! I won’t let you down.”
No, you thought, the ache in your chest deepening. You certainly won’t.
That night, back in the penthouse, you were curled on the vast living room sofa, a book (decidedly not a romance) open but unread on your lap. You were replaying the image of them by the window, trying to quash the hollow feeling it left behind. This was the plan. This was what you wanted. For them to fall in love, for the story to proceed, so you could leave.
So why did it feel like this?
You heard his footsteps first, then the subtle shift in the air as he entered the room. He didn’t sit. He came to stand behind the sofa, looking down at you. You kept your eyes on your book, but you could feel his gaze like a physical touch, tracing the line of your shoulder, the curve of your neck where your hair had fallen away.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice dropping into that lower register that seemed reserved for these late-night moments.
You swallowed. “Nothing. Just tired.”
The lie hung in the air. He was quiet for a long moment. You could almost hear him weighing his next move. Then, you felt the cushion dip slightly as he leaned forward, his hands coming to rest on the back of the sofa, one on either side of you.
“You’ve been quiet since the venue,” he stated, his voice a soft rumble near your ear. “Was it something Miss Lee said?”
The mention of her name was like a splash of cold water. You closed your book with a soft snap. “No. She was perfect. Everything is perfect.” You made to get up, to escape to the safety of your room.
A hand, firm and warm, landed on your shoulder, gently pressing you back down. “Y/N.”
You froze. He almost never used your name. It was always “you,” or “Miss Cha” in formal settings. The sound of it in his voice, so close, did something dangerous to your insides.
“Look at me.”
Slowly, you turned your head to look up at him. He was leaning over the back of the sofa, his face serious, his storm-cloud eyes searching yours. The distance between your faces was less than a foot. You could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the slight pulse at the base of his throat. Your breath caught.
“I don’t believe you,” he said softly
Fine, you wanted to say. Something did happen. The entire plot of a trashy romance novel happened. And I saw you smiling at her, and it’s supposed to happen, but it feels all wrong now.
“I mean it,” you said instead. “It’s nothing. Really.” You offered him a weak smile. “Just pre-wedding jitters, I guess.”
He studied your face for a long moment, his own unreadable. Then he nodded slowly, not looking convinced. He reached out, and for a heart-stopping second, you thought he might touch your face. But his hand just brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead, the contact brief.
“Okay. Get some rest,” he said, his voice quiet. He stood and left the room, leaving you alone with the echo of his touch and the churning confusion in your gut.
Here lay the entire problem: the more you saw of the real Park Sunghoon, the more the fictional version paled in comparison. The attraction you’d felt for a character became a terrifyingly real pull towards the living, breathing man. You’d catch yourself watching him, a hollow ache blooming in your chest, before violently shoving the feeling down. He’s not for you. This story isn’t yours. His happiness is with Soojin
The pang in your chest was no longer alien, it was a constant, dull companion. And it was your cue to exit, stage left.
Enough. You had played your part. You had been harmless. You had, against all odds, built something resembling a civil friendship with the male lead. Now it was time to give him his freedom, take your cushy payout, and vanish. You had your lawyer draw up a simple, clean, no-fault dissolution of the engagement agreement, and then you requested a meeting in his office. The same office where you’d first met Soojin.
HE WAS AT HIS DESK, BUT HE WASN’T WORKING. He was waiting for you, leaning back in his chair, watching you as you entered. The afternoon light slanted across the room, splashing everything in gold and shadow.
“You wanted to see me,” he said. His voice was deceptively casual, but his posture was alert.
You managed a nod, your throat suddenly dry. The leather folder in your hand felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.
He pushed off the desk and closed the distance between you in a few unhurried strides. Before you could step back or offer a handshake—any kind of businesslike gesture—his arm slid around your waist, pulling you gently against him. He dipped his head, his nose brushing the hair at your temple as he inhaled softly. “It’s nice to have you here,” he murmured, the words a warm puff against your skin.
You forced yourself to relax into the half-embrace, your mind screaming at the contradiction. This was the man who’d taken care of you when you were sick, who taught you to skate. This was also the man whose destiny was written in ink, intertwined with another woman’s name. The hollow ache in your chest expanded, threatening to swallow your resolve.
“I just needed to talk to you about something,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. You extricated yourself from his hold.
He frowned, returning back to his desk. “Is that right?”
“Yes.” You placed the sleek leather folder on the desk between you. “I need you to sign these.”
He didn’t look at it. His eyes stayed on your face. “What is it?”
“The termination of our engagement.” The words came out steady, practiced. “My lawyers have already reviewed it. It’s very straightforward. The settlement terms are there, and I think you’ll find them reasonable.”
For a long moment, there was nothing but silence from him. The gold light glinted off the edges of the folder, off the sharp line of his cheekbone.
He didn’t move. He didn’t blink.
Slowly, so slowly, he leaned forward. He didn’t reach for the folder. He placed his palms flat on the desk, his knuckles white. When he spoke, his voice was a low, controlled vibration.
“What?”
“I’m calling off the arrangement,” you repeated, your own voice sounding thin in comparison. “It’s for the best. We both know this was never a real—”
“For the best,” he echoed, cutting you off. The control was cracking. You could see it at the edges—a muscle jumping in his jaw, a storm gathering in those dark eyes. He pushed back from the desk and stood up, the movement fluid and predatory. He loomed over the desk, over you. “For the best? Are you serious? You come into my life, you—you change everything, you act like a completely different person for months, and now you just… you just drop this on my desk and say it’s for the best?”
“Sunghoon,” you startled at the emotion in his voice, taking an involuntary step back. “We both don’t want this. It’s a business deal that’s run its course. You can be with—”
“With who?” he snapped, his voice rising. He came around the desk, stopping a few feet from you. The space between you crackled with his fury. “Who is it that you think I want to be with? Tell me.”
“Soojin!” you blurted out. “Lee Soojin! It’s obvious, Sunghoon. You’re good together. She’s sweet, she’s genuine, she’s everything that—that this arrangement isn’t. You should be with her. You’re meant to be with her.”
He stared at you as if you’d started speaking in tongues. The anger seemed to freeze, then shatter into pure, unadulterated disbelief. “Soojin,” he scoffed, the name a flat, incredulous syllable. “Our wedding planner.”
“Yes! You talk to her, you laugh with her, you look at her like…” You trailed off, the memory of those looks twisting inside you.
“Like a competent professional whose work I respect?” he fired back, taking another step closer. You could see the faint flecks of gold in his irises, the rapid pulse at the base of his throat. “Is that the crime? Is that what this is about? You’ve decided, based on God-knows-what, that I have feelings for our wedding planner, and so you’re, what? Nobly stepping aside? Is that it?”
It was too close to the truth. You floundered. “It’s logical. This engagement is a farce. We should both be free.”
“Free?” he laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. “Are you fucking with me?” He was right in front of you now, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the subtle, clean scent of his cologne. His gaze bored into yours, searching for something you were desperately trying to hide. “For months, I’ve been trying to understand you. I thought—I actually thought…” He broke off, shaking his head, a hand raking through his perfect hair in a gesture of utter frustration. “And now you hand me this. Did I do something? Did I upset you? Is this some new, elaborate game? Because if it is, I need you to tell me the rules right now, because I can’t keep up.”
The pain in his voice, the sheer, bewildered hurt mixed in with the anger, was your undoing. This wasn’t in the novel. The Sunghoon in the novel would have taken the papers with relief, maybe a cutting remark. He wouldn’t be standing here, looking at you like you’d just reached into his chest and pulled out his entire heart.
“It’s not a game,” you whispered, your own resolve crumbling. “And you didn’t do anything wrong. You’ve been—you’ve been lovely. That’s the whole problem.”
“That’s the whole problem,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “I’ve been lovely, so you’re leaving.” He ran his hands through his hair. “That makes no sense. None of this makes any sense, Y/N, I don’t accept this.”
“You have to sign the papers,” you said weakly.
“I don’t have to do a damn thing,” he said, and the final shred of his control vanished. His eyes blazed with conviction. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to walk in here, change every single thing, and then just walk away because you’ve decided what’s for the best. You don’t know what’s best for me.” He leaned in, his face inches from yours. His breath was warm against your skin. “The only thing I know for certain right now,” he said, each word deliberate, hammering, and emphasised, “is that I am not signing those papers.”
“You have to,” you insisted, your voice trembling despite your resolve. “Sunghoon, this isn’t real. What we have is a contract. You’ll get over this. In a month, you’ll look back and be grateful I let you go to be with someone you actually—someone who actually means something to you. Soojin is—”
“Enough.” The word was a guttural snarl that vibrated in the marrow of your bones. His hand, still hovering near your arm, finally closed around your wrist firmly. “Enough about Lee Soojin! You think this is about her?”
He pulled you closer, the motion so sudden you stumbled a half-step forward. The storm in his eyes had broken.
“You want to know what I’ve been thinking about?” he demanded, his voice a ragged scrape of sound. “When I’m in a meeting so boring I want to put my head through the glass, I think about coming home. Not just to this place. To wherever you are. That’s home. I imagine walking in and finding you asleep on the sofa with a book on your chest. I think about picking it up, reading the page you dog-eared, just to know what was in your head before you drifted off. If you’re in the kitchen, I think about you humming to yourself, that off-key little tune you do when you’re making tea, and I wonder what would happen if I came up behind you and put my hands around your waist.”
Your breath hitched, trapped in your throat. This wasn’t happening, it couldn’t be. This was a deviation, a crack in the universe.
“And you think I’ve been—been thinking about her?” He let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Before you, this place was just a building. I’d work until I couldn’t see straight just to have an excuse not to come back.” His eyebrows were drawn together. “You’ve fucked me up, Y/N. Now I find myself watching the clock like some pathetic highschooler, inventing reasons to wrap things up early. Because you’re here.”
He leaned in, his forehead almost touching yours. “You want to know when I think about Lee Soojin? I think about her when she’s emailing me timelines and invoices. That’s it. She’s a good planner, and she’s doing an excellent job planning a wedding that I don’t want with anyone but you.”
“You don’t mean that,” you whispered, a last-ditch defense. “It’s just… the arrangement, Sunghoon. It’s confusing your feelings—”
“Y/N,” He released your wrist, but only to bring both hands up to frame your face, his thumbs stroking over your cheekbones. The touch was devastating in its tenderness. “You think I don’t know what I feel? You think this is confusion? This is the only thing that has ever been clear to me.”
“Sunghoon, please—”
“No.” The word was soft, final. “It’s you. It’s only you. It has only ever been you.” His voice broke on the last word, the raw vulnerability of it slicing through you. “Do you understand? There is no one else, there will never be anyone else for me.”
The world tilted. The solid ground of the plot, of your predetermined escape, crumbled into dust beneath your feet. He was looking at you like you were the sun, but you were just a thief standing in its light.
“You’re wrong,” you choked out, tears spilling over now, matching his. “You have to be wrong. This is a trick. I tricked you. I didn’t mean to, but I did. I’m not her, Sunghoon. The person you think you—the person you feel this for, it’s not me. It’s a lie.”
His brow furrowed, bewildered concern overtaking his features. He wiped a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “What are you talking about? Of course it’s you. Who else would it be?”
“The real Cha Y/N!” you cried, the words tearing free from some deep, secret place of panic. “The one who was supposed to be here! The person I was a year ago! That’s who you were supposed to be engaged to. That’s who you were supposed to hate. And I—I came in and I messed it all up. I was nice to Soojin. I made you congee. I laughed with your friends. I’ve been pretending to be someone,” you sniffled. “Someone better, and you fell for the act. You fell for this—this character.” You were sobbing in earnest now, the guilt and fear and desperate, unwanted hope pouring out of you. “You’re a good man, Sunghoon. You’re just—you feel responsible because I’ve been kind. That’s all this is.”
For a long, suspended moment, he just stared at you, his hands still cradling your face. The anger had drained from his expression, and, to your surprise, he wasn’t looking at you like you were crazy. He was looking at you like he was finally, finally putting the pieces together.
“A character,” he repeated slowly. His thumbs stilled on your skin. “You think you’ve been playing a part.”
“Yes.”
“And the real Cha Y/N… you believe she was someone else. Someone I was meant to despise.”
“Yes.”
He took a deep, slow breath, his gaze searching every inch of your face as if seeing it for the first time. “The night in the car. After the gala. You said you were from a different universe.” he said slowly. “I thought you were joking.”
You couldn’t speak. You just looked at him, your eyes wide with terror.
His voice dropped to a whisper, filled with awe and a terrible, heartbreaking softness. “You weren’t joking, were you?”
The last of your resistance collapsed. You shook your head, a tiny, helpless movement.
“Oh, Y/N,” he breathed. The sound was full of wonder. His grip on your face gentled even further. “My impossible, ridiculous girl. Do you really think it matters to me?” A faint, incredulous smile touched his lips, though his eyes were still wet. “Do you think I’m some honorable hero from one of your books?”
You flinched at the accuracy of it.
His smile faded, replaced by that same conviction. “I told you. I’m not a hero. I’m a selfish man. I want what I want. And I have never, not for one second since you woke up in this world, wanted anyone but you.” He leaned closer, his gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, dark with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs. “I have spent the last few months in a special kind of hell, Y/N. Do you have any idea what that’s been like? To have the woman I’m contractually bound to be the only woman I can’t fucking have? To watch you walk around in those little sleep shorts, with your hair messy in the morning, and have to pretend I don’t see it? To sit across from you at breakfast and want to clear the entire table with my arm just to get my hands on you?” He leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. His voice dropped to a vicious whisper that scraped over every nerve ending. “I’ve thought about bending you over this very desk. I’ve thought about pinning you against that glass and watching the whole city see who you belong to. I’ve thought about your mouth, your thighs, the sounds you’d make if I finally stopped being a gentleman. I’ve fucked my own hand more times these past few months than in my entire life before you, and every single time, it was your name I bit into my pillow to keep from shouting.”
A dizzying wave of heat crashed through you.
“Sunghoon,” you started, but you had no words.
“No,” he growled, pulling back to look at you, his gaze scouring your face. “Listen to me.” He released your wrist only to bring both hands up to frame your face, his touch searing. “You are not leaving me. This engagement is not ending. The only thing that’s ending is this pathetic charade where we pretend this isn’t real.”
He released you so suddenly you swayed. In one fluid, violent motion, he snatched the leather folder from the desk. You watched, hypnotized, as his hands searched for the papers. He tore them in half, then quarters, then let the pieces flutter to the floor.
“The only paper you’ll sign next,” he said, his voice low and final, “is our marriage certificate. Do you understand me?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. His attention was already on his tie. With a sharp tug, he loosened the knot of his silk tie, the dark fabric slithering free. His eyes never left yours as he began to stalk toward you, a predator with its prey finally cornered.
You took a step back. Then another. Your heart was a wild drum against your ribs. The heat between your legs was a throbbing, insistent ache. Your back hit something cool and unyielding—the massive floor-to-ceiling window. The panoramic view of the city sprawled behind you, a dizzying drop of steel and glass. You were trapped between the cold glass and the furnace of his body.
He closed the final distance and planted his hands on the glass on either side of your head, caging you in.
“Now,” he breathed out. “Tell me you don’t want this. Tell me you haven’t thought about it. Lie to me.”
You couldn’t. Your breath hitched, your lips parted. A small, desperate whimper escaped you.
That was all the answer he needed.
He kissed you like he was starving, and you were the first thing he’d had in a lifetime. He kissed you like he was trying to erase every word about leaving, every mention of another person’s name. His teeth grazed your lower lip, a sharp sting of pleasure-pain that made you cry out against his mouth. Your hands flew up to clutch at the crisp fabric of his shirt. A low groan rumbled from his chest into yours.
He swallowed the sound, his tongue tangling with yours, deep and filthy. When he finally broke for air, it was only to drag his lips along your jaw, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.
“You think I could look at anyone else,” he growled, his voice a scrape against your ear as he bit your earlobe. “When you’re in my house? In my bed? Fuck.” His hands left the glass and gripped your hips, fingers digging in through the thin fabric of your dress. “Every night. Every goddamn night, Y/N.”
“Sunghoon—” you whimpered, the explicit confession flooding your system with heat.
“Y/N,” he breathed out. He spun you around, your front pressing against the cool, unyielding glass. The city sprawled below, and your breath fogged the window. His body covered yours from behind, his erection a hard, insistent line against the curve of your ass. He pushed your hair aside and buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. “I couldn’t stand it,” he whispered, the words a dark, delicious sin directly into your ear. One hand slid around your waist, splaying possessively over your lower belly. The other hand yanked at the hem of your dress, gathering it up around your waist. The cool air kissed your bare thighs, and you shuddered. “Tell me you thought about it, too. Tell me you touched yourself, thinking about my hands on you.”
“Yes,” you breathed, the admission torn from you.
“Good.” The word was a satisfied rumble. His fingers hooked into the lace of your panties. With a sharp tug, the delicate fabric tore, and he palmed your bare ass, then slid his hand between your thighs.
You were soaked. Achingly, shamelessly wet for him.
He groaned, a deep, pained sound. “Look at this.” He dragged two fingers through your slickness, circling your clit with a pressure that made you cry out and press your forehead to the cold glass. “All that talk of leaving,” he breathed out, his voice thick with lust, “but your body knows the truth. It knows who it belongs to.”
He pushed a finger inside you, then a second, curling them expertly. Your inner muscles clenched around him, a pulse of pure need. You moaned.
His other hand slid up your torso, roughly palming your tits through the silk of your dress before finding the zipper at the side. With a sharp tug, he pulled it down, the fabric gaping open. He shoved the material off your shoulders, baring you to the waist. The cool glass met your feverish skin, your nipples pebbling into tight, sensitive points against the smooth, unyielding surface.
“See?” he whispered hotly against your ear, his fingers still working inside you, stretching you, preparing you. “See how pretty you look? Pressed against my window. My view.” He bit down on the junction of your neck and shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to brand you. “I want the whole city to see. I want every man in every building to look up and see my pretty little wife getting fucked by her husband. To know you’re taken. That you’re mine.”
A shudder of pure, wanton heat racked your body. “We’re—we’re not married yet,” you gasped out, a feeble defense as you ground your hips back against his hand. “We’re just—hngh!—business partners.”
His fingers stilled. Then, slowly, he pulled them out. You whimpered at the loss, the emptiness. You heard the rustle of clothing, the clink of his belt buckle, the slide of a zipper. Then the replacement of the hot, heavy weight of his erection pressed against the cleft of your ass with the velvety head of his cock nudging against your soaked folds.
“Is that so?”
His voice was a low, dangerous purr against the shell of your ear. He held his cock there, just brushing your pussy, his hips making tiny, maddening circles that smeared his pre-cum against your sensitive folds.
“If we’re not married,” he continued, his tone deceptively light, almost conversational, as his hands gripped your hips, “then I suppose this would be improper. A breach of our purely business arrangement.” He pulled back slightly, the loss of his heat a physical pain. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we should stop.”
“No,” you gasped, the word torn from you. You tried to push back against him, but his grip was iron, holding you still. “Sunghoon—”
“No?” he echoed, mock-thoughtful. One hand smoothed over your bare hip, his thumb digging into the sensitive dip. “But you were so clear about the terms just now. About it being just business.” He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. “Business partners don’t do this, do they, Y/N?”
You were trembling. Your muscles clenched around nothing, aching. “Sunghoon, please.”
“Please what?” he purred, his other hand coming up to circle your throat. “Use your words. Tell me what you need.”
You were beyond pride, beyond the script of the novel, beyond everything but the pounding of your blood and the empty, throbbing want between your legs. “I need you,” you gasped, your forehead grinding against the cool glass. “I need your cock. Please. Please, just… fuck me. I need it. I need you inside me.”
“Where inside you?” he demanded, his voice dropping to a filthy whisper. One hand slid from your hip, around to your lower belly, pressing down. “Here?” He rocked his hips, the blunt head catching on your entrance, pushing in just a single, devastating inch before retreating. A broken cry of agreement left your lips. “You feel that? That’s where I belong. That’s where I’m going to fill you up.”
“Please,” you sobbed, shameless now. “Please, Sunghoon, I need it so bad—”
He sheathed himself to the hilt.
The world dissolved into a white-hot shock of sensation. The stretch was immense, breathtaking, a burning fullness that stole the air from your lungs completely. You screamed, the sound muffled against the glass. He was so deep, you could practically feel him in your womb.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his body going rigid against yours, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “God, you’re tight. You’re taking me so well, baby. So perfect for me.”
He didn’t move for a long moment, letting you feel every inch, letting your body adjust to the overwhelming intrusion. You could feel the heavy throb of him inside you, the way your own muscles fluttered and clenched around him, trying to pull him deeper.
Then he moved.
He pulled out slowly, almost completely, dragging it out before slamming back in. A choked cry was punched from you with each relentless thrust thrust that jolted you forward into the window, your palms squeaking against the glass. The sound of skin slapping against skin, of his ragged breaths and your desperate moans, filled the silent office.
“You thought you could leave?” he panted, his pace increasing, becoming less controlled, more frantic. He wrapped one arm around your waist, hauling you back onto him with every drive of his hips. “You thought you could walk away from me?” He slammed into you, and a sharp cry was punched from your chest. “I’d have found you. I’d have torn the world apart to bring you back. You’re mine.”
“Big words,” you managed to taunt, your voice shaking. “For a man who—ah!—needed a contract to get a wife.”
“You have a smart mouth for someone getting split open on my cock,” he snarled. The arm around your waist tightened, and his other hand came down in a sharp, stinging slap on your ass.
The shock of it made you clench around him harder.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his thrusts becoming harder, more erratic. “You like that?” He spanked you again, on the other side, and you moaned, pushing your ass back into the contact, into his thrusts. “This perfect cunt,” he hammered into you, “this perfect body. All mine. In a month, you’ll be my wife. Then it’s forever.” His breaths were shaking too, now. “You’ll carry my children. You’ll wear my ring and my marks and my cum every single day until you forget there was ever a time you weren’t mine.”
Your nails scrabbled against the smooth glass. “You’re—you’re insane,” you gasped out.
“For you,” he growled, nipping at your shoulder. “It’s all for you.” His pace became brutal, a piston-like drive that had you seeing stars with each impact. The tightness in your belly wound faster, faster, a spring of sensation ready to snap. You could feel the sweat slick between your bodies.
“That’s it,” he whispered, watching your desperate, pleasure-twisted expression in the darkening reflection of the glass. “See how beautiful you are? Taking all of me. Made for me. My perfect girl.” He slid a hand around your hip, his fingers finding your swollen clit, rubbing tight little circles. “You want me to put a baby in you, don’t you?” he breathed. “You want to be so full of me you can’t forget for a second who you belong to.”
Your hips rocked back, meeting his thrusts, seeking more, deeper. “Yes,” you whimpered. “Yes, Sunghoon, please.”
In one brutal, fluid motion, he spun you around. Your back hit the glass with a soft thud, the city lights a dizzying backdrop behind him. Before you could process the new position, his mouth was on yours, swallowing your gasp. His tongue mapped the interior of your mouth as his hands gripped your bare thighs, hiking them up around his hips. He entered you again in this new, face-to-face angle, and it was somehow deeper. You could see his face—the dark flush on his cheekbones, the sweat beading at his temples, the madness in his eyes.
His cock sank back into your soaked pussy with a slick thrust, stretching you wide in this new angle that let him grind right against that spot deep inside. Sunghoon groaned low in his throat, his forehead pressing to yours as he started moving again, slow at first, savoring the way your walls clenched around him, pulling him in like you were made to milk every inch. "Fuck, you’re incredible," he rasped, voice rough with awe. "So tight, so wet for me. ‘S like your body's begging to keep me forever."
You clung to his shoulders, nails digging into the taut muscles of his back through his shirt as he picked up the pace, hips snapping forward. Each plunge drove him deeper, the head of his cock dragging along your inner walls, hitting that sensitive bundle of nerves that made stars burst behind your eyelids. The cool glass bit into your spine, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every thrust. All you could focus on was Sunghoon: his breath hot on your neck, his hands bruising your thighs as he held you open, fucking you so hard you were sure you’d forget your own name by the time he was done.
"That's my girl," he murmured, lips brushing your ear, his rhythm turning relentless. He loved it, the way your pussy fluttered around his thick length, the obscene wet sounds of him sliding in and out, the way your tits bounced with each thrust. He shifted his grip, hiking you up higher so that one hand could slide up to cup your breast, thumb flicking your hardened nipple while he lowered his mouth to the other.
Your head fell back against the window, a series of punched-out moan and whimpers tearing from your throat. His thrusts grew harder, faster again. You could feel him everywhere—his cock throbbing inside you, his hands on your body, his mouth on your tits, and the tightness climbed further and further, your clit pulsing under the friction of his body—until it snapped. You cried out his name as you rode the waves of your orgasm, legs trembling in his hold.
Sunghoon followed seconds later, burying himself to the hilt with your name on his lips. His cock pulsed, hot spurts of cum flooding your depths, marking you from the inside out. He held you there, grinding deep as he emptied himself. Then slowly, carefully, he pulled out. A hot trickle slid down your inner thigh. He released you from his grip gently, his expression utterly shattered. He looked at you—your flushed face, your kiss-swollen lips, your dress rumpled around your waist—as if you were a miracle.
He leaned down and kissed you softly. “I’m in love with you, you impossible woman,” he whispered against your lips. “I think I have been since you shoved me out of the way to make congee.”
A watery laugh-sob escaped you. You wrapped your arms around his neck, holding on.
He kissed your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. Then his expression grew serious again, though the tenderness remained, and he reached for his discarded suit jacket, draped over his desk chair, and wrapped it around your shoulders. Then looked at the scattered shreds of the termination agreement on the floor, then back at you, a dark gleam in his eye. “And just in case you get any more noble, self-sacrificing ideas…” He placed his large hand over your lower belly again, thumb stroking the skin. “We’re not done here. We’re going home, and you can forget about work tomorrow.”
THREE YEARS LATER, THE SOUND OF GLEEFUL SHRIEKS WAS BETTER THAN ANY ALARM CLOCK.
You stirred, a soft smile already on your face before you even opened your eyes. The early morning sun filtered through the gauzy curtains of the bedroom in the penthouse—your penthouse, your bedroom—covering everything in warm, honeyed light. The space beside you in the vast bed was empty, but still warm. You could hear the distant, deep complaints of Sunghoon’s voice mixing with the high, piping laughter of your daughter, Via.
You pushed yourself up on your elbows, one hand automatically cradling the gentle, firm swell of your belly. Twenty weeks along with your second. A little brother for Via, the ultrasound had confirmed.
Padding out to the open-plan living area, you leaned against the doorframe, watching. Sunghoon, dressed in soft grey sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, was on his hands and knees, being conquered by a two-year-old warlord in ugly green dinosaur pajamas. Via was perched triumphantly on his back, tiny hands fisted in his shirt, shouting “Daddy, horsey! Faster!”
“I am a CEO,” Sunghoon grumbled, but his voice was full of laughter as he obediently crawled a few more feet across the rug. “I negotiate several deals before you even eat breakfast. I am not a horse.”
“Horsey!” Via insisted, shrieking.
“You heard the boss,” you called out, grinning.
Sunghoon’s head snapped up. His face, which still took your breath away, softened instantly when he saw you. Even with sleep-tousled hair, he still made your heart do that stupid flip with a smile that reached his crinkled eyes. “Look, Via, Mama’s awake,” he said, carefully rolling so he could scoop your giggling daughter into his arms as he stood.
“Mama!” Via reached for you, and Sunghoon carried her over, depositing a wriggling, warm bundle into your arms before leaning down to kiss you, slow and sweet.
“Good morning, baby.” he murmured against your lips. “How did you sleep?”
“Perfectly,” you said, meaning it. You kissed Via’s dark hair. “Unlike someone who was apparently running a rodeo at 7 AM.”
“She has her mother’s energy,” Sunghoon said, his hand coming to rest on your belly, his thumb stroking the curve. “And her mother’s terrible sense of timing.” he mock-frowned. “Why’d you have to get up now? I was just about to bring you breakfast in bed.”
“Mm, no,” you leaned into him. “This is much better.”
my first long-ish fic...thats why i used dividers but wow its lowkey too many sweats anyway she is my baby this took me so long (literally over a month lol) but i hope u like her....... to be honest with u guys,,, i dont like it 😭 i was super excited abt this idea but i dont like at all how it came out and i honestly think i could have done so much better but i just wanted to get this done even if it was shit i cant lie im sorry 😞 it felt so weird to finish off after everything,, im still pretty torn up about it so if anything at all came off a little weird thats my bad 🥲🥲🥲 anyway i hope u liked it tho, and i hope ur all doing good and keeping healthy (and boycotting belift !!) <3 much love from ur mona heedimples 💝
️️️thinking about Jungkook being completely attention-starved. pushing his long, black hair over your face while practically melting into your lap to say: “can you pet my head?”
you smiled, starting to stroke your hands through his hair. “you're such a big baby. “i'm no baby”. “yes, you are”.
he lets out a little snort, but happy to be between you, having those dark eyes as bright as stars, thinking about you romantically or about how you guys met.
as you slide your fingers through his scalp and release, his hair falls onto his glasses, but he doesn't care, focusing on your soft fingers. they're so relaxing. staring at you, he simply has that puppy face.
with a sweet murmur, he wraps his arms even tighter around yur torso, embracing you like a koala. you can see his eyes closing, probably ready to nap.
you wanted to start to undress, lifting your shirt over your head when choso stopped you. “maybe you can… stay dressed?”
you eyed your boyfriend who sat on the edge of the bed completely naked, his cock twitching and leaking against his stomach after all the heated kisses. his cheeks were flushed, eyes glassy.
“you want me to stay dressed?” you asked, surprised.
“mhmm.” he nodded shyly, biting his lip. that’s how you ended up dry humping choso’s bare leg.
your soaked panties dragged slowly against his thick, muscular thigh, the friction making you sigh softly. choso whimpered beneath you, hands trembling as they rested on your hips.
“feels so good…” his cock lay heavy and untouched against his abs, leaking messily every time you rolled your hips. “you’re so wet… i can feel it all over my leg.”
you braced your hands on his shoulders and ground down harder, the wet patch on your panties growing darker as you rubbed your clothed pussy against his bare skin. choso’s head fell back with a moan, thighs flexing underneath you.
“please… don’t stop,” he begged quietly, looking up at you with needy eyes. “use me. use my leg however you want… i just want to feel you.”
you moved faster, grinding your swollen clit against the firm muscle of his thigh. choso was panting now, chest heaving, cock twitching helplessly as it continued to drip precum all over his stomach. he looked so pretty like this—completely naked and desperate while you stayed fully dressed, using him for your pleasure.
“you’re making such a mess.”
choso whimpered, fingers digging into your hips. “i’m sorry… can’t help it. you feel too good. i’m so hard it hurts but… fuck, i love when you use me like this.”
you leaned forward and kissed him, still grinding on his thigh. choso moaned into your mouth, tongue sliding against yours obediently as his cock continued leaking, completely ignored between you.
“please…” he whispered against your lips. “keep going. make yourself cum on me. i want to feel it.”
you smiled against his mouth and rolled your hips harder, soaking his bare leg even more while choso trembled and whimpered beneath you.
“i’m close—”
“yes— please cum on me,” choso whispered. “i want to feel it. please—”
your orgasm hit you hard, riding out every wave while choso watched with wide eyes. he couldn’t look away from the sight—the way your soaked panties rubbed against his thigh, the shiny wetness on his skin, the way your body trembled on top of him.
“oh god—” without any touch to his cock at all, choso suddenly came.
thick ropes of cum spurted from his untouched cock, painting his stomach and chest in messy streaks. he whimpered your name, completely lost in the sight of you cumming on his thigh. his cock continued twitching and leaking even after he finished, still painfully hard.
you slowed your movements, breathing heavily as you looked down at him. “you came…” you whispered, a little stunned.
he nodded weakly, cheeks burning red. “couldn’t help it… you looked so pretty cumming on me.” and then he pulled you down into a messy kiss, still trembling from his untouched orgasm.
─── HANDLE ME WITH CARE ꕤ⠀ՙ When Yoongi stays quiet every time you’re together, never letting a sound or reaction slip, doubt slowly takes root in your mind, leaving you wondering if he even enjoys being with you at all. The insecurity builds until, the next time, you force yourself into something more performative, but Yoongi notices immediately, and what starts as confusion turns into an honest conversation neither of you expected. ✶﹑
🥣 min yoongi x f ! reader ﹐☆ established relationship ﹐ꕀ miscommunication trope slight angst slight arguing faking an orgasm smut rough sex missionary hickeys grinding hair pulling riding doggystyle ➜﹒minors do not interact
▹ word count ✶﹐11.6k
The room is dim, lit only by the thin sliver of moonlight cutting through the half-drawn curtains. The air feels thick, heavy with the scent of sex and Yoongi’s cologne, something woodsy and cool that always clings to his skin. Your back is pressed into the mattress, sheets already twisted beneath you from how long he’s been moving above you.
Yoongi is buried deep inside you, hips rolling in that slow, deliberate rhythm he always uses when he wants to take his time. Every thrust is precise, angled just right to brush against that spot that usually makes your toes curl and your breath hitch. His hands grip your hips firmly, fingers digging into your skin with just enough pressure to ground you, but never enough to bruise. He knows your body so well— better than anyone ever has.
It feels good. Of course it feels good. It always does with him.
His cock stretches you perfectly, sliding in and out with a wet, obscene sound that fills the quiet bedroom. Each time he pushes forward, the head drags along your walls, sending sparks of pleasure radiating through your core. You can feel the slight tremor in his thighs where they press against the backs of yours, the way his abs tighten against your stomach with every controlled roll of his hips. He’s sweating lightly, a faint sheen glistening on his collarbones and the sharp line of his jaw, but his face… his face stays almost serene.
That’s the part that’s been haunting you lately.
Yoongi is quiet.
Painfully, unnervingly quiet.
While you’re trying to lose yourself in the feeling of him— his thickness, the way he fills you so completely, the heat of his body pressed to yours, you keep getting pulled out of it by the silence. There are no desperate moans spilling from his lips, no broken curses, no rough growls of your name. Just the occasional low grunt when he sinks in particularly deep, or a barely-there groan that vibrates through his chest when his pace picks up for a few strokes. Even his breathing stays measured, controlled, like he’s meditating instead of fucking you senseless.
You bite your lip as another slow thrust drags a real spark of pleasure from you. For a moment, you let your eyes flutter shut and try to focus only on the sensation: the drag, the fullness, the way his pubic bone grinds lightly against your clit with every forward motion. It’s good. So good. Your walls flutter around him involuntarily, and you feel yourself getting wetter, slick sounds growing louder between your bodies.
But then your mind drifts again.
Why doesn’t he make noise? Does it not feel as intense for him as it does for you? Is he holding back because he’s not actually enjoying it that much? Or worse… is he bored?
The thoughts creep in like smoke, curling around the edges of your pleasure and slowly choking it out. Your orgasm, which had been steadily building, starts to slip away. The heat in your belly dulls, turning from a roaring fire into something distant and lukewarm. You clench around him on purpose, trying to chase the feeling back, but it’s already fading.
Yoongi doesn’t falter. His rhythm stays steady, deep, unhurried strokes that should be driving you crazy. One of his hands slides up your side, palm rough and warm as it cups your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple in slow circles. It sends a shiver through you, but it’s not enough to pull you fully back into your body. Your mind is louder than the pleasure now.
You don’t want him to know.
You don’t want him to stop or pull away or ask what’s wrong. So you do the only thing you can think of in the moment.
You start faking it.
A soft, breathy moan slips past your lips— higher and more theatrical than the ones that usually come naturally. You tilt your head back into the pillow, letting your mouth fall open as you force another moan out, longer this time, letting it tremble at the end like you’re right on the edge. Your hands slide up his back, nails digging in just a little harder than before, and you rock your hips up to meet his thrusts with more exaggerated movements, making sure your body moves like you’re lost in it.
“Oh… fuck, Yoongi,” you whimper, voice pitched just a touch too sweet, too performative. You clench around him again, purposefully this time, and add a little gasp at the end for good measure. “Feels so good…”
Your heart is pounding for an entirely different reason now. The lie tastes bitter on your tongue, but you keep going, layering on more moans and whines, letting your breathing come faster and more ragged than it actually is. You arch your back dramatically, pushing your chest up toward him, and let your eyes squeeze shut as if you’re overwhelmed with pleasure.
Inside, the real pleasure has almost completely slipped away, replaced by a tight knot of anxiety in your stomach. But you keep the act going, hips rolling, moans spilling out one after another, all while Yoongi continues to fuck you in that same devastatingly silent, controlled way.
His skin is hot against yours. His cock still feels perfect inside you. But your mind won’t shut up, and now your body is performing instead of feeling.
You just hope he doesn’t notice. You keep the act going, layering moan after moan as Yoongi’s pace stays steady and deep. Your voice sounds foreign to your own ears— too breathy, too eager, too loud in the quiet room. You tighten around him deliberately with every thrust, rolling your hips up to meet him with exaggerated movements, letting your nails rake down his back a little harder than usual.
“Yoongi… oh god, right there,” you gasp, forcing the words out like they’re being torn from you. Your back arches off the bed in a dramatic curve, breasts pressing against his chest as you whimper and whine, building the performance higher and higher. The real pleasure has long since faded into the background, drowned out by the loud buzzing of insecurity in your head, but you push through, faking the climb with everything you have.
Inside, your stomach twists. You hate this. You hate lying to him like this, but the fear of him realizing how disconnected you feel is worse.
You feel his rhythm falter just slightly— only for a fraction of a second, before he drives in deeper, hips snapping forward one last time. A low, guttural grunt escapes his throat, the sound vibrating against your neck as he buries himself to the hilt. His cock pulses inside you, hot and thick, spilling deep as he cums with that single, restrained sound. His body tenses above you, muscles locking up, fingers digging harder into your hips for a moment before he slowly relaxes.
You fake your own release right after him, letting out a long, trembling moan that peaks sharply and then dissolves into shaky little whimpers. Your walls clench around him rhythmically, body shuddering beneath him as if you’re riding out wave after wave. You even let your thighs tremble and your breath hitch dramatically, clutching at his shoulders like you can’t handle how good it feels.
When it’s over, Yoongi stays buried inside you for a few long seconds, breathing steady against your skin. Then he slowly pulls out, the wet slide of his cock leaving you feeling empty and strangely hollow. He presses a soft, almost absent kiss to your collarbone before rolling off you and sitting up on the edge of the bed.
The room feels colder without his weight pressing you down. You stay exactly where you are, flat on your back, staring up at the ceiling. The fan above spins lazily, casting faint shifting shadows across the white paint. Your chest rises and falls with breaths that are still too fast, but not from pleasure anymore. Cum slowly leaks out of you, warm and sticky against your inner thighs, a reminder of what just happened. Your body feels used in the best physical way and yet emotionally distant, like you watched the whole thing from somewhere outside yourself.
Yoongi stands, the mattress dipping and then rising as his weight leaves. You hear the rustle of fabric as he picks up his discarded boxers and sweatpants from the floor, the soft sound of him stepping into them. He doesn’t say anything. He never really does after sex. The silence that felt intimate before now feels like a weight pressing on your chest.
He pads out of the bedroom barefoot, footsteps quiet on the hardwood floor, heading toward the kitchen. You remain motionless, eyes fixed on that spinning fan, the aftershocks of your faked orgasm leaving a sour taste in your mouth. The sheets beneath you are damp with sweat and slick, clinging uncomfortably to your skin. Your heart is still racing, but it’s anxiety now, not desire.
A few minutes later, you hear the faint clink of a glass and the sound of the faucet running. Yoongi returns, the soft glow from the hallway light outlining his silhouette as he steps back into the room. He’s shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his narrow hips, black hair slightly messy from your fingers earlier. In his hand is a glass of water, condensation already beading on the outside.
He sits on the edge of the bed beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. The glass is cool as he gently presses it into your hand. “Here,” he murmurs, voice low and a little rough from disuse. His dark eyes search your face in the dim light. “Drink.”
You push yourself up onto your elbows, taking the glass with fingers that feel slightly shaky. The water is cold and refreshing as it slides down your throat, but it does nothing to ease the knot in your stomach. Yoongi watches you quietly, one hand resting on your bare thigh, thumb brushing absentmindedly over your skin.
When you lower the glass, he asks, voice tentative and softer than usual, “You okay?”
You force a small smile, nodding quickly. “Yeah… of course. It felt really good. You always fuck me so good, Yoongi.”
The lie slips out easily enough, but your voice sounds a little too bright, a little too rehearsed. For a split second, you swear something flickers across his face— those sharp eyes narrowing just a fraction, lips parting like he might say more. Your heart stutters. He knows. He has to know.
But he doesn’t push.
Instead, Yoongi lets out a slow, quiet sigh, running his fingers through his damp black hair, pushing it back from his forehead. The motion makes the muscles in his arm flex subtly in the low light. He nods once, almost to himself, then swings his legs onto the bed and lies down beside you.
“Come here,” he says gently, reaching for you. You let him pull you against his chest, your head resting on his shoulder, one of his arms wrapping securely around your waist. His skin is still warm, heart beating steady and slow beneath your cheek. He smells like sex and sweat and that familiar cologne, and for a moment the closeness makes the ache in your chest ease just a little.
“I love you,” he whispers into the darkness, lips brushing the top of your head.
Your throat tightens. “I love you too.”
He reaches over with his free hand and clicks off the bedside lamp. The room plunges into complete darkness, broken only by the faint moonlight seeping through the curtains. Yoongi’s breathing gradually slows, becoming deep and even as sleep claims him. His body relaxes completely against yours, arm heavy and comforting around you.
But sleep doesn’t come for you.
You lie there wide awake, eyes open in the dark, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breaths. The fan continues its lazy spin overhead. Every time you close your eyes, you replay the scene: your fake moans, the way you performed for him, the single low grunt he gave when he came. The insecurity gnaws at you, sharper now in the silence. You feel raw and exposed, even though he’s holding you so tenderly.
Hours seem to pass. The glass of water sits forgotten on the nightstand, condensation pooling beneath it. Your mind races in circles— wondering if he really bought the lie, if he’s truly satisfied, if something is wrong with the way you make him feel. Yoongi sleeps soundly beside you, completely unaware, while you stare at the ceiling again, the weight of your doubts pressing heavier with every passing minute.
The next afternoon, sunlight filters through the large café windows, casting warm golden patches across the wooden table. The scent of fresh coffee and sweet pastries hangs in the air, mingling with the low hum of conversations and the occasional hiss of the espresso machine. You’re seated across from Wonyoung in a cozy corner booth, both of you cradling warm lattes in your hands. She looks effortlessly pretty as always, long hair cascading over one shoulder, a soft pink sweater making her glow in the natural light.
You’ve been stirring your drink absentmindedly for the past ten minutes, the spoon clinking softly against the ceramic mug. The conversation started light, but you finally let it spill, the thing that’s been weighing on your chest since last night.
“So… things with Yoongi have been good, really good,” you say, voice quieter than usual. “But… during sex… he’s just so quiet. Like, almost completely silent. I mean, he’ll give a little grunt here and there, or this low groan when he pushes in deeper, and that’s basically it. Even when he cums, it’s just one low sound. Nothing more.”
You take a small sip of your latte, the warmth doing little to ease the knot in your stomach. “It feels amazing physically, he always makes sure I cum, he knows exactly what he’s doing. But I keep getting stuck in my head about it. Last night… I actually started faking it. The moans, the way I moved, everything. I felt so stupid afterward, lying there while he held me and told me he loved me. I couldn’t even sleep.”
Wonyoung’s eyes widen slightly, her perfectly shaped brows furrowing in concern. She sets her mug down and leans forward, elbows resting on the table. “Oh, honey… that sounds really tough. Have you tried talking to him about it?”
You shake your head quickly, fingers tightening around the handle of your mug. “No… I’m scared. What if I don’t like his answer? What if he tells me he doesn’t find me sexy anymore, or that the spark is gone for him? What if he’s just going through the motions because he feels obligated? I don’t think I could handle hearing that.”
Your voice cracks a little on the last part, and you look down at the foam art slowly dissolving in your coffee. The café suddenly feels too bright, too exposed. You can still feel the ghost of Yoongi’s quiet body against yours from last night, the way he fell asleep so easily while you stared at the ceiling for hours.
Wonyoung reaches across the table and gently squeezes your hand. “I get it. That fear is valid. But bottling it up is only going to make it worse. You two are so good together, communication is important, especially about something this intimate. Maybe there’s a reason he’s quiet. Or maybe he doesn’t even realize how much it’s affecting you.”
You nod slowly, chewing on your bottom lip. “Yeah… maybe. It’s just… Yoongi always been this quiet, from the very beginning. I didn’t really think much of it at first because everything else felt so intense. But then you told me about you and your boyfriend, how vocal he gets, the way he moans your name, how he tells you how good you feel… I don’t know, it made me realize how different it is with Yoongi. I started craving that too. I want to hear him. I want to know I’m making him feel as crazy as he makes me feel.”
Wonyoung gives you a soft, understanding smile, tilting her head slightly. “I remember telling you those stories. And yeah, my boyfriend is loud in bed— it’s hot, it makes me feel desired. But Yoongi… he’s always been a quiet guy overall, right? In everyday life too. He speaks when he has something important to say, but he’s not the type to fill the silence just to fill it. Maybe during sex he’s the same, maybe he just processes pleasure differently. Still… you should talk to him. Even if it’s scary. Tell him how it makes you feel without accusing him. Something like, ‘I love being with you, but I’ve been feeling a little insecure because you’re so quiet, and I want to know if you’re enjoying it as much as I am.’”
You let out a long sigh, shoulders slumping as you trace the rim of your mug with your fingertip. “You’re right… I know you’re right. It’s just terrifying. What if talking about it makes things awkward? Or worse, what if he confirms my fears?”
She squeezes your hand again, her touch warm and reassuring. “And what if he doesn’t? What if he opens up and you both end up even closer because of it? You won’t know until you try. You deserve to feel confident and wanted in every way.”
You manage a small, grateful smile, even though your chest still feels tight with uncertainty. “Thank you for listening. I really needed this.”
The two of you finish your coffees slowly, the conversation drifting to lighter topics— work, a new drama you both started watching, Wonyoung’s latest shopping haul. But your mind keeps circling back to Yoongi, to the quiet of last night, to the conversation you know you probably need to have.
When it’s time to leave, you both stand and gather your things. Outside the café, the spring air is mild and fresh, carrying the faint scent of blooming flowers from the nearby park. You pull Wonyoung into a tight hug, breathing in her familiar perfume.
“Thank you again,” you murmur against her shoulder. “For the advice… and for not making me feel crazy.”
She hugs you back just as tightly, rubbing your back gently. “Anytime. Text me later if you need more pep talks, okay? You’ve got this. Just be honest with him.”
You nod as you pull away, offering her one last smile before turning to head home. The walk back feels longer than usual, your steps slow on the sidewalk as the weight of her words settles over you. The sun is warm on your skin, but inside you’re still torn— part of you wanting to listen to her encouragement, the other part terrified of what Yoongi’s answer might be. By the time you reach your apartment door, your heart is already beating a little faster at the thought of seeing him again tonight.
-
That evening, you chicken out completely.
The conversation with Wonyoung plays on repeat in your head the whole walk home, but the moment you step through the apartment door and see Yoongi already there— barefoot in the kitchen, stirring something that smells like garlic and soy sauce, the words die in your throat. He glances up at you with that soft, small smile he reserves mostly for you, black hair falling slightly into his eyes, and your resolve crumbles. Not tonight. You’ll talk to him tomorrow. Or the day after. Just… not right now.
Instead, you both settle into a quiet movie night.
The living room is dimly lit by the glow of the TV screen and a single lamp in the corner. The couch is piled with soft blankets and pillows, the faint scent of buttered popcorn still lingering in the air from the bowl now sitting empty on the coffee table. Yoongi sits in his usual spot, legs stretched out, one arm draped casually around your shoulders as you curl into his side. Your head rests against his chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath your ear, his body warm and solid through the thin black t-shirt he’s wearing.
For a few blissful hours, the sex issue fades into the background.
You laugh together at the ridiculous comedy on screen, his low chuckle vibrating through his chest whenever something genuinely funny happens. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your arm, occasionally brushing through your hair in that absentminded way that always makes you feel safe. You steal glances at his profile, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his lashes cast faint shadows on his cheeks when he blinks, the subtle curve of his lips when he smirks at a joke. For once, your mind is quiet. No overthinking. No insecurity. Just the simple comfort of being wrapped up in your boyfriend, the two of you tangled together like you belong there.
As the movie credits start to roll and the second film begins autoplaying, the comfortable haze starts to shift. The room feels cozier now, warmer. The blanket draped over both of you traps heat between your bodies. You become hyper-aware of how close you are, his thigh pressed against yours, the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the fabric softener on his shirt. Looking up at his face in the flickering light of the TV, something stirs in your chest. His expression is relaxed, peaceful, those dark eyes reflecting the screen. A sudden, sharp wave of want washes over you. You want him. Not just the quiet, controlled version from last night, but something more. You want to climb into his lap, feel his hands on you, lose yourself in him again— but this time without the doubts.
Maybe you were just being paranoid, you tell yourself. Maybe Wonyoung was right and he’s simply a quiet person in every aspect of life. Maybe last night was a fluke, and if you initiate tonight, it’ll be different. Better. You could make him feel good enough that he finally lets go.
The decision settles in your mind, warm and impulsive.
You shift slightly, turning your body toward him. Your lips find the side of his neck first— soft, slow kisses pressed just below his ear, where you know he’s sensitive. His skin is warm, slightly salty from the long day, and you breathe him in as you trail kisses down the column of his throat. One hand slides up under his shirt, palm gliding over the smooth planes of his chest, feeling the faint ridges of muscle and the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips.
Yoongi’s breath catches for just a second. He turns his head toward you, and a small smile tugs at his lips.
But the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There’s something off about it, too tight at the corners, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze before it smooths out. It’s odd, a tiny detail that nags at the back of your mind, but you push it aside. You’re already too far gone in the moment, desire overriding caution.
Encouraged, you let your hand drift lower, sliding down his stomach until your palm presses over the front of his sweatpants. He’s half-hard already, and you rub him slowly through the fabric, feeling him twitch and thicken under your touch. A few firm strokes, your fingers tracing the outline of him as you continue kissing and gently sucking at his neck, leaving faint marks that will probably fade by morning.
For a moment, it feels promising. His body responds, hips shifting ever so slightly under your hand.
Then he moves.
Yoongi lets out a quiet sigh, long and heavy, the kind that carries weight. He sits up straighter, gently but firmly catching your wrist to stop your movements. His other hand runs through his black hair, pushing it back from his forehead, then drags down over his face, rubbing at his eyes and the bridge of his nose like he’s suddenly exhausted or stressed. The TV light flickers across his features, highlighting the tension in his jaw.
You pull back, staring up at him in confusion, your hand still hovering where he stopped it. The warmth that had been building in your belly cools rapidly. “Yoongi…?” Your voice comes out softer than you intended, laced with uncertainty.
He doesn’t look at you right away. His gaze is fixed somewhere toward the TV, shoulders slightly slumped. The comfortable cocoon of the movie night suddenly feels fragile, like it could crack at any second. The blanket slips down to your laps as the distance between you grows, even though you’re still sitting right next to each other. Your heart starts to pick up speed, that familiar knot of insecurity creeping back in, stronger than before.
The room is quiet except for the low dialogue still playing from the movie, but the easy laughter from earlier is long gone. The silence stretches between you like a taut string, ready to snap.
Yoongi sits there on the couch, still slightly leaned forward, one hand lingering over his face as if he’s trying to wipe away whatever thought just crossed his mind. The TV continues playing in the background, the low murmur of dialogue and soft soundtrack now feeling intrusive instead of comforting. The air in the living room suddenly feels cooler, heavier. Your heart hammers in your chest, the earlier warmth of desire replaced by a sharp, anxious flutter.
You can’t take the quiet anymore. “Do you… not think I’m sexy?” The question slips out in the middle of the silence, small and fragile, barely louder than a whisper. Your voice cracks on the last word, and you hate how vulnerable it sounds.
Yoongi’s head snaps toward you instantly. His dark eyes widen, the relaxed expression from the movie night completely gone. For a second he just stares at you, like the words don’t compute. “What the hell?” he says, voice low but sharp with disbelief. “Why would you even think that?”
The intensity in his gaze makes your stomach twist. You look down at your hands, fingers twisting together in your lap, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. The confession starts pouring out, slow and halting at first, then gaining momentum as the insecurities you’ve been carrying finally break free.
“Because you’re so quiet during sex, Yoongi,” you say, voice trembling slightly. “You barely make any sounds at all. Just… a grunt sometimes, or that one low groan when you cum. That’s it. Nothing else. We never really switch positions much either, you stay on top, controlled, like you’re holding back the whole time. It always feels good physically. Really good. You know exactly what to do and I cum almost every time… but lately I keep getting stuck in my head. I start wondering if there’s something wrong with me. If I’m not doing enough, or if I don’t turn you on the way I used to. If maybe you’re just… going through the motions.”
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you blink them back, swallowing hard. The words hang in the air, raw and exposed. You feel stripped bare, sitting there in the dim glow of the TV, the cozy movie night now feeling miles away.
Yoongi lets out a deep, heavy sigh. “Fuck…” he mumbles under his breath, the curse quiet but laced with frustration, not at you, but at the situation. He runs both hands through his hair, messing it up further, then drops them to his lap. For a moment he just sits there, shoulders tense. Then he shifts closer and sits fully beside you again, the couch dipping under his weight. His thigh presses against yours, warm and solid, but he doesn’t reach for you yet. He’s silent for another long second, eyes fixed on the floor in front of him, jaw tight. The pause feels endless, your pulse roaring in your ears.
Then he speaks, voice low and careful. “Was that why you faked it last night?”
Your breath catches. You turn to look at him, eyes wide with shock. “You… you knew?”
Yoongi nods slowly, still not quite looking at you. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a heaviness in it now. “Yeah. I could tell.” He pauses, swallowing. “I know your body. I know the way you sound when it’s real, the little hitch in your breath, the way your thighs shake, how your voice gets all breathy and broken. That wasn’t it. Not even close.”
He finally turns his head to face you fully, those sharp, dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your chest tighten. “Why did you do it?”
The question is gentle, but it still lands like a weight. You feel heat rush to your face, a mix of embarrassment and relief that he noticed, that he cared enough to pay attention. Your fingers fidget with the edge of the blanket as you answer, voice barely above a whisper at first.
“Because I go into my head about it… about how silent you are when you’re fucking me. It makes me think I’m not affecting you the way you affect me. That maybe it doesn’t feel as good for you, or that you’re not really lost in it. So last night I just… performed. I faked the moans and the movements because I didn’t want you to know I was doubting. I didn’t want to ruin it.”
The confession leaves you feeling drained, exposed. The room is quieter now, the movie long forgotten in the background. You can hear the faint hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen, the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. Yoongi’s presence beside you is steady, but the air between you crackles with everything unsaid.
He doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, eyes never leaving your face, that deep sigh from earlier still lingering in the way his shoulders remain slightly hunched. Your heart is still racing, cheeks warm with the vulnerability of having finally said it all out loud. You feel raw, like you’ve peeled back a layer of yourself and handed it to him.
Yoongi doesn’t speak right away.
Instead, he leans in slowly, one hand gently cupping the side of your face. His thumb brushes tenderly over your cheek, wiping away a stray tear you hadn’t even realized had fallen. Then his lips meet yours in a slow, gentle kiss. It’s soft at first— barely more than a press of warmth, then deepens just enough to feel reassuring. His mouth moves against yours with quiet care, tasting faintly of the popcorn from earlier and the familiar comfort of him. There’s no rush, no demand, just the steady reassurance of his lips and the way his fingers thread lightly into your hair.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests gently against yours, breath mingling warmly between you. His eyes are closed for a moment, silver lashes brushing his cheeks, before they open again, dark and earnest. “I’m so sorry, baby,” he whispers, voice low and rough with emotion. The apology settles over you like a warm blanket, sincere and heavy.
He stays close, forehead still pressed to yours, sharing the same air. “You’re the sexiest fucking woman I’ve ever seen,” he continues, the words coming out quieter than usual, but no less intense. “I’ve never once not been satisfied with you. Not even close. Every single time… you drive me crazy.”
Then he pulls back just enough to look at you properly. A faint blush creeps across his pale cheeks, coloring the tips of his ears pink. He glances away for a second, toward the darkened TV screen, as if the admission costs him something. His fingers twitch where they rest on your thigh, like he’s fighting the urge to hide.
“I’ve been holding myself back,” he admits, voice dropping even lower, almost shy. “Because… I get embarrassed. I don’t know why exactly, but if I fully let go… if I let myself indulge in you the way I want to… I was scared you wouldn’t like it. That you’d think it was too much. Too loud. Too intense. That it would change how you see me.”
The confession hangs between you, surprising in its honesty. Yoongi, usually so composed, so in control, looks almost vulnerable sitting there with that soft blush and averted gaze. It makes your chest tighten with affection and a rush of heat at the same time. You let out a low, soft laugh, the sound gentle and warm in the quiet room. It’s not mocking; it’s full of fondness and relief. You reach up, gently turning his face back toward you with your fingertips on his jaw.
“Yoongi…” you murmur, smiling softly as you look into his eyes. “You are the hottest, sexiest man I’ve ever been with. Seriously. Nothing about you letting go could ever be ‘too much’ for me. I want it. I want to hear you. I want to feel how much I affect you. All of it.”
You take his hand in yours, fingers intertwining slowly. His palm is warm, slightly calloused from years of playing instruments and producing late into the night. You give it a gentle squeeze, thumb brushing over his knuckles.
“Do you want to try?” you ask softly, voice barely above a whisper, but full of quiet hope. “Right now?”
He looks at you for a long moment, eyes searching yours. The blush on his cheeks deepens just a fraction, but then he nods— slow, deliberate, decisive. “Yeah,” he breathes. His voice has shifted, gaining a new edge of determination beneath the softness. “I’m going to show you just how much you affect me.”
The words send a shiver down your spine. There’s a promise in them, dark and heated, wrapped in that familiar low tone of his. The air between you thickens instantly, the earlier tension transforming into something electric and anticipatory. Yoongi’s hand tightens around yours, his thumb stroking once over your skin before he leans in again, closer this time, lips hovering just inches from yours.
The living room feels smaller, warmer, the forgotten movie long irrelevant. All that matters now is the way he’s looking at you— like he’s finally allowing himself to unravel, just for you. He leans in and captures your lips again, but this kiss is different from the gentle one moments ago. It starts slow, almost reverent, his mouth moving against yours with deliberate care. Then it deepens. His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair as he tilts his head and kisses you harder, tongue brushing against the seam of your lips, asking for entry.
You open for him instantly.
The kiss turns heavy, hungry. His tongue slides against yours, slow and thorough, tasting you like he’s trying to memorize every inch. A low, barely audible hum vibrates from his chest into your mouth— the first real sound he’s let slip tonight that isn’t guarded. His lips are soft but insistent, sucking gently on your lower lip before diving back in, the wet slide of tongue and shared breath making your head spin.
Your hands come up to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his black t-shirt as you kiss him back with everything you’ve been holding in. The earlier insecurity melts away under the heat of his mouth, replaced by a growing ache low in your belly. He kisses like he’s pouring years of restraint into this one moment— deep, consuming, and just a little desperate. Without breaking the kiss, Yoongi leans back against the couch cushions, pulling you with him. You follow eagerly, shifting until you’re sliding into his lap, knees settling on either side of his thighs. The position brings your bodies flush together, your chest pressed to his, the heat of him radiating through his thin shirt. His hands settle on your hips, gripping firmly as he tugs you closer, encouraging you to settle your weight fully on him.
You can already feel him hardening beneath you, the thick length of his cock pressing up against your core through the layers of fabric. It sends a spark of arousal through you, sharp and insistent.
Your fingers slide up into his black hair, threading through the soft strands. At first you just hold on, but as the kiss grows more heated— tongues tangling, breaths coming faster— you tighten your grip and pull. A low, broken groan escapes Yoongi’s throat. The sound is deep and raspy, vibrating against your lips. It’s not the restrained grunt you’re used to, it’s raw, involuntary, and it shoots straight to your core. You tug again, a little harder this time, nails lightly scraping his scalp, and another groan follows, louder this time, his hips twitching up into you instinctively.
“Fuck…” he breathes against your mouth, the curse muffled but unmistakable. His voice is already rougher, lower, the composure cracking. He kisses you even more desperately now, one hand sliding up your back under your shirt, palm hot against your bare skin, while the other stays anchored on your hip, guiding you to rock slowly against the growing bulge in his sweatpants. The friction is delicious, sending little waves of pleasure through you with every grind.
Yoongi’s breathing has grown heavier, no longer perfectly controlled. Each exhale comes with a quiet, shaky sound, half groan, half sigh as you continue to pull at his hair and roll your hips. His mouth moves from your lips to your jaw, then down to your neck, sucking and biting softly, leaving faint marks that make you shiver.
You can feel the tension in his body, the way his thighs are tight beneath you, the subtle tremor in his hands as he touches you. He’s letting go, piece by piece, and the sounds he’s starting to make— those low, gravelly groans that rumble from deep in his chest are everything you’ve been craving.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, lips swollen and wet, eyes dark with lust and something deeper. His hair is already messy from your fingers, falling into his eyes in a way that makes him look devastatingly attractive. “See what you do to me?” he murmurs, voice husky and strained. Another soft groan slips out when you roll your hips again. “This is just the start, baby.”
You roll your hips again, slower this time, dragging your core along the thick ridge of his cock through his sweatpants. The friction is perfect— hot, teasing, not enough and yet almost too much. A shaky breath leaves Yoongi’s lips, and this time it’s accompanied by a low, rumbling groan that vibrates straight through his chest and into yours. “Shit…” he mutters against your neck, the word barely formed but heavy with need. His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging in as he guides you into another slow grind. "Feels good."
The praise hits you like a spark. You’ve never heard him talk like this during sex— never heard him say much of anything and it makes heat flood between your legs. You pull harder on his hair, tugging his head back slightly so you can look at his face. His eyes are half-lidded, dark and glossy, lips parted as another quiet groan slips out when you circle your hips just right.
You love it. You love every single sound he’s letting escape. Encouraged, you start moving with more purpose, rolling your hips in deep, deliberate waves, pressing down harder so the seam of your pants rubs right against his length. Each grind makes his cock twitch beneath you, growing fuller and harder until he’s rock-solid and straining against the fabric. The heat of him radiates through the layers, and you can feel yourself getting wetter, slickness starting to soak through your own panties.
Yoongi’s head falls back against the couch cushion, exposing the long line of his throat. Another groan tears from him— deeper, rougher, this time when you drag your clit along his cock again. “Fuck, baby… keep doing that,” he breathes, voice husky and strained. His usual composure is cracking wider with every roll of your hips. “You’re gonna make me lose it right here.”
You whimper at his words, the sound genuine and needy, and grind down harder, chasing the building pressure. Your hands stay buried in his hair, pulling and tugging in time with your movements, and every little yank draws another sound from him— a low curse, a broken groan, a shaky exhale that sounds almost like a whine. He’s talking more now, the words spilling out between heavy breaths as his restraint unravels.
“You have no idea… how much I want you,” he rasps, hips bucking up to meet your grind. “Every time I’m inside you I have to hold back so I don’t sound like a fucking mess…you feel too good.”
His hands slide up under your shirt, palms hot and greedy as they roam over your bare back, then down to squeeze your ass, pulling you even tighter against him. The new angle makes his clothed cock press right against your clit with every roll, sending sharp sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine. You moan softly, real and unrestrained, and Yoongi responds with a deep, guttural sound that makes your walls clench around nothing.
“Yeah… just like that,” he murmurs, voice dropping even lower. “Let me hear you too, baby. Don’t hold back for me.” You grind faster, more desperately, the couch creaking softly beneath you both. The fabric between you is starting to feel like too much, too many layers keeping you from what you really want. Sweat is already beading along Yoongi’s hairline, his hair sticking to his forehead in messy strands. His chest rises and falls quicker now, breaths coming in short, ragged pants punctuated by those beautiful, broken groans every time you drag your hips over him just right.
You lean down and kiss him again, messy, open-mouthed, tongues sliding hotly together. He groans into the kiss, the sound vibrating against your lips as his hips jerk up involuntarily, chasing more friction. One of his hands leaves your ass to slide between your bodies, pressing firmly over your core through your pants, rubbing in tight circles that match your grinding rhythm. “God, you’re so wet already,” he mutters against your mouth, voice thick with awe and lust. “All this just from grinding on me? Fuck… I did this to you?”
You nod frantically, pulling his hair again as another needy sound escapes him. You’re loving every second of it, the way his voice is getting raspier, the way he’s starting to talk dirty in that low, gravelly tone, the way his usual quiet control is shattering because of you. “Yoongi…” you whine, grinding down hard, “I love hearing you like this. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
He lets out a shaky laugh that turns into a groan when you tug his hair particularly hard. His hips buck up sharply, pressing his cock right against your clit. The grinding has turned desperate, both of you breathing hard and chasing friction like you can’t get close enough. Yoongi’s hands are gripping your hips tightly, guiding every roll of your body against his, his cock rock-hard and throbbing beneath you
Then he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and glassy with lust. His voice comes out rough, almost pleading. “Ride me,” he says, the words thick and heavy. “Please, baby… I need you to ride me.”
Your heart stutters. You’ve never ridden him before. Almost every time you’ve had sex it’s been missionary— him on top, controlled and steady, quiet and composed. The idea of being on top, of taking him like this, makes nervous butterflies erupt in your stomach. But the way he’s looking at you, the raw need in his voice, the way his hands tremble slightly on your hips… you can’t say no. You nod, voice barely a whisper. “Okay… yeah.”
Relief and hunger flash across his face. Yoongi moves quickly but carefully, helping you peel off your shirt and bra, his hands warm and eager as they slide over your skin. He tugs your pants and panties down your legs, lifting you slightly so he can yank them off completely. You do the same for him, pulling his t-shirt over his head, exposing the lean, toned lines of his chest and stomach, then helping him shove his sweatpants and boxers down his thighs. His cock springs free, thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip, hard and curving slightly upward.
You’re both completely bare now, skin hot and flushed in the dim light of the living room. Yoongi leans back against the couch again, one hand wrapping around the base of his cock, holding it steady for you. His other hand rests on your thigh, thumb stroking soothing circles. You swing one leg over his lap fully, straddling him. Your hands find the back of the couch on either side of his head, gripping the cushions for balance. Slowly, you lower yourself, the head of his cock brushing against your slick folds. You’re so wet from all the grinding that it glides easily at first, but as you start to sink down, the stretch hits you.
Yoongi is big— thicker and longer than you sometimes remember in the heat of the moment. You pause halfway, breathing shakily as you adjust to his size, walls fluttering around him. The fullness is intense, almost overwhelming in this new position. A broken, needy sound escapes Yoongi the moment you start sliding down. “Fuck… oh my god,” he groans, low and guttural, head tipping back against the couch. His eyes squeeze shut for a second, lips parting as another deep moan rumbles from his chest. “You’re so tight… so fucking wet around me.”
He sounds completely gone already— pussy whipped in the best way. The usually quiet, controlled Yoongi is unraveling right beneath you, and you haven’t even taken all of him yet. You sink lower, taking another inch, and his hips twitch up instinctively. “Shit— baby, you feel incredible,” he rasps, voice strained and hoarse. His hands fly to your waist, not pushing, just holding on like he needs the anchor. “So good… taking me so well. Look at you…”
Another long, shaky groan leaves him when you finally bottom out, your ass flush against his thighs, his cock buried to the hilt inside you. His breathing is ragged now, chest rising and falling rapidly. You can feel him throbbing deep inside, hot and heavy, stretching you perfectly. “Fuck… I’ve wanted this,” he confesses, the words tumbling out between heavy breaths. “Wanted to see you on top of me like this… wanted to feel you ride me. You’re so sexy, baby. So fucking sexy.”
You stay still for a moment, hands gripping the back of the couch tightly, adjusting to the new angle and the overwhelming fullness. Every little shift of your hips makes him groan again, loud, unrestrained sounds that go straight to your core. Yoongi looks utterly wrecked already: eyes half-lidded and dark with lust, mouth open as more soft, desperate noises fall from his lips.
He’s never been this vocal, never this lost in it, and the sight of him like this— because of you—makes heat coil tight in your belly. You love it. You love how he can’t hold back the sounds anymore, how every tiny movement from you pulls another moan or curse from him. Yoongi’s hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts as he looks up at you with pure reverence.
“Whenever you’re ready… babe,” he murmurs, voice husky and pleading again. “Please. I need to feel you move.”
You take a shaky breath, hands gripping the back of the couch tighter as you adjust to the deep, full stretch of him inside you. Yoongi’s cock feels even bigger in this position— thick and hot, pressing against every sensitive spot with no escape. The fullness is overwhelming in the best way, sending little sparks of pleasure radiating through your core with every tiny shift of your hips. Slowly, you begin to move.
You rise up carefully, feeling every inch of him drag along your walls as you lift until only the head remains inside you. The stretch when you sink back down is incredible, slow, deliberate, and devastating. You let yourself fall fully onto his cock, taking him to the hilt in one smooth drop. A soft, breathy moan escapes your own lips at the sensation, but it’s nothing compared to the sound that rips from Yoongi. “Fuuuck…” he groans, long and deep, the word breaking at the end. His head falls back against the couch again, eyes fluttering shut as his fingers dig into your waist. “Baby… just like that. God, you feel so good sliding down on me.”
The praise makes your stomach flutter. You repeat the motion— rising slowly, savoring the drag, then letting gravity pull you back down, impaling yourself on his thick length. Each time you bottom out, his cock nudges deep inside you, pressing right against that spot that makes your thighs tremble. The wet, obscene sound of your bodies meeting fills the quiet living room, mixing with the growing chorus of his sounds.
Yoongi’s hands slide from your waist down to find yours. He laces your fingers together, gripping both of your hands firmly in his. His palms are warm and slightly sweaty, thumbs stroking over the backs of your hands in a grounding rhythm even as his breathing grows more ragged.
You hold onto him like that, hands clasped tightly as you start to find a steady pace. Up and down, rolling your hips in a smooth, sensual rhythm that has pleasure building low in your belly. Every rise lets you feel the thick drag of him leaving you, every fall lets you feel the delicious stretch as he fills you completely again. The angle is perfect; his cock rubs against your front wall with every movement, and when you grind down at the bottom of each stroke, your clit presses against his pubic bone, sending sharp bursts of ecstasy through you. Yoongi’s groans grow louder, less controlled. “Shit… yes,” he rasps, squeezing your hands harder. “Ride me just like that. You’re taking me so deep… fuck, I can feel every inch of you.”
His hips start to buck up gently to meet your downward strokes, not taking over but adding to the rhythm, driving him even deeper. The new pressure makes stars burst behind your eyelids. You both moan together, your sounds mixing with his deeper, rougher ones. He’s completely lost in it now, no longer holding anything back. “Look at you…” he breathes, voice husky and reverent. His eyes are open again, locked on where your bodies connect, watching his cock disappear inside you with every fall.
You squeeze his hands tighter, using the leverage to bounce a little harder, finding a pace that has you both seeing stars. The couch creaks softly beneath you with every movement. Sweat beads on Yoongi’s chest, making his skin glisten in the low light, he looks up at you with dark, blown-out eyes. Every time you sink down, he lets out a broken groan or a whispered curse. “Right there— fuck, baby, right there…” When you rise up slowly, dragging along his length, he whines softly, the sound so needy it makes your walls clench around him. “Don’t stop… please don’t stop.”
You’re both panting now, the pace steady but building— rising and falling, grinding at the bottom of each stroke, hands clasped tightly together like an anchor. Pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your core, the stretch and fullness combined with the new freedom of being on top making everything feel more intense. Yoongi’s sounds keep feeding your own arousal, each groan and rasp pushing you closer to the edge. He squeezes your hands again, thumbs stroking desperately over your skin. “You’re gonna make me cum if you keep going like this,” he admits, voice strained and raw. “But don’t you dare slow down… I want to feel you fall apart on me first.”
You lean down slightly, lips brushing near his ear as you breathe out, voice soft but teasing, “Just like that, baby?” The words have an immediate effect. Yoongi’s eyes snap open wider, a low, guttural growl rumbling from deep in his chest. The sound is primal, nothing like the quiet grunts you’re used to. His fingers tighten around yours for a second before he suddenly releases your hands. Instead, his palms slide down to grip your hips firmly, fingers digging into the soft flesh with clear intent.
“Fuck yes… just like that,” he growls, voice rough and strained.
Before you can react, he plants his feet on the floor and starts thrusting up into you from below. The change is sudden and powerful— his hips snapping upward hard, driving his cock deep inside you with each powerful stroke. The new pace makes you bounce on his lap, breasts jiggling with every impact. The wet slap of skin against skin grows louder, echoing in the living room as he pounds into you relentlessly. You gasp sharply, hands flying to the back of the couch again for balance as he fucks you from below. Each thrust is deep and precise, the head of his cock hitting that perfect spot inside you over and over. The stretch feels even more intense now, your walls clenching around him with every forceful plunge.
Emboldened by his reaction, you keep talking, voice breaking with every hard thrust. “How does my pussy feel?” you ask breathlessly, the dirty words spilling out before you can overthink them. “Tell me, Yoongi… does it feel good?”
Another deep, animalistic growl tears from his throat. His grip on your hips tightens almost bruisingly as he pulls you down to meet his upward thrusts, impaling you harder on his cock. The pace turns punishing— fast, deep, desperate. The couch creaks loudly beneath you both from the force of his movements. “So fucking good,” he snarls, voice low and gravelly, eyes locked on yours with raw hunger. “Your pussy is so tight… so wet… sucking me in like it was made for me. Fuck— I’ve never felt anything this good.”
He punctuates his words with sharper thrusts, hips snapping up brutally. Each powerful stroke makes your head spin, pleasure crashing through you in waves. You can feel how deep he is, how perfectly he fills you, the slick sounds growing wetter and messier as you drip around his cock.
Yoongi’s breathing is ragged, mixed with constant growls and broken moans. “Keep talking to me, baby,” he demands, voice hoarse. “Tell me more… I want to hear you.”
You moan loudly, the sound genuine and unrestrained as he continues pounding into you from below. His hands guide your hips to meet his thrusts, the rhythm relentless. Sweat slicks both of your skins, making your bodies slide together hotly. His hair is completely damp now, sticking to his forehead, and his face is flushed with exertion and lust. You ride the wave of his thrusts, letting him take control from below while you still set the angle. “You’re so deep like this,” you gasp, voice trembling. “I can feel you everywhere… you’re gonna make me cum if you keep fucking me like this.”
Yoongi lets out another feral growl, hips stuttering for a moment before he doubles down, thrusting even harder. One of his hands slides from your hip to your ass, squeezing hard as he pulls you down onto his cock with every upward snap.
“Yeah? You like when I pound into you like this?” he rasps, eyes dark and wild. “My baby talking dirty now… fuck, it’s driving me insane.” The new dynamic has you both spiraling, your words pulling more sounds and filthy confessions from him, his powerful thrusts from below making stars explode behind your eyes. The pleasure is building fast and intense, your walls fluttering around his thick length with every brutal stroke. Yoongi looks completely lost in you, growling and groaning with every thrust, no longer holding back even a single sound.
Yoongi’s grip on your ass is bruising as he uses it for leverage, pulling you down onto his cock with every powerful upward thrust. He’s pounding into you from below with relentless force now, hips snapping up hard and fast, driving his thick length deep inside you over and over. The wet, filthy sound of skin slapping against skin fills the living room, mixing with his low, animalistic growls and your broken moans.
One of his hands stays firmly on your ass, squeezing and spreading you as he fucks up into you, while the other slides up your back, fingers digging into your skin. Every brutal stroke hits that perfect spot inside you, the angle making his cock rub against your front wall relentlessly. Pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your core, winding like a spring ready to snap. “Yoongi—fuck, I’m—” Your voice breaks as the orgasm crashes over you without warning.
Your entire body jolts violently on top of him. Your walls clamp down hard around his cock, pulsing and fluttering as waves of intense pleasure rip through you. Your thighs shake uncontrollably, toes curling, back arching sharply as you cry out. Bright sparks explode behind your eyelids. You grind down desperately against him, riding out every pulse, your slickness gushing around his length as you cum hard on his cock.
Yoongi groans loudly at the feeling, a deep, wrecked sound that vibrates through his chest, but he doesn’t let himself follow you over the edge. His thrusts slow just enough to help you ride it out, but his cock stays rock-hard and throbbing inside you, denying his own release.
The moment your shaking starts to ease, he moves.
In one swift, fluid motion, Yoongi pulls out of you, leaving you feeling devastatingly empty. You barely have time to whimper at the loss before he’s manhandling you with surprising strength. He flips you over the arm of the couch, bending you forward so your chest and stomach press against the soft cushions while your ass is raised high for him. Your knees sink into the seat, legs spread wide.
You gasp sharply as he grabs both of your arms, pulling them behind your back and pinning them there with one strong hand. The position leaves you completely exposed and at his mercy, breasts squished against the couch, cheek resting on the cushion.
Yoongi doesn’t give you a second to adjust.
He slams back into you in one hard, deep thrust, burying his cock to the hilt in your still-spasming pussy. The new angle is even deeper, stretching you wide and making your eyes roll back. A loud, broken moan tears from your throat at the sudden fullness. Then he starts fucking you hard and fast. His hips snap forward with brutal precision, pounding into you from behind like he’s lost all control. The sound of his pelvis slapping against your ass is loud and obscene, echoing through the room. Each powerful thrust rocks your entire body forward, the arm of the couch digging into your stomach as he rails you relentlessly.
“Fuck— yes,” he growls, voice rough and feral. His free hand grips your hip tightly, using it as leverage to pull you back onto his cock with every stroke. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Me losing control… fucking you like this.”
You love it. You love every second of it.
The way he has your arms pinned behind your back makes you feel deliciously helpless, completely owned by him. Every hard thrust sends fresh sparks of pleasure shooting through you, your sensitive walls still fluttering from your orgasm. The new position hits even deeper, his cock dragging along every sensitive spot inside you. You’re moaning loudly, unrestrained, pushing your ass back to meet his thrusts as much as you can in this trapped position.
Yoongi’s sounds are constant now— deep, guttural growls, broken groans, and filthy words spilling from his lips with every slam of his hips. “God, your pussy is gripping me so tight,” he rasps, pounding harder. “So fucking wet… you came so hard on me and you’re still this greedy for more?”
He leans over you, chest pressing against your back, lips brushing your ear as he fucks you even faster, building another orgasm dangerously quickly. You’re trembling, moaning into the cushion, completely lost in the overwhelming pleasure of being taken so roughly, so desperately by him. Yoongi’s pace never falters— hard, fast, deep, his hand keeping your arms securely pinned while he claims you completely.
Yoongi is fucking you so hard that the entire couch shifts beneath you with every brutal thrust.
Your arms are still pinned behind your back by his strong grip, your body bent helplessly over the arm of the couch as he rails into you from behind. Each powerful snap of his hips drives his thick cock impossibly deep, the wet, obscene slap of skin against skin echoing loudly in the room. Your pussy is soaked, fluttering and clenching around him with every stroke, still sensitive from your first orgasm. The overwhelming pleasure has tipped over into something almost too intense — your moans have turned into broken sobs, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes as your body jolts forward with every thrust.
“Fuck… you’re taking me so well,” Yoongi growls, voice rough and strained, but he doesn’t slow down. His hips piston into you relentlessly, the head of his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you over and over. “Look at you… sobbing on my cock. So fucking pretty.”
He leans closer, chest pressed hot against your back, lips brushing your ear as he keeps pounding into you. “Tell me, baby… whose pussy is this?”
You can barely form words through the sobs and moans tearing from your throat. Every hard thrust knocks the breath out of you, making your voice come out shaky and wrecked. “It’s yours,” you sob, the words breaking apart. “It’s yours… only yours, Yoongi— ahh!”
The moment the confession leaves your lips, his free hand comes down hard on your ass in a sharp smack. The sting blooms hot across your skin, making you cry out louder. He doesn’t stop there, smack after smack lands on your ass, alternating cheeks, each one timed perfectly with a deep thrust. The pain mixes deliciously with the pleasure, sending sparks shooting straight to your core.
Your ass burns under his palm, but you push back against him desperately, craving more. You’re losing yourself completely— mind hazy, body trembling, tears streaming down your face as he claims you so thoroughly. Yoongi growls in approval, landing one particularly hard smack that makes your whole body jolt. “That’s right. This pussy is mine. Only mine. No one else gets to feel how tight and wet you get.”
Then he releases your arms only to slide his hand up and fist tightly into your hair. He yanks your head back firmly, arching your back deeper as he slams into you over and over and over. The angle is devastating — his cock drives even deeper, pounding that sensitive spot with brutal precision. The pull on your scalp sends fresh waves of pleasure-pain through you, making your sobs turn into high, broken whimpers.
“Fuck—yes, just like that,” he snarls, hips snapping relentlessly. “Take it. Take every fucking inch.”
You’re completely lost now, body shaking violently as another orgasm builds fast and unstoppable. Your walls flutter wildly around his cock, clenching down hard as the pleasure crests.
“I’m— I’m cumming— Yoongi!” you sob loudly, the words dissolving into a broken cry.
Your second orgasm hits you even harder than the first. Your entire body convulses, pussy spasming and gushing around his thick length as waves of intense ecstasy crash through you. Your thighs shake uncontrollably, vision blurring with tears, sobs tearing from your throat as you cum hard on his cock, soaking him and the couch beneath you.
Yoongi follows right behind you.
A deep, trembling groan rips from his chest as his hips stutter. He slams into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt as he cums hard, thick ropes of hot cum spilling deep inside you. His whole body trembles against your back, muscles locking up as he pulses and fills you completely. Low, broken sounds keep falling from his lips— raw, unrestrained groans and shaky curses as he rides out his orgasm, hips grinding shallowly against your ass to push every last drop into you.
For a long moment, the only sounds in the room are your combined heavy breathing and soft, lingering whimpers. Yoongi’s grip on your hair loosens gently, his hand sliding down to stroke your back soothingly even as his cock continues to twitch inside you. His body is still trembling slightly against yours, sweat-slicked chest pressed to your back, heart hammering wildly.
He stays buried deep, both of you panting and shaking in the aftermath, the intensity of what just happened hanging heavy and electric in the air. His chest is still pressed to your back, heart pounding wildly against your skin. Then, slowly and carefully, he pulls out of you with a wet, slick sound. A soft whimper escapes your lips at the sudden emptiness and the gush of his cum that immediately starts leaking down your thighs.
Your body gives out completely.
You slump forward against the arm of the couch, completely spent, limbs heavy and boneless. Your cheek presses into the soft cushion, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. Every muscle feels deliciously used— your thighs still quivering, your ass warm and stinging from his smacks, your pussy pulsing with the aftershocks of two intense orgasms. Tears of overwhelming pleasure still cling to your lashes, and your breathing comes in shaky, ragged gasps.
You hear Yoongi move behind you, his footsteps soft on the floor. He disappears for a moment, then returns with a warm, damp cloth. Gently, almost reverently, he cleans you up — wiping away the mess of your combined releases from between your thighs, along your folds, and down your legs with careful strokes. His touch is soothing now, completely different from the rough way he’d handled you just minutes ago. The warm cloth feels heavenly against your overheated skin.
When he’s done, he helps you shift off the arm of the couch and onto the cushions properly. You curl onto your side, still breathing hard, body limp and glowing. Yoongi grabs the glass of water from earlier (the one that had been forgotten on the coffee table) and refills it in the kitchen before coming back. He sits on the edge of the couch and carefully helps you sit up just enough to take a few slow sips. The cool water slides down your throat, soothing and refreshing.
You look up at him through heavy-lidded eyes as he sets the glass aside. Yoongi’s hair is a complete mess, damp strands sticking to his forehead. His cheeks are still flushed, chest rising and falling with deep breaths, but his expression has softened completely— those sharp eyes now warm and full of affection as he looks at you. “That was…” you start, voice hoarse and wrecked from all the moaning and sobbing. You swallow, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips. “That was the best sex I’ve ever had in my entire life.”
Yoongi lets out a soft, breathless laugh, the sound low and warm. He leans down and presses a tender kiss to your forehead, then to the tip of your nose, and finally to your lips— slow, gentle, and full of love. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away the last traces of tears. “Yeah,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice still a little raspy. “Me too, baby. Best I’ve ever had. Hands down.”
He kisses you again, deeper this time but still so tender, lips moving softly against yours like he’s pouring every ounce of his feelings into it. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed for a moment as he savors the closeness.
“I love you,” he whispers, the words quiet but heavy with meaning. “So much. And I’m sorry I held back for so long. I never want you to doubt how crazy you make me… how much you affect me.”
You smile tiredly, reaching up to thread your fingers through his messy hair. “I love you too. And I’m glad you finally let go. It was… everything.” Yoongi hums softly in agreement, shifting so he can lie down on the couch and pull you into his arms. He tucks you against his chest, one arm wrapped securely around your waist while his other hand strokes slow, soothing patterns up and down your back. His skin is still warm, heart beating steady beneath your ear now that the intensity has faded.
The living room is quiet again, the TV long forgotten, only the sound of your slowing breaths and the faint hum of the apartment filling the space. You feel safe, cherished, and thoroughly satisfied— the earlier insecurities completely washed away by the way he just proved exactly how much you mean to him. Yoongi presses another soft kiss to the top of your head, holding you close as you both come down together, bodies tangled and hearts even closer.
You never planned to fall for a single father — and when his past comes back to reclaim him, how do you compete with history?
Pairing: single dad!Jungkook × f!reader
Genre:· smut · angst · domestic softness ·
Warnings: explicit sexual content, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, ass-eating, dirty talk, angst, age difference (jk is 31, oc is 21), mentions of divorce and custody battles, manipulative ex-wife, selective mutism (child), emotional conflict, jealousy
an: this is a work of fiction: the characters and scenarios are entirely fictionalized and written for entertainment purposes only.
part 1 (!!!)
Ella sat cross-legged at the end of the bed, her hair a halo of gold against the dim light filtering through the curtains. She was sipping on cold coffee, watching you with that look she always had when she thought you were being dramatic.
“I love you, babe,” she said finally, setting the mug aside. “But how long are you going to keep torturing yourself like this? Why not just talk to him properly?”
You buried your face deeper into the pillow, the scent of fabric softener and Ella’s perfume clinging to the sheets. It should have been comforting, this safe space she’d carved out for you these past few days, but the quiet ache in your chest hadn’t dulled. If anything, it had spread.
You hadn’t been home. You hadn’t been to work. You’d called in sick, and it hadn’t even been a lie, you did feel sick, hollowed out and restless, like you couldn’t keep your body and your heart in the same place anymore.
Jungkook had become such a big part of your life, his presence wound through your routines until the absence of him was everywhere. His laugh when he teased you, the weight of his hand on your back, Danbi’s shy glances that had only just started to soften. You missed all of it so deeply it made your skin ache. And yet, what could you do?
You pushed yourself upright, the weight in your limbs heavy, and muttered, “You were right. Maybe I’m just too immature for a relationship that comes with this kind of baggage.” You dragged yourself toward the bathroom, bare feet silent against the floor. “Maybe I should have stayed with someone my own age, with problems like… like him liking other girls’ photos on Instagram, not…this.”
Ella’s voice cracked like a whip behind you. “What’s that bullshit? I never said that!”
You froze at the doorframe, staring at your reflection, pale and drawn. “You did,” you pressed, your voice sharper than you meant. “And you were right! Because how could I ever compete with the mother of his daughter? With her?”
The words scraped your throat raw. But remembering Danbi was worse.
The way her small voice had called your name, the way her eyes had lit up that morning at the piano, the way she had whispered don’t leave. You’d let her down, a child who had finally decided to trust you. You had walked away, and she would never understand why.
And that thought was what broke you most.
Ella leaned forward, her elbows braced on her knees, her eyes sharper than you’d seen them in days. “You think walking away fixed anything? You think hiding here makes you noble? No, Y/N. You’re running. And while you’re curled up in my bed crying, he’s fighting alone. And that little girl…she’s waiting for you.”
You turned, stung by the truth laced through every word, but the panic rushed in faster. “Don’t you get it? I can’t be the reason she loses her family. I can’t stand there while Astra looks at me like I’m in her place. What if I am, Ella? What if I’m splitting a family in two just because I wanted him?”
Her mouth fell open, disbelief flashing across her face before it hardened into fire. “Splitting a family? Babe, it was already split before you. Don’t twist it into some guilt badge you can wear so you don’t have to fight.”
You shook your head, the tears hot again. “But she’s the mother. She’ll always be the mother.”
Ella’s voice softened, but her conviction didn’t falter. “And what are you, then? Just some visitor? No. You’re the woman he loves. You’re the one Danbi opened her heart to after years of silence. That’s not splitting a family, Y/N.”
Her words lodged deep, but fear still clawed at you, the thought of Astra’s threats, of courtrooms and custody battles, of Jungkook’s face if he ever lost his daughter. It all pressed so heavy you could barely breathe.
And yet, a part of you knew Ella was right — hiding hadn’t saved anyone.
The bell rang through Ella’s apartment, sharp and unexpected, making you jolt from your place on the bed. You frowned, confused, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself as if it might shield you from the world outside. Ella glanced at you, her expression shifting in a way you didn’t quite understand.
“Sorry, babe,” she murmured, already standing, smoothing her hair back like she’d been preparing for this. “But someone had to help you.”
“What are you talking about?” you asked, your voice hoarse, but she only shook her head and walked toward the door.
The sound of the lock sliding open echoed too loudly, and when the door swung wide, your breath caught in your throat. Because it was him. Jungkook.
Again. Just like that night.
He filled the doorway, broad shoulders tense, eyes sweeping past Ella to land on you. Your whole body went rigid, startled, your pulse racing so fast you almost thought you might faint.
Ella stepped aside silently, lips pressed together, giving him space.
Jungkook crossed the threshold slowly, his steps quiet but certain. He didn’t shout, didn’t accuse, didn’t plead. He just came to stand before you, his gaze steady, his voice low and quiet as he said, “It’s time to go home.”
The tenderness in his eyes gutted you. All the walls you’d built up, all the justifications and excuses, trembled under the weight of it. You wanted to cry, to collapse into his chest, to let him carry you back into the life you’d left behind.
But you shook your head, tears already stinging hot at the corners of your eyes. “No. My home… it’s somewhere else. Not where your family is. Not with all of this.”
The words hurt as you said them, slicing through you as if you were punishing yourself. Because the truth was, you didn’t believe them. Your heart was with him, with Danbi. But you hated the thought of dragging him deeper into chaos, hated knowing that while he was already drowning under Astra’s threats and the weight of the custody fight, you were only another complication.
Your voice cracked. “I’m only adding to your problems, Jungkook. You’re already struggling with all of this, and now… now you’ve got me on top of it.”
His eyes softened even more, though his jaw tightened like he was fighting to hold something back.
Jungkook’s eyes flicked once toward Ella, who stood leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching like she’d been waiting for this moment all along. Then his gaze came back to you, filled with a kind of resolve that left no room for argument.
Before you could take another step back, his arms were around you. In one smooth motion, he hoisted you up onto his shoulder as if you weighed nothing, your gasp catching in your throat.
“Jungkook!” you squealed, pounding a fist against his back, your legs kicking in protest. “Put me down, what are you doing?!”
But he didn’t falter, his grip strong and sure, his stride steady as he carried you through Ella’s apartment. You felt your heart racing, your face hot with a mixture of anger and disbelief, but over it all was the steady rumble of his voice, low and certain, like it was the simplest truth in the world.
“You’re going home,” he said. “Our home.”
Your protests tumbled from your lips, but he didn’t respond. Every step echoed with his decision, every beat of your racing heart syncing with the quiet finality of his words.
And as the door shut behind you, you heard Ella’s laugh ringing through the hallway, warm and victorious. “Finally!”
By the time Jungkook reached the car, your fists had stilled, your voice caught somewhere between fury and something dangerously close to hope.
Because no matter how much you protested, the truth was, you didn’t want him to let go.
You refused to look at him in the car, your arms crossed tight over your chest, your gaze locked stubbornly on the blur of city lights beyond the window.
Every time he opened his mouth, you cut him off with silence, and eventually he gave in, jaw clenched, driving the rest of the way without another word. The quiet between you was heavy, so heavy it pressed against your ribs until you could hardly breathe.
By the time you pulled into the garage, your heart felt raw, frayed from everything unspoken. Jungkook parked, got out, and came around to open your door for you, the gentleman even now, when you sat there in nothing but your pajamas, cheeks tear-stained, body trembling with the weight of it all.
You stepped out slowly, trailing him upstairs until the lock clicked behind you and the warmth of the apartment enveloped you like a blanket you hadn’t realized you’d been missing. The air smelled faintly of home: his cologne, Danbi’s crayons.
It almost hurt, how welcome it felt.
“Y/N,” Jungkook said, his tone steady but serious, and you turned to see him standing there in the middle of the room, his eyes fixed on you with a weight that rooted you to the floor. “What was that again?”
You weren’t ready for this. Your heart stuttered as you scrambled for words.
“Jungkook, let’s be honest. You’ve got some… unresolved things. And that’s fine, I get it, we all do. But this,” your throat tightened, “this is your family. That’s not something I can fight with.”
His brow furrowed, his gaze sharper now, voice cutting through your excuses. “Why are you talking like you’re not part of it?”
The question froze you where you stood.
You opened your mouth, hesitated, and then blurted, “Because I’m not! Jungkook, that’s your ex-wife we’re talking about. That’s Danbi’s mother. She’ll always be tied to you in ways I can’t touch.”
He exhaled, slow and deep, then shook his head.
“I know who she is. I know exactly what she is. She’s my past, Y/N. And yeah, it sucks that I’m dragging you into this mess… but that’s what it is. It’s my past.”
He stepped closer, his voice softening, his eyes never leaving yours. “You don’t deserve this, I know that. I wish our relationship didn’t come with battles like this. But I’m not the same man I was a year ago. I won’t let what’s behind me be an obstacle to what’s ahead of us. I won’t give up on us.”
Your throat burned, guilt curling sharp and cold in your chest. Because he meant every word, and still, you had walked away from him, not once but twice. He wasn’t giving up, even when you had tried to.
Your chest felt heavy, guilt gnawing at the edges as you met his steady gaze.
“Do you even see the difference between us, Jungkook?” your voice cracked, trembling even as you tried to hold it steady. “You’re older, you’re wiser, you’ve lived through things I can’t even imagine. And me? I stumble, I panic, I run when things get hard. I left you, twice. How could I ever be enough for you when I can’t even stand the way you do?”
His brow furrowed, his hand reaching for yours.
“Don’t do that,” he murmured. “Don’t tear yourself down like that. You think I’ve got it all figured out? I don’t. Half the time I’m just trying to keep my head above water, trying not to fall apart when I see Danbi struggling with communicating and not to blame myself for that, or when Astra pushes harder than I know how to fight. I make mistakes too. Plenty of them.”
You let out a laugh that was closer to a sob, shaking your head. “But you carry it, Jungkook. You take all of it: Danbi, the divorce, the custody, everything! And you still stand. I look at you, and I don’t know how I could ever measure up to that. How could I ever deserve someone like you.”
He stepped closer, closing the distance until you could feel the warmth of his body, his thumb brushing circles into your knuckles.
His eyes softened, searching yours with that unbearable tenderness that always undid you.
“You don’t need to be me. You don’t need to carry what I carry. You are enough because you’re you. Because I love you, because you care about Danbi, because you’ve given us something no one else could. That’s more than enough.”
Tears spilled hot and helpless down your cheeks, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.
“I love you. God, I love you so much it terrifies me. And this feels like I am ruining everything you’d built, like I am stealing space that don’t belong to me. I thought you’d be better off without me, safer without me. But it’s only hurt more. Every day without you has hurt more.”
His hands framed your face then, grounding you, forcing you to look at him when all you wanted to do was hide.
His voice trembled, but his conviction didn’t falter. “Better off without you?” he whispered, shaking his head.
“No, Y/N. The only thing that destroys me is the thought of losing you. I don’t care what Astra does, I don’t care what fight I have to face. None of it matters if you’re not here.”
Your lips parted, a sob catching in your throat as you clung to his wrists, your tears wetting his thumbs.
He leaned closer until his forehead pressed against yours, his breath mingling with your own, and you felt his words before he spoke them. “I love you too. More than I ever thought I could.”
And his lips found yours. There was no rush, no urgency this time, just the slow, deliberate press of his mouth, soft and unyielding, like he wanted to seal every word he’d spoken into you.
You kissed him back through the blur of your tears, your fingers trembling as they slid into his hair, pulling him closer until you could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest.
Jungkook lifted you carefully, as if you were something fragile, and carried you toward the bedroom. Every step was steady, every movement laced with reverence, his eyes never leaving yours even as he laid you down on the sheets. For a moment he only looked at you, his thumb brushing the tearstains from your cheeks, his lips curving into a smile that was achingly tender.
“You don’t know what you mean to me,” he whispered, before leaning down to kiss you again.
The kiss deepened, slow and searching, his tongue stroking yours in languid motions that left you shivering. His hands slid over your sides, not greedy, but steady, grounding you in every touch.
Clothes fell away one by one, not torn or frantic but eased off between kisses, every inch of bare skin revealed met with his lips, his hands, his quiet murmurs of love.
When he finally sank into you, it wasn’t rushed. He pushed deep in one long, measured thrust, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath shuddering as though the closeness overwhelmed him as much as it did you.
The stretch made you gasp, but his soft kiss caught the sound, his thumb stroking your cheek as if to soothe you from the inside out.
The rhythm he set was slow, deliberate, his hips rolling deep and steady with every stroke. Each movement was an affirmation, every thrust a quiet vow, and with each one you felt your walls dissolve further until there was nothing left but him.
“I love you,” you whispered against his mouth, over and over, like the words themselves were the only way to anchor you.
His answer came in ragged breaths, his lips tracing your jaw, your throat, your shoulder. “I love you more. I’m not letting go. Not again.”
Your legs tightened around his waist, pulling him deeper, the tears slipping hot down your cheeks even as you moaned at the intensity of it. The pleasure built slowly, coiling low in your belly.
When you finally came, it was with his name on your lips, your body arching into his as though you could merge into him completely. He followed soon after, burying himself to the hilt, his groan muffled against your neck as he spilled inside you.
***
Life didn’t change overnight, but it did begin to settle, like water finding its shape after a storm.
You moved your things into Jungkook’s apartment: slowly at first, a drawer here, a shelf there, until one day there was no question left of whether you belonged. The space felt different with you in it, fuller, lighter, touched by details of you everywhere.
Danbi noticed too.
At first she only watched, wide-eyed and cautious, as you unpacked books onto the shelves or folded laundry beside Jungkook. But soon she was tugging at your sleeve, shyly asking if you’d play piano with her again, or slipping her small hand into yours when the three of you walked to the park.
There were afternoons when Jungkook was buried in work, and you found yourself taking her out alone — to the café on the corner where she liked the muffins, or to the playground where she’d let herself laugh freely. Mira still came sometimes, but not always. More and more, Danbi reached for you.
Every evening ended the same way: Jungkook coming home, his face softening the moment he saw the two of you together, as if he couldn’t quite believe the picture in front of him was real.
He’d kiss Danbi’s hair, kiss you right after, and whisper, “Home never looked like this before you.”
The custody threat was still there, heavy in the background, but not as sharp as it had once been. Astra had not vanished, she still called, still showed up with polished smiles and veiled jabs, but Jungkook was no longer afraid to meet her words head-on.
He had lawyers now, plans, a spine of steel that didn’t bend when she pushed. And for the first time, he didn’t stand alone.
Because every time she tried to rattle him, she had to see you there too, beside him, and it was clear this wasn’t some fragile affair she could break with a threat. It was something stronger.
***
It was the first weekend in what felt like forever that you and Jungkook had let Mira take over.
Danbi didn’t even fuss when you kissed her cheek goodbye, too busy showing Mira the new game she’d made you play with her the night before.
And for the first time, you walked out of the apartment with Jungkook’s hand in yours and nothing else to worry about.
The city felt different without the weight of responsibility. You strolled aimlessly, stopping for coffee, teasing each other about the couples who passed by, sneaking kisses in shop doorways like teenagers.
Jungkook laughed more freely, his hand resting low on your back, his eyes catching on you with a look of a man who finally had space to just love, without holding the world up at the same time.
The drive back was quiet, but not in the heavy way it had been before. This silence was charged, humming between the two of you, your fingers tangled with his on the console, your body still warm from the laughter and touches of the day.
He looked unfairly good behind the wheel with one hand loose on the steering, his other resting over yours, the soft glow of streetlights painting his profile golden.
And somewhere between one red light and the next, desire tipped into you so suddenly it made you bold.
You leaned closer, your lips brushing his jaw, the corner of his mouth curving when you kissed the place just beneath his ear.
“Pull over,” you whispered, your voice low, daring.
His eyes flicked to you, surprised, then back to the road. “What?”
“Pull over,” you repeated, a small smile tugging your lips. “I want you.”
For a second he didn’t move, and then you felt the shift of the car as he turned onto a quieter road, pulling into a secluded spot overlooking the city lights. He parked, engine still ticking faintly, the world hushed around you.
Before he could even ask, you were leaning over, tugging at his belt with impatient fingers. His breath caught, eyes widening. “Baby, what are you—”
“Shh,” you hushed, glancing up at him through your lashes, your voice sweet but heavy with want. “I’ve been thinking about this all day. Let me take care of you.”
Whatever protest he might have had died instantly, his chest heaving as you slid lower, settling between his legs.
You worked him free, the weight of him heavy and hot in your hand, your mouth watering just at the sight. The first lick of your tongue made him curse under his breath, his hand flying to the wheel as if he needed something to hold onto.
You took him slowly, savoring his ragged breaths, the way his thighs tensed under your palms, before hollowing your cheeks and sliding deeper, taking him until his head dropped back against the seat.
“Fuck, Y/N…” he groaned, his hand sliding into your hair but not pulling, just holding, reverent. “So good. You’re so fucking good.”
Every sound he made, every shiver that ran through him only spurred you on.
When you finally pulled back for air, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, he was already staring down at you like you’d just undone his entire world.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he rasped, his thumb brushing your swollen lips. “But fuck, don’t you dare stop.”
The more you worked him, the harder it became for him to stay still. His hand, which had only been resting in your hair, tightened, fingers curling until he had a firm hold on you.
He groaned your name, his voice rough, as his hips rolled up into your mouth in small, desperate thrusts.
At first you let him guide you, savoring the way he tried to restrain himself, but when you moaned around him once again, the vibration making him curse, he lost it.
“Baby, fuck,” he growled, his grip tightening as he held you still, his cock sliding deeper down your throat. “Open up for me. Let me have it.”
Your eyes watered, your jaw aching, but the rush of him taking control, of the raw need pouring out of him, made your own body thrum with arousal.
You dug your nails into his thighs, urging him on, and when he started to fuck into your mouth in long, hard strokes, you whimpered around him, dizzy on the taste and the sheer filth of it.
“God, you’re so fucking perfect,” he groaned, watching you through half-lidded eyes, his abs tightening with every thrust. “Look at you, taking me so deep, fuck, you love this, don’t you? My good girl, letting me use your mouth like this.”
The praise made you clench your thighs together, moaning around him again, saliva spilling past your lips, dripping down your chin. You were a mess for him, and you couldn’t care less.
His thrusts grew sharper, more frantic, his free hand gripping the steering wheel like he needed the anchor.
“I’m close—fuck, I’m gonna come—” he panted, and you hummed around him, your eyes locking with his as you let him use you, surrendering completely.
With a guttural groan, his hips stilled, burying himself deep as he spilled hot into your throat. You swallowed greedily, the taste of him flooding you as he held you there, trembling, his hand trembling in your hair.
When he finally let you go, you pulled back slowly, lips swollen, saliva and cum glistening at the corner of your mouth. You licked it off deliberately, watching the way his eyes darkened, his chest heaving as though you’d just wrecked him beyond repair.
“Fuck me,” he rasped, running a hand down his face, still dazed.
You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, cheeks flushed, your chest still heaving as you climbed back into the seat properly.
Jungkook was already reaching for you, pulling you in by the nape to kiss you gently, nothing like the way he had just taken you. He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your swollen lips, his thumb brushing over your chin as though he couldn’t stand the thought of leaving a trace behind.
“You drive me crazy,” he whispered against your skin, and this time the words weren’t rough but reverent, soft in a way that made your chest ache.
When he finally leaned back, he tucked you in close, buckling your seatbelt himself before climbing behind the wheel again. His hand immediately found your thigh, warm and steady, tracing lazy circles into your skin as if to remind you he was still there.
The engine hummed to life, and the car rolled back onto the road, the city lights flickering past. The silence was full, comfortable, wrapped around you like a blanket. You glanced at him, his hair messy, his lips still kiss-swollen, and felt the corners of your mouth curve without meaning to.
Jungkook noticed, his eyes flicking to yours before returning to the road. His thumb pressed a little firmer into your leg. “Almost home, baby.”
mafia jeon jungkook set his eyes on you long before you ever noticed him. you, the club’s silent dancer, the one who never spoke, never allowed a single touch yet left men breathless with every movement. a fantasy men paid thousands just to witness, a mystery wrapped in silk and silence. one look at you, and jeon knew that resistance would be futile.
〴note: i didn’t think id share this because i was really insecure abt it for the longest time, but i‘ve made some nunu changes so here we are. think of this oneshot as a soft, reverent kiss on the cheek from me to you. ︴
• word count: 9k
The club had been the posession of Jeon for exactly seven days.
No more crowds, no more wandering eyes. No more hands reaching for what was never theirs to begin with.
Jeon had burned every bridge, erased every extra pair of eyes until the neon drenched room breathed only for the two of you. The bass pulsed low and heavy, but the only heartbeat that mattered now was the one hammering between your locked gazes.
You circled the pole once, eyes never leaving his.
Jeon’s breath stayed even, but his fingers tightened slightly on the armrest. He could feel the aching, all consuming obsession clawing deeper under his skin.
This was the woman who had haunted him since the very first night.
Months ago, he had walked into this same club for business only.
Corrupt politicians sat across from Jeon in the VIP lounge, sealing dirty deals in low voices while his men guarded the doors, guns heavy in their pockets. lust filled men threw money at the stage like confetti, but Jeon hadn’t spared the dancers a single glance. He was here to collect what was owed, nothing more.
once the deal was done, he stood, lighting a cigarette as he headed toward the dimly lit back hallway that smelled of cheap perfume and sweat. The smoke curled from his lips.
Then, you came out of nowhere, colliding straight into his chest with a soft, startled sound.
Out of pure reflex, Jeon’s gun was out and pressed to your forehead before either of you could blink. His other hand gripped your upper arm hard, steadying you from the collision. His eyes were black ice, voice a dangerous growl.
“Do you want to die, little girl?”
You didn’t scream, nor did you flinch away. You just stared up at him, wide eyes flooded with raw fear and a deep, quiet sadness that hit him like a blade between the ribs. Your chest rose and fell rapidly against his grip, but no words came.
Jeon clicked his tongue, annoyed at the lack of apology, intrigued by the delicate creature trembling under his hold. He stepped closer, crowding you back against the cold wall until his broad frame swallowed yours completely as he pinned you there. The barrel of the gun lowered slowly, but he didn’t release you.
You were tiny compared to him. His broad frame completely eclipsed yours, caging you in without effort. Yet even in fear, you held a quiet, striking beauty that hit him harder than it should have.
He lowered the barrel slowly, but didn’t release you. Instead, he leaned in and blew a thin stream of smoke directly into your face.
You coughed; soft and startled, the first sound he ever heard from you.
It was barely a breath, fragile and sweet, and something dark and possessive stirred low in his gut.
Jeon traced the edge of the gun slowly down the side of your neck, the cold metal gliding over your pulse point. He was looking for a whimper, a flinch, any sound of fear. Instead, you only gasped silently, lips parting further, body staying perfectly still despite the tremble running through your smaller frame.
His free hand rose, knuckles brushing your soft cheek with surprising gentleness for a man who had just held a gun to your head. He watched the pretty blush bloom under his touch, your big eyes glassy with fear. You were breathtaking.
“Pretty little thing,” he said quietly, almost to himself, dark eyes drinking you in. “All quiet and scared… but you don’t run. Interesting.”
Before he could push further, hurried footsteps echoed.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Jeon!” Your manager came rushing, bowing repeatedly, voice shaking. “She doesn’t speak much. she’s new, probably just got lost back here. She won’t cause any trouble, I swear.”
The man yanked you away from Jeon’s grip, still apologizing profusely. You disappeared quickly down the hall without a backward glance, robe fluttering behind you.
Jeon let you go, but his eyes stayed glued to the spot where you had vanished, the ghost of your warmth and that silent, fearful gaze burning into him.
He left that night with interest already blooming like poison in his veins.
Jeon returned the next friday for another deal. This time, while he was making his way out, he saw you once again when you stepped onto the stage, moving like liquid shadow whilst the crowd whistled and threw bills, but you never smiled, never engaged. Your eyes scanned the room once… and landed on him.
Tension crackled instantly, thick and electric. You held his gaze longer than anyone else’s.
Later, after your set, Jeon watched from the hallway as a drunk regular tried to grab your wrist near the curtain. You pulled back sharply, ice cold refusal in every line of your body. The manager intervened quickly, muttering, “She doesn’t let anyone touch her, ever. That’s her rule. She’s the most demanded girl here right now because of it.”
Jeon’s jaw tightened. He made a single quiet call that night.
By the third visit, fewer men lingered near the stage when you danced.
By the fifth, the ones who still tried to approach you started disappearing.
And now, seven days after he bought the entire club, the room was empty except for him.
The low lights dimmed even further as the last staff member slipped out without a word. The heavy velvet curtain behind the small private stage parted.
You stepped into the glow barefoot, silk robe sliding off one shoulder, the same calm mask on your face that never cracked for anyone. Your eyes found his immediately. Not by accident, not shyly. They locked on unblinking, the way they had every single night since the first time he sat in that booth months ago.
The same quiet fear lived in your eyes, the same deep, unspoken sadness. But tonight, there was something else threading through it... resignation, maybe. Or the first fragile thread of curiosity.
Jeon sat perfectly still in the wide leather chair, legs spread, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, the other resting on his thigh. Black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He didn’t smile, didn’t speak first. He simply let the tension stretch between you like a live wire.
You never spoke. not once. not even now, when the entire club was empty except for the two of you and the rules had finally bent enough for this: one private dance. For him. Only him.
You let the robe fall. It pooled at your feet like spilled ink, revealing the delicate set underneath, lace kissing the curves he had memorized from a distance for so long.
Your body moved before the first heavy beat dropped. Every roll of your hips, every arch of your spine, every slide of your palms down your own thighs was controlled, never giving enough.
Jeon’s breath stayed even, but his fingers tightened slightly on the armrest. He could feel the obsession clawing deeper under his skin, soft, aching and all consuming.
You dropped low, thighs parting as you sank into a slow crouch, back arching until your hair brushed the floor. The lights painted gold across your skin, catching on the faint sheen of glitter still lingering from earlier. When you rose again, you stepped closer, close enough that the heat of you brushed against the air in front of him, close enough that he could smell the faint vanilla on your skin, but never enough to taste it.
Your palms slid up the pole again as you spun, slow and sinful, one leg hooking high, body stretching into a perfect line that made the ache in his chest twist into something hotter.
Your eyes stayed locked on his the entire time, calm on the surface, but he saw the flicker of the fear that never quite left, and the sadness that made him want to wrap the whole damn world in silence just so nothing could touch you again.e simply watched, dark eyes heavy with the kind of worship that only a man like him could give, soft in its intensity, dangerous in its patience.
Jeon was painfully aware of your rules. No one touched you. No one saw more than you chose to offer.
Yet, you were still the most prized, most wanted thing that had ever existed in this club. And now, you were his alone.
His cock strained hard against the front of his slacks, thick and throbbing with every slow roll of your hips. The flimsy fabric of your top barely hid the soft swell of your breasts, nipples faintly visible through the lace. Those thin panties clung to you, the delicate material doing nothing to hide the outline of what lay beneath. Every time you moved, his mouth went dry with the need to taste, to bury his face between those pretty thighs and worship until the sadness in your eyes melted into pleasure.
He had paid you more than anyone ever had, enough that you could walk away from this life tomorrow if you wanted. Enough for that quiet, secluded place you dreamed about, far from bruises and leering eyes.
But tonight you were still here, dancing only for him, giving him more than you had ever given anyone. That knowledge sent a dark thrill through his veins.
You intrigued him. The way your eyes always found his shadow in the dark, the way you bent and twisted as if trying to see past the low lights to the man watching you so obsessively. He had never once tried to touch you, never pushed past your boundaries even though he could have overpowered you in a heartbeat. And that restraint only made his obsession burn hotter, because he respected you. Needed you to come to him on your own terms.
Jeon couldn’t handle the temptation much longer.
Months of watching you, months of dreaming about sliding his hands over your soft skin, kissing away the fear in your eyes, giving you everything you could ever ask for. But what drove him truly insane was your silence.
You had a voice, he had heard that soft little cough the night you first collided with him... but no one in the club had ever heard you speak. The quiet mystery of you made his cock twitch painfully.
He mumbled a quiet curse under his breath, shifting in his seat as you slid down gracefully and sat on the edge of the small stage, legs dangling toward him.
Jeon reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick stack of bills, placing them on the small table beside his chair. His rough voice came out, patience laced with raw hunger.
“Touch yourself. Now.”
Your eyes widened slightly, that familiar fear and sadness flickering, but something else shimmered there too, heat, the same quiet intensity that had been building between you for months.
You didn’t speak, but you obeyed.
Slowly, shyly, your fingers hooked into the waistband of your thin lace panties. You slid them down your legs and set them aside, but the moment they left your body, one hand moved instantly to cover yourself, palm pressed flat and firm over your pussy, hiding the most intimate part of you even as your thighs parted wide for his gaze.
Jeon’s breath left him in a slow, controlled exhale, eyes darkening to near black as he leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.
He could see everything except the center of you: the smooth skin of your inner thighs, the soft curve where your ass met the stage, the way your fingers trembled just slightly as they pressed against your folds.
It was the most erotic thing he had ever witnessed, your shyness, the way you still protected what no one had ever been allowed to see or touch.
You started with slow, hesitant circles hidden beneath your palm, shy strokes that made your hips roll gently. Your breath came in quiet pants.
In your mind, it was all him. Those intense dark eyes watching you. His large, veined hands instead of your own. His broad frame hovering over you, commanding you to keep going while he finally touched what no one else ever had. The fantasy made you wetter, made your palm press harder, fingers sliding through slick heat while still keeping everything carefully covered.
A tiny, breathy sound escaped you, the softest whimper.
Jeon’s cock throbbed visibly against his slacks. He palmed himself once, eyes never leaving the place where your hand disappeared between your spread thighs.
“Good girl,” he murmured, voice thick with restrained hunger.
Your cheeks adorned a soft flush, thighs trembling as you spread them even wider for him, giving him the full view of your smooth skin and the obscene way your palm shielded your pussy. Your back arched slightly as your hidden fingers moved faster under your palm. The sadness in your eyes was still there, but it was drowning in heat now, heat directed only at him
Jeon’s gaze burned into you, obsession coiling tight in his chest. He wanted to replace that shy little hand with his own so fucking badly. Wanted to pry your thighs open wider, pull your palm away, and finally see what you hid so tenderly and what he deemed belonged to him.
Wanted to sink two thick fingers deep inside you, curl them slow while his thumb worked your clit. He wanted to replace that shy little hand with his own so fucking badly. Wanted to pry your thighs open wider until you broke that perfect silence with his name. Wanted to taste you, then pull you into his lap and keep you there safe, owned and protected until the fear in your eyes disappeared for good.
But he didn’t move.
Your fingers pressed harder beneath your palm, legs trembling, breaths coming quicker. You were a soaked mess, glistening down your thighs now and still, he couldn’t see the center of you. Only the way your hand moved, only the mystery of what you kept hidden even while giving him this.
Jeon leaned back slightly, one hand gripping the armrest hard, the other still palming his straining cock through his pants.
He would wait. He would burn. But the day you finally let him touch you… he would ruin you so softly, so completely, that you’d never want anyone else’s hands again.
And in the pulsing neon silence, Jeon was already completely, irreversibly lost in you.
The nights after, began like all the others. You were called to the private room again, just like before, another quiet performance meant only for him.
You had already begun to recognize the rhythm of these nights, the steady anticipation that built inside your chest when you knew he was waiting.
But this time, before you could make it there, your manager grabbed you before you reached the hallway.
Your body jerked backward from the force, arm twisting painfully in his grip. A sharp sting shot up your wrist, and panic surged instantly through your veins. You didn’t cry out, but your body stiffened, shrinking inward like you had done so many times before.
His fingers dug deeper into your skin, nails pressing hard enough to bruise. “You think you’re special?” he hissed, voice ugly with anger. His breath smelled bitter, too close to your face. “Walking around like you run this place now just because one rich bastard throws money at you.”
You shook your head quickly, small and frantic, your free hand pushing weakly against his chest. You weren’t trying to fight him, just trying to create space, to escape that suffocating closeness.
He didn’t let go. Instead, his grip tightened further, forcing a quiet gasp from your throat.
“I’m the one who keeps you here,” he continued harshly. “You think you get to make rules? if i tell you to do something, you’re going to fucking do it!”
You lowered your gaze automatically, shoulders curling inward as your body slipped into survival mode out of fear. The hallway felt smaller now, the sounds of music from the main room distant and unreachable.
His hand shifted from your wrist to your upper arm, squeezing hard enough to make your knees weaken, before he smirked at your fear, his hand now shamelessly trailing down your back.
“You’re going to start sleeping with the customers i give you” he snapped, “or things are going to get a lot worse for you.”
His other hand lifted suddenly. You flinched before it even came down, your eyes squeezing shut as dread surged through your chest.
But the impact never landed. Instead, there was another sound... a dull, sickening crack that echoed sharply through the narrow hallway.
Your manager’s grip vanished instantly. your body stumbled forward from the sudden release, breath tearing from your lungs as you caught yourself against the wall. For a moment, you didn’t understand what had happened as everything felt distant and muffled.
Then you turned, slowly, only to see your manager, on the floor.
His body lay twisted unnaturally against the polished tiles, one arm bent beneath him at an impossible angle. Blood pooled darkly beneath his head, spreading outward in a widening stain that reflected the harsh overhead lights.
Your heart began to pound violently in your chest. Your vision blurred, and then you saw him.
Jeon stood a few feet away, his chest rising and falling slowly, his breathing steady despite the violence that had just unfolded. His knuckles were smeared with blood, crimson streaked across pale skin, dripping slowly to the floor below.
His face was terrifyingly calm, while your entire body began to shake.
Fear surged through you, wrapping tight around your lungs until breathing became painful. You had seen violence before, heard shouting, witnessed cruelty, even had violence inflicted upon you, but never this. Never death.
Your knees weakened beneath you. And then, without meaning to, your voice broke free, soft and fragile, barely louder than a whisper.
Jeon turned toward you slowly, like you were something fragile that might shatter if he moved too quickly.
Your tears began to fall without restraint now, hot and unstoppable, blurring everything around you. Your hands trembled violently at your sides as fear and confusion tangled painfully inside your chest.
“D-don’t…” you whispered weakly, your voice cracking with panic.
You didn’t even know what you meant. Don’t hurt me. Don’t come closer. Don’t leave me alone with this.
Jeon took a slow step toward you. His voice, when he spoke, was lower than before, softer.
“It’s okay,” he murmured quietly.
The gentleness in his tone didn’t match the blood on his hands, and that contradiction made your chest tighten painfully. You pressed yourself back against the wall, shaking uncontrollably as sobs finally broke free from your throat.
Your legs gave out beneath you as you slid downward helplessly, collapsing against the floor as your body surrendered to exhaustion and fear.
Jeon reached you just before your head hit the ground, his hands catching your shoulders with surprising gentleness. The warmth of his touch seeped through your trembling body, grounding you in a way you couldn’t explain.
For a moment, everything felt distant, the music from the main floor, the murmurs of staff beginning to gather at the far end of the hallway. All of it faded into background noise as your fingers instinctively curled into the front of his shirt, gripping the fabric like it was the only thing keeping you upright.
You didn’t realize you were holding onto him until he shifted slightly, steadying your weight more securely.
“It’s alright,” Jeon murmured again, his voice low, though there was something tight beneath it, something restrained. “You’re safe.”
Safe. The word echoed strangely in your mind, foreign and unfamiliar.
Safe wasn’t something you had ever truly known, not in your parents’ house, not on the streets, not even here in the club where you had carved out your fragile set of rules just to survive.
Yet now, pressed against him, you found yourself clinging to that word like it meant everything.
Your sobs came harder, breaking through your chest in uneven waves as the shock finally settled into your bones. You tried to breathe, but every inhale felt like the air itself had turned against you.
Jeon stayed where he was, crouched in front of you, one hand still resting firmly against your shoulder while the other hovered briefly at your back, settling there with careful restraint.
He waited until your breathing slowed slightly before moving again. “we need to leave,” he said quietly.
You stiffened faintly at his words, your grip tightening unconsciously on his shirt as the word stirred unease inside your chest, but the alternative, staying here, in this hallway with your manager’s body only a few feet away was far worse. Your eyes shifted weakly toward the motionless form on the floor, and a fresh tremor rippled through your body.
Without a word, Jeon moved closer, shifting his body just enough to block your view. You didn’t protest when his arm slid beneath your knees.
You barely registered the movement until your body lifted suddenly from the floor, your breath catching in surprise as he gathered you carefully into his arms, as if he had carried fragile things before and knew exactly how much strength to use.
Your hands clutched at his jacket again, fingers trembling against the fabric.
He held you securely, one arm supporting your back, the other beneath your legs, keeping you close enough that you could hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.
The hallway around you seemed to blur as he began walking. Voices murmured somewhere nearby, but no one stopped him. no one questioned him. They moved out of his way.
You didn’t look up. Your face remained pressed into his chest, tears still slipping silently down your cheeks as exhaustion settled heavily into your limbs.
Outside, the cold night air hit your skin sharply, making you shiver despite the warmth of his hold. Jeon didn’t hesitate as he moved straight toward a sleek black car waiting near the entrance.
One of his men, though you didn’t recognize the face, stood nearby, silent and attentive. Their eyes flicked briefly toward you before lowering again in quiet understanding.
Jeon slid carefully into the back seat, adjusting his hold on you so that your body rested securely against him rather than the cold leather.
You didn’t realize where he was taking you until the car stopped.
By then, exhaustion had begun to weigh heavily against your eyelids, body still trembling faintly with every passing second. The movement of the car had been strangely calming, the quiet hum of the engine mixing with the steady rhythm of his breathing beneath your ear.
When the door opened again, cool night air brushed across your face. You blinked weakly, lifting your head just enough to see where you were.
Your apartment building stood in front of you.
Relief flickered faintly in your chest, as Jeon stepped out of the car, still holding you securely in his arms.
He didn’t set you down. Instead, he carried you all the way to the entrance, his pace steady despite the narrow stairwell. Each step echoed faintly against the concrete walls as he climbed, never once loosening his grip.
A sudden wave of embarrassment washed over you as your door came into view.
You hadn’t planned for anyone to see this place.
Especially not him.
Jeon paused only long enough for you to fumble weakly with your keys. Your hands trembled badly as you tried to guide the metal into the lock, your breathing uneven as anxiety crawled back into your chest.
He waited patiently, didn’t rush you, didn’t take the keys from your hand.
Eventually, the door clicked open.
You felt the shift in his body immediately once he stepped inside.
You didn’t need to look to know what he was seeing.
The thin mattress on the floor, the nearly empty shelves, the bare walls. There was almost nothing here, nothing that suggested comfort, safety, or even basic living.
Jeon slowly lowered you onto the mattress, his movements careful as he released his hold. The absence of his warmth felt immediate, leaving you suddenly aware of the cold air brushing against your skin.
He stood there for a long moment, gaze moving slowly across the room, taking in every detail of the worn fabric of your blanket, the absence of anything resembling security or protection.
Then his eyes shifted downward, toward the corner of the mattress, noticing the slight bulge beneath it.
You stiffened faintly.
Without speaking, Jeon crouched slightly, lifting the edge of the mattress just enough to reveal what lay hidden beneath.
There were envelopes. Stacks of them, unopened and untouched. All the money he had given you, every last bit of it was still there, kept neatly.
His jaw tightened slowly as realization settled into place. You weren’t living off the money, or spending it.
You were saving. Preparing to leave.
The thought struck something sharp inside his chest as he lowered the mattress again, covering the hidden stacks before turning toward you.
You sat frozen, watching him with wide, uncertain eyes. For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then, quietly, he asked, “You were going to leave.”
Your throat tightened painfully as you looked down at your hands, fingers twisting weakly together in your lap. You didn’t answer him, but you didn’t deny it either.
You hadn’t meant for him to see this, not the apartment, not the truth of how you lived. The image of your life laid bare in front of him felt far more exposing than standing under stage lights ever had.
“You’re not staying here.” The words came suddenly, cutting cleanly through the silence before you could even lift your head.
You looked up at him slowly. Jeon was standing in the center of the room now, his broad frame rigid as his gaze swept across the apartment once more. His eyes moved from the mattress beneath you to the bare corners of the walls, then to the thin door that separated you from the rest of the building. His jaw tightened slightly, a faint muscle ticking beneath the skin as if he were holding something back.
“This place…” he muttered quietly, almost to himself, his gaze drifting toward the single window. “There’s no security. No protection.”
You swallowed, fingers tightening nervously around the edge of the blanket beneath you.
You had known that. Every night you had laid down here, listening to footsteps outside your door, every creak making your body tense. But knowing didn’t mean you had another choice.
Jeon turned toward you again, his expression hard but not cruel. There was frustration there, yes, but beneath it sat something that looked dangerously close to concern.
“You have money,” he said, his voice quieter now but no less firm. “Enough to live somewhere better than this.”
Your throat tightened painfully at that.
Slowly, your gaze dropped toward the mattress beneath you. You hesitated for a moment before reaching down, fingers trembling slightly as you lifted the corner of the mattress. The stack of envelopes came into view, carefully arranged in a way that made it obvious they had never been spent.
Jeon watched in silence as you pulled them out one by one, stacking them carefully in your lap.
“What’s your name?” he asked quietly, not really expecting an answer.
You didn’t look up. Your gaze stayed fixed on the floor, on your trembling fingers, anywhere but him.
He didn’t push. He understood.
You didn’t speak not because you couldn’t, but because speaking had always cost you something. You had learned early on that silence was safer, that keeping your thoughts, fears, and even your voice to yourself was the only control you could hold.
And in a world where hands could hurt more than words ever could, silence had become both shield and sanctuary for you.
Jeon studied you quietly for a long moment, noting the tension in your shoulders, the slight tremor in your lips. The thought of leaving you here in this fragile state, with nothing and no one felt unbearable to him.
Finally, he straightened.
“I’ll find you somewhere better, safer. Somewhere you don’t have to look over your shoulder every second. You won’t dance in clubs anymore.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “I’m not forcing you,” he added, softer now, almost gentle. “But it’s dangerous. people saw me with you tonight. The manager…” His jaw tightened slightly. “What happened back there doesn’t stay in this city.”
You remained still, silent as always, but your gaze flicked faintly toward him. He crouched slightly, as if to match your level again, giving you the space to absorb the gravity of the situation.
Then, without another word, he turned. The sudden sound of the apartment door opening and closing filled the space behind you, leaving you alone with the weight of his absence.
And then, it happened.
You rose unsteadily to your feet, the exhaustion, fear, and sudden surge of emotion coalescing into a desperate, unplanned movement. You stepped forward and pressed yourself against him, wrapping your arms around his torso before he could fully clear the doorway.
“Wait,” you whispered, a soft, broken sound.
Jeon’s body froze, a hand halfway out to the doorknob, eyes wide as he registered the unexpected voice.
“Don’t go,” you murmured, voice so soft it almost blended with your rapid breathing.
He stayed still, hesitation creeping into the edges of his controlled composure. The man who had dealt with threats, and death without flinching was now caught completely off guard by the quiet, trembling sound of your voice and the fact that you had chosen this moment to break the boundary you had always held so carefully.
Slowly, he lowered his hand from the doorknob and wrapped his arms around you instead, careful not to cross the boundaries you had set but steady enough to reassure.
You buried your face against his chest, holding on tighter than you thought you could. And in that silent embrace, for the first time in a long time, you realized that maybe, just maybe, you didn’t need to escape anymore.
Not while he was here.
The first few nights in Jeon’s estate had felt unreal.
You remembered lying stiffly in the massive bed the first time he brought you here, your body tense beneath clean sheets that smelled faintly of something warm and unfamiliar. You hadn’t slept much that night, not because of fear, but because comfort had felt suspicious, like something temporary that would disappear if you trusted it too quickly.
But it hadn’t disappeared. And days turned into weeks, weeks into months.
Slowly, without you realizing it at first, the estate stopped feeling like a stranger’s home. It became yours too.
Jeon had given you everything without asking for anything in return.
Clean clothes, soft ones unlike the tight, glittering costumes from the club. Not the uncomfortable fabrics that clung too closely to your skin. These were loose, warm and gentle against your body, soft pants that allowed you to move without feeling watched.
At first, you had hesitated to wear them as they felt too nice, and too undeserved.
But Jeon never commented. Never made you feel like you owed him gratitude for the smallest comforts. He simply placed them in the wardrobe and left you to discover them on your own.
The soft bed had become your favorite place.
At first, you slept at the very edge of it, as far from him as possible, your body turned slightly away, ready to flinch at any unexpected movement. But he never crossed the space between you.
Even when exhaustion dragged him under after long nights away, his body remained still, respectful of boundaries you had never needed to repeat aloud.
Months had passed, and he still hadn’t touched you without permission.
That alone had changed something deep inside you. You appreciated it more than words could express.
And that was the problem. You still hadn’t spoken to him, not truly. Not beyond broken whispers forced out by fear.
Yet every day, he spoke to you like conversation was natural between you. Like silence didn’t bother him, and your presence alone was enough.
He would talk quietly while getting ready in the mornings, adjusting the cuffs of his shirts, straightening his jacket as he explained small details about his day, where he was going, when he would return, who he would be meeting.
You always listened.
Sometimes, when he wasn’t in the room, you practiced saying his name quietly, whispering it into the empty air, shaping the syllables slowly against your lips.
“Jeon…”
Soft, and barely audible. Sometimes you said it again, just to feel what it sounded like resting on your tongue.
You didn’t know when you would say it to him.
But you wanted to. More than anything.
You rarely felt bored inside the estate as there was always something to do, books he had placed in the room, soft music that played faintly through hidden speakers. Sometimes you wandered the halls, your bare feet sinking into thick carpets, curiosity slowly replacing fear.
But even with all of that, you still found yourself waiting.
Waiting for the sound of the front door, his footsteps, waiting for the familiar presence that made the entire house feel warmer.
You didn’t like admitting it to yourself, but you missed him when he was gone.
And tonight, he was later than usual.
You sat curled near the headboard, a book resting forgotten in your lap as your eyes drifted repeatedly toward the door. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a bedside lamp, casting warm shadows across the walls.
Your fingers twisted nervously into the book placed infront of you.
Then, distant footsteps sound as the door opened.
Jeon stepped inside slowly, his movements heavier than usual. His jacket hung loosely from his shoulders, slightly wrinkled, his dark hair messier than you had ever seen it before. There were faint shadows beneath his eyes, and the tension in his posture was unmistakable.
Your chest tightened at the sight. He didn’t notice you at first. He exhaled deeply, the sound low and exhausted as he stepped further into the room.
Jeon walked straight to the bed like he always did after long nights. The mattress dipped slightly as he sat down at the edge, shoulders slumping forward in a way you had never really seen before. Usually, he carried himself with sharp control, every movement precise. Tonight, that control looked worn thin.
That was when you frowned. You pushed yourself upright slowly, the blankets slipping from your shoulders as you moved. The soft fabric of your nightgown settled around you, light against your skin. It was simple, modest, something he had bought months ago without comment, leaving it folded neatly on the bed as if it had always belonged there.
You could tell by the way his head lifted slightly, brows drawing together in quiet confusion when he noticed you sitting up.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then, carefully, you shifted closer.
Your movements were slow, giving him time to pull away if he wanted. but he didn’t. He only watched, quiet curiosity flickering faintly beneath his exhaustion.
You reached for him, fingers brushing lightly against his sleeve first, hesitant. When he didn’t resist, you curled your hand more firmly into the fabric and tugged softly.
Jeon blinked in surprise as you were pulling him toward you.
He let himself move, guided by your hands, his body leaning slightly forward despite the confusion written faintly across his face. He trusted your movements, even without understanding them.
And then, you pressed his head softly against your chest.
The contact startled him as his body went still for a split second, breath catching faintly as he registered what you had done. The warmth of you, the steady rise and fall of your breathing beneath his cheek, the soft fabric of your nightgown brushing lightly against his skin, it all felt unfamiliar in the most disarming way.
You didn’t hesitate as your fingers slid gently into his hair, ruffling through the dark strands slowly, uncertain at first, as if learning the motion as you went.
You continued, slow strokes threading through his hair, hand moving patiently. The tension in his shoulders began to loosen beneath your touch, his breathing gradually evening out as he allowed himself to rest there, against you.
Your fingers kept moving, soothing, a small, quiet offering of comfort. The least you could give him.
Jeon let out a slow breath against your chest, the sound soft and unguarded. His hands rested loosely at his sides at first, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with them, what he was allowed to do in this moment.
You didn’t push him away. So slowly, cautiously, his hands lifted, hovering near your waist for a moment, giving you time to stop him, to remind him of boundaries, but you stayed still.
Carefully, he let his hands settle against your waist, resting there lightly. Your breathing softened as you felt his weight lean more fully into you.
And then, after a long moment of silence, your lips parted. Your heart pounded faintly in your chest, the words forming slowly, clumsily unfamiliar on your tongue, but you tried.
“…tired?” you whispered. the word came out quiet and fragile, barely louder than breath, but clear enough to be understood.
Jeon froze from surprise at the sound of your voice, soft, concerned for him.
He tilted his head slightly, just enough to glance upward, eyes meeting yours for a brief moment. “Yeah,” he murmured quietly, his voice rough with exhaustion. “A little.”
Jeon’s face remained pressed to your chest, his warm breath fanning across the soft swell of your breasts through the thin nightgown.
His mouth brushed lightly against one peaked nipple, the contact sending a quiet shiver through you. He stayed perfectly still, waiting, always waiting for your boundaries.
You didn’t pull away. Instead, your fingers continued their slow, soothing strokes through his dark hair. With the gentlest pressure, you guided his head a fraction closer, your other hand cupping the back of his neck in silent permission.
Jeon’s breath hitched. His lips parted, and he began to suck softly through the fabric, tongue warm and careful as it circled the sensitive peak. There was nothing demanding in it, only a deep, exhausted need for comfort. He suckled slowly, eyes fluttering half closed, a low, broken sound vibrating against your skin.
You let him. Your thumb brushed tenderly over his cheek as you leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his cheek, then another to his temple. A faint, barely there smile curved your lips. the first real one he had ever seen from you.
“It’s okay.” you whispered, voice barely audible, soothing.
His eyes opened just enough to look up at you. He had heard your voice so rarely that each whisper, each soft breath of sound felt like something precious. He yearned for it, hungrily and in the quietest way.
Jeon never made you feel foolish for not speaking. Silence with you had never felt like absence to him. it had always felt like waiting for something fragile to bloom in its own time.
It did something dangerous to his heart.
He had never known warmth like this. Never known someone would hold him, let him take comfort from their body without expectation or fear.
He continued sucking softly, mouth gentle and unhurried, cheek resting fully against your breast as he drew quiet comfort from the steady rhythm of your heartbeat and the faint taste of you through the fabric. His hands stayed lightly at your waist, thumbs brushing slow circles, anchoring himself without taking more than you offered.
You kept kissing his cheek between soft coos, fingers never stopping their patient strokes through his hair. The faint smile lingered on your lips as you watched him. this dangerous man, reduced to nothing but quiet vulnerability in your arms.
He had spent months protecting you, erasing every shadow that dared come near. Tonight, you were the one giving him shelter.
Jeon’s sucking gradually slowed, growing lazier and softer as exhaustion finally pulled him under. His lips stayed gently latched, warm and wet against your nipple, breaths deepening into the steady rhythm of sleep while his face remained nestled safely between your breasts.
You held him there, arms wrapped around his broad shoulders, faint smile still ghosting your lips as you continued to stroke his hair long into the night.
In the quiet darkness, with his mouth still softly pressed to you and his heartbeat syncing with yours, the silence felt warmer than it ever had.
The first night after that moment stayed with you. In the quiet way your skin felt warmer than usual, in the strange heaviness that settled low in your stomach whenever you thought about the way Jeon had leaned into you, trusting you enough to rest like that.
And now you craved it in ways that left you restless at night, thighs pressing together when you remembered the weight of his head on your chest, the way his lips had brushed your nipple through the thin fabric, the soft, needy sounds he made while seeking comfort only you could give.
On the nights he returned home angry, jaw tight, eyes sharp with the weight of whatever blood and deals stained his hands, you did the same. You would take his hand without a word and guide him to the bed. He would follow, always, letting you pull him down until his broad frame curled into you. You’d press his face to your chest, fingers sliding into his dark hair, and he would sigh against you like the whole world finally quieted.
It became a habit faster than either of you expected.
He would nuzzle in, lips seeking until they found the soft peak of your nipple through whatever you wore. Then he would suck slowly, with gentle pulls, tongue warm and lazy, eyes fluttering shut as tension bled from his shoulders.
You loved the way his sharp, cold gaze would soften into something doe like and vulnerable when he looked up at you in the middle of it.
This dangerous man.. twice your size, a mafia who erased people without blinking, reduced to quiet need in your arms. It melted something deep inside your guarded heart every single time.
You would stroke his hair, kiss his temple, whisper soft, wordless coos while he suckled. Sometimes your nightgown would slip just enough for his mouth to meet bare skin, and you let him. The soft, wet sounds filled the quiet room intimately vulnerable, and strangely sacred.
You had never allowed hands on your body with anyone, never permitted closeness. Yet with Jeon, you offered solace, even though he was the most dangerous man you knew, because giving it to him made the emptiness in your own chest feel smaller.
But the more he found peace in you, the more you ached.
The absence of his hands on your waist when you weren’t guiding them. The lack of his mouth when he wasn’t tired and seeking solace.
You wanted more.
You wanted him to touch you not just when he was exhausted and seeking comfort, but because he needed you the way you were starting to need him. You wanted his large hands sliding under your clothes with quiet permission. You wanted his mouth on you when you were the one trembling and restless. You wanted to hear that low, rough voice telling you exactly how he was going to take care of you.
Jeon still didn’t touch you unless you guided him. Still respected every boundary without question.
and that was the problem.
You had spent so much of your life feeling touched in ways you hated, forced contact of unwanted hands, suffocating closeness that made your skin crawl.
But Jeon’s touch had never felt like that. His hands had always been gentle.
And now, you missed them. You missed the weight of his head against your chest, missed the warmth of his hands resting lightly at your waist. Missed the quiet way he breathed you in.
It made something inside you ache, a subtle, quiet restlessness. A strange warmth blooming beneath your skin when he stood close to you. The heat of his body when he passed by, the faint scent of him left behind on pillows and clothing.
You noticed everything now, the sound of his voice, the shape of his hands.
And worst of all, you noticed how much you wanted him.
The deep, unfamiliar longing coiled low inside your stomach and refused to fade.
Sometimes, when he wasn’t home, the estate felt too quiet. You found yourself wandering into the bedroom earlier than usual, curling into the bed where his scent lingered faintly in the sheets.
Days passed, and the feeling still didn’t fade. It only deepened.
Until one night, you found yourself alone again.
The house was silent, Jeon had left hours ago, promising to return late like he often did.
You lay on his bed in nothing but a thin nightgown, thighs parted, two fingers buried deep inside your soaked pussy. Your hips rolled desperately as you chased release, mind filled with him, his dark eyes, his large hands, the way he watched you like you were everything.
A soft, broken whimper escaped.
“Jeon…”
You hadn’t heard when the bedroom door opened and Jeon stepped inside.
You lay on his bed, legs spread, fingers still moving and eyes wide with shock as they met his
You whimpered his name again, shyly trying to cover yourself, but your hips twitched restlessly, starved. Your eyes begged him silently, glossy and desperate.
Jeon’s jaw clenched. His cock hardened instantly, thick and heavy. He was just as desperate, but he didn’t trust himself to stay soft if he lost control.
He crossed the room but still didn’t touch you. “Keep going, angel. let me watch.”
You obeyed, shy fingers returning between your legs, rubbing slow circles while your eyes stayed locked on him. But it wasn’t enough. You were too restless, too impatient and your thighs trembling with need.
Jeon sat on the edge of the bed. “Come here.” He guided you gently onto his lap, your back to his chest, thighs spread wide over his. His hard cock pressed against your ass through his slacks. One large hand rested lightly on your stomach, the other hovering just above your pussy, waiting.
“relax, angel,” he murmured against your ear, voice rough. “show me.”
You whimpered restlessly, grinding down against the bulge beneath you. His fingers finally brushed your folds gently, exploring. The moment he tried to press one thick finger inside, you tensed, a small sound of discomfort escaping.
Jeon froze instantly, pulling back. “too much?”
You shook your head quickly, grabbing his wrist, but another attempt made you flinch again.
He cursed softly, then shifted you so you were straddling him, your soaked pussy resting against the hard line of his clothed cock. Both his hands settled on your hips, holding you steady but not forcing.
“Look at me,” he said, voice low and commanding. “How are you going to take my cock, hm? If you can’t even handle one finger?”
You whimpered, hips rolling desperately against him, silently begging. Your hands clutched his shoulders, needy and impatient.
Jeon’s eyes darkened. He reached between you, gently spreading your folds with two fingers, exposing your pussy to his hungry gaze for the first time. His breath hitched.
“Fuck… so pretty,” he groaned quietly, thumb brushing just above your clit. “Been dreaming about this for months. This soft little pussy… all mine.”
You grew shy under his intense stare, trying to close your thighs, but he held them open, firm yet gentle. “Don’t hide from me, angel. Let me see.”
He lowered you onto your back on the bed, then moved between your spread thighs. You were completely exposed to him now, your pretty, glistening pussy on full display.
He leaned in close, hot breath ghosting over your folds. Slowly,he blew a soft stream of air across your sensitive lips, watching with dark fascination as they fluttered and clenched from the cool sensation. A low, hungry sound rumbled in his chest.
His mouth watered at the sight. He couldn’t hold back any longer.
He pressed a slow, open mouthed kiss directly to your pussy, lips soft against your slick folds. Then his tongue dragged through you in one long, hot stripe from your entrance up to your swollen clit, tasting you properly for the first time. The moan that tore from his throat was deep and filthy, vibrating straight against your core.
You gasped sharply, hips jerking hard. The sensation was overwhelming. his warm, wet tongue too much. Instinctively, you tried to close your thighs, tried to squirm away from the intense pleasure, but Jeon’s strong hands gripped tighter, pinning your legs open wide.
He kissed your folds like he was devouring something sacred and soft, wet sounds filling the room as he sucked gently on your clit, then pushed his tongue inside you, fucking you with it in shallow, teasing strokes.
You writhed beneath him, restless and overwhelmed, small desperate whimpers spilling from your lips. Your hands pushed at his shoulders, thighs trembling violently in his iron grip as the pleasure bordered on too much. Every slow lick, every suck, every time his tongue curled inside you sent sparks shooting up your spine. You were so sensitive, so needy after years of nothing, that tears pricked at the corners of your eyes.
Jeon groaned deeply, the taste of you driving him insane. “So fucking sweet… dripping all over my tongue. taste so fucking good for me.”
When your moans grew higher, he finally slid one thick finger inside, careful, curling gently once he was past the initial tightness. This time your body accepted him, clenching around the intrusion while his tongue continued working your clit.
You were dripping, restless, hips lifting impatiently.
Jeon pulled back just enough to look up at you, lips glistening. “That’s it… taking my finger so well now.”
He added a second finger, scissoring slowly, stretching you open while his mouth returned to suck on your clit. The pleasure built fast and overwhelming until you shattered, whimpering his name again and again, thighs shaking around his head
only when you were trembling and boneless did he finally pull back, kissing your inner thighs gently, eyes soft yet burning with possessive need.
Jeon sat up at the corner of the bed, his cock straining painfully against the last barrier of his boxers. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband and shoved them down, freeing his thick, heavy length, the flushed head already glistening with pre cum. He stroked himself once, watching you with dark, hooded eyes.
“Come here, angel,” he murmured, voice low and commanding, dripping with filthy intent.
You obeyed without a word, body still buzzing, crawling across the sheets on shaky limbs until you were between his spread thighs. The sight of his massive cock so close made your mouth water. You had been starved for him for so long.
Without hesitation, you leaned in, lips parting as you took the thick head into your mouth, sucking greedily.
Jeon groaned deep in his chest, one hand gently threading into your hair. “Fuck… that’s it. look at you. Been dreaming about these pretty lips wrapped around me.”
You sucked him deeper, tongue swirling around the head, desperate and eager. Your cheeks hollowed as you took as much as you could, soft whimpers vibrating around his length. He was so big your jaw already ached, but you didn’t stop.
“Good girl,” he praised, voice rough. “Sucking me so sweetly... just like that.”
You moaned around him, sucking harder, one small hand stroking what you couldn’t fit in your mouth. The hunger in your eyes made his cock twitch against your tongue.
After a few minutes, Jeon gently tugged you off, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip. His gaze was dark but careful.
“Enough, baby. Come up here.” He patted his thighs. “Sit on me. I want you to take it at your own pace. It’s going to stretch you a lot… okay?”
His voice low and serious, eyes searching yours. “You sure this is what you want? we can stop anytime. Tell me it’s okay.”
You nodded, restless and aching, climbing into his lap.
Straddling his thick thighs, you hovered over his massive cock, the blunt head nudging your soaked entrance. You were dripping, thighs slick with your own arousal, but the size still looked impossible.
Jeon’s hands rested lightly on your hips, not pushing, just steadying. “Easy, angel. whenever you’re ready. only if you want it.”
You sank down slowly. The thick head pushed inside, stretching you open with a burning pressure that made you gasp. You only managed a couple of inches before the discomfort bordered on pain. You whimpered, pausing, body trembling as you struggled to take more.
“Fuck… so tight,” Jeon groaned, jaw clenched, fighting the urge to thrust up. “does it hurt, baby? we can stop...”
You shook your head quickly, desperately sinking a little deeper despite the sting. Halfway down and you were already full, barely half his cock inside you, your walls clenching hard around the thick intrusion. The stretch was intense, but the heat and fullness made you even wetter, arousal dripping down his shaft.
Jeon’s hands tightened on your hips, eyes flicking between your face and where you were joined. “breathe for me, baby... you’re doing so good… taking me so well.”
You whined, restless and impatient, trying to push down further but struggling. The pain lingered, sharp and deep.
“Shh, angel. Let me take over now,” he said softly, dominant tone wrapping around you. “I’ve got you.”
He gripped your hips more firmly, holding you steady. With careful, controlled rolls of his own hips, he worked himself deeper, relentless thrusts that pushed another inch, then another. You cried out as the burn intensified, tears pricking your eyes, but you didn’t pull away. You wanted all of him.
“Almost there, baby… just a little more,” he murmured, voice strained with restraint. “you’re clenching so fucking tight around me. Relax for me… let me fill you up.”
With one last gentle but firm push, Jeon sank the rest of his thick cock inside you. The stretch was excruciating at first, pain blooming sharp and hot as your walls were forced to accommodate every inch of his huge length. You whimpered brokenly, feeling impossibly full, like he was splitting you open.
Jeon stilled completely once he bottomed out, buried to the hilt. His hands stroked your back soothingly, voice soft and reassuring even as his cock throbbed inside you.
“There you go… all the way in. You took every inch. Such a good girl for me.” He kissed your temple, staying perfectly still to let you adjust.
Slowly, the burning stretch eased into a heavy, throbbing fullness. Your walls fluttered and clenched around him as the discomfort melted into deep, aching pleasure. Jeon stayed buried deep, hands gentle on your skin, waiting patiently until your whimpers turned into soft, needy sounds and your hips began to move restlessly again.
He could feel the way your sensitive little pussy gripped him so tightly it bordered on painful for both of you.
“Fuck, angel… look at that,” he murmured, voice low. He shifted you carefully, laying you back on the bed and hooking your legs over his elbows, folding you open wider so he could see everything. His dark eyes dropped between your bodies, watching with raw hunger as your slick walls clenched visibly around the base of his cock. “pretty pussy sucking me in so greedily. Clenching like it never wants to let me go.”
You cried out softly, overwhelmed tears slipping down your temples. The stretch was still intense, but the fullness felt too good to stop. Your hips twitched restlessly beneath him.
“Jeon…” you whimpered, voice breaking for the first time again, needy and begging. “more… please…”
The sound of your voice finally saying his name like that hit him like a drug. Jeon’s jaw clenched, eyes darkening with possessive hunger.
He had waited so long to hear you, and now every soft whimper and broken plea made his cock throb harder inside you.
He started slow at first, gentle rolls of his hips, sliding his thick length in and out with careful control, kissing your tear streaked cheeks and murmuring soft praises against your skin. “That’s it, angel. Taking me so well… my good girl.”
But your desperate little whimpers kept fueling him. “More… please...”
Jeon lost control, his hips snapping forward harder, driving his massive cock deep into your tight heat with rough, punishing thrusts. The wet, filthy sound of skin slapping skin filled the room as he fucked you deeper, faster, the head of his cock kissing your cervix with every brutal stroke.
You cried out, tears streaming down your face, but you took every inch, whimpering his name over and over like a prayer.
Jeon loved it. Loved the sound of your voice breaking for him. It drove him wild until he was growling against your neck.
He pounded into you relentlessly, hips slamming against yours, the bed creaking under the force. His thick cock stretched you open again and again, dragging against every sensitive spot inside you as he drove himself deeper.
Jeon was losing control.
After months of never touching you, only watching, only respecting the sacred line you had drawn, the hunger finally broke him.
His hand slid up your body, large palm wrapping around your throat with firm, possessive pressure. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make your breath hitch and your pulse race under his fingers. He held you there, thumb pressing lightly against the side of your neck, feeling every frantic beat of your heart.
One hand slid between your bodies, thumb rubbing tight circles on your swollen clit. The pressure built fast and overwhelming.
Your pussy clenched violently around him, walls fluttering and squeezing so tightly it almost hurt. You came hard, squirting around his cock with a broken cry, clear fluid soaking his abs and the sheets beneath you.
The sight and feel of you falling apart pushed Jeon over the edge as he groaned, voice strained and intense. He buried himself to the hilt, hips stuttering as he released deep inside you, thick ropes of cum flooding your spasming pussy.
Even as he came, he kept kissing you softly, on your lips, your cheeks, your tear damp lashes, whispering affectionate praises between heavy breaths.
“my perfect girl… I love you. So fucking much. You’re mine now… all mine.”
He stayed buried deep, holding you close as both of you trembled through the aftershocks, his cock still twitching inside your cum filled, sensitive pussy.
Jeon’s breathing was ragged, chest heaving against yours. He stayed perfectly still for a long moment, savoring the way your walls fluttered weakly around him. Then his hand came up, large palm cupping your tear streaked face with heartbreaking gentleness. His thumb brushed across your cheek, wiping away the wetness, pulling you closer until your foreheads touched and your breaths mingled.
His dark eyes searched yours, “I don’t want you to call me Jeon anymore,” he whispered, voice hoarse and low, almost trembling with the weight of it. “Not tonight. Not ever again.”
He swallowed hard, thumb stroking your bottom lip as if memorizing the shape of your silence.
“I want you to call me Jungkook.”
The name hung between you like a confession. His eyes were burning with something deeper, something that had been growing since the night you first crashed into him in that dim hallway. Since the first time your fearful, sad eyes had locked onto his across a smoky club and refused to let go.
“I’ve waited so long to hear my name on your lips,” he continued softly, voice cracking. “Every time you danced for me… every time you looked at me like I was the only man in the world… I wanted this. I wanted you to say it like you just did when you were falling apart around me. Like I’m yours.”
He pressed a slow, reverent kiss to your forehead, then to the corner of your eye, tasting the salt of your tears.
“You’re my home now, angel. I’d burn everything down again just to keep you safe… just to keep hearing you whisper my name like that.”
You lay beneath him, still impossibly full of him, body aching in the most delicious, overwhelming way.
Your mind was a quiet storm, confused and unsure of the depth of what you felt for this man who had quietly claimed every piece of your guarded heart without ever forcing his way in.
You didn’t know if this was love yet.
But you knew comfort. you knew home.
You had never known anything like the way he gently held you now, even after he had ruined you so thoroughly, protective even when he was buried to the hilt inside you.
No one had ever made the fear quiet down like this. No one had ever made the sadness feel bearable just by looking at you like you were something precious.
Your fingers trembled as they traced the line of his jaw. You didn’t speak as words still felt too heavy, but your eyes said enough. They stayed locked on his, soft and uncertain, yet warm with the quiet realization that this man had become your safe place.
Jeon smiled, soft and impossibly tender, pressing one last lingering kiss to your lips.
“Stay with me,” he whispered against your mouth, the plea wrapped in velvet and steel. “Let me keep you.”
Jeon’s fingers kept tracing slow patterns along your spine, his breath warm against your temple. The silence between you felt heavier now, full of everything still unsaid.
After a long while, you finally spoke. Your voice was soft, barely above a whisper, hoarse from all the whimpers and moans he had drawn out of you tonight.
“…Jungkook.”
His entire body stilled. The name left your lips like a secret finally set free, hesitant and uncertain, but real. His arms tightened around you instantly, a shaky exhale escaping him as if he had been waiting years just to hear it again.
You didn’t say anything more. You didn’t need to. In that single word, you had given him the only thing you had left to offer, the quiet acknowledgment that he was no longer just the man who watched you from the shadows.
He was yours now, too.
Jeon pressed his forehead to yours, eyes closed, breathing you in like you were oxygen.
The room fell quiet again, filled only with the sound of your mingled breathing and the distant hum of the city beyond the estate walls. He stayed inside you, holding you close, skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat.
You still didn’t know if this feeling in your chest was love.
But for the first time in your life, the silence felt like it could hold something beautiful.
Something that might last.
«an: im sorry you guys i actually suck at writing and wrapping up oneshots unless its like atleast 25k words or just pure smut. but mafia jk is so hot i need himmm ugh
