#cheatinggirlfriend

[axxvision2]

Nowhere else to go at the moment but the car 🤷‍♂️

🎥11:29

[bbcaddict4545]

Loyal for years but letting white bois think they one up … my bf don’t even know how much black seed he’s ate ! 😂 I work overtime just to suck BBC! Black cock looks better between my lips anyways!

[valentinesxoxo]

”STOP CALLIN’ HER PHONE SHE GETTIN’ FUCKED TONIGHT”

୨୧ synopsis- you’ve been secretly cheating on your boyfriend with enjin. and it wasn’t your fault he fucked better than your own loser boyfriend. your boyfriend always treated you like shit, always ignored you and was always distance.

but little did you know enjin has always had a big crush on you, and always took the chance whenever you wanted to link up when your shitty boyfriend was away.

oops! one day he calls while you’re hooking up with enjin, what the worst thing that could happen?

୨୧ contains- no use of y/n, friends to lovers?, enjin lowk yearning for reader, sorta angst?, fluff, smut, mentions of masturbating, cussing, unedited, praising, missionary, doggy-style, rough sex, jealousy sex?, creamie pie, etc.

୨୧ pairing up- enjin! x fem! reader

enjin smirk softened as he remembered the countless times he'd held you close, his hands roaming over your body in the darkness.

the way you'd whisper his name, your boyfriend's name forgotten in the moment. he was an idiot, he knew that.

it all started on a stormy night when your boyfriend forgot your anniversary dinner, again.

enjin found you crying in the parking lot, soaked and shivering. he gave you his jacket, drove you home, and when you invited him in for coffee, one thing led to another.

his hands were gentle, his touch was everything your boyfriend's wasn't — hungry and devoted.

it felt so wrong but felt so good to have someone appreciate of you.

enjin knew you through his friend who was close to your boyfriend.

enjin had always admired you from afar, your smile, your laughter, the way your hair fell in soft waves. he’d hear stories about how your boyfriend would ignore you, how he’d be distance, and many other stories.

you’d notice enjin’s lingering gazes, the way he'd always be the first to comfort you when your boyfriend was being an asshole.

you’d link up with him when your boyfriend was away on business trips, enjin’s strong arms wrapping around you, his kisses deep and passionate.

and the way he fucked better than your own boyfriend, what a shame he isn’t your real boyfriend.

enjin would fuck you slow and deep, his hands gripping your hips possessively.

he’d take his time, knowing exactly what you liked—what your boyfriend could never bother to learn. he’d kiss you roughly, swallow your moans, and make you come harder than you ever had with your boyfriend.

when you’re away, enjin would find himself missing you. he’d dream about your body, your voice, the way you’d look at him with those big eyes. he’d get hard just thinking about you, his hand moving to stroke himself while imagining it was your pussy instead of his fist.

he would find himself yearning for you, his heart aching with a possessiveness he couldn't understand.

he wanted to be the one holding you at night, waking up with you in his arms. he wanted to be your boyfriend, your everything —not just your secret lover.

there were nights when the possessiveness would boil over, when he’d snap at you for still being with that worthless piece of shit. you’d argue, harsh words flying, both of you raw with emotion.

the next morning, he’d be at your door with armfuls of your favorite roses, his eyes remorseful, voice low as he'd beg for forgiveness.

enjin’s jaw was tight, his fists clenched at his sides as he towered over you.

“why do you keep going back to him?" he growled, voice rough with barely contained calm voice. “he treats you like shit, fucks around on you, and you still—fuck, you still choose him over me.” eyes were dark, almost pleading.

“you don’t understand enjin! it’s not easy!” you said, feeling frustrated that he keep mentioning him.

enjin’s face twisted in a snarl, his hand slamming against the wall beside your head.

“i understand that he’s a fucking loser who doesn't deserve you!” he shouted, his voice echoing off the bedroom walls. “i understand that i’m the one who makes you feel good, the one who actually gives a damn about you.”

you took a deep breath, trying to relax before the emotional takes over. “just get out enjin, this isn’t worth it anymore.”

enjin stared at you for a long moment, his chest heaving with anger and something else—pain. without a word, he turned and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

you heard his footsteps stomping down the stairs, the front door slamming shut shortly after.

you decided to fall go to sleep for the night, trying to focus on something else other than the argument you two just had.

you woke up the next day with someone knocking on the door, more like a needy knock. you sigh before getting up and walking towards the door to open it.

you open the door to find enjin standing there, arms filled with your favorite roses, his eyes red and tired looking. he looks like he didn't sleep all night. he hands you the flowers without a word, his jaw clenched as he waits for you to take them.

“i’m sorry..”

your eyes widen, your hands slapping against your mouth. you’re speechless, how can a man who isn’t your actual boyfriend apologize better?

enjin stepped forward, crowding the doorway, crowding you. the flowers pressed against your chest. his voice came out rough, almost broken.

“he doesn't even know your favorite flowers. i doubt that bitch knows your favorite color.” he swallowed hard, eyes searching your face desperately. “i can’t stop thinking about you. every fucking day.”

“let’s not worry about him, okay?” you whispered, cupping his face.

his eyes fluttered shut at your touch, a shaky breath escaping him. his forehead dropped to rest against yours, the flowers momentarily forgotten on the floor between you.

and let’s mention when you two smoke together, the strong weed easily made you high. showing sometimes your real emotions, making you cling onto him more.

the weed was potent—enjin’s special stash, the kind that hit you like a freight train. you’d sit on his balcony, passing the joint back and forth, the smoke curling around you both.

the high would make your emotions raw, your defenses nonexistent. you’d find yourself clinging to him, burying your face in his neck as he held you close.

but once the high wore off, you’d be left in a haze of vulnerability and lingering affection.

enjin would keep you close, his arms wrapped around you as you lay against his chest. he’d trace idle patterns on your skin, his voice low and gentle as he talked about anything and everything—except your boyfriend. “stay with me,”

and he’d love the times when you came back crawling to him when your actual boyfriend wasn’t giving you the attention you needed.

whenever your boyfriend neglected you, enjin would be there to catch you.

he loved those nights when you’d come crawling back to him, needy and vulnerable. he’d open his door without a word, pulling you into his arms and holding you close as you broke down.

and let’s not forgot how you lied to your boyfriend, claiming to be at your parents house for your birthday. but was actually going on a trip with enjin, he managed to fly you out. and surprisingly was richer than your boyfriend… embarrassing!

enjin surprised you with a weekend getaway—first-class flight, luxury hotel suite, private beach. he spoiled you rotten without a second thought.

while your boyfriend thought you were having a dull family dinner, you were sipping champagne on a private beach, watching the sunset with enjin.

he gave you with a diamond necklace that night—a gift far more expensive than anything your boyfriend had ever given you. the look on your face made every penny worth it.

but it all changed this one night.

you at his house again, laying on his bed. getting your brain fucked out again.

“ahhh!!!— e-enjinn.. right there!”

you were on your back, legs thrown over his shoulders as he pounded into you on his living room floor. the sound of skin slapping against skin filled the air along with your cries. be leaned down, biting your lip hard enough to bruise.

he watched your breasts bounce with each thrust, listened to the way you moaned his name.

he knew he was good at this—he could fuck like no tomorrow. he pulled out suddenly, flipping you onto your stomach and slamming back in. “take it ma,”

“e-enjin!!— oh goshhh, nghhh!”

one hand gripped your hip, the other tangled in your hair, pulling your head back as he fucked you from behind. “such a good fucking girl,” he panted, the dirty talk falling freely from his lips.

his pace slowed, turning devious. “you came running to me again tonight, didn’t you? bet he didn't even notice you left.”

he bit your shoulder roughly, one hand sliding between your thighs to rub your clit. “he doesn’t make you feel like this... bet he doesn't know how to work you properly.”

you gasp, gripping onto the sheets. “n-no!!! he doesn’t..— o-only you!”

he chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating through his chest as he snapped his hips forward. “that’s right, only me.” his fingers worked your clit expertly, building you up fast.

he bent down, lips brushing against your ear.

suddenly, your phone which was near you randomly started to ring. as you lift your head up, to see your boyfriend calling you. without warning, enjin immediately gets your phone and answers it.

he smirks, clearing his throat before speaking up. “stop callin’ up her phone she gettin’ fuck tonight,” making you cover your mouth, as enjin made a powerful thrust, hitting your cervix. making you moan loudly.

yikes! your boyfriend definitely heard that.

your boyfriend voice came through the phone, confused and worried. “who is this? where’s my girl? and do i hear.. moaning..?” he just smirked devilishly, not breaking his brutal pace. “she’s just busy right now. very busy getting her pussy filled.”

your boyfriend stuttered, disbelief clear his voice. “—what? who is this?! let me talk to her!” enjin just chuckled, pulling out almost entirely before slamming back in, making you cry out loudly enough for your boyfriend to hear.

and enjin hangs up in his face, just like that.

he tossed your phone aside carelessly, focusing on you again. his hands gripped your hips harshly as he started fucking you even harder, punishing and claiming.

the room filled with the sound of wet slaps and your muffled screams. “shh.. no more calls tonight.”

“e-enjin— that was s-so embarrassing!!” you cried out, gasping for air while feeling your guts getting rearranged each thrust.

he leaned forward, his chest pressing against your back as he whispered in your ear.

“should’ve thought about that before you let him call you while i’m fucking you senseless.” making you blush before his hand reached around to cover your mouth as he picked up speed, hitting deep spots intentionally to silence any further noises.

you then felt yourself about to climax. crying and trembling as you creamed against his length.

your sudden climax made him groan, your walls clenching around his cock feeling too good.

he couldn't help but follow you over the edge, filling you up with his hot release. he kept his hand over your mouth, muffling your moans as he milked out every drop inside you.

after catching yours and his breath, he pulled out slowly, watching as his cum leaked out of you.

he removed his hand from your mouth and used the other to spread your cheeks apart, getting a good view. “look at that... all messy cause of me.” as he pushed some more cum inside.

after a few moment, he smiled softly, seeing you vulnerable and messy from his use.

he grabbed some tissues and carefully cleaned between your thighs, wiping away the cum of his rough handling. he was gentle now, his fingers soothing rather than violating. he knew exactly how to take care of you after being rough.

“t-thank you enjin..” you mumbled, feeling the tissue wiping you.

he hummed, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. “you’re welcome, princess.” he finished cleaning you up and threw the used tissues away.

he climbed into bed beside you, pulling the blankets up to cover you both. he wrapped an arm around your waist, holding you close.

“where’s my phone enjin,” you whispered, looking to find it.

he glanced over to where he'd tossed your phone earlier, now lying on the bedside table. he picked it up and handed it to you without a word.

you could see multiple missed calls and messages from your boyfriend, clearly worried and upset. enjin just smirked, finding it amusing.

you sigh before going through your boyfriend contact, blocking him without thinking.

enjin watched you block your boyfriend with a satisfied smirk. he liked seeing you cut ties like that, especially after he'd just ruined things for your relationship. he pulled you back into his arms, holding you possessively as if claiming you as his own.

months later, your now ex boyfriend continued sending desperate messages, apologizing and begging for another chance.

you ignored them, focusing on your happy relationship with enjin instead. he treated you like a queen, always prioritizing you and showing genuine affection.

enjin bought you a dream car for your birthday, took you on luxurious vacations, and eventually proposed to you under the northern lights.

your ex boyfriend messages eventually stopped, probably realizing he was truly lost and forgotten.

enjin was your present and future, giving you everything you ever wanted.

© valentinesxoxo | all rights reserved | gachiakuta masterlist

[secretsluttyplaythingg]

your bunny so excited to see you!!!

[hertinydickcucky]

[d34dl3tt3r]

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 𝐅. 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓 18+

(𝐭𝐨𝐣𝐢 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫)

𝐭𝐰: 𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐩, 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐤𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐱, 𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐫, 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐮𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤, 𝐚𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐡𝐨𝐥 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧/𝐮𝐬𝐞, 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐱𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞 & 𝐝𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐢𝐱, 𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠

with megiumi, you'd been together for over a year and a half. at this point, you spent more nights at the fushiguro house than in your apartment. and toji - well. in his own fucked up way, he'd always had a soft spot for you. and you'd be lying if you said you never entertained one sinful thought or two about him.

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the kitchen was too quiet. darkness swallowed the room whole, settling heavier with every passing second. the only thing breaking the silence was the lazy ticking of the clock hanging somewhere behind you. you stood by the sink with a glass of water in your hands, trying to drown your insomnia one sip at a time.

then the front door unlocked. messily. keys clinked against wood, and the door slammed into the wall, followed by a low irritated grunt that immediately told you whoever walked in was definitely not sober. you carefully made your way toward the hallway and stopped once you saw the familiar broad figure stumbling inside. even under his big ass jacket, toji looked massive.

"are you okay? " you asked softly, careful not to startle him. he didn't even seem aware you were there. "jesus, kid," he scoffed. his voice was rougher than usual, low and gravelly with alcohol. even with only two words, his tongue caught clumsily against his teeth. "you scared the shit out of me." there was a grin hidden underneath it. you could hear it. he kicked off his shoes, tossed his jacket somewhere near the wall, and then started walking past you deeper into the house. barely two steps later, he stumbled.

instinctively, you reached for him before he could hit the floor. warmth, that was the first thing you noticed. the heat radiating off his body. the faded scent of expensive cologne and cigarettes lingering on his clothes. his muscular arm wrapped around your shoulders almost automatically, heavy enough to make your knees threaten to buckle.

"okay - yeah, you should probably sit down," you muttered, struggling under even a fraction of his weight. "whatever you say, doll." your entire body reacted to that voice. sticky, slow, honey-drunk. this wasn't the cold, monotone toji you knew. something about hearing him like this sent heat curling low in your stomach, and you hated yourself a little for it. you shouldn't feel like this. you managed to guide him toward one of the bar stools by the kitchen island, sitting him down as carefully as you could.

you grabbed a clean glass, filled it with cold water, then placed it in front of him. "drink", you whispered. "you'll thank me in the morning." you turned to leave. a large hand wrapped around your wrist before you could take a second step. you froze. when you looked back at him, you could still feel it - that stare.

even in the dark. silence stretched between you. his hand stayed firm around your wrist while his eyes dragged slowly across your face, like he was trying to memorise something he shouldn't. predator-like. intense enough to send chills crawling down your spine. "mr fushiguro?" you asked carefully. "call me toji", he let go of your wrist, but the warmth of his hand lingered on your skin long after. "you've been dating my son for over a year," he muttered, leaning back slightly in the chair. "still calling me mr fushiguro."

something about his tone caught you off guard. not annoyed. wlmost... wounded. your heart skipped stupidly hard at the sound of it, and suddenly your mind started spiralling into places it absolutely shouldn't. you shoved the thoughts away immediately. you were overthinking this. you had to be. "okay then," you whispered. "toji. do you need anything else?"

"stay", quiet. it was so quiet you almost thought you imagined it. but it didn't sound like a request. it sounded like an order. and somehow, against all common sense, you stayed. maybe it was curiosity. maybe fear. maybe it was that ugly little spark of excitement still burning low in your stomach. you sat down on the stool beside him, pressing your knees together tightly. your pulse was everywhere now. it came out of nowhere - this unbearable awareness of him. at first, the conversation was harmless. small talk. awkward, painfully normal questions.

how's school?

how are your parents?

everything going okay lately?

like he was trying to kill time. your answers stayed short and simple, sometimes only one word long. but then something shifted. he started talking about megumi as a kid. about the stupid things he used to do. about what life became after his wife died. and somewhere in the middle of it all, he looked at you and said the following:

"you know...out of all the girls megumi's brought home, you're my favourite." he said it so casually. like it meant nothing. like it meant everything. his eyes stayed locked on yours, heavy and unwavering even through the dark. "well", you laughed nervously, "good to know... i guess?" the words came out clumsier than you intended. your brain was scrambling for anything to say.

toji suddenly dragged a hand down his face with a low growl. "you make this really fucking difficult." your stomach dropped. "what?" he let out another quiet curse under his breath. "shouldn't have been drinking," he muttered, standing up too quickly. "i think i should go sleep this off." he started walking away. before you could think better of it, your hand grabbed the hem of his black shirt. he stopped instantly. then slowly looked back at you over his shoulder.

there it was again. that look. only this time, the hunger inside it was obvious. sharp enough to cut. towering over you, he gave you his full attention in a way that made your heartbeat feel dangerous. "what did you mean?" you asked more quietly this time. you suddenly felt drunk too. like you were seconds away from making a decision that could ruin everything. but it was already too late to step back now. "let it go", he sighed. he turned fully toward you, placing one large hand on top of your head. it should've felt condescending. instead, it felt terrifyingly gentle.

"let it go before it turns into something ugly."

"what kind of ugly?" you already knew. some part of you did. but you needed to hear him say it. "the kind you can't take back," his hand slid down from your hair to your cheek. you didn't pull away. if anything, you leaned into it. his touch was warm. simple. and somehow more intimate than it should've been. "what if it wouldn't be a mistake?" you whispered, stepping closer. you didn't know where the sudden confidence came from. maybe it had always been there. waiting. and now it was leading you willingly straight into the devil's arms.

"fuck," he muttered under his breath. quiet but still loud enough to make goosebumps ripple across your skin. heat pooled low in your stomach so suddenly it almost made you dizzy. you knew this was wrong. if someone had asked whether you wanted to rewind time, you probably would've said yes. but if they asked whether you wanted him to continue, that answer wouldn't change.

"don't look at me like that," toji said softly. his eyes had adjusted to the dark by now. enough to see the way your wide eyes clung to him - pulling every last ounce of restraint out of his body. "like what?" you asked innocently. a lie. your voice dripped with provocation, and you both knew it. you stepped closer again until there wasn't an inch left between you. your breath tangled with his. warm. dangerous.

"fucking brat," he growled. he dipped his head lower, close enough that you could feel the hesitation in the way he paused. even drunk, he was still trying to hold himself back. you weren't. impulse got the better of you long before common sense ever had a chance. you rose onto your toes and brushed your lips against his. barely a kiss. just enough to ruin everything. the second you realised what you'd done, toji's hand slid around the back of your neck and pulled you back in hard. your lips crashed against his.

the rush that hit you afterward felt poisonous - hot adrenaline flooding your veins so fast it stole the air from your lungs. your heartbeat turned violent as he kissed you like he'd been starving for it. it didn't take long before your back hit the kitchen island. his body pressed against yours, all heat and muscle and hunger, while your mouths moved against each other in messy desperation. you grabbed his face instinctively, letting out the softest sound when his hands slid down to your ass. possessive. firm, like he already knew you weren't going anywhere.

"you little fucking devil," he breathed against your mouth before lifting you effortlessly. a second later, you were sitting on the edge of the counter. his lips left yours only to trail lower - to your jaw, your throat, the sensitive skin beneath your ear. wet kisses mixed with sharp little bites that made your body twitch beneath him. oddly enough, he was gentler than you expected. careful, like he didn't want to leave evidence behind.

"jeez-" your breath hitched when his hand slipped underneath your sleep shirt. every nerve in your body lit up at once. within minutes, both your shirts were somewhere on the kitchen floor, forgotten completely. bare skin dragged against bare skin, the friction driving you insane. "you're so soft," toji murmured against your ear. one rough hand cupped your chest while his thumb brushed over your nipple slowly enough to make your thighs tense. "and you look way too fuckin' sweet for this." his voice dropped lower. "almost makes me feel bad ruining you with myself."

"less talking", you breathed shakily, rolling your hips against him, "more touching." a dark grin flashed across his face before he lowered himself to your chest without another word. his tongue brushed over your nipple slowly - almost unbearably gentle at first. the pleasure hit so hard it felt unreal. then came the bite. you gasped softly, only for him to soothe it instantly with another slow drag of his tongue.

"careful", he murmured against your skin, amused. "you really want to wake the whole house up?" the sound of his voice alone was enough to make your stomach tighten. "wouldn't want everyone knowing how desperate you are for some older guy in your boyfriend's kitchen." the words should've embarrassed you. instead, they only made you wetter. you bit down hard on your bottom lip to swallow the next sound threatening to leave your throat.

toji's free hand slid beneath the waistband of your pyjama shorts. the second his fingers brushed against the soaked skin between your thighs, your entire body jerked toward him instinctively. "there she is," he whispered, forehead resting against yours. "look how fucking wet you are for me." you couldn't even answer. not when he was touching you like that. talking to you like that.

"all shaky", he continued, voice low and tauntingly slow. "all needy already" your hands moved clumsily toward his belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle while he watched with hooded eyes. he didn't stop you. didn't help either. just rested his forehead against yours and watched you struggle until two of his fingers pressed teasingly against your clit.

your breath caught violently in your throat. still, you kept going. finally, your hand was wrapped around him. the weight of him alone made your pulse jump. when your fingers slid slowly from base to tip, realisation hit you instantly. oh. this was going to be a problem. you repeated the motion once more, slower this time, and a rough sound finally slipped from toji's throat.

he didn't wait. his fingers slipped away from your aching clit only to push deeper, sliding one finger inside you without warning. the second he curled it upward, pressing perfectly against that spot just behind your pelvic bone, your entire body melted for him. he knew exactly what he was doing. exactly where to touch you. exactly how to ruin you.

a second finger followed quickly after the first, stretching you slowly while his lips ghosted along your neck between kisses and soft bites. your grip around his cock loosened for half a second, and he immediately growled against your skin. "focus, doll," he muttered. "keep doing that pretty thing you started."

"y-yeah- ngh... s-sorry-fuck-" your words dissolved into shaky breaths. his fingers sped up little by little, thrusting deeper and rougher, and the pressure building low in your stomach started turning unbearable. different from anything you'd ever felt before. bigger, hotter, too much in the best possible way. your moans slipped out before you could stop them. your eyes watered from the overwhelming pleasure, tears gathering at your lashes while your body slowly fell apart beneath his hands. you were becoming a complete mess for him, and you didn't even know how to stop it anymore.

one of your hands shot toward his wrist instinctively, your fingers wrapping around it tightly. "n-no-" the word 'barely' made it out. your body trembled violently while the pressure inside you climbed higher and higher. "toji-shit-please-" before you could finish the sentence, it hit. your orgasm tore through you so suddenly it felt like your lungs stopped working. warmth spilt everywhere, soaking through your shorts and across toji's hand while your entire body shook uncontrollably beneath him.

for a second, all you could feel was humiliation. heat rushed into your face immediately, tears slipping free while you struggled to catch your breath. toji only exhaled softly. "it's okay," he murmured, pressing a kiss against your temple. "easy, doll face. ain't nothing wrong with you." his voice carried that smug edge again. "happens when somebody actually knows how to touch you."

your stomach tightened embarrassingly hard at that. "look at you," he whispered. one hand caught your chin gently, tilting your head downward. even through the darkness, you could see the mess between your thighs. your soaked shorts. his hand glistened as he slowly pulled his fingers out of your body. then - without breaking eye contact - he licked them clean. slowly. like he wanted you to watch every second of it.

a rough groan left his throat afterward. "you taste so fucking good." another kiss landed against your forehead afterward, strangely soft compared to everything else. "if i had it my way," he murmured against your ear, teeth catching lightly against your earlobe, "i'd have you like this every night. all fucked out in my bed. crying on my fingers like a sweet little thing."

another wave of heat rolled through you instantly. the embarrassment faded almost as quickly as it came, replaced by that dizzy ache of wanting him all over again. "don't say stuff like that," you whispered weakly. "especially if you don't mean it." toji laughed softly under his breath while tugging your shorts down your legs.

"oh, sweetheart," he muttered. "i mean every fucking word I say to you." his hands spread your thighs wider." if i could," he continued slowly, mouth brushing against your jaw, "i'd make you mine and deal with the consequences later." another kiss. "wouldn't let another man touch you." another. "and you'd never have another boring orgasm again."

the way he spoke felt intoxicating. low. slow. sticky like syrup poured directly into your bloodstream. his mouth wandered everywhere it could reach - your throat, your jaw, your chest - while his hands held your legs apart like he already owned you. then you felt it. the tip of his cock dragging slowly through your soaked folds. a broken sound escaped your throat immediately. you leant back against the counter for support, palms flat against the cold surface while your body instinctively positioned itself for him. ready.

"tell me how bad you want it," toji murmured. cocky, teasing like he already knew the answer. "tell me how badly you want me to fuck you right here." "so bad", you breathed instantly. your hand slipped between your bodies, guiding him toward your entrance. the tip slid inside easily, and your breath caught violently in your chest. your eyes never left his.

"you're fuckin' tight," he groaned. "don't even know if this greedy little cunt can take all of me." he thrust forward slowly, forcing another few inches inside you. your head tipped back immediately. every movement of his hips against yours made your thoughts blur more and more. "fuck - look at you," he breathed roughly. one hand tangled into your hair, forcing your gaze downward so you could watch his cock disappear into you inch by inch.

"so desperate for it" his words pushed you closer to the edge of losing yourself completely. after a few more slow thrusts, he finally pushed all the way in. the stretch burnt. a dull ache spread deep inside you when he hit your cervix, tears slipping helplessly down your cheeks from the overwhelming intensity of it. still, the thought of him stopping felt unbearable.nevery touch. every breath. every sound he pulled from you dragged you deeper into him until nothing else existed anymore.

you let him use you exactly how he wanted. and the worst part? nou loved it. "shit- ngh- toji..."

"yes, doll?"

"i'm close-p-please... please don't stop..." the words barely came out coherently. your lip was split from how hard you'd been biting it to stay quiet, your eyes glassy and unfocused while he fucked harder into you.

"that's my good girl," he groaned against your mouth. "now cum for me like you mean it."

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𝐚/𝐧: 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐟𝐮𝐧 🙂‍↕️

[rimjobdyke]

if i had mind control powers, i'd be very responsible with them! sure, full mind control can be fun, but i'd rather just gently nudge people in the right direction. plant thoughts in their head. make them feel like their own ideas. they can exercise free will and do whatever they want, in the end. it's just that what they want has changed. i want them to be fully present, aware of what they're doing, and enjoying it to the fullest.

i wouldn't outright mind control a tall strong butch lesbian into fucking men behind her girlfriend's back. i'd like her to have agency in it. i'd gently plant the idea in her head. i'd implant curiosity and help it evolve into obsession and frustrated desire.

maybe i'd give her a vivid dream about it: one where she's surrounded by gay men who admire how strong she is, how cool she is, how much charisma she's got. they say they've never seen a woman this handsome and androgynous before. they feel her muscles. they make out with her. they wrestle naked with her playfully. when she starts sucking one of them off, they're still full of admiration, all "damn, you can suck dick too? what can't you do?" and soon enough she's on her knees surrounded by them, moving from one cock to another. the men talk among themselves how hot she looks like this, and what a great cocksucker she is. a dyke that could put them out of a job. she's feeling smug, turned on, loving every second of it. she's showing them how good she is with her mouth. but that's not all she's got, of course. she gets up, bends over, and she lets each of them fuck her. they just won't stop admiring and praising her. it feels amazing. it's the best, most desired, most ecstatic she's felt in so long.

i'd keep planting those thoughts. i'd make sure she thinks about men, about straight sex - whether it's with men who are gay and curious about it too, or with men who just like the type of woman she is. she can't tell her girlfriend, can she? what if she tells her she wants to experiment, and her girlfriend gets upset? what if her girlfriend gives her permission and a blessing, but she ends up loving it too much?

but surely she can't just ignore those feelings. they're driving her crazy! guys are so hot! can't she at least make out with one every once in a while? can't she flirt with them when her girlfriend's not around, so long as it doesn't go anywhere? she's a lesbian, it's fine!

and now it really doesn't seem like such a bad idea to just go for it, does it? cheating's bad, but... what girlfriend doesn't know can't hurt her...

[riri01vbbe]

KNOCKED OUT LOVE | JJK pt.01

PARING: Boxer Jeon Jungkook X Fem Reader SYNOPSIS: Jeon Jungkook was raised to fight trained for nationals, hardened by bruises and discipline under his coach, Kim Namjoon. Winning was easy. Wanting was not. Then he met you. Namjoon's wife. Off-limits. Unimpressed. Unreachable. For the first time in his life, Jungkook is forced to wait, and the waiting makes him unravel. As cracks begin to form in your marriage because things always break, his admiration twists into obsession. He tells himself it isn't betrayal. It's destiny. After all, the ring taught him one thing. If something won't come willingly, you take it. GENRE: Dark Romance / Forbidden Relationship / Angst / Cheating AU / Slow burn CONTENT WARNING: smut, manipulation, dirty talk, age gap relationship, and heavy angst.  WC: 15.1 k

-> KNOCKED OUT LOVE - end

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The bell screams. Not loud enough to drown the roar of the crowd but loud enough to cut straight through Jungkook's bones.

"JEON JUNGKOOK!"

The chant rolls like a wave, crashing against the ropes, against the canvas, against the man standing in the center of the ring with his gloves raised and his jaw set in quiet fury. Sweat drips from his brow, sliding down the sharp line of his cheek, disappearing into the collar of his black trunks. His chest rises slow. Controlled. Like a predator that's already decided how this ends.

Across from him, his opponent staggers knees weak, guard sloppy, eyes wide with the realization that this fight slipped out of his hands three rounds ago. Jungkook doesn't rush.

He never does.

The lights above blur into a harsh white halo, but his focus is razor-sharp. He hears his coach yelling instructions from the corner, teammates pounding the mat, calling his name but it's distant. All of it. Noise. What matters is the moment before impact.

He steps in.

A feint. A shift of weight. His gloves snap up, then.

CRACK.

The punch lands clean, brutal, surgical. A sound like bone meeting destiny. The opponent goes down hard, body folding as if the ring itself rejected him. Silence.

For half a second. Then chaos. The crowd erupts, screams tearing through the arena as Jungkook stands over the fallen man, eyes burning, breath steady as if this was inevitable. As if he saw this ending long before anyone else did.

The referee rushes in, counting.

One.

Two.

Three.

Jungkook doesn't look away. There's no mercy in his gaze. No celebration either. Just fire contained, dangerous, disciplined. His fists clench at his sides, gloves streaked with sweat and someone else's blood. His knuckles throb beneath the wraps, but he welcomes the pain. Pain keeps him sharp. Pain keeps him hungry.

When the count reaches ten, the bell rings again. This time, it sounds like a warning.

His teammates flood the ring, slapping his back, shouting praises. His coach grabs his shoulders, pride blazing in his eyes.

"Nationals," someone yells. "You're almost there!" Jungkook finally lifts his gaze to the crowd, to the lights, to the future everyone thinks they understand. A slow smile tugs at his lips. Not wide. Not happy.

Something darker. Because winning was never the hard part.

------

The gym hasn't fully quieted yet. Sweat still clings to the air, thick with metal and adrenaline. The ring is empty now, canvas scuffed from the fight, but Jungkook remains sitting on the edge, wraps half-undone, shoulders loose in that way they only get after a win that mattered.

His teammates crowd around him.

"Busan's golden boy," someone laughs, throwing an arm around his shoulder.

"You killed him out there."

"They're gonna remember that one."

Jungkook smirks, tilting his head as he peels the tape from his knuckles. His hair is damp, falling into his eyes, lashes still dark with sweat. He doesn't look exhausted. If anything, he looks alive like the ring fed him something the world couldn't. That's when the gym door creaks open.

Kim Namjoon walks in. The room shifts instantly.

Not silence but attention. Namjoon's jacket is still on, hair slightly messed like he ran a hand through it one too many times. His expression is unreadable, but there's something sitting behind his eyes. Something heavy. Important.

He claps once. "Alright. Listen up." The boys straighten. Even Jungkook lifts his head fully now, eyes sharp, curiosity sparking.

Namjoon exhales slowly, then "The next match is confirmed." A beat.

"In Seoul." The gym erupts. Cheers, whistles, disbelief spilling everywhere. Someone actually laughs like it doesn't sound real. Seoul. Not a local circuit. Not another town nobody remembers. Jungkook's fingers still.

Seoul.

Not the city he passed through once, wide-eyed and curious. Not a place for late-night walks or borrowed dreams.

This time, he's going there to fight. Namjoon's voice cuts clean through the noise. "This isn't an exhibition. This isn't friendly. This is a qualifying bout." His gaze locks onto Jungkook.

"You win this, you're one step closer to nationals." Something settles deep in Jungkook's chest. Heavy. Warm. Unstoppable.

He stands. The boys clap him on the back, congratulating him like it's already done, but Jungkook barely hears them. His pulse is loud in his ears. Every fight until now suddenly feels like a rehearsal for this moment.

He grins slow, confident, a little too sharp. "So," he says, rolling his shoulders, "Seoul, huh?" Namjoon watches him closely. Jungkook steps forward, eyes bright with hunger.

"I'll beat this one too," he says easily. "Same as always." Cocky. No hesitation. No doubt.

Some of the boys laugh, shaking their heads like of course he'd say that. Namjoon doesn't scold him. He just smiles.

Not wide. Not indulgent. The kind of smile that comes from knowing exactly what kind of fire he's dealing with. "I figured you'd say that," Namjoon replies. "Confidence suits you. Just don't let it blind you."

Jungkook chuckles, wiping his hands on a towel.

"I don't get blinded," he says. "I focus." Namjoon nods once.

That's why you're my favorite, he doesn't say but it's there, unspoken, heavy between them. As the team starts breaking apart, buzzing with plans and excitement, Jungkook looks past them toward the door, toward the road that leads out of Busan.

------

The showers roar to life one by one, steam crawling up the tiled walls like smoke after a fight. Jungkook leans against a locker, peeling off his wraps slowly, methodical even now. His knuckles are red, skin stretched tight but there's no damage he didn't expect. Around him, the boys are loud, loose, riding the high of the win.

"Man, Seoul," Jimin laughs, tugging his shirt over his head. "Feels unreal, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," Taeyong adds, grinning as he reaches for a towel. "Coach finally heading back there too. His wife lives in Seoul, right?"

Someone snorts. "That's what I heard," Jihoon says. "Damn, long-distance marriage? Couldn't be me."

Jungkook doesn't look up.

He already knows.

Kim Namjoon Busan gym by day, Seoul husband by distance. A coach here, a man somewhere else. Jungkook always thought it must be hard, splitting your life like that. But Namjoon never looked strained. Never distracted. If anything, he looked grounded. Focused.

Maybe some people just manage better.

"Guess they'll finally see each other after months," Jimin says, rinsing sweat from his hair. "Kinda crazy."

"Or kinda suspicious," Taeyong chuckles. "You really think she waited all that time?"

Jihoon laughs loudly. "Man, if my girl made me wait months, I'd lose my mind." The talk shifts easily too easily.

Girlfriends. Side flings. Late nights that didn't mean anything.

"Remember that bartender from last week?" someone says.

"She still texting you?"

"Only when she's drunk."

Crude laughter fills the room, bouncing off tile and metal. Jungkook finally steps into the shower, water cascading over his shoulders, washing sweat down the drain.

He listens. He always does.

Then "Hey, Jungkook," Min Jun says, voice lazy but sharp. "You gonna miss Mina when you leave Busan?" A few heads turn. Grins spread. Jungkook scoffs, tilting his head back under the spray.

"Miss?" he repeats, unimpressed. Mina flashes briefly in his mind familiar hands, familiar nights. Nothing complicated. Nothing worth keeping. He reaches for the soap, voice calm.

"She's just someone I sleep with," he says. "Not that deep."

"Ouch," Jihoon laughs. "Cold." Jungkook shrugs, water dripping from his lashes. "I'll see her once before I leave," he adds. "That's it."

No emotion. No attachment.

Min Jun hums. "Figures. Seoul's gonna keep you busy anyway." Jungkook turns the water off, stepping out with a towel slung low around his hips. He catches his reflection in the fogged mirror eyes dark, expression unreadable.

-------

Busan looks different at night when you know you're leaving. The streets blur past Jungkook's window as he rides toward the familiar bar by the docks, neon signs bleeding into the rain-slicked road. The city hums the same way it always has, but tonight it feels smaller. Temporary.

He finds Mina where he expects to. Perched on a barstool, legs crossed, dark hair falling over one shoulder. She smiles the moment she sees him warm, expectant. Like she thinks tonight means something. Jungkook slips onto the stool beside her, jacket shrugged off, expression unreadable.

"You're late," she says lightly.

"Training ran long," he replies, already signaling the bartender. Soju. Then another.

The alcohol burns clean and sharp, loosening his shoulders but not his mind. Mina talks about work, about friends, about how Seoul must be exciting. Jungkook hums in response when needed, eyes drifting to the glass in his hand more than her face.

"You're really going," she says after a while, quieter now.

"Yeah." No hesitation. She studies him, searching for something regret, maybe. Attachment. She doesn't find it. They drink more. The bar gets louder. Mina leans closer, fingers brushing his arm, familiar and practiced. Jungkook lets her. It's easy. It's known. It doesn't demand anything.

Outside, the night air is heavy with salt and smoke. He walks her home because that's what he's always done. Habit, not care. Inside her apartment, the lights stay low.

She kisses him first.

Jungkook responds out of reflex, not hunger. His hands are steady, controlled, like everything else about him. There's no tenderness in the way he touches her only familiarity. A closing chapter, already finished in his head. Later, they lie side by side, silence thick between them.

Mina turns her head toward him. "You'll call, right?" Jungkook stares at the ceiling.

"Maybe," he says. It's not a lie. It's not a promise either. When he leaves before dawn, she's already asleep. He doesn't look back.

------

The train cuts through the morning like a blade. Steel against steel, steady and relentless, carrying them north away from Busan, away from familiarity. The boys fill an entire section, bags shoved under seats, jackets tossed carelessly, energy buzzing like they're already halfway to victory.

Jungkook sits by the window.

Earphones rest around his neck, unused. He watches the city thin out, buildings giving way to stretches of grey and green his reflection ghosting over the glass. Calm. Focused. Gone already. Behind him, the boys are loud.

"Man, Seoul traffic's gonna piss me off," Minjun groans, leaning back.

"At least the food's good," Taeyong replies.

"And the girls," Jihoon adds with a grin.

Laughter follows.

Jungkook finally turns slightly as Jimin nudges him with a foot. "You good?"

"Yeah," Jungkook says simply. "Just thinking."

"About the fight?" Jimin smirks.

Jungkook's lips curve faintly. "Always." The conversation drifts training schedules, sparring partners, who's most likely to get knocked out first in Seoul. Typical boy talk. Loud. Reckless. Alive. Then Jihoon leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes lighting up with curiosity.

"Hey," he says, glancing toward the front where Namjoon is sitting alone, scrolling through his phone. "Coach's wife lives in Seoul, right?" A few heads turn.

"Oh yeah," Taeyong laughs. "You trying to meet her or what?"

Jihoon grins shamelessly. "I mean- yeah. I'd like to meet her. Gotta be respectful, right? The woman who puts up with him." More laughter.

Namjoon looks up then, eyebrow lifting slightly. "You make it sound like I'm unbearable."

"You are," Minjun says immediately. "But in a lovable way." Namjoon shakes his head, amused. "She's busy. Has her own work, her own schedule."

He pauses, then adds calmly, "Same goes for me."

Jihoon clicks his tongue. "Still, it'd be nice. You always talk about discipline and balance figured we'd finally see the other half of it."

Minjun nods in agreement. "Yeah, Coach. At least let us visit once." Namjoon studies them for a moment these boys he's trained, broken down, rebuilt. Then he exhales.

"Alright," he says. "I'll take you to my place. If she's free, you'll meet her." Cheers erupt immediately. Jungkook doesn't join in. He watches Namjoon instead the ease in his posture, the certainty in his voice when he says my place. A stable life. A home waiting in Seoul.

Something flickers behind Jungkook's eyes.

Interesting.

-----

Seoul doesn't ease you in. It hits all at once. The moment they step out of the station, the city crashes over them in waves, towering buildings clawing at the sky, screens flashing light and color, voices overlapping in a language of urgency and ambition. Seoul breathes faster than Busan. Louder. Hungrier.

The boys stop short on the sidewalk, necks craning.

"Damn..." Jihoon mutters. "This place is insane," Minjun adds, laughing. "Feels like it's judging us already."

"Let it," Taeyong grins. "We'll knock it out."

They're buzzing adrenaline from the travel, from the promise of what waits ahead. Bags are dropped at the lodging, shoes kicked off, and within minutes they're crowding around Namjoon, voices overlapping.

"Coach, let us explore first."

"Just a few hours."

"We'll practice after, swear."

Namjoon crosses his arms, unimpressed. "You're not here on vacation." Groans follow.

"Please," Jihoon presses. "We just wanna see the city. Get it out of our system." Namjoon sighs, rubbing his temple. He looks at them young, restless, eyes shining like they're already imagining themselves swallowed by this place.

"Two hours," he finally says. "Not a minute more." Cheers erupt instantly. Jungkook stays quiet. He sits on the edge of his bed, unlacing his shoes slowly, methodical. The noise rolls over him without sticking. Seoul hums outside the window, distant and electric.

"You coming?" Minjun asks, slinging a jacket over his shoulder. Jungkook doesn't look up. "Nah."

Jihoon blinks. "What? You serious?"

"I'll practice," Jungkook says simply. "Then walk later." A beat.

"Man, you're boring," Taeyang laughs. "Seoul's right there." Jungkook finally lifts his gaze. His eyes are calm but sharp. Like he's already measuring the city, not admiring it.

"I didn't come to look," he says. "I came to fight."

The room quiets, just a little. Namjoon watches him from the doorway, something thoughtful passing through his expression. "Don't overdo it," he says.

Jungkook nods once.

The door shuts behind the others, their voices fading down the hall, excitement trailing after them. Silence settles.

Jungkook stands alone, rolling his shoulders, flexing his fingers. He wraps his hands again, slower this time, tighter. Each loop of tape grounds him.

Outside, Seoul pulses.

He steps out later, alone hood pulled low, footsteps steady against the pavement. The city doesn't notice him yet. Cars rush past. Strangers brush by without a glance.

-----

It's your week off and somehow, that makes you more tired than usual. The apartment felt too quiet, the refrigerator too empty of anything exciting. You're bored of reheating the same meals, bored of pretending you'll someday enjoy cooking just because people say you should. If you were good at it if you had time, patience, energy maybe it'd be different.

But you don't.

So you step outside instead. Seoul hums around you alive, restless, glowing even after the sun has sunk behind the buildings. You walk without thinking too much, already deciding what you want to eat, when raised voices catch your attention.

Sharp. Heated.

You slow. A few steps ahead, three boys stand too close together. Their bodies are tense, voices low but aggressive. One of them is backed near the wall, hood pulled low, hands loose at his sides like he's waiting for something to snap.

You'd normally keep walking. You always do. But tonight, your feet stop.

"Hey," you say before you can reconsider, your voice cutting through the tension. "What are you kids doing?" The word kids earns you a look. The two boys facing him step back instantly, like they've been caught doing something stupid in daylight. One of them scoffs.

"This has nothing to do with you," he snaps. You lift your chin, unfazed.

"I know," you reply calmly. "But the cops are a few blocks away. If they see you fighting here, you'll be locked up and I'm guessing your parents won't love that." You don't add that you heard about a robbery nearby earlier. You don't need to. Fear does the work for you.

The boys exchange glances. Then they leave, fast. The street exhales.

You turn toward the one still standing there. "You okay?" you ask. He looks up. Doe-like eyes. Dark. Wide. Too intense for someone who just nodded like it was nothing. He nods again anyway.

You hesitate. "What were they doing?" He opens his mouth, then closes it.

You wave a hand dismissively. "Actually- never mind. I don't need to know." Your stomach growls softly, betraying you. "I'm starving." You study him for a second longer, head tilting slightly.

"Have we met?" you ask. "You look... familiar." You're close to thirty. You've seen a lot of faces. But his sits oddly in your memory, like a half-remembered dream.

He swallows.

"I'm Jungkook," he says. "I'm a bo-" You interrupt him without meaning to. "I don't think I know you." The words come out sharper than intended.

You step back. "Anyway, I should go. Don't get into trouble, okay?" You turn to leave.

"I-" His voice cracks the night just enough to stop you. "I'm new to Seoul."

You look back. He's standing there, hands shoved into the pockets of his black hoodie, shoulders squared but something in his expression doesn't match the posture. There's uncertainty there. Restraint. Like he's holding himself still by force.

"Will you... please accompany me?" he asks quietly. You study him.

Really study him this time. There's no smell of alcohol. No slouch of carelessness. Just tension tight, coiled, watching you like you're the only solid thing in a city that's too big. You shouldn't say yes. You know that.

But tonight, you're tired. "...Alright," you say finally. "Just for food." His eyes light up not with relief, but with something sharper. Something that settles.

"Thank you," he says. You start walking.

------

Of all the things Jungkook understands distance, timing, restraint this confuses him. He doesn't know why he asked you to stay. He likes being alone. Prefers it, even. Silence sharpens him. People usually dull the edges.

But when Ji-ho and Mark had cornered him, voices needling, egos still bruised from the last match Mark especially, who couldn't stomach the fact that Jungkook had taken him down clean something ugly had started to coil in his chest. He'd felt it then. The pull to charge. To end it fast.

And then he heard your voice.

Calm. Clear. Not loud just certain.

You hadn't yelled. You hadn't begged. You'd stood there like you belonged, daring them to test you. He remembers thinking, briefly, absurdly: she's not scared.

When you turned toward him afterward, soft-faced under the streetlight, concern replacing authority so easily, it caught him off guard. The contrast. Daring spine, gentle eyes.

Cute.

The thought still makes his jaw tighten.

Maybe he is into older women. Maybe he always has been. You walk into the small seafood restaurant together, the kind that smells like salt and butter and something fried just right. Warm light spills over wooden tables. It's busy, but not loud comforting in a way Jungkook didn't realize he needed.

You take the seat across from him, shrugging out of your coat.

He mirrors you without thinking.

"You eat seafood?" you ask, glancing at the menu.

"Yeah," he answers. "Just... not much experience."

You smile at that, small and amused. "Then you're learning today." You order easily, confidently, like someone used to making decisions for more than just themselves. Jungkook watches your hands when you speak, the way your fingers rest against the table, relaxed.

When the food arrives, he freezes slightly.

Crab. Shrimp. Shells everywhere.

You notice immediately. "Okay," you say, scooting your plate closer. "Watch." You crack the shell cleanly, effortlessly, showing him how to pull the meat free without destroying it. Your hands are steady. Practiced.

"Like this," you explain. "Don't rush it." He leans forward without realizing, eyes following every movement. He nods, tries it himself clumsy, too much force at first. You laugh softly. Not mocking. Just, warm.

"Gentle," you say, guiding his hands without touching. "You're fighting it like it owes you money." He huffs out a quiet breath, embarrassed but smiling despite himself. "Habit."

You pay without asking when the check comes. Jungkook notices.

"You didn't have to," he says.

"I wanted to," you reply simply, already standing. "Besides, you're new to Seoul. Consider it a welcome." He looks at you then.

Twenty-one years old. Known in Busan. Feared in rings. Admired by strangers. And yet, sitting here, eating seafood you taught him how to break apart, he feels grounded. Seen in a way that has nothing to do with fists or wins. He doesn't understand it.

But he knows one thing with unsettling clarity. He doesn't want this night to end.

And when you smile at him again, unaware of the way something dark and devoted has quietly taken root, Jungkook thinks.

If this is what being accompanied feels like...

I don't want to walk alone anymore.

------

The night has cooled by the time Jungkook walks back. Seoul stretches endlessly around him now lights still burning, streets still alive but something inside him feels oddly settled. The taste of seafood lingers. So does the sound of your laugh, soft and unexpected, echoing somewhere he doesn't want to name.

He exhales slowly as he reaches the lodging. The door swings open before he even touches the handle.

Chaos spills out.

"HYUNG-"

"No, listen, listen-"

"I swear she smiled first!"

The smell of alcohol hits him immediately. Taeyong is slumped against the wall, laughing too loud at nothing. Minjun is sitting on the floor, shoes still on, waving his phone like it holds the secrets of the universe. Jihoon is leaning over the table, mid-rant, drink in hand.

Only Jimin stands off to the side, arms crossed, expression tight. Sober. Disappointed. Waiting. Jungkook sighs.

Of course.

Right on cue, a familiar, sharp voice cuts through the noise. "What the hell is this?" Namjoon stands in the doorway of his room, jaw clenched, eyes hard as steel. The air shifts instantly, like the bell before a fight.

No one laughs now. "You had two hours," Namjoon continues, voice low but dangerous. "Two. And you come back like this?"

Minjun straightens too fast, nearly falling. "Coach, it's not-"

"Save it," Namjoon snaps. His gaze sweeps over them, cataloguing every flushed face, every careless mistake. "You think nationals care if you're drunk? You think your opponent will wait for you to sober up?" Silence. Jungkook leans against the wall near the door, arms folded loosely. He watches it all with calm eyes, detached. He knew this was coming the moment they begged to explore first.

Namjoon turns fully toward the group. "You like punishment?" he says flatly. "Good. You've earned it."

Groans follow immediately.

"Morning roadwork," Namjoon continues. "Double. No excuses. No complaints. Anyone late trains alone." Jimin lets out a quiet breath through his nose relieved he'll survive it. The others look like they're already regretting every drink.

Namjoon's eyes flick briefly to Jungkook. "You," he says.

Jungkook straightens. "Yes, Coach."

"You're fine," Namjoon says after a moment. Not praise. Just fact. "Get some rest." Jungkook nods once.

As Namjoon disappears back into his room, the tension drains slowly, replaced by low groans and whispered curses.

"Worth it?" Jimin asks dryly.

"No," Jihoon mutters.

Jungkook pushes off the wall and heads for his room, ignoring the chaos behind him. He closes the door quietly, sits on the edge of the bed, and stares at the floor for a moment.

This is the life he knows. Discipline. Consequence. Control and yet, his mind drifts unbidden to the way you showed him how to crack a shell, the way you looked at him like he wasn't a fighter, wasn't a threat.

He rubs a hand over his face, jaw tightening.

Trouble.

-------

The gym smells of sweat, chalk, and iron familiar and suffocating all at once. Jungkook steps back from the heavy bag, letting his gloves drop to his sides, the wraps squeaking softly. He watches his teammates struggle through the final drills, punches sloppy, breaths ragged. The early morning discipline, the late-night explorations, and the roadwork from last night, he knows their bodies are exhausted.

And yet, as he watches, his thoughts drift not to exhaustion, not to the ring but to you.

The way you had stood so confidently yesterday, voice steady, cutting through the tension when Ji-ho and Mark had tried to needle him. The seafood dinner afterward, your soft laughter as you taught him to crack the crab, the ease with which you had paid the bill without making it an issue. Every detail presses against his mind with uncomfortable clarity.

He shakes it off, blaming fatigue. Focus. Focus. The ring, the nationals these are what matter.

But the moment passes, and the memory lingers like a whisper.

Later, the gym door slams open. Namjoon steps in, the calm authority in his stride immediately stilling the chatter.

"Training's done for today," he announces. "We're going out for dinner." His eyes sweep over the group. "I'll be taking you all to my home."

A ripple of excitement runs through the boys. Groans, jokes, playful jabs they shove each other in high spirits, trying to outdo one another in enthusiasm.

Jungkook simply exhales and adjusts his gloves. Dinner. At Namjoon's house. Meaning, meeting his wife.

------

The car ride is a blur of lights streaming past, neon reflections dancing in the windows. Jungkook sits quietly, leaning against the door, fingers drumming lightly on his thigh. He watches his teammates, animated and loud, and yet he feels alone. Not lonely. Alone in a way that sharpens every sense.

When they finally arrive, the door swings open before anyone can knock.

And there you are.

Standing in the foyer, warm light spilling over you. Hair falling softly over your shoulders, smile wide and effortless. You greet Namjoon first. A quick peck to his cheek. A whispered word. Your hands brush against his arms, intimate in a way Jungkook doesn't fully register yet.

Then your attention lands on the boys. Handshakes, playful smiles, casual greetings. And finally, your eyes meet his.

There's a pause.

"Hey," you say, and your voice carries that same calm certainty he remembers, soft yet deliberate. "You're the same boy I met yesterday." The world seems to narrow. Jungkook swallows. He can feel Namjoon frowning, subtle tension in the line of his jaw.

"When did you two meet?" Namjoon asks, his voice carefully measured, polite but sharp.

You glance at him, then back at Jungkook. "Yesterday," you say simply. "Outside, by the street." Jungkook doesn't say a word. Just nods slightly, shoulders taut, fists unclenched but tense at his sides.

You chuckle softly, eyes glimmering. "No wonder he felt familiar," you say, looking at Namjoon. Then, teasingly, "Finally got to know you're one of your husband's trainees." Something tightens in Jungkook's chest at the way you say that. Husband's trainee. The words sting, though he doesn't show it. He doesn't even flinch.

But inside a sharp, unfamiliar sense of possessiveness coils. He doesn't like it. He doesn't like the implication. Yet he says nothing.

Instead, he stands still, observing. Eyes flicking between you and Namjoon, analyzing, calculating. Calm. Controlled. The air is charged. Not a fight, not yet. But the storm is quietly gathering.

You smile at him again warm, deliberate, unknowing of the effect you've already had. And Jungkook realizes, with that familiar, dangerous thrill, that this night is only just beginning.

------

Jungkook leans back in the chair, posture relaxed but every sense alive, watching you move with ease and yet, you've unsettled him.

He wasn't the type to actually like someone he just met. He wasn't a boy who waited for butterflies or sentiment. He had girls plenty of them. Nights he barely remembered. Moments that ended before the sun rose. A trail of experiences that were nothing but temporary satisfaction and here you are.

Serving drinks to Namjoon's teammates, soft laugh punctuating your words. Gliding through the room with that easy confidence, answering questions, asking about their day, listening. Attentive, poised. Completely unbothered by the presence of someone like him.

You sit down beside Namjoon, casually asking about his day. Leaning slightly toward him, attentive. Comfortable. Familiar.

And Jungkook can't stop staring. Not out of lust. Not exactly.

Out of fascination.

His jaw tightens. His fists rest lightly on his thighs, unconsciously flexing. Every instinct he has the predator in him, the fighter in him is suddenly distracted by something human. Something alive. But you don't glance at him. Not once.

He swallows, shifting his focus, trying to dismiss the pull, the tension that curls low in his stomach. Maybe he expected too much from someone he met yesterday, someone who doesn't even know him beyond a brief encounter on the street. His mind reels. He doesn't like it. He's not used to this.

Maybe he should stop thinking about it. Maybe he should focus on the goal.

Nationals. Seoul matches. The fights. Winning. That's all that matters. That's the only thing he can control and yet, even as he tries to force his mind back to strategy, back to discipline, back to control he can't fully tear his eyes away from you.

You laugh softly at something Namjoon says. His smile, warm and casual, tilts upward slightly at your words. The room seems to bend toward you. Jungkook knows he should look away. He should suppress it. But he doesn't.

Because for the first time in his life, someone has made him wait.

Someone has made him want.

------

The clatter of dishes echoes softly through the kitchen, mingling with the faint hum of conversation from the living room. The boys have just finished dinner, sprawled on couches and chairs, teasing one another endlessly about who ate the most, who was the slowest, and who could barely handle Namjoon's spicy cooking.

You're at the sink, hands wet and warm from the suds, scrubbing a plate slowly. Steam rises from the faucet, curling around your hair and shoulders, giving you a soft glow in the overhead light.

Namjoon steps in beside you, hands reaching for the dish you're holding. "Let me help," he says gently.

You shake your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Nope. I've got this. You've done enough for all of us tonight."

The boys in the living room groan in unison, voices overlapping.

"Aww, look at them!" Jihoon laughs. "So cute!"

"Couple goals!" Minjun teases.

"Why are you being shy now, Namjoon Hyung?" Taeyong calls out.

Namjoon's jaw tightens, a rare flush rising in his cheeks. "Be quiet," he says, voice low but sharp. "All of you, be quiet." You chuckle softly, trying not to meet his embarrassed glare.

The kitchen falls quiet after that, the noise from the boys fading behind the door but it's not silent. There's a warmth in the air, heavy and intimate, punctuated by the soft drip of water from the faucet and then, a presence.

You glance up instinctively.

Jungkook. He's leaning casually against the doorway, hood down now, sleeves rolled up. A glass of water in hand, the faint sheen of sweat from training still clinging to his skin. His gaze is steady as he watches you scrub the dishes. He gulps down the water in one swift motion, eyes never leaving yours.

"Mrs. Kim," he says, voice smooth, almost teasing. "Do you need some help?"

You shake your head quickly, forcing a light smile. "Nope. I'm fine. You go have fun with them."

He steps closer, hands in his pockets, leaning slightly on the counter. "I'd rather help the pretty lady here who's all by herself," he says, tone almost casual but it carries a weight that makes your chest skip a beat. You don't know if he's flirting, teasing, or just... testing you.

You glance at him, cool and collected or at least trying to be. "You can go back. Really. I'm fine." For a moment, he doesn't answer. Just watches the suds drip from your hands, the way your fingers flex around the plate, the quiet diligence in your movements.

And then he asks it.

"Are you and Namjoon hyung... happy with your married life?"

The words catch you completely off guard. Your hand freezes mid-scrub, the sponge pressing against the plate a little harder than intended. Your heart flutters for reasons you don't want to admit.

You turn slightly, eyes narrowing in subtle surprise, gaze meeting his. "I- what do you mean?" you ask cautiously, unsure why the question unsettles you more than it should.

He shrugs lightly, that same unnerving calm in his eyes. "I just... I've seen a lot of couples. Some look happy, some... not so much. I was curious. You two seem... different. Comfortable. Warm. And yet..." His gaze flicks to Namjoon, who is laughing quietly with Minjun in the living room. "You're close, but not... I don't know. Not the same as people expect."

You blink, a flush rising to your cheeks, caught between irritation and something else you can't name. "We're... happy," you finally say, voice firmer than you feel. "That's all you need to know."

He tilts his head slightly, studying you. "Mm. I just... wondered." There's a quiet intensity in his tone, something lingering under the surface curiosity, perhaps, or something darker, more possessive, like he's taking a mental note.

You force a smile, pretending to return to the dishes. "Well... you asked. Now you can go back to your team before they start missing you."

--------

The gym is almost empty just the low buzz of fluorescent lights, the faint smell of sweat and rubber, and the dull thud of leather meeting force. Jungkook’s fist slams into the heavy bag. Once. Twice. Again.

The chains rattle overhead, the bag swinging back toward him like it’s daring him to hit harder. He does. His knuckles sting, his shoulders burn, but he welcomes it. Pain is simpler than thoughts.

Your voice creeps back into his head anyway.

Are you and Namjoon Hyung happy with your married life?

His jaw tightens. He throws another punch harder this time. The bag jerks violently. What the hell was wrong with him?

He had never been this guy. Never the one chasing someone’s attention, never the one stuck replaying a woman’s expressions like a broken record. Women had always been, easy. Smiles, touches, nights that blurred together and were forgotten just as quickly.

And yet, here you were. Married. Off-limits. Smiling at another man.

And somehow lodged deep in his head like a splinter he couldn’t dig out.

Maybe it’s just lust, he tells himself bitterly. Maybe it’s been too long. Seoul was busy, training brutal, discipline tighter than ever. No distractions. No release.

A week, he scoffs internally. It’s only been a week. Still, your hands in the sink, the way you looked startled by his question, the way you didn’t look at him after that stayed. That burned.

His fist slams into the bag again.

“Damn-”

“Woah. Calm down.” Jimin’s voice cuts through the noise. Jungkook doesn’t stop. The bag takes another hit, then another, his breathing growing heavier, sharper.

Jimin steps closer, arms crossed, concern etched across his face. “What’s up with you these days?” he asks. “You’ve been acting… weird.” No answer.

Jungkook glares at him briefly, eyes dark, then turns back to the bag like it’s personally offended him. His punches don’t slow. If anything, they grow more reckless.

Jimin sighs. “You’re gonna tear something if you keep this up.” Silence, except for the repeated thud thud thud.

Jimin watches him for a moment longer, then tries again, lighter this time. “Maybe you just need air,” he says. “Or… I don’t know. Maybe we should go out.”

Jungkook pauses, just for half a second.

Jimin notices. “Club?” Jimin adds, eyebrows wiggling. “Seoul girls are amazing. Loud music, drinks, distractions. Might help you… reset.” Jungkook’s hands drop slowly. Sweat drips down his temple. His chest rises and falls as he stares at the swinging bag, watching it lose momentum like his anger, like his excuses.

Reset. That was the word, wasn’t it?

-----

The club is everything Jungkook isn’t asking for. Lights strobe in violent colors, music pounds through his skull, bass so heavy it rattles his ribs. Bodies press together sweaty, careless, alive. Seoul at night doesn’t sleep; it devours.

Jimin disappears almost instantly, dragged away by a girl with neon nails and a laugh too loud to be real. Taeyong and Jihoon melt into the crowd, already halfway drunk, already forgetting tomorrow’s punishment. Jungkook stays near the bar.

A girl slides into the empty seat beside him. Pretty. Too pretty. Sharp eyeliner, glossy lips, confidence dripping from the way she looks him over like he’s already hers.

“Drink?” she asks, shouting over the music. He nods once. Doesn’t smile. She presses close when the bartender hands it over, fingers brushing his wrist deliberately. “You don’t look like you’re having fun.”

He downs half the glass in one go. The burn does nothing. “I’m fine.”

She laughs. “You look dangerous when you say that.” Dangerous. He clenches his jaw.

The girl’s hand slides up his arm. “Wanna dance?” For a split second, he almost says yes. Almost lets himself drown in noise and skin and forgetting. Then he sees your smile again not for him, but for Namjoon. Soft. Familiar. Earned.

He pulls his arm back gently. “Not tonight.”

Her expression hardens just a touch. “Your loss.” She’s gone before he can respond. Jungkook exhales slowly and signals for another drink, untouched glass sitting heavy in his hand. He doesn’t finish it this time.

Instead, he leaves.

Neon signs hum softly, rain from earlier still clinging to the pavement. He walks with his hands shoved into his pockets, breath fogging slightly. He doesn’t know where he’s going only where he’s not. Not the club. He stops at a convenience store, buys coffee he doesn’t need, stands outside sipping it while watching strangers pass by. Couples. Friends. People with somewhere to return to.

His phone buzzes.

Namjoon Hyung: Rest well tonight. Early training tomorrow.

Jungkook stares at the message longer than necessary.

------

The restaurant is warm, dimly lit in that way couples are supposed to love.

Soft music hums in the background, glasses clink, cutlery whispers against porcelain. You chose this place carefully quiet, intimate, the kind of place where people lean closer across the table. The kind of place where conversations aren’t rushed.

You wear a dress you haven’t worn in a while. Not because it’s flashy just because you know Namjoon likes it. You even curled your hair, even though your arms ached from a long day. You wanted tonight to feel intentional.

A date. An actual date.

Namjoon arrives late, apologizing under his breath, jacket still half on as he sits. You smile anyway. “It’s okay,” you say, though something small in your chest tightens. “I’m just glad you came.”

He smiles back, that tired, fond smile you fell in love with years ago. “Of course I did.”

The waiter pours water. You open the menu, but before you can even speak.

“The Seoul match schedule just came in today,” Namjoon says, eyes lighting up the way they always do when he talks about boxing. “If Jungkook keeps this momentum, he might actually make it to nationals this year. The kid’s insane, Y/n. His footwork, his reflex he’s built for the ring.”

You nod slowly, lifting your glass. You’ve heard this tone before.

“That’s great,” you say softly.

“He reminds me of myself, you know? Back when I thought I’d go all the way. If things were different…” He trails off, then shakes his head with a small laugh. “Anyway, I’ve been thinking of adjusting their training regimen. More endurance drills. He’s got the power, but nationals will chew him up if he’s not conditioned-”

You watch his lips move, words spilling out with passion, with fire. You watch the man you married talk about another man’s future like it’s his own second chance.

You listen. You always do.

Even when your food arrives and goes half untouched. Even when your fingers grow cold around your glass. Even when the date you imagined quietly slips through your hands.

You nod at the right moments. You hum little acknowledgements. You smile when he smiles.

Because he’s your husband. Because you love him. Because you understand. He once wanted the ring more than anything. Life didn’t let him have it. Now he lives through the boys he trains, through Jungkook, through every match that isn’t his anymore.

You get it.

But understanding doesn’t make the loneliness sting any less.

------

Back home, the apartment is quiet in that hollow way that only married homes can be when the love hasn’t been fed in a while. You set your bag down. Namjoon loosens his tie, already half lost in thought, mind probably back in the gym, back with the boys, back in a world where he still feels like he’s chasing something.

You step closer.

“Joon,” you say softly.

He looks at you. “Yeah?”

You hesitate for a second, then reach out, fingers brushing his arm, sliding around his waist. It feels strange, like relearning the shape of someone you already know.

“It’s been a long time,” you say quietly.

His body stiffens just a fraction. Not rejection, just distraction. Fatigue. “Y/n… I know. I just-”

You press your forehead to his chest. You can smell the faint trace of his cologne, familiar and safe and distant all at once.

“We’re finally in the same city,” you murmur. “You were in Busan for months. I ate alone, slept alone. I told myself it’s okay because you were chasing your dream through them. But now you’re here. You’re right here… and it still feels like I’m alone.”

He exhales, hand coming up to rest on your shoulder. “The boys need me. The match is close. I can’t slack now.” That’s when something inside you finally cracks.

You pull back, looking up at him, eyes already burning.

“They always need you,” you say, voice trembling. “Your boys. Your gym. Your matches. Your almost-dream. When do I get to need you, Namjoon?” He opens his mouth, then closes it.

“I’m your wife,” you whisper, the words shaking. “Not a checkpoint you come back to when it’s convenient.”

He steps closer. “That’s not fair-”

“What’s not fair,” you interrupt, tears spilling over now, “is that I’ve been patient for so long. I waited while you were in Busan. I told myself this is what being married to a coach looks like. But now you’re here, and you’re still leaving. Again.”

He reaches for you. You push his hands away.

“Don’t,” you choke. “Don’t touch me like you’re choosing me when you’re already halfway out the door.” Silence crashes between you.

His jaw tightens. He looks torn, between you and the weight of responsibility he carries like a second skin.

“I’ll be back soon,” he says softly. “They really need extra training tonight.”

That’s when your composure finally shatters.

“You never make time for me!” you cry. “Never. It’s always later. After the match. After the next fight. After the next goal. I’m tired, Namjoon. I’m so tired of coming second to a dream you didn’t even get to live.”

Your voice breaks completely. You turn away, wiping at your tears, ashamed of how small you suddenly feel.

“I’m right here,” you whisper. “And you still choose to leave.”

He stands there, frozen, guilt written all over his face. “Y/n, please-”

“I don’t want your apologies,” you say, shaking your head. “I wanted you. Just you. For one night.” For a moment, you think he might stay.

Then he picks up his jacket. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, and walks out the door. The click of the lock is louder than any argument.

You sink onto the edge of the bed, the silence closing in around you, heavy and unforgiving. Your chest aches with everything you didn’t say, with everything you said too late. For the first time in a long while, you wonder, how long a marriage can survive on understanding alone.

------

The gym is alive even this late.

The air is thick with sweat and metal and the dull thud of fists meeting leather. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting harsh shadows over bodies in motion. Ropes creak. Shoes squeal against the mat. Someone’s breathing comes out ragged in the corner.

When Namjoon steps in, the boys notice immediately. Not because he’s loud. Not because he announces himself.

But because he looks different.

His hair is actually combed for once. His jacket fits too neatly over his broad shoulders. There’s still a faint trace of cologne clinging to him, something softer than the usual smell of smoke and chalk dust he carries from the gym.

Taeyong is the first to snort. “Woah. Hyung, what’s with the grooming? You look like you robbed a rom-com male lead.”

A few of the boys laugh.

Jimin’s eyes widen dramatically. “Wait, were you on a date with Mrs. Kim?” Namjoon pauses near the entrance, gym bag slung over his shoulder. For half a second, your face flashes through his mind tear-streaked, hurt, asking him for something he didn’t know how to give.

“…Yeah,” he admits quietly. The room goes soft around the edges for the boys.

“Aww,” Jihoon coos, wiping sweat from his brow. “Coach finally went on a proper date.”

“About time,” Minjun adds with a grin. “You’ve been treating your marriage like a long-distance relationship even when you’re in the same city.”

Namjoon exhales, forcing a small smile. “Enough. Wrap it up and get back in formation. Match is tomorrow. We don’t have time to slack.”

The mood shifts immediately. Gloves go back on. Stances tighten. The gym fills again with the sound of discipline. Jungkook is already deep into his routine, shoulders burning, fists moving on instinct. Each punch lands hard against the bag thud, thud, thud pain blooming up his arms, settling into his bones.

He welcomes it. Pain is easier than thinking. But your face slips through the cracks anyway.

His jaw tightens. He hits harder.

Jihoon jogs over to Namjoon between rounds, breathless. “Hyung… did you come back because of us?”

Namjoon’s gaze drifts across the room, to the boys he’s shaped, the ones who look at him like he’s the difference between who they are and who they could become. To Jungkook, relentless as ever, punishing the bag like it owes him something.

“…You needed me,” Namjoon says finally. The boys exchange looks.

“Aww,” Taehyung mutters. “Coach’s soft.” Namjoon doesn’t hear them. Or pretends not to. He walks toward Jungkook, stopping just close enough for the younger man to feel his presence. Jungkook doesn’t stop punching.

“Tomorrow,” Namjoon says, voice cutting through the rhythm, “you’re up against Park Seung-ho.” Jungkook finally stills.

Seung-ho. National-level feeder. Known for brutal hooks and dirty clinches. A crowd favorite because he fights like he doesn’t care if he breaks bones, his own included.

Namjoon continues, “He’s aggressive. He’ll try to corner you early, force you into trading blows. Don’t fall for it. Keep your distance. Work your angles. Don’t underestimate him just because you’ve been winning lately.”

Jungkook rolls his shoulders, sweat dripping down his spine. A crooked smirk tugs at his lips. “Relax, Hyung. I’ll finish him before he even finds his rhythm.”

Namjoon’s eyes harden. “That confidence will get you hurt if you start seeing your opponents as beneath you.”

Jungkook meets his gaze, dark eyes sharp, almost defiant. “I don’t see them as beneath me. I see them as obstacles.” Namjoon studies him for a long moment this boy with too much fire and not enough fear. This boy who could make it to nationals or break himself trying.

“Don’t let your ego walk into the ring before you do,” Namjoon says quietly. Jungkook doesn’t reply. He turns back to the bag and starts hitting again, harder than before, muscles screaming, breath coming out in harsh bursts. Across the room, Namjoon watches him this gifted, dangerous, stubborn kid and for a fleeting, guilty second, he wonders if it’s easier to raise fighters than to be a husband.

------

The arena smells like adrenaline. Sweat, resin, metal everything sharp and alive. The crowd roars in uneven waves, some chants clashing with others, names rising and falling like tides. Bright lights flood the ring, turning the fighters into silhouettes edged with gold.

One by one, the boys step in.

Minjun goes first.

He fights hard heart over technique, throws everything he has into every punch. His opponent is calmer, older, patient in the way experienced fighters are. When the bell rings for the final round, Minjun is breathing through his mouth, eyes blazing, knuckles already swelling.

He loses on points.

Jimin goes next.

He’s faster, clever with his footwork, but the man across from him reads him too well. A clean hook lands. The referee steps in before it turns ugly. Another loss. The boys return to their corner, chests heaving, disappointment clinging to them like sweat. Jimin drops onto the bench, ripping off his headgear in frustration.

Namjoon doesn’t scold them.

He kneels in front of them instead, eyes steady, voice low. “You fought well. That’s not nothing. Learn from it. Losses don’t end careers how you respond to them does.”

Minjun swallows, nodding. Jimin wipes his face and forces a small smile.

They did their best. Namjoon knows it and he’s proud of them anyway.

------

That’s when you arrive. You stand near the entrance for a moment, the noise washing over you, eyes searching until they land on him. Kim Namjoon, your husband standing at the edge of the ring, arms folded, jaw tight with focus.

For a second, you hesitate. Last night’s fight still aches in your chest. The words you threw at him. The way the door closed between you. But you came anyway.

You step closer. “Namjoon.”

He turns and freezes when he sees you.

“Y/n?” Surprise flickers across his face, quickly followed by something softer. “What are you doing here?”

You offer a small, careful smile. “I… wanted to see you. And you were busy, so I thought I’d come here instead.” You shrug lightly. “I missed you.”

Something loosens in his expression. Relief, maybe. Gratitude. The fear that you’d still be angry eases just a little. “I’m glad you came,” he says, and for once, it doesn’t sound like a polite line. It sounds real.

Your gaze drifts to the ring. “Is this the match you were talking about?”

“Yeah,” he replies. “Jungkook’s up next.” As if summoned by his name, Jungkook steps into view, gloves slung over his shoulder, hoodie pulled low. He looks focused, dangerously calm. The kind of calm that comes before storms.

Your eyes follow him to the ring. “He’s… intense.”

Namjoon huffs a quiet chuckle. “That’s one way to put it.” You take a seat with the boys. They greet you with shy smiles and playful bows.

“Mrs. Kim!” Taeyong beams. “You came to watch our superstar?”

“I came to see my husband,” you say pointedly, then soften it with a smile. “But I’ll cheer for you all.” The bell rings.

Jungkook steps forward. The crowd surges, his name rising in chants. He rolls his shoulders, eyes locked on his opponent across the ring, Park Seung-ho. The man looks solid, built like a wall, gaze cold and calculating.

The first round is explosive.

Seung-ho charges early, just like Namjoon predicted. Jungkook pivots, dodges, counters with sharp, clean jabs. The sound of glove meeting flesh echoes through the arena crack, thud, crack.

The boys shout from the sidelines.

“Let’s go, JK!”

“Footwork! Footwork!”

“Don’t get cornered!”

Namjoon’s voice cuts through the chaos, steady and commanding. “Breathe, Jungkook! Don’t trade with him use your angles!”

Jungkook moves like he’s listening to that voice alone. He slips past Seung-ho’s hook, lands a brutal counter to the ribs. The crowd erupts.

Your breath catches. You didn’t expect to enjoy this. But there’s something magnetic about the way he fights. The focus. The hunger in his eyes. The way he takes pain and gives it back twice as hard.

By the second round, Seung-ho is breathing heavier. Jungkook’s lip is split, a thin line of red, but his eyes are burning brighter.

“Finish it, Jungkook!” Jimin yells, fist pumping.

You hear yourself speak without realizing. “He’s good,” you murmur.

Namjoon glances at you, surprised. “Yeah. He is.”

The final exchange is brutal. Seung-ho lunges, overcommits. Jungkook sees it.

He ducks, pivots, and lands a clean, devastating hook that sends Seung-ho staggering back. The referee steps in as the bell rings, the crowd exploding into cheers. Jungkook stands in the center of the ring, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his jaw, eyes dark with victory.

The boys go wild. They rush the edge of the ring, shouting his name, pounding the barriers.

You smile despite yourself.

Namjoon exhales, tension leaving his shoulders for the first time that day. “That’s my boy,” he murmurs, pride softening his features and somewhere across the ring, Jungkook’s gaze flickers briefly toward your side of the crowd.

For just a second, your eyes meet. It’s fleeting. Barely a moment. But it’s enough to make your stomach twist in a way you don’t understand yet.

------

The locker room corridor is loud with victory. The boys crowd around Jungkook, slapping his back, yelling over each other, replaying every punch like it was a legend in the making. Someone shoves a bottle of water into his hands. Someone else throws an arm around his shoulders.

“You killed it, man!”

“That last hook? Crazy!”

“Nationals are calling your name, bro!”

Namjoon stands a little apart, watching him with quiet pride. When Jungkook finally looks his way, Namjoon gives him a firm nod.

“Well done,” he says. Simple. Heavy with meaning. “You listened. You stayed sharp.”

Jungkook grins, breathless. “Told you I had it.”

Namjoon almost smiles. You stand near the edge of the chaos, hands folded in front of you, eyes fixed on Jungkook without meaning to. The way his chest rises and falls. The split lip. The fire in his eyes.

Your mind drifts back to the kitchen. To his voice asking questions he shouldn’t have asked. To the way he looked at you too curious, too aware. You swallow. You shouldn’t let a moment like that linger. He’s just your husband’s trainee. A boy with talent and too much confidence.

Still, something about him unsettles you. You step forward anyway.

“Good match,” you say, offering him a polite smile. “You fought well.”

Jungkook blinks, surprised you approached him. Then that familiar cocky curve touches his lips. “Thanks.” He tilts his head slightly. “Did you come to watch me fight?” There’s a flicker of expectation in his eyes. Not arrogance exactly, more like he’s used to being watched.

You meet his gaze calmly. “No. I came to see my husband.” The words land heavier than you intend.

His smile falters. Just a fraction. “Oh.” An awkward beat stretches between you. The noise around you suddenly feels too loud.

“I should… freshen up,” he says, already stepping back, retreating into the locker room with the others.

You watch him go, unsure why your chest feels oddly tight.

-----

Namjoon finds you a moment later, when the boys have disappeared to shower and the corridor finally quiets. “Y/n…” he says softly.

You don’t look at him at first.

“I’m sorry,” he continues. “About last night. About… everything. I should’ve made time. I will. I promise.” The words you’ve heard before.

You try to speak, but your throat closes up. Tears slip out instead, uninvited, hot and humiliating. You turn your face away, embarrassed by your own vulnerability.

Namjoon’s hands come up instinctively, cupping your cheeks, thumbs brushing the tears away with aching gentleness. “Hey, hey… don’t cry,” he murmurs, guilt flooding his eyes. He presses a kiss to your cheek, then the other, then your forehead. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

His lips find yours in a soft, apologetic kiss. It tastes like regret.

You pull back slightly, voice trembling. “Why is it always me who has to come to you when you’re the one at fault?”

The question hangs between you, raw and honest.

Namjoon’s shoulders sag. “Because… because I’m a coward sometimes,” he admits quietly. “I don’t deserve how patient you are with me. I know that. You deserve better than someone who keeps choosing work over you.” You search his face for something certainty, change, reassurance that won’t fade with the next match.

“I don’t want to be understanding forever,” you whisper. “I want to be chosen.”

He presses his forehead to yours, eyes closed. “You are chosen. I just… I keep messing it up.”

For a moment, you let yourself lean into him. Let yourself believe him. The noise of the arena fades into a dull hum, and it’s just the two of you standing there, holding onto something that feels thinner than it used to. Down the hall, a door opens. Laughter echoes.

You don’t notice Jungkook watching from a distance, towel slung around his neck, eyes dark, unreadable before he turns away.

------

The locker room still buzzes with leftover adrenaline when Jungkook finally speaks up. “So… hyung,” he says, wiping his hands on a towel, that familiar glint in his eyes. “Don’t champions get a treat?”

The boys immediately latch onto it.

“Yeah, coach!”

“Victory dinner!”

“You promised last time!”

Namjoon lets out a tired laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine, fine. Anything you want. I’m paying. Don’t bankrupt me.” That’s all the permission they need.

Phones are out in seconds. Minjun is already scrolling furiously. “There’s this place near Hongdae- good food, crazy plating, perfect for pics.”

Taeyong leans over his shoulder. “Oof, aesthetic and affordable? That’s rare.”

Jimin whistles. “We’re about to eat like influencers.” Jungkook, however, isn’t looking at his phone. His gaze drifts to you.

He hesitates, then says casually, “Actually… I kinda wish we could eat No- Mrs. Kim’s food again.” The room stills for half a second.

You look up, surprised. “I mean-” Jungkook clears his throat, suddenly aware of all the eyes on him. “That dinner the other day. It was… really good. I can’t get the taste out of my head.”

The boys nod in agreement.

“Facts,” Jihoon adds. “Hyung’s wife can cook.”

“But we don’t wanna pressure her,” Minjun says quickly. “Restaurant’s fine too.” You glance at Namjoon. He looks a little startled, then hopeful.

“I can cook,” you say before you overthink it. “If you’re all okay with coming over.” The boys erupt.

“Yes!”

“Home-cooked meal!”

“Coach married well!”

Namjoon laughs, equal parts embarrassed and relieved. “You don’t have to-”

“It’s fine,” you say softly. “I don’t mind.” Jungkook’s eyes brighten, a small, almost boyish smile tugging at his lips.

------

Your apartment fills with noise and life in a way it hasn’t in a long time. Shoes pile near the door. Laughter bounces off the walls. Someone almost knocks over a lamp. You tie your hair up and move into the kitchen, already mentally listing what you can make quickly with what you have.

Namjoon hovers near the counter. “I can help.”

You glance at him, amused. “You burn instant noodles, Joon.”

He sighs dramatically. “Character assassination.” Before you can reply, Jungkook steps in, washing his hands without being asked. “I’ll help.”

You blink. “You… cook?”

He nods, shrugging out of his jacket. “Yeah. My mom worked a lot when I was younger. I learned so I wouldn’t bother her every time I was hungry.” There’s something quietly tender in the way he says it.

You hand him a knife. “Then you’re on vegetables.” He moves with easy familiarity steady hands, practiced motions. You find yourself watching him more than the chopping board.

The boys set the table in the living room, arguing about who gets the bigger plates. Jimin and Jihoon disappear to grab drinks, shouting that they’ll be back before the food’s done.

As you cook, the kitchen warms. Steam fogs the windows. The scent of garlic and spices fills the air.

Jungkook glances at you. “Can I… call you Noona?” The word lands softer than you expect.

You pause, then smile. “If that’s more comfortable for you, sure.”

“Noona,” he repeats, testing it out, and something in his tone shifts respectful, gentle, threaded with something harder to name. Namjoon watches from the doorway, a faint smile on his face, unaware of the subtle current running between you and Jungkook.

Dinner is loud.

Plates are passed around. Compliments fly your way. Someone spills sauce and panics. Jimin returns with too many drinks, and Jihoon starts narrating the match like it’s a dramatic reenactment.

Jungkook sits across from you, eating more slowly than the others, savoring each bite.

“This is better than any restaurant,” he says, honest, eyes warm. “Thank you, Noona.”

You laugh softly. “Eat before it gets cold.”

Namjoon looks around the table at the boys, at you, at the life filling the space he’s been too absent to notice lately. For a moment, it feels like something fragile is being stitched back together.

You don’t notice Jungkook watching you when you turn away to refill a bowl.

But he does. And for the first time, the word Noona doesn’t just mean older sister in his mind.

-------

By the time the last plates are cleared, your apartment no longer feels like yours. It feels like a battlefield.

Empty bottles clink against each other on the table. Someone is laughing too loud for no reason. Taeyong is halfway into a dramatic story that no one is actually listening to. Jimin is sprawled on the couch, head tipped back, singing off-key to a song only he seems to hear. Jihoon is arguing with Minjun about who landed the better punch in a match that happened months ago.

Chaos. Warm, messy chaos.

Namjoon sits beside you, shoulders relaxed in a way you haven’t seen in a long time. He isn’t as drunk as the others, just enough to be softer, looser, his laughter coming easier.

For a fleeting moment, you let yourself hope.

Maybe tonight could be yours. Maybe when they leave, you and him could finally talk without shouting over noise and expectations. Maybe you could curl into each other and pretend the world isn’t always asking for more than you can give.

The boys eventually stumble to their feet, one by one.

“Coach, we should go,” Minjun slurs. “Early training… or something…”

Namjoon glances at the clock, then at the state of them. “You’re all in no condition to drive.” Jungkook, who’s been quieter than the rest, stands up straighter than he looks. He didn’t drink much, just enough to take the edge off. “I can drive,” he says. “I’m fine.”

Namjoon hesitates. The protective coach in him wants to say no. But then he looks at Jimin, barely able to stand, and Taehyung trying to put on his shoes on the wrong feet.

“Okay,” Namjoon finally says. “Carefully. If you feel even a little off, you stop.” Jungkook nods. “I will.”

The boys begin filing out, loud goodbyes echoing through the apartment. Jungkook pauses in front of you.

“Bye, Noona,” he says, and before you can react, he leans in and hugs you quick, warm, unguarded. “The food was really good. Thank you.”

You stiffen for half a second, surprised, then lightly pat his back. “Drive safe.”

Namjoon blinks at the sudden familiarity, but with alcohol softening his edges, he just chuckles. “Don’t crash my car, champ.” Jungkook grins and heads out.

The door finally closes.

Silence falls like a held breath. You and Namjoon stand there, the apartment suddenly too quiet, the absence of noise ringing in your ears. There’s an awkwardness, a sense of now what hanging between you.

Namjoon exhales, rubbing his temples. “I think… I’ll stay tonight. We can finally-”

The door creaks open again.

You and Namjoon both turn, startled, the fragile quiet shattering.

Jungkook stands there, keys dangling loosely from his fingers, his shoulders slumped in a way that looks… exaggerated. His lips are pushed into a faint pout, eyes a little too heavy-lidded to be convincing.

“Hyung,” he says, voice deliberately lazy. “I think I drank more than I thought. I’m feeling dizzy. I don’t think I should drive like this.”

Namjoon blinks at him. “You were fine two minutes ago.”

Jungkook sways slightly on his feet, playing it up. “Yeah, well… it hit me all at once.” He presses a hand to his temple, glancing between you and Namjoon. “Wouldn’t want to put the boys in danger, right?”

You study him for a second. You’re not sure if he’s truly feeling off or just avoiding something. His eyes flicker toward Namjoon, then back to the floor, lashes lowered.

Namjoon sighs, rubbing his face. “I told you not to drink if you were going to drive.”

“I didn’t drink that much,” Jungkook mutters, then corrects himself quickly, “I mean- I thought I didn’t.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Namjoon looks at the clock, then toward the hallway where the boys’ voices echo faintly. Responsibility settles back onto his shoulders like a familiar weight.

“Fine,” he says at last. “I’ll drive. You all wait downstairs.”

Jungkook lifts his head, a flash of something unreadable crossing his face relief, maybe. “Sorry, Hyung. I didn’t mean to mess up your plans.”

Namjoon waves it off, already reaching for his jacket. “It’s fine. Get them ready.” Jungkook nods and turns to go, then pauses at the door. He glances back at you, just for a second, long enough for you to notice the strange tightness in his expression.

“Good night, Noona,” he says softly this time.

The door closes behind him.

Namjoon exhales, looking tired. “I’ll be back soon, okay?”

You nod, even though something inside you already knows how this goes.

You stand in the doorway and watch him leave, the echo of footsteps fading down the hall. The apartment feels colder somehow, the warmth of the night thinning into silence.

And far below, Jungkook waits by the car, keys spinning around his finger, jaw clenched because for reasons he doesn’t fully understand, he didn’t want to be the one to take Namjoon away from you tonight but he couldn’t let him stay either.

-------

Morning comes quietly.

Soft light slips through the curtains, pale and gentle, laying across the floor like it’s trying not to wake the apartment too harshly. The night’s chaos has long settled into a stillness that feels almost unreal. Empty bottles are gone, the table wiped down, only the faint scent of food and laughter lingers in the air.

You step out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around your hair, skin still warm from the shower. The mirror fogs behind you as you walk barefoot across the floor, already thinking about the day ahead work, errands, the small routines that fill the spaces when emotions don’t.

Then you hear it.

A ringtone.

Sharp and unfamiliar in the quiet morning. You pause, brows knitting together. Yours is charging by the bed. The sound isn’t coming from either. The ringtone cuts off. Then starts again.

You follow the sound into the living room. It’s coming from the couch.

A phone lies between the cushions, half-hidden like it was forgotten in a hurry. Not yours. The screen lights up with a name you recognize.

Jimin calling.

Your fingers hesitate before you pick it up. The call stops. The screen goes dark. Then it lights up again, vibrating against your palm. You swallow and answer.

“Hello?” There’s a brief pause on the other end, like the person wasn’t expecting you.

“…Noona?” Jungkook’s voice comes through, slightly rough with sleep. “It’s me. I- uh- did I leave my phone there?”

You glance down at the device in your hand, the weight of it suddenly feeling heavier than it should. “Yeah,” you say softly. “You did.” A breath of relief escapes him. “Thank God. I woke up and thought I lost it. I was going crazy.” There’s a faint, embarrassed laugh in his voice. “Can I come get it?”

You tuck the towel tighter around yourself, eyes drifting toward the window, where the city is already waking up. “I’m not leaving for work yet,” you reply. “I still have some time.”

“Oh,” he says. There’s a tiny hitch in his tone, like he hadn’t expected that either. “Okay. I’ll come by and pick it up, then.”

“Yeah. That’s fine.” Another pause settles between you, quiet and oddly charged.

“Thank you, noona,” he adds, softer now. “I’ll be there soon.”

“Okay,” you reply, and before you can think too much about it, you end the call.

The apartment falls back into silence.

You look down at the phone in your hand, Jungkook’s phone, still warm from the call, his name now saved in the recent log. For reasons you can’t place, your chest feels tight. t’s just a phone, you tell yourself Just a small, forgettable thing.

------

The doorbell rings just as you’re fastening the last button of your shirt.

You glance at the mirror once more office fit, clean and simple. The shirt sits neatly against your frame, sleeves rolled just enough to look effortless. Your hair is twisted into a bun, a few stubborn bangs escaping to brush your forehead. Flared jeans hug your hips before falling straight, practical but still flattering.

You grab your bag and head to the door.

When you open it, Jungkook is standing there.

For a split second, he forgets how to breathe.

You look different outside the warmth of the kitchen, outside the soft domestic glow of last night. This version of you is sharper, put-together, like you belong to another world entirely one he doesn’t get to see. His gaze drags over you before he can stop himself.

The way the fabric fits you. The way your hair is tied up, exposing the line of your neck. The way you look like you’re about to step into a life that doesn’t include him at all.

He swallows.

If you wore heels, he thinks dimly, the thought flashing uninvited, people would definitely hit on you. Not that they probably don’t already. I mean look at you.

“Morning, Noona,” he says, voice a little quieter than usual.

You offer a polite smile and hold out the phone. “Here. You left it.”

His fingers brush yours when he takes it. The contact is brief, accidental but it lingers in a way that feels heavier than it should. He glances down at the screen, then back up at you. “Are you late?”

You check the time on your watch. “Yeah. You took a lot of time to come.”

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “I- traffic.” A half-lie. He just took longer than he needed to. Took a shower. Changed twice. Debated whether he should even come so early.

His eyes flick to your bag. “I can drop you off, Noona.”

You shake your head. “It’s okay. I’ll take the metro.” He frowns, stepping a little closer without realizing it. “No, let me. It’s on the way. It’ll be faster.”

“I’m fine, really.”

“Please,” he insists, softer now, not quite cocky, not quite confident. “It’s no trouble.” You hesitate. The sensible part of you says no this is unnecessary, this blurs lines you shouldn’t even be standing near. But you’re running late, and the thought of squeezing into the morning metro feels exhausting.

“…Okay,” you say finally. “If you’re sure.”

His lips curve into a small, satisfied smile. “I am.” As you step past him into the hallway, Jungkook watches the sway of your steps, the way your presence fills the space beside him in a way that feels dangerous.

He tells himself it’s just a ride.

Nothing more. But the elevator doors close around you both, and suddenly, the air feels a little too tight for something that’s supposed to be harmless.

-------

The city slides past the windows in a blur of early-morning grey shops pulling up their shutters, people rushing with coffees in hand, horns blaring like the day is already late for itself. The car smells faintly of last night’s takeout and Jungkook’s cologne, something clean and a little too fresh for how heavy the silence feels.

He keeps his eyes on the road for a while, fingers steady on the steering wheel. Too steady. Like he’s bracing himself.

“Noona,” he finally says, breaking the quiet. His voice is softer than usual. “About last night… I’m sorry.”

You glance at him. “For what?”

“For… kind of ruining your time,” he admits. “I asked Namjoon hyung to drive us back. You both barely get time together. I shouldn’t have-” He exhales through his nose. “I just didn’t think.”

The car slows at a signal. Red light. The moment stretches. You look out the window. “It’s not your fault.” It comes out calm. Too calm. Like you’ve practiced saying it to yourself.

The light turns green. The car moves again.

Jungkook nods, but he doesn’t look convinced. His jaw tightens slightly. “Noona… is Namjoon hyung good to you?” The question lands heavier than it should. Again. The same question, asked too many times, in too many silences.

You don’t look at him this time. “He is.”

There’s a beat. Then a small, almost bitter laugh from Jungkook. Not mocking, just tired. “It doesn’t look like it,” he says quietly. “The long-distance thing. This marriage. It doesn’t look like it’s working for you both.”

You turn to him, startled. “What?”

He steals a glance at you before returning his eyes to the road. “Hyung barely makes time for you.”

“That’s not true,” you say quickly. “He does.”

Jungkook’s grip on the wheel tightens, knuckles paling just a bit. “It sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself.” His voice is gentle, but it cuts. “I’ve seen it, noona. Most of the time, he’s with us. Work, schedules, trips… there’s always something. But when it comes to you, there’s never time.”

The words hang between you, ugly because they’re familiar.

“He barely makes time for you,” Jungkook repeats, softer now, like he’s saying something he’s held back for too long. You don’t reply. Because the silence is louder than any argument you could make.

You swallow and point ahead. “Take the next left. My office is just there.” Jungkook nods, the conversation dying out into the hum of the engine. The car pulls up in front of your building. People move in and out, living their normal, uncomplicated mornings.

You reach for the door handle.

“Noona.” You pause.

His voice drops, raw around the edges. “You deserve someone better.” The words hit harder than you expect. You turn to look at him. For a moment, his eyes aren’t playful, aren’t teasing, they’re honest in a way that’s almost dangerous.

You manage a small smile. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

“I do mean it,” he says. “That’s the problem.” The air between you feels too thick. Too charged for something that’s supposed to be simple.

You step out of the car before it can get worse. “Take care, Jungkook. Drive safe.” He watches you walk away, your figure swallowed by the crowd, the office doors closing behind you.

Jungkook stays there for a moment longer than necessary, engine idling, your last words echoing in his head. Don’t say things you don’t mean.

He presses his lips together, then finally pulls away from the curb, knowing damn well that what he said was the most honest thing he’s said in a long time.

-------

You unlock the door, shoulders aching from the long day, your mind still tangled in spreadsheets and deadlines. The apartment is usually quiet at this hour, too quiet. So when warm light spills into the hallway and the faint clink of cutlery reaches your ears, you freeze.

Namjoon is home.

For a second, you just stand there, bag slipping down your shoulder. The scent of food something savory, comforting wraps around you. It feels domestic. Real. Something you’ve been missing without knowing how much you missed it.

“Y/n?” his voice comes from the dining area. “You’re back already?”

You step inside, and there he is, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly messy, the table set with takeout boxes neatly arranged like he actually tried. The sight of him waiting for you makes something soften in your chest.

“You’re home,” you say, unable to hide the small smile that curves your lips.

He nods, a shy kind of pride in his eyes. “Thought I’d surprise you. Go freshen up. Dinner’s getting cold.”

You watch him for a moment longer than necessary, memorizing this version of him, the one that makes effort, the one that remembers you exist outside of his gym and his boys. In the bathroom, you rinse the day off your hands and face, staring at your reflection as your heartbeat steadies. This is nice, you think.

When you come back, you sit across from him. The apartment hums with quiet no TV, no phones. Just the two of you, eating, talking about your days. You tell him about a difficult client. He tells you about a match coming up, about how proud he is of the boys. You listen, this time without the ache that usually follows. Tonight, it feels like sharing, not competing for his attention.

There’s laughter soft, surprised, like you both forgot how easy this once was.

After dinner, you clear the plates together. Your hands brush when you reach for the same cup, and the contact lingers a second too long. He looks at you then, really looks at you, as if seeing you again for the first time in months.

“You look tired,” he says quietly. “Come here.”

You let him pull you into him. His arms wrap around you, familiar and warm, and for a moment you rest your forehead against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The closeness stirs something fragile inside you hope, maybe. Or longing.

“I missed this,” you whisper before you can stop yourself.

His grip tightens, just a little. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, lips brushing your hair. “I should’ve been here more.”

The apology hangs between you, heavy with everything unspoken. You pull back to look at him, your eyes searching his face for sincerity. Whatever you see there makes your breath hitch.

He cups your cheek, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. The kiss he presses to your lips is slow, careful at first, as if he’s afraid you might disappear if he moves too fast. You kiss him back, months of distance melting into that one moment of closeness.

The world narrows to the two of you the quiet apartment, the warmth of his hands, the way your heart beats a little too fast. The night deepens around you, and for once, you let yourself believe that maybe this time, he’s really here.

--------

When you wake up, the bed beside you is already cold. For a moment, you lie there with your eyes half-open, listening to the quiet of the apartment. No rustle of sheets. No low voice on the phone. Just the distant hum of the city outside your window. Your hand reaches out instinctively, brushing over empty space.

Then you notice the note on the bedside table.

Had to leave early. The boys have morning training. Don’t wait up. I’ll make it up to you. – Joon

You stare at the words longer than necessary. The handwriting is rushed, the promise familiar. You don’t know when “I’ll make it up to you” turned into something that sounded more like an excuse than reassurance.

You exhale slowly and sit up.

The morning routine feels mechanical brush, shower, dress, coffee you barely taste. You go through the motions of being a wife who understands, who supports, who doesn’t complain. By the time you step out of the apartment, you’ve already tucked last night’s warmth into a corner of your heart, where disappointments usually go.

Work eats you alive that day. Meetings that go nowhere. Deadlines that feel pointless. By evening, your head throbs, and your patience is threadbare.

You call Namjoon once.

It rings. And rings. And rings.

When he finally picks up, his voice is distracted, breath slightly uneven. “Y/n? I’m in the middle of training. The boys need me. I’ve got some stuff to finish with them too.”

“Oh,” you say softly. “Okay. I just… wanted to hear your voice.”

There’s a pause, and you imagine him glancing at the gym clock, already halfway somewhere else. “We’ll talk later, yeah? I’ll call you.”

The line goes dead before you can reply.

It’s the same again.

By Friday, you’re exhausted in a way sleep can’t fix. The office drains you dry, and when you finally step out into the evening, the sky is already dimming into bruised shades of purple and grey. You consider the metro packed, loud, suffocating and decide you don’t have the energy to be pressed between strangers today.

You pull out your phone to book a cab. That’s when you see him.

Jungkook stands a little distance away, leaning against a streetlight, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie. The city lights catch on his dark hair, his familiar doe eyes scanning the crowd like he’s waiting for someone.

You frown, steps slowing. Is he… here?

As if sensing your gaze, he looks up and then his face breaks into a small, almost boyish smile.

“Noona.”

You blink, surprised despite yourself. “Jungkook? What are you doing here?”

He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “I was… passing by. You once mentioned your shift ends around this time. I thought I’d check if you were still at work.”

The fact that he remembers makes something twist in your chest. You hadn’t thought that detail mattered enough to stay with him.

“Oh,” you murmur. “You remembered.”

“Yeah,” he says simply, like it’s obvious he would.

The street noise hums around you, people brushing past, lives moving on. He watches you for a second, eyes softening when he notices the tired slump of your shoulders.

“You look exhausted,” he says. “Long week?”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Every week is a long week these days.”

He hesitates, then asks, “Do you have any plans for the weekend?”

You think about the empty apartment. About promises that keep getting postponed. About waiting for calls that don’t come.

“No,” you say quietly. “No plans.”

Even if you did, what would be the point? Making plans alone in a marriage that feels increasingly one-sided feels like pretending everything’s fine when it isn’t.

Jungkook shifts his weight, glancing down the street. “There’s a bar not too far from here. Nothing fancy. We could grab a drink. Maybe dinner after. Just… to unwind.”

The suggestion hangs between you, dangerous in how tempting it sounds. You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. He’s your husband’s trainee. Too young. Too close to things that could get messy.

But you’re tired. Tired of empty evenings. Tired of going home to silence and promises written on scraps of paper.

You look at him again—at the quiet concern in his eyes, the way he’s offering companionship without asking for anything in return.

“Just one drink,” you say finally. “I’m too tired to think.”

A small smile curves his lips. “That’s all I’m asking for, Noona.”

As you walk beside him, the city lights flickering around you, you don’t notice the way this small decision shifts something in the air subtle, fragile, and dangerous.

-------

The bar lights blur into soft halos by the time you stumble out onto the street.

Your head feels light, your limbs heavier than they should be, the world tilting gently under your feet. You don’t remember how many drinks you had just that at some point, the tightness in your chest loosened enough for your laughter to come easier, your words to spill freer.

Jungkook is steady beside you, one arm hovering near your waist, not quite touching, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he does. When you sway, he finally places his hand there, firm, grounding.

“Easy, Noona,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

You let out a shaky breath, the night air cool against your flushed skin. “I’m fine,” you insist, though the way your heels scrape against the pavement says otherwise.

“You’re not,” he says softly. “But that’s okay.”

The cab ride is a blur of passing lights and muffled city sounds. At some point, your head lolls against the window, then slips toward his shoulder. He stiffens for half a second before relaxing, letting you rest there. You don’t notice the way his jaw tightens, the way his hand curls slowly into a fist on his thigh.

By the time you reach your apartment, the world feels too big and too small at the same time.

The door clicks shut behind you, sealing the two of you into the quiet. The silence hits harder than the noise ever did. Your shoes come off clumsily, one heel nearly slipping from your grasp before Jungkook catches it for you, kneeling to set them aside.

“Careful,” he says with a small, almost fond huff of breath.

You laugh weakly, then it breaks in your throat.

The tears come out of nowhere hot, sudden, unstoppable. You sink down onto the edge of the couch, your face falling into your hands as a sob tears its way out of your chest.

“I’m tired,” you whisper, the words slurring together. “I’m so tired of pretending I’m okay.”

Jungkook freezes, then slowly kneels in front of you, uncertain, like he’s standing at the edge of something he knows he shouldn’t cross. “Noona…” he says gently. “Hey. It’s okay.”

You shake your head, tears dripping through your fingers. “Namjoon doesn’t love me.” The words land heavy in the room.

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes lift to your face, searching, conflicted. “Don’t say that,” he murmurs, but it sounds more like a plea than an argument.

“He doesn’t make time for me,” you continue, voice breaking. “I sleep alone. The bed feels so cold. This house-” you gesture weakly around you, “it’s always silent. Like I’m the only one who actually lives here.” Your shoulders shake as another sob wracks through you.

Jungkook moves before he can stop himself. His hands come up, tentative at first, then firm as he cups your cheeks, thumbs brushing away your tears. His touch is warm, grounding, dangerously intimate.

“You don’t deserve this,” he says, low and earnest. “You deserve someone better than being left alone like this.” You look at him through blurred vision, his face too close now, his eyes dark with something you don’t want to name.

“You deserve to be cherished,” he continues softly. “Loved. Taken care of. Your husband doesn’t deserve these tears.” His thumb lingers at the corner of your eye, wiping away the last of the tears. The room feels smaller, the air heavier. Your breathing slows, caught somewhere between the comfort of being held and the ache of realizing how much you needed it.

Before you can think, before either of you can pull back, he leans in.

The kiss is brief, almost reverent but it lingers longer than it should. Long enough for your heart to stutter. Long enough for him to realize what he’s done.

He pulls back abruptly, breath uneven, eyes flickering with something dangerous and unspoken.

“I-” His voice falters. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-” The silence after is thick, charged with everything neither of you are ready to admit.

Your fingers curl into his collar before doubt can catch up with you. The fabric wrinkles beneath your grip as you tug him forward, not hard just enough to tell him you mean it. His breath hitches. You feel it against your mouth before you feel him.

For half a second, he freezes. Like he’s bracing for the moment to break, for the consequences to come crashing down. Then your lips meet his.

It’s not hungry. Not yet. It’s soft, almost questioning like you’re both asking the same thing without saying it out loud. Is this, okay? Are we really doing this?

His answer comes when he exhales against you and kisses back. Slow. Careful. As if he’s afraid that if he moves too fast, this fragile, impossible thing might shatter. His hand lifts, hesitates, then settles at your waist warm, grounding. Not pulling you closer. Just there. Like he’s memorizing the feel of you, like he needs proof that this is real.

When he finally deepens the kiss, it’s subtle. A quiet shift. A soft pressure. The kind that makes your stomach tighten and your thoughts blur. You feel it then, how much he’s been holding back.

The second you don’t pull away, something in him breaks. That’s what does it. His hand slides from your waist to your back, fingers pressing in not gentle anymore, not careful. He pulls you in, forehead dropping to your shoulder as if he needs something solid to hold onto.

“This isn’t fair,” he mutters, half-laughing, half-losing it. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?” You feel it in the way his control is slipping by inches. In the way his touch keeps tightening, then loosening again, like he’s arguing with himself through his hands.

When he lifts his head, his eyes are dark no apology left in them now. Just need. Just restraint worn thin. “I tried,” he admits quietly. “I really did.” His mouth hovers near yours, not touching, like he’s torturing himself on purpose. Like he needs to prove how bad he wants this.

And when he finally kisses you again, it’s no longer careful.

It’s restrained force. All the wanting he refused to voice poured into that single act. His grip anchors you there, like if he lets go, he’ll lose himself completely.

------

The room was a blur of amber lamplight and the sharp, expensive scent of his cologne a scent that had begun to drown out everything else in your life. You were malleable in his arms, your head lolling back as his hands, possessive and steady, anchored you to the present.

"You’re trembling," he murmured against the shell of your ear. His voice wasn’t kind; it was a low, dark vibration that felt like a claim.

You let out a broken, desperate sound, your fingers clutching at his shoulders. The world was spinning, fueled by the wine and the suffocating proximity of a man who looked at you like you were the only thing worth breaking.

"Please," you whispered, the word catching in your throat. You didn't even know what you were begging for anymore for him to stop, or for him to finally, mercifully, take what he was eyeing so hungrily.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with a simmering, obsessive loathing for the man whose name was on your marriage license. He traced the line of your throat with a thumb, applying just enough pressure to make her breath hitch.

"Is this how he touches you?" he asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous, silken lash. "Does he make you feel like you're disappearing?"

"No," you gasped, your eyes fluttering shut as his lips grazed the pulse point he was crushing.

"Does he make you beg?" He nipped at your skin, a sharp sting that made you arch into him. Your breath came in ragged, uneven bursts. The honesty was forced out of you by the sheer weight of his gaze. "No," You whimpered, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. "No."

A slow, predatory smirk pulled at his mouth the look of a man who had finally won a war he’d been fighting in the shadows. He didn't want your love; he wanted your undoing.

"Good," he rasped, his grip tightening until you were flush against him, leaving no room for anyone else. "Because he doesn't deserve to even whisper your name, let alone have you like this."

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a low, guttural rasp. He caught both of your wrists, pinning them above your head with a single hand. "I want you to see exactly who is doing this to you."

When he finally drove into you, it wasn't a gentle entrance; it was a reclamation. You let out a cry that was half-sob, half-ecstasy, your head slamming back against the desk as your body tried to accommodate the sheer, overwhelming force of him. He was thick and unrelenting, filling the emptiness you hadn't realized was there, an emptiness your husband had never even touched.

The pace was frantic, a rhythmic, punishing friction that blurred the line between pleasure and pain. Every thrust was a statement of ownership, a physical manifestation of the obsession he had harbored in the dark.

"Say my name," he growled, his sweat dripping onto your chest, his eyes locked onto yours with a terrifying intensity. "Not his. Mine."

"Jungkook," You choked out, your voice breaking as the first waves of the climax began to pull at her. "Jungkook, please-"

He leaned down, his mouth crashing against yours to swallow the sound, his movements becoming faster, more desperate. He wasn't just taking your body; he was raiding your soul, demanding every ounce of yours sensation. You were a live wire, sparking and frantic, your hips rising to meet every blow as the tension in your coiled tighter and tighter, a spring wound to the point of snapping.

The world narrowed down to the point of impact. You felt the sudden, violent tightening of your muscles, your internal walls clenching around him in a frantic, rhythmic pulse. A white-hot flash of sensation exploded behind your eyes, and you arched your back so sharply your spine felt like it might break, a long, wrecked wail escaping your throat.

He followed you almost immediately, his grip on your wrists tightening until it bruised as he groaned your name like a curse, his own body shuddering with a raw, primal release that seemed to drain the very life from him.

For a long minute, the only sound was the jagged, uneven rhythm of their breathing. He stayed heavy on top of you, refusing to pull away, his forehead resting against yours. The silence was heavy with the weight of what you both had just done a bridge burned, a life ruined, and a dark, obsessive hunger finally, momentarily, fed.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb tracing your swollen lower lip. "He’s gone," Jungkook whispered, his voice devoid of any remorse, only a cold, dark triumph. "He’s completely gone now. You're mine."

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