Jungkook knew it was wrong. He knew that the way he mapped out your life, the precise minute you turned off your bedroom light, the route you took to the grocery store, the way you paused to look at the rain was a sickness. But to him, it wasn't madness; it was devotion. Every secret he unearthed about you was a treasure, and every moment he spent watching you from the shadows felt like the only time he was truly alive.
His obsession had evolved into a ritual of theft. He didn’t want your jewelry or your money; he wanted the things that touched you, the things that held the lingering warmth of your body.
His apartment had become a shrine to you. In a locked drawer, hidden away from the world, he kept his collection of your underwear. He had lace, silk, and cotton, each piece meticulously organized by the day he had stolen it. Whenever the longing became an unbearable ache in his chest, Jungkook would retreat to his room, lock the door, and pull out a pair of your panties.
He would press the fabric against his face, inhaling deeply, closing his eyes to imagine you were right there with him. He would wrap the thin material around his hand, the sensation of your scent mixing with the friction as he jerked off to vivid, unfiltered fantasies of you. He imagined your voice pleading for him to stop, then begging him to continue; he imagined the way you would look if he finally stepped out of the shadows and claimed you. He spent hours in that solitary haze, his pleasure tied inextricably to the theft and the taboo.
Tonight, however, the thrill of the trophy wasn't enough. He needed to be in your space while you were actually in it.
The moon cast long, jagged shadows across your bedroom as Jungkook slid through the window with the grace of a ghost. He moved with practiced silence, his heart hammering against his ribs as the familiar scent of your vanilla candles hit him. He had come for a new addition to his collection, but as he stepped toward the dresser, he froze.
You were sprawled across the sheets, the duvet kicked down to your ankles due to the oppressive summer heat. You were wearing nothing but a pair of sheer, black lace panties—the exact kind that usually cost him the most courage to steal.
Jungkook’s breath hitched, his lungs suddenly too small for the air in the room. The sight of you, your chest rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic slumber, the pale curve of your hip exposed anchored him to the spot. He felt a surge of heat roar through his veins, a pulsing ache that demanded immediate release.
He crept closer, sinking to his knees beside the bed. He was so close he could hear the soft, rhythmic sound of your breathing. His gaze devoured you, tracing the line of your throat and the swell of your breasts beneath the thin fabric of your shirt.
A low, guttural groan escaped his throat. He didn't want a piece of fabric tonight; he wanted the real thing.
Trembling with a mixture of adrenaline and raw lust, Jungkook reached down and unzipped his jeans. He freed himself, his cock already rock-hard and leaking, throbbing in time with his racing heart. He didn't touch you—not yet. The taboo of the moment, the knowledge that you were completely oblivious to his presence while he stared at you with predatory hunger, was more intoxicating than any touch could be.
He began to stroke himself, his grip tight and desperate. His eyes remained locked on you, imagining those sleeping lids fluttering open to find him there, watching you, wanting you. He imagined pulling you against him, pinning your wrists above your head and marking every inch of that pristine skin.
"You have no idea," he whispered, his voice a jagged rasp in the silence. "You have no fucking idea what I want to do to you."
As his pace quickened, his breathing became heavy and ragged. He watched the way your body shifted slightly in your sleep, a small moan escaping your lips that nearly sent him over the edge. The sound was like gasoline on a fire. He closed his eyes for a second, picturing you screaming his name, your body arching beneath him just as it did in his fevered dreams.
With one final, forceful stroke and a sharp intake of breath, Jungkook came. He gasped, his body shuddering as he released himself, the intensity of the orgasm leaving him lightheaded.
He stayed there for a long moment, panting, his gaze softening into something dangerously possessive. He leaned in, his lips barely brushing the shell of your ear, though you remained deep in sleep.
"Sweet dreams, baby," he murmured, a dark, knowing smirk playing on his lips.
He stood up, cleaned himself with a stolen tissue from your nightstand, and true to his habit—reached down to slide the black lace panties off your sleeping form with a surgeon's precision.
By the time you woke up the next morning, feeling a strange chill in the air and noticing your favorite underwear missing, Jungkook was already blocks away, the lace pressed firmly against his skin, counting down the hours until he could come back for more.
If you had a bad day, he’d text you before you told anyone. If you skipped class, he’d somehow already know. If you went somewhere new, he always seemed unsurprised when you mentioned it later.
It was strange.
But Jimin was sweet.
Caring.
Attentive.
You told yourself that was all it was.
“You look tired.”
You looked up from your coffee.
Jimin was smiling at you from across the table.
“You say that every time you see me.”
“Because you always look tired.”
“You sound like my mother.”
He laughed.
The sound was warm enough to make you smile despite yourself.
For a moment, everything felt normal.
Then he tilted his head.
“You were crying last night.”
Your smile disappeared.
“What?”
His expression didn’t change.
“You cried.”
A chill crawled down your spine.
You hadn’t told anyone.
Not a single person.
You had cried alone in your apartment after a fight with a family member.
No calls.
No texts.
Nothing.
“How do you know that?”
For the briefest moment, Jimin froze.
Then he laughed.
“Lucky guess.”
You wanted to ask more questions.
Instead, you let it go.
You shouldn’t have.
The feeling started after that.
The feeling of being watched.
Sometimes you would glance over your shoulder while walking home and catch a glimpse of someone disappearing around a corner.
Sometimes you’d look out your apartment window and swear there was somebody standing across the street.
Watching.
Waiting.
But every time you looked properly, nobody was there.
You told yourself you were paranoid.
Until the messages started.
Unknown Number.
You looked pretty today.
Your stomach dropped.
Another message arrived.
Blue is definitely your colour.
You had worn blue that day.
Your hands started shaking.
You blocked the number.
Another one appeared the next day.
Then another.
Then another.
No matter how many you blocked, the messages kept coming.
Every single one proving that whoever was sending them had seen you recently.
Seen you close enough to notice details.
You were terrified.
And somehow, every time you broke down, Jimin appeared.
Every.
Single.
Time.
One evening you were sitting alone at a bus stop, trying not to cry after another anonymous message.
Suddenly someone sat beside you.
Jimin.
As if summoned.
His face immediately softened.
“Hey.”
You stared.
“How do you keep doing that?”
“What?”
“Showing up.”
His smile never wavered.
“Maybe I just have good timing.”
The answer wasn’t reassuring.
If anything, it made your skin crawl.
Weeks passed.
The messages became worse.
Photos started appearing.
Pictures of you leaving class.
Pictures of you shopping.
Pictures taken from behind.
Pictures taken from across the street.
Pictures you never knew existed.
The police couldn’t do much.
There wasn’t enough evidence.
You barely slept.
You jumped at every noise.
And every time fear threatened to consume you, Jimin was there.
Holding your hand.
Bringing you food.
Telling you everything would be okay.
You started depending on him.
What other choice did you have?
He was the only thing that felt safe anymore.
One night your phone buzzed.
A new message.
You opened it.
The blood drained from your face.
It was a picture of you sleeping.
In your bedroom.
Taken from inside your apartment.
You nearly dropped your phone.
A second message appeared.
You look beautiful when you sleep.
Tears immediately filled your eyes.
You called Jimin.
He answered on the first ring.
Almost like he’d been waiting.
“Jimin!”
Your voice cracked.
“Someone was in my apartment.”
His tone instantly became gentle.
“I’m coming.”
No questions.
No hesitation.
Just certainty.
Twenty minutes later he was sitting beside you on your couch.
His arm wrapped securely around your shoulders.
You were shaking.
Terrified.
Exhausted.
“I don’t know what to do anymore.”
His grip tightened.
“You don’t have to handle it alone.”
His voice was soft.
“You can stay with me.”
You agreed.
Because you were scared.
Because you trusted him.
Because he was Jimin.
The one person who had never left your side.
For a while, things felt better.
You stayed at his apartment.
The messages stopped.
The feeling of being watched disappeared.
You felt safe.
Then one afternoon, while Jimin was out, his laptop lit up with a notification.
You weren’t trying to snoop.
You really weren’t.
But your name caught your attention.
Curiosity got the better of you.
You clicked.
Your entire world shattered.
Folders.
Hundreds of them.
Thousands of photographs.
You walking.
Laughing.
Studying.
Sleeping.
Crying.
Living.
Every moment of your life documented with horrifying precision.
There were notes too.
Detailed observations.
Descriptions of your routines.
Your habits.
Your fears.
Your favourite foods.
Your favourite songs.
Everything.
The earliest file was dated four years ago.
Four years.
Long before you met him.
The apartment door opened.
Your heart stopped.
Slowly, you looked up.
Jimin stood in the doorway.
For several seconds, neither of you spoke.
His eyes moved to the screen.
A sigh escaped him.
Not panic.
Not anger.
Disappointment.
“I wanted to tell you eventually.”
Your voice shook.
“You did this?”
He stepped closer.
Calmly.
As if discussing something ordinary.
“I love you.”
The words made your stomach twist.
“You stalked me.”
“I watched over you.”
“You broke into my apartment.”
“I worried about you.”
“You terrified me!”
Pain flashed across his face.
As if your fear was what hurt him most.
“You were never supposed to be scared.”
His voice was almost pleading.
“I was protecting you.”
“From what?”
The question slipped out before you could stop it.
Jimin smiled.
A small smile.
One that didn’t reach his eyes.
“People.”
The answer sent a chill through your body.
“What does that mean?”
His gaze darkened.
“There were people who got too close.”
Your blood ran cold.
“Jimin…”
“They didn’t deserve you.”
He continued moving closer until your back hit the wall.
“You don’t understand how precious you are.”
Fear consumed every thought.
Yet somehow Jimin looked at you like you hung the stars in the sky.
Like you were the most important thing in existence.
“I memorized your smile.”
His voice dropped to a whisper.
“I know every little thing about you.”
Another step.
“I know what you do when you’re nervous.”
Another.
“I know what makes you laugh.”
His fingers gently tucked your hair behind your ear.
The gesture was so familiar.
So affectionate.
And now completely terrifying.
“You think this is obsession.”
His eyes softened.
“But this is love.”
“No.”
Your voice trembled.
“This isn’t love.”
For the first time, something dangerous flickered beneath his smile.
Gone a second later.
But you saw it.
And it made your heart race.
Jimin took your trembling hand.
Holding it tightly.
Like he’d never let go.
“Maybe you don’t understand now.”
His thumb brushed across your knuckles.
“But one day you will.”
His smile returned.
Gentle.
Devoted.
Completely unhinged.
“Because nobody will ever love you as much as I do.”
And looking into his eyes, you realized the most terrifying thing wasn’t that Jimin had been watching you for years.
It was that he genuinely believed everything he’d done was an act of love.
And that he had absolutely no intention of ever letting you go.
———————————————————————————————————
If you guys really couldn’t tell I love writing the yandere trope lol
The first thing you noticed was that the forest had gone quiet.
No birds.
No insects.
Nothing.
Just the sound of your ragged breathing as you ran.
Your shoes slipped against damp earth, roots snagging at your feet. Branches scratched your skin, leaving thin lines across your arms, but you barely felt them.
All you could think about was getting away.
Getting away from him.
The moon hung low above the trees, bathing the woods in silver light.
It made everything look like a dream.
Or a nightmare.
You glanced over your shoulder.
Nothing.
For one brief moment, hope sparked in your chest.
Maybe you’d lost him.
Maybe—
A voice drifted through the darkness.
“Y/N.”
Your blood turned to ice.
The voice was soft.
Gentle.
Loving.
That was what made it so terrifying.
Because he sounded happy.
As if this was a game.
As if he was enjoying himself.
You broke into a sprint.
A laugh echoed somewhere behind you.
“Keep running.” Your stomach twisted.
“You’re so pretty when you run.” Tears stung your eyes.
No.
No, no, no.
You pushed yourself faster.
The trees blurred together.
Your lungs burned.
Every breath felt like swallowing knives.
You couldn’t stop.
Because if you stopped, he’d catch you.
And if he caught you—
A branch snapped nearby.
Too close.
You stumbled.
Recovered.
Kept running.
Then suddenly—
Arms wrapped around your waist.
You screamed.
The two of you crashed into the forest floor.
Leaves scattered around you.
You kicked wildly, trying to escape.
Trying to breathe.
Trying not to panic.
“Got you.”The whisper brushed against your ear. Your heart nearly stopped.
Taehyungs arms wrapped tightly around your waist.
Not enough to hurt.
Just enough to make escape impossible.
“Let me go!” you cried.
“No.” The answer came instantly.
Without hesitation.
Without guilt.
Without doubt.
You struggled harder.
He only laughed.
A genuine laugh.
Like he found you adorable. “You almost made it twenty minutes this time.” The words made your stomach drop.
Almost made it.
As if he’d been timing you.
As if he’d done this before.
You twisted to look at him.
Moonlight illuminated his face.
His cheeks were flushed.
His hair was messy from running.
And he was smiling.
Not angry.
Not frustrated.
Happy.
The realization terrified you more than anything else.
“Tae…” your voice shook. “Please.”
The smile softened.
“There it is.”
His hand gently brushed your hair behind your ear.
The gesture felt sickeningly intimate.
“I missed hearing you call me that.”
You jerked away.
His expression immediately darkened.
Not much.
Just enough.
A crack in the mask.
A glimpse of something dangerous underneath.
“You keep doing that.”
“What?”
“Pulling away.”
His voice remained calm.
Too calm.
“You always pull away from me.”
“You chased me through a forest!”
“Because you ran.”
The answer was immediate.
As if it were perfectly reasonable.
As if the problem wasn’t the chase.
The problem was your attempt to leave.
His hand cupped your face.
You froze.
His thumb brushed away a tear.
“Why do you keep trying to leave me?”
The question sounded genuine.
Like he truly didn’t understand.
Like he couldn’t imagine why you’d be afraid.
“Tae, this isn’t normal.”
His smile disappeared.
The silence that followed felt heavy.
Dangerous.
Slowly, he lowered his hand.
“I know.”
Your breath caught.
For the first time all night, he looked completely honest.
“I know it’s not normal.”
The admission surprised you.
Then his eyes met yours.
Dark.
Obsessed.
Unwavering.
“But neither is loving someone this much.”
A chill crawled down your spine.
He laughed quietly.
“You know what I realized?”
You didn’t answer.
He continued anyway.
“I used to think if I loved you enough, you’d love me back.”
His fingers intertwined with yours.
You tried to pull away.
He wouldn’t let go.
“So I waited.”
A smile tugged at his lips.
“I waited patiently.”
The smile grew wider.
“I watched.”
Your stomach dropped.
“I protected you.”
The smile became unsettling.
“I learned your schedule.”
Your blood ran cold.
“I knew when you were sad before anyone else did.”
His eyes never left yours.
“I knew your favorite coffee order.”
“Tae…”
“I knew which songs you cried to.”
The forest suddenly felt much darker.
Much smaller.
Much harder to breathe in.
“I knew everything.”
His voice was almost dreamy.
Like he was remembering something beautiful.
“But no matter what I did…”
The smile slowly faded.
“You still wanted to leave.”
For the first time, anger surfaced.
Not explosive anger.
Not shouting.
Something worse.
The quiet kind.
The kind that simmers beneath the surface.
The kind that never really goes away.
You saw it in his eyes.
And you realized something terrifying.
He wasn’t chasing you because he was afraid.
He was chasing you because he believed you already belonged to him.
The difference made your skin crawl.
“You don’t own me.”
The words escaped before you could stop them.
Silence.
Complete silence.
Taehyung stared at you.
His expression unreadable.
Then—
He laughed.
A broken sound.
Almost hysterical.
The kind of laugh that made your heart pound harder.
“Oh, Y/N.”
He leaned forward.
Forehead touching yours.
His smile was beautiful.
His eyes weren’t.
“You still think this is about ownership.”
His voice dropped to a whisper.
“It’s not.”
The hand holding yours tightened.
“It’s about love.”
Tears filled your eyes.
“This isn’t love.”
He looked genuinely wounded.
The reaction was immediate.
Like you’d stabbed him.
For a moment, you almost felt guilty.
Then he smiled again.
And the guilt vanished.
“That’s okay.”
His thumb traced circles across your skin.
“You’ll understand eventually.”
Fear twisted inside your chest.
“You can’t make me love you.”
His smile widened.
“No.”
The certainty in his voice frightened you.
“No, I can’t.”
He stood, pulling you to your feet.
His arm slipped around your waist.
Possessive.
Protective.
Claiming.
“But I can make sure nobody else ever has the chance.”
Your breath caught.
“Tae—”
“You’re exhausted.”
He brushed dirt from your clothes.
The tenderness of the gesture felt horrifying.
“You’re cold.”
His jacket settled around your shoulders.
“You’ve been crying.”
His fingers wiped away another tear.
Every action screamed affection.
Every word screamed obsession.
And somehow the combination was worse than outright violence.
He looked at you as if you were the center of his universe.
As if the moon rose because you existed.
As if every breath he took belonged to you.
And maybe that was the problem.
Because people who loved like that didn’t know how to let go.
They only knew how to hold on tighter.
Taehyung pressed a kiss against your forehead.
The gesture was so gentle it almost hurt.
Then he smiled.
The same smile you’d once thought was beautiful.
Now it looked like a cage.
“I found you.”
His voice was soft.
Certain.
Final.
A sob slipped past your lips before you could stop it.
Immediately, his expression softened.
“Shh.”
He cupped your face with both hands.
“Don’t cry.”
More tears spilled down your cheeks.
You hated that you couldn’t stop them.
Hated how small and trapped you felt beneath his gaze.
Taehyung leaned closer, pressing featherlight kisses beneath your eyes.
One tear.
Then another.
As if he could kiss them away.
“Shh,” he whispered again, brushing his lips against your damp skin. “It’s okay. I’m here.”
The words should have comforted you.
Instead they made your chest tighten.
His thumb stroked your cheek while he continued to press gentle kisses to the corners of your eyes, patient and affectionate.
“Don’t cry, baby.”
His voice was unbearably tender.
“You’re safe.”
Safe.
The word felt wrong coming from him.
Yet he said it with complete sincerity.
He rested his forehead against yours once more, shushing each shaky breath and quiet sob as though soothing something precious.
And as he held you close, the terrifying part wasn’t that he believed he was comforting you.
It was that he truly thought he was.
And as he led you deeper into the darkness between the trees, the truth settled in.
The chase had never been for you.
It had been for him.
A ritual. A reassurance.
Proof that no matter how far you ran, you’d end up back in his hands.
You had mistaken pursuit for uncertainty.
But there had never been any doubt in him.
Only certainty.
Only possession dressed up as devotion.
He squeezed your hand.
And for the first time, you understood what terrified you most.
When you first laid eyes on Kim Taehyung, you thought he looked like a sin dressed in white.
It was your first Sunday at the commune, the kind of place hidden behind thick pine forests and winding dirt roads, where the outside world faded into myth and obedience became second nature. They called it The Sanctuary. Called it holy. Called it chosen.
And standing at the front of the chapel with a worn leather bible pressed against his chest was him…..
Kim Taehyung.
The pastors son.
The boy every girl whispered about behind closed dormitory doors, only to kneel twice as long afterward in silent repentance.
His dark hair fell over his forehead in careless waves, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he turned pages with elegant fingers, voice low and warm as honey as he read scripture.
You hated how your Pulse jumped when he spoke.
Hated it even more when his eyes found yours. Because Taehyung didn’t just look at people.
He saw them.
And when he saw you, He smiled.
—
“Head bowed.”
Sister Miriam’s sharp voice snapped through the prayer circle, and your chin dipped instantly.
“Temptation begins in wandering eyes.”
A chorus of Amen followed. Your throat tightened.
Because across the room, even with your gaze lowered, you could feel him looking.
Like sunlight against skin. Like a hand hovering just above your pulse.
Like danger.
After service, you stayed behind to stack hymn books, mostly because your hands needed something to do.
The chapel had emptied except for the faint creak of wooden pews and the scent of candle wax.
You were reaching for the highest shelf when—
“Careful.”
A warm hand steadied the stack before it slipped from your fingers.
You turned And nearly forgot how to breathe.
Taehyung stood beside you, close enough for you to notice the tiny mole beneath his eye.
Close enough to smell cedarwood and soap. “First week?” he asked.
You nodded too fast. “Is it that obvious?” His lips curved. “A little.” Heat crawled up your neck.
He took the books from your arms effortlessly, setting them on the shelf as if it weighed nothing.
“Don’t worry,” he said softly. “Everyone looks terrified their first week.”
“Did you?” He looked at you then, really looked. And for a second, his smile changed. Became quieter. Sadder. “Still do.”
—
After that…
He was everywhere.
In the gardens, sleeves rolled up as he watered herbs. In the kitchens, laughing softly as flour dusted his hands.
In morning scripture studies, sitting across from you with his chin resting in his palm while Sister Miriam lectured about purity.
And somehow— Somehow, He always found a reason to speak to you.
“Wrong verse.” He’d lean over your shoulder, tapping the page with long fingers while your pulse hammered. “It’s Corinthians, not Psalms.”
Or
“You missed breakfast again.” Sliding an apple across the wooden table without looking up from his book.
Or
“You hum when you work." That one had made you freeze. “I do not.”
“You do.” A teasing smile. “Only when you think no one’s listening.” And the worst part
He was right.
—
One afternoon, you were hanging freshly washed sheets behind the girls’ dormitory, pinning white fabric against the clothesline while the wind tangled your hair.
You didn’t hear him approach. “Need help?”
You jumped so hard you nearly dropped the basket. Taehyung caught it before it hit the ground.
Again.
Always catching things before they broke. “You do that on purpose,” you muttered. His brows lifted. “Scare you?”
“Appear out of nowhere.” He laughed. And God It was unfair.
Warm and deep and genuine enough to make your chest ache. “Maybe you’re just easy to sneak up on.”
He reached past you to pin a sheet in place, his arm brushing yours for half a second
Barely anything.
And yet your entire body forgot how to function. He must’ve noticed. Because when you stepped back too quickly, He went quiet.
“Did I do something wrong?” Your throat tightened. “No.”
“Then why do you look like I burned you?” His voice was softer now.
Careful. Dangerously sincere. You couldn’t answer.
Because the truth felt far too ugly.
Because being near him felt too warm. Too easy. Too wanted. And all your life
Wanting had been the first step toward sin. So you looked away. And from that day on You started avoiding him.
—
You tried to avoid him after that. You really did. You sat farther back in sermons.
Took different paths between chores. Volunteered for kitchen duty instead of garden work.
And somehow....
He always found you.
“Funny,” Taehyung murmured one afternoon as you stocked canned goods in the cellar, his voice appearing behind you like a prayer turned curse.
You nearly dropped the jar in your hands. He leaned against the wooden doorway, Bible tucked beneath his arm. “You keep running.”
“I’m not running.” His lips curved.
“No?” He stepped closer. Dust danced in the thin rays of cellar lights.
Your breath shortened.
“You won’t even look at me.” Your fingers tightened around the glass.
“That’s because looking at you feels…” You stopped yourself.
His voice dropped softer. “Feels what?”
Wrong.
Dangerous.
Like standing at the edge of something you’d never be forgiven for.
But instead of saying any of that
You whispered, “Sinful.”
And for the first time, Taehyung stopped smiling. Something darker flickered behind his eyes.
“Good.”
Your heart stuttered.
He took another step.
Close enough now that you could smell cedarwood and old pages.
Close enough that if you moved….Your bodies would touch.
“You know what’s worse?” he asked quietly. You shook your head.
His gaze dropped to your lips. “Wanting something…”
His fingers brushed yours, Barely. But it felt like lightning. “…and praying every night for God to rip it out of you.”
Your breath caught. “Taehyung..”
“I fast.” His voice cracked slightly.
“I pray.” His jaw tightened.
“I confess.” And then his eyes lifted to yours—
Raw.
Hungry.
Terrified.
“And none of it stops when it comes to you.” The jar slipped from your hands. Glass shattered across the cellar floor.
Neither of you moved. Neither of you cared. Your pulse thundered in your ears as silence swallowed everything.
Then
“Tell me to leave.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “Tell me.”
But you couldn’t. Because all your life, they’d taught you temptation looked ugly.
Corrupt.
Easy to reject.
No one ever warned you temptation might look like Taehyung, Hands trembling. Eyes full of guilt. Wanting you like it hurt. Your voice came out small.
“I can’t.” His exhale sounded almost broken.And when his forehead gently rested against yours.
Neither of you prayed.
Three months passed.
Three months of stolen glances.
Three months of brushing shoulders in crowded hallways and pretending neither of you felt the electricity.
Three months of sermons about purity that somehow felt more personal every time his voice read the verses.
And somehow
Avoiding Kim Taehyung had become impossible.
Not because you stopped trying. But because Taehyung—
Taehyung refused to let distance exist between the two of you.
—
“You’re distracted.”
His voice came low beside your ear, warm enough to make your fingers slip.
The basket of fresh vegetables nearly tipped from your arms before he caught it like he always did.
You looked up sharply.
“You have to stop doing that.”
Taehyung smiled lazily, sunlight filtering through the greenhouse glass and catching in his dark curls. “Doing what?”
“Appearing out of nowhere.” He stepped closer. Close enough that your back nearly hit the wooden worktable behind you.
“Maybe,” he murmured, eyes dropping to your lips for half a second, “you just notice me more now.”
Your heartbeat turned violent. “Taehyung—”
“Mm?” He knew. God, he knew exactly what he was doing. And the worst part? You didn’t step away.
—
At first it had been harmless. Shared chores. Shared scripture study. Quiet conversations while everyone else slept.
Taehyung sitting beside you on the chapel steps long after evening prayer had ended, shoulders touching while neither of you moved.
Talking about nothing. Talking about everything. “The stars look fake out here,” you whispered one night. Taehyung looked up, then sideways at you. “No.” His voice had gone quieter.
“They look honest.” Your chest tightened. Because he wasn’t looking at the sky anymore. He was looking at you.
—
After that… Everything changed. Not outwardly. No one would notice. No one except you.
Except him.
The way his hand would linger when passing you a book. The way his fingers brushed yours under the dinner table. The way his knees pressed against yours during scripture study and neither of you moved.
And worst of all—
The way he’d look at you during prayer. Head bowed. Bible open. Looking absolutely devoted— While his thumb slowly traced circles against your wrist where no one could see. It made you feel insane. Made you feel filthy. Made you crave more.
—
You were in the chapel when it finally started becoming unbearable.
Late.
Long after everyone else had gone to bed. Candles flickered against wooden walls, throwing shadows across stained glass. You knelt at the front pew, fingers clasped so tightly your knuckles ached.
Trying to pray.
Trying to make your thoughts stop being filled with him. Trying to stop remembering his laugh. His hands. His voice. “Lord, please—”
The chapel door creaked open. You didn’t need to turn around. You already knew.
Taehyung’s footsteps echoed softly against old wood. then stopped right behind you.
Silence.
Heavy.
Dangerous.
Then—
“Are you praying for me too?” Your breath caught.
Slowly… You turned.
And there he stood in white, sleeves rolled to his forearms, curls slightly messy like he’d run his hands through them a dozen times. His jaw looked tight. His eyes, His eyes looked tortured.
Hungry.
Guilty.
Just like yours.
He took one step closer. Then another. Until your knees almost touched. His voice dropped to barely a whisper.
“Because I’ve been praying for months…” He swallowed hard. “And it’s only getting worse”
Taehyung’s words hung in the candlelit chapel like a confession neither of you could take back. And it’s only getting worse.
Your breath came shallow. Unsteady.
Every instinct told you to move.
To stand.
To leave.
To pray.
Instead....
The air in the chapel felt heavy, the scent of melting wax and old wood pressing in on you as you stayed on your knees before him. When Taehyung leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, the world narrowed down to the sound of your synchronized, shaky breathing.
“Taehyung…” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper.
His jaw flexed, but there was no aggression in it only a profound, trembling longing. “Don’t say my name like that,” he murmured, his voice cracking slightly. “Like you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”
He looked at you with eyes that were wide and brimming with a mixture of terror and adoration. He reached out, his hand shaking visibly as his fingers brushed your cheek. It was a touch of absolute uncertainty, the touch of someone discovering something sacred and frightening for the first time.
“You should stop me,” he whispered, though he didn't move away. His thumb tentatively traced the curve of your lower lip, his touch so light it was almost a ghost of a sensation.
“You’re not stopping either,” you replied softly, your own voice trembling. You had spent your whole life being told that desire was a poison, and as you looked at him, you felt the first drop of it hitting your tongue.
A small, broken sound escaped his throat, and then he kissed you.
It was clumsy a tentative press of lips that spoke of months of uncertainty. Neither of you really knew where to put your hands or how to tilt your heads; there was a sweet, breathless hesitation as your lips brushed and collided, searching for a rhythm you both lacked. You reached up, your fingers curling into the white fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, and you felt him shiver violently against you.
As the kiss deepened, Taehyung let out a soft, needy whimper into your mouth. His hands wandered awkwardly, sliding down your back with a hesitant reverence, as if he were afraid you might shatter.
When his hips pressed against yours, you both jumped slightly, the sudden, hard contact sending a jolt of electricity through you that made you gasp. He pulled back just an inch, his breath hitching, his face flushing a deep crimson.
“I… I’ve never…” he started, his voice barely audible. “I don’t know if I’m doing this right.”
You looked up at him, your own eyes shimmering with a mixture of fear and heat. “Neither have I,” you whispered.
The admission seemed to break something inside him. A soft, shaky exhale left his lungs, and he leaned back into you, his forehead resting against yours. Together, you were two people stepping off a cliff into the unknown.
He began to kiss your neck, his lips soft and lingering, each press of his mouth feeling like a silent, desperate prayer. He moved with a slow, cautious curiosity, his hands trembling as he helped you gather the fabric of your dress, lifting it just enough to expose your thighs.
When he found the dampness of your underwear, he stopped completely, his breath catching in his throat. He didn't dive in; instead, he pressed his palm flat against you, rubbing in slow, gentle circles through the fabric. The sensation was overwhelming in its tenderness, making you arch your back and let out a soft, high-pitched moan that sounded foreign even to your own ears.
“Are you okay?” he whispered urgently, pulling back to look at you, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that felt like he was reading your soul. “Does it… does it feel okay?”
“Yes,” you gasped, your heart hammering against your ribs. “Please, Taehyung.”
His hands fumbled clumsily as he worked at the fastening of his trousers, his breathing coming in short, jagged bursts. When he finally freed himself, he looked almost shy, his gaze dropping to where he was hard and pulsing. You reached out, your fingers brushing against him for the first time, and he let out a loud, startled gasp, his eyes snapping shut as a shudder ran through his entire frame.
“Oh God,” he breathed, his voice trembling.
He positioned himself carefully, his movements slow and mindful. As he pushed into you for the first time, he did so with an agonizing slowness. You gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you felt the sudden, overwhelming stretch of him. He stopped immediately, freezing in place, his face contorted in a mix of pleasure and sheer panic.
“Did I hurt you?” he whispered, his voice thick with worry.
“No,” you whimpered, though tears pricked your eyes from the intensity of it. “Just… just stay there for a second.”
He waited, holding his breath, his forehead pressed against yours until the tension in your body eased and you began to melt around him. Once you relaxed, you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him the rest of the way in with a small, needy cry.
As he began to move, it wasn't with the force of experience, but with a rhythmic, tentative grace. Every thrust was accompanied by a soft moan or a whispered word of affection. He held you close, his arms wrapping around you as if he were trying to protect you from the very sin you were committing together.
The friction was slow and building, a gentle fire that grew with every tentative slide. He watched your face the entire time, his expression one of pure, raw devotion, learning the map of your pleasure in real-time.
When the peak finally hit, it wasn't a crash, but a wave, slow and all-consuming. Taehyung gripped your hands, interlacing his fingers with yours and squeezing tight as he shuddered inside you, a soft, broken cry escaping his lips as he released everything into you.
He collapsed against you, burying his face in your shoulder, his body still trembling from the aftershocks. He didn't pull away; he stayed there, holding you in the quiet of the chapel, the silence no longer feeling oppressive, but protective.
“I think,” he whispered, his voice sounding small and happy, “that I’m okay with being a sinner.”
if you couldnt tell i got kinda lazy near the end but i hope you guys like it :)))
The first time Gojo Satoru felt fear, it wasn’t during training.
It wasn’t during missions.
It was when he saw you bleeding.
“Don’t, don’t move,” he said, voice sharp in a way it never was. His cursed energy flared wildly, cracking the ground beneath his feet as he stood between you and the curse. “I’ve got this. I always do.”
You tried to smile. You always did that. Like it made things easier for everyone else.
“Satoru,” you whispered. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m not,” he snapped automatically. Then quieter, almost pleading, “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
He believed it.
He always believed he was enough.
The curse was stronger than expected. A special grade misjudged, misreported. By the time Gojo obliterated it, the world was silent except for his own breathing.
And yours.
He turned too slowly.
You were on the ground, blood soaking into the dirt of the mission site, your cursed energy flickering like a dying light. Gojo dropped beside you instantly, hands hovering uselessly over the wound like he could force reality to behave.
“No. No, no, no hey, hey, look at me,” he said, panic leaking into every word. “You’re fine. You’re gonna be fine. I’ll get Shoko, I’ll—”
“Satoru,” you said gently.
That was worse.
You sounded calm.
“I never told you,” you continued, eyes fixed on his, “because I didn’t think I’d get the chance.”
His throat closed. “Don’t. Save your strength.”
“I love you.”
The world stopped.
Gojo’s breath hitched violently. “You..don’t, don’t say things like that like it’s goodbye,” he whispered. “You don’t get to confess and then leave. That’s not fair.”
You smiled weakly. “I knew it.”
“Knew what?”
“That you loved me too.”
He laughed, a broken, strangled sound. “Of course I do. I’ve loved you since we were kids. Since the first day you looked at me like I was just…Satoru. Not the strongest. Just me.”
Tears spilled freely now. He didn’t even try to hide them.
“So stay,” he begged. “Please. I can protect everyone else I can protect you. I just need a second.”
You reached up, fingers trembling as you brushed his cheek. He leaned into your touch like he was starving.
“Infinity can’t reach everything,” you murmured. “Even you.”
Your hand fell.
“No,” he breathed.
Your cursed energy vanished.
For the first time in his life, Gojo Satoru was powerless.
They said later that something changed that day. That the air around him felt colder. Sharper. That the strongest sorcerer became something…hollow.
He never said your name out loud again.
But sometimes, alone, blindfold off, staring at the sky, he whispered:
I really hope after this new episode of TSHD some of y'all weird ass mf's start understanding just how truly freak4freak Yoshiki and Hikaru are.
Like you can't be a denier after this I'm sorry because even Hellen Keller would be able to tell these two are queer for each other.
And if you want to bring up the argument for one-sidedness with "well what about the transfer scene, or the gym scene!" I tell you to re-read the fucking manga or re-watch the anime because those scenes are NAWT what you think those are.
Literally if I had a nickel for every time I saw someone say the classroom scene was a metaphor for SA I would probably have enough to buy myself a car.
The metaphor in the classroom scene is Yoshiki being forced to come to terms with his sexuality/liking Hikaru. Him questioning and second guessing whether or not 'it' feels good is him fighting with his internalized homophobia versus what he's actually feeling.
"But his belt was undone!" I hate to break it to you but coming to terms with your sexuality is also understanding what you are comfortable with in a sexual manner/what arouses you. Yoshiki understanding he likes Hikaru is also him understanding that in a sexual manner, he likes Hikaru too. And it's awkward and embarrassing to realize that, almost shameful considering Yoshiki's internalized homophobia. It's meant to be ironic in a deeply twisted way, because he's ashamed of what he felt, he hates the way Hikaru makes him feel: and yet he can't stop feeling that way. He can't help feeling that way.
It's the idea of awkwardly popping a boner in front of the person you like, and you can't help but feel disgusted because they weren't doing anything arousing. They were just being themselves. And yet something is just so intriguing about them you can't help but find it enchanting.
And I'm not saying Yoshiki is turned on in this specific scene, I'm saying it's the same concept of shame mixed with admiration that he just can't seem to shake.
And in regards to the gym scene? I don't think he didn't want to do it. I think he was hesitant because he's never done it before. All he had to do was psych himself up.
I also think it's important to mention that Yoshiki was a lot more awkward at the idea/realization that Hikaru was shirtless as opposed to sticking his hand inside his friend's chest.
On top of this, Yoshiki while stabbing Hikaru still cares for him. He's not doing it because he actually hates Hikaru: he's doing it because he hates the way Hikaru makes him feel (this is a very common theme). He still cares for Hikaru, monster or not, in his own fucked up way.
Yoshiki is selfish about Hikaru in the same way Hikaru is selfish about Yoshiki. He hates to admit it, but Yoshiki can't function without Hikaru either. He needs Hikaru just as much as Hikaru needs him.
Their relationship as a whole isn't one sided. The fandom likes to talk about how yandere and possessive Hikaru is but Yoshiki is the exact fucking same, we as viewers just see it as Yoshiki being more of the victim of obsessive behavior because of the way the story is told.
Yoshiki isn't really being manipulated by Hikaru to do or not do anything. He's making conscious decisions to do things that protect Hikaru because now that he has Hikaru back regardless of what he is, he's not willing to lose him again.
All in all Yoshiki and Hikaru's relationship is deeply co-dependent from both parties, and in a fucked up way, they're perfect for each other.
Stop watering down or changing their relationship because you have no media literacy or just literacy in general.
Tsukasa’s breath hitches the moment your fingers brush under his shirt — hesitant, trembling, and warm. He’s sitting on the edge of your bed, legs close together, posture tense like he’s about to leap up and apologize for even being here. But you don’t give him the chance. You step in, slow and sure, tilting his chin up until his golden eyes meet yours.
“You okay?” you murmur, thumb stroking his jaw.
He nods quickly, maybe too quickly. “Y-Yeah. I mean, yes—yes, I am, I want this, I just…” He swallows hard, his cheeks flushed pink, voice barely above a whisper now. “It’s my first time…”
You can tell. He’s always been loud and dramatic on stage, the star of the show. But here? He’s quiet, shy, all fluttering lashes and stuttered words. The contrast is magnetic.
You lean down, brushing your lips against his in the softest kiss you can manage. He sighs into it, the tension slowly melting from his shoulders as your hands slip beneath the fabric of his pants, palming his growing bulge through his underwear. He shivers, back arching the slightest bit, and gasps when your hand slowly slides under his boxers .
“Ah—!” He clutches at your shoulders, eyes squeezed shut. “That feels… really nice…”
You press him down gently onto the mattress, watching how he squirms beneath you — breath shallow, lashes fluttering, a small, needy sound escaping him when your lips trail down his neck.
“You’re sensitive,” you whisper against his skin, smirking a little. He whimpers at your tone, high-pitched and breathy.
“I-I am not—! I mean, maybe a little…” His words dissolve into a sharp gasp as your mouth finds that one spot just beneath his ear that makes him tremble.
His hands, unsure at first, end up clutching your sleeves tightly as you begin to slowly stroke his member , You can feel his heartbeat thudding fast and wild under his skin.
“Is this okay?” you murmur, pausing, giving him the chance to pull away. But all he does is nod frantically.
“Please don’t stop… I want to feel you—please—” His voice breaks into a soft, desperate moan as you press your body more fully against his, your name falling from his lips like a prayer. You smirk and slide down the rest of his pants and then strip your own. You straddle him whilst lining his member up to your entrance and slowly sinking down. You let out a moan as his length fills you up.
“Are you okay?” You say. He looks up at you with half lidded eyes and nods-
“Y-yes, can you please move now” he eagerly says between breaths.
You nod and slowly start lifting your hips up and down, you find a good rhythm that both of you enjoy and keep going.
He’s completely undone now — back arching, fingers digging into you like you’re the only solid thing he has left to hold onto. Every sigh, every shudder, every broken moan that escapes him lights a fire under your skin. And when you kiss him again — deep and slow and full of everything you’ve both been holding back — he whimpers into your mouth, hips shifting instinctively, breath catching on every exhale.
You’re patient, guiding him with praise, grounding him with your touch and voice. And he melts under you — moaning, whimpering, whispering your name like it’s the only word he knows.
He starts rutting up into you and you can tell he’s close by how frantic his thrusts are.
“Cum in me kasa” you say into his ear.
That’s all it took for him to spill his load up into you.
Later, when the air between you is heavy and warm, and his body is slack beneath yours, you kiss his forehead and watch him blink up at you through the haze.
“Did I… do okay?” he asks shyly, voice rough.
You smile. “You were perfect.”
And the way he flushes again, eyes glassy and lips swollen, you know he believes you.
