✍🏻 Lost between reality & fiction…🌊 Words like waves, love like the sea💜 K-pop | Jungkook FF | BTS📖 Her – "Not all love stories are meant to be told."
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MASTERLIST
1/?
Pairing: Jungkook X Fem!reader(Grace)
Namjoon X Fem!reader(Jane)
Genre: extreme violence, misery, pain, game, survival game, survival, psychological, emotional, physical pain, etc.
Words: ~1.4k
Author's Note: Hello! This story will be going on until it finishes.... Firstly thank you for your support and please if you're reading then leave a like, It won't be that much of work, I put my efforts, heart and soul so please 🥺. Now, about this story so it is not for WEAK HEART, please stay away, this is not a one shot either and the only warning is that this is a traumatizing and abnormal story so if you don't like this type of story then please STAY AWAY! Additionally, don't plagiarize my work nor do I support plagiarism! Thank you🤧👀
Chapter One: The Last Party
---
The world was spinning in its usual rhythm, blissfully unaware of the horrors that were about to unfold. City lights flickered like a million tiny stars caught in the chaos of humanity’s heartbeat. In the middle of it all, people lived their lives—some in joy, some in pain, some in delusion, and some in denial. But none of them knew that this would be their last normal day.
It was a peaceful evening in the quiet suburb of a bustling city. Orange hues painted the sky as the sun began its slow descent beyond the horizon. Leaves danced in the wind, the rustling sound forming a lullaby of nature's comfort. On the edge of a small neighborhood, Jane strolled down the path beside a local park. Her hand rested protectively over her seven-months pregnant belly, the rhythm of her walk slow and steady.
Beside her, Namjoon walked at the same gentle pace, his hand interlocked with hers. The weight of impending parenthood didn’t scare him. It grounded him.
"Do you think it'll be a boy or a girl?" Jane asked, her voice barely louder than the whisper of the wind.
Namjoon gave a soft chuckle. "Does it matter? Either way, they're going to be a little troublemaker like their mom."
She rolled her eyes and nudged him with her elbow. "You're not allowed to be biased just because I make better pancakes."
"You burn pancakes."
"Exactly. It's an art."
Namjoon laughed, leaning in to kiss her temple. "Then yes, I hope it’s a girl, so she learns to cook from me."
She smiled, resting her head briefly on his shoulder. Their steps fell into sync with the sounds of children playing in the distance, a dog barking at a squirrel, and the distant hum of city life. Everything felt intact. Real. Safe.
Jane stopped walking and turned to look at Namjoon. "Are you happy, Joon? I mean... really?"
He looked down at her, his eyes honest. "Yeah. You and this tiny foot-kicker inside you? You’re all I need."
She grinned, even as her throat tightened with emotion. "Don’t get too sappy or I’ll blame it on pregnancy hormones."
They stood in the golden light, breathing in the last sighs of the evening. No one could have guessed that this serenity would shatter within hours.
---
Meanwhile, across the city, a different kind of high was underway.
Grace stood amidst thousands of roaring fans at a Yoongi concert—or more accurately, Agust D's explosive showcase. The stage flared to life with every beat drop as "Haegeum" echoed through the stadium. Giant flames burst in sync with the track, creating a hellish atmosphere that made Grace's skin buzz with adrenaline.
Her friends bounced next to her, hands in the air, chanting every lyric. Grace's eyes sparkled as she screamed along, nearly crying at the raw charisma Yoongi poured into the mic.
"HE'S TOO POWERFUL!"
"LOOK AT HIM! IS HE EVEN REAL?!"
"GRACE, HE LOOKED AT OUR SECTION!"
She didn’t answer. She was in a trance. As "Daechwita" began, her heart thudded in tandem with the drumline. Yoongi’s voice shifted from velvet to venom, and the crowd lost its mind.
"Daechwita! Daechwita! Daechwita!"
The screens flashed with cinematic visuals of warlords and burning temples. Grace was swallowed whole by the performance. She had waited months for this day. And it had exceeded everything. The floor beneath her vibrated, and in that moment, she felt infinite.
Unbeknownst to her, the floor really *was* vibrating. But not from the bass.
---
In the heartbeat of the nightlife district, a club pulsed with neon and bass. Bodies ground together under flashing strobe lights. In a shadowy corner, a couple was entangled in a kiss so fierce it left bruises. The girl tugged at the guy's collar, laughing against his lips.
"Let's get out of here," she whispered, but neither moved.
A few streets away, an elderly woman entered a mart with a basket and a handwritten grocery list. Her glasses perched low on her nose as she carefully picked items—rice, beans, a can of soup, and a treat for her cat. She hummed a forgotten tune, the kind only grandmothers seem to remember.
At a bus stop, a man in his twenties leaned against a pole, laughing drunkenly as he flirted with two women.
"You ladies are too pretty to be walking alone! Maybe I should walk you home," he slurred.
They rolled their eyes and walked off. He just grinned and drank more.
By a car, a girl paced angrily. Her boyfriend was late again. She crossed her arms, muttering curses. But when he arrived holding a bouquet, her walls fell, and she laughed despite herself.
In a private karaoke room, a group of friends took turns butchering pop songs. Drinks spilled. Laughter roared.
"Next up, BLACKPINK!"
"Wait, let’s scream BTS till the neighbors cry!"
"ARMY REPRESENT!"
The lights dimmed, and someone accidentally hit the disco mode. Laser dots danced on their skin. They screamed louder.
All of these people. All laughing. Living. Being.
Moments away from disappearing.
---
It started with silence.
The kind of silence that isn't empty, but *waiting*. The moment before thunder. The final inhale before a scream. For everyone across the city, the air felt wrong—too tight, too still, too full of something unseen.
Jane paused mid-step. Her hand tightened around Namjoon's. "Did you feel that?"
He looked up at the sky. The colors had shifted. That warm orange of evening was gone, replaced by a swirling shade of bruised violet, the clouds rippling like torn silk. The wind stopped. The children in the park were gone. The bark of the dog had turned into a whimper, then silence.
Then—a hum.
Low, vibrating. Like static crawling up the spine.
"Joon..." Jane whispered.
He opened his mouth to answer but never got the chance.
The sky cracked open.
A bolt of light exploded from the heavens like a god's sword splitting time itself. But it made no sound. Just a blinding white light that erased the world.
Jane fell to her knees. Namjoon tried to catch her, arms wrapping around her pregnant belly protectively, his voice shouting something she couldn't hear. Her heart thundered. Then—black.
---
Grace’s scream was drowned by the roar of the crowd. The bass collapsed. The lights shut off. A flash, like the sun being born again, split the arena. She felt her knees give in. Hands reached for her, friends shouted, and then—nothing. She dropped, like a marionette cut loose.
In the club, the lights exploded in glass and fire. Music screeched to a halt. The couple looked up, mouths open in shock, as the ceiling above them shimmered with white.
In the grocery store, the elderly woman dropped her basket. Cans rolled. The light bulbs popped one by one, like gunshots.
At the bus stop, the drunk man blinked. The air tasted metallic. He tried to shout, but the words were eaten by the wind.
The girl by the car looked up and saw her boyfriend vanish before her eyes.
The karaoke friends held each other as the floor beneath them buckled.
And then, across every corner of the city, people collapsed.
Gone.
---
They awoke not with a jolt, but a slow crawling awareness. The sun burned red above. The ocean licked the sand lazily. Palm trees swayed in a wind that smelled of salt, decay, and something unnameable.
Jane lay motionless on the shore, her hair tangled with seaweed and sand. Her dress was soaked, belly rising slowly with breath. Grace lay a few feet away, face-down, fingers twitching.
All around them—nothing. No Namjoon. No concert crowd. No city.
Just a vast, untouched island. Mountains loomed in the distance like sleeping beasts. The beach curved around endlessly, bordered by dense forest thick with vines, shadows, and secrets. Birds called in unfamiliar tones. And far in the trees, something moved. Watching.
The bodies of others littered the sand—the old woman, the drunk man, the couple, the karaoke friends—dozens of them. Unmoving. Unconscious. A canvas of lost souls.
The waves whispered their arrival.
The island had claimed them.
And time, though still moving, had already started to fracture.
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MASTERLIST
1/?
Pairing: Jungkook X Fem!reader(Grace)
Namjoon X Fem!reader(Jane)
Genre: extreme violence, misery, pain, game, survival game, survival, psychological, emotional, physical pain, etc.
Words: ~1.4k
Author's Note: Hello! This story will be going on until it finishes.... Firstly thank you for your support and please if you're reading then leave a like, It won't be that much of work, I put my efforts, heart and soul so please 🥺. Now, about this story so it is not for WEAK HEART, please stay away, this is not a one shot either and the only warning is that this is a traumatizing and abnormal story so if you don't like this type of story then please STAY AWAY! Additionally, don't plagiarize my work nor do I support plagiarism! Thank you🤧👀
Chapter One: The Last Party
---
The world was spinning in its usual rhythm, blissfully unaware of the horrors that were about to unfold. City lights flickered like a million tiny stars caught in the chaos of humanity’s heartbeat. In the middle of it all, people lived their lives—some in joy, some in pain, some in delusion, and some in denial. But none of them knew that this would be their last normal day.
It was a peaceful evening in the quiet suburb of a bustling city. Orange hues painted the sky as the sun began its slow descent beyond the horizon. Leaves danced in the wind, the rustling sound forming a lullaby of nature's comfort. On the edge of a small neighborhood, Jane strolled down the path beside a local park. Her hand rested protectively over her seven-months pregnant belly, the rhythm of her walk slow and steady.
Beside her, Namjoon walked at the same gentle pace, his hand interlocked with hers. The weight of impending parenthood didn’t scare him. It grounded him.
"Do you think it'll be a boy or a girl?" Jane asked, her voice barely louder than the whisper of the wind.
Namjoon gave a soft chuckle. "Does it matter? Either way, they're going to be a little troublemaker like their mom."
She rolled her eyes and nudged him with her elbow. "You're not allowed to be biased just because I make better pancakes."
"You burn pancakes."
"Exactly. It's an art."
Namjoon laughed, leaning in to kiss her temple. "Then yes, I hope it’s a girl, so she learns to cook from me."
She smiled, resting her head briefly on his shoulder. Their steps fell into sync with the sounds of children playing in the distance, a dog barking at a squirrel, and the distant hum of city life. Everything felt intact. Real. Safe.
Jane stopped walking and turned to look at Namjoon. "Are you happy, Joon? I mean... really?"
He looked down at her, his eyes honest. "Yeah. You and this tiny foot-kicker inside you? You’re all I need."
She grinned, even as her throat tightened with emotion. "Don’t get too sappy or I’ll blame it on pregnancy hormones."
They stood in the golden light, breathing in the last sighs of the evening. No one could have guessed that this serenity would shatter within hours.
---
Meanwhile, across the city, a different kind of high was underway.
Grace stood amidst thousands of roaring fans at a Yoongi concert—or more accurately, Agust D's explosive showcase. The stage flared to life with every beat drop as "Haegeum" echoed through the stadium. Giant flames burst in sync with the track, creating a hellish atmosphere that made Grace's skin buzz with adrenaline.
Her friends bounced next to her, hands in the air, chanting every lyric. Grace's eyes sparkled as she screamed along, nearly crying at the raw charisma Yoongi poured into the mic.
"HE'S TOO POWERFUL!"
"LOOK AT HIM! IS HE EVEN REAL?!"
"GRACE, HE LOOKED AT OUR SECTION!"
She didn’t answer. She was in a trance. As "Daechwita" began, her heart thudded in tandem with the drumline. Yoongi’s voice shifted from velvet to venom, and the crowd lost its mind.
"Daechwita! Daechwita! Daechwita!"
The screens flashed with cinematic visuals of warlords and burning temples. Grace was swallowed whole by the performance. She had waited months for this day. And it had exceeded everything. The floor beneath her vibrated, and in that moment, she felt infinite.
Unbeknownst to her, the floor really *was* vibrating. But not from the bass.
---
In the heartbeat of the nightlife district, a club pulsed with neon and bass. Bodies ground together under flashing strobe lights. In a shadowy corner, a couple was entangled in a kiss so fierce it left bruises. The girl tugged at the guy's collar, laughing against his lips.
"Let's get out of here," she whispered, but neither moved.
A few streets away, an elderly woman entered a mart with a basket and a handwritten grocery list. Her glasses perched low on her nose as she carefully picked items—rice, beans, a can of soup, and a treat for her cat. She hummed a forgotten tune, the kind only grandmothers seem to remember.
At a bus stop, a man in his twenties leaned against a pole, laughing drunkenly as he flirted with two women.
"You ladies are too pretty to be walking alone! Maybe I should walk you home," he slurred.
They rolled their eyes and walked off. He just grinned and drank more.
By a car, a girl paced angrily. Her boyfriend was late again. She crossed her arms, muttering curses. But when he arrived holding a bouquet, her walls fell, and she laughed despite herself.
In a private karaoke room, a group of friends took turns butchering pop songs. Drinks spilled. Laughter roared.
"Next up, BLACKPINK!"
"Wait, let’s scream BTS till the neighbors cry!"
"ARMY REPRESENT!"
The lights dimmed, and someone accidentally hit the disco mode. Laser dots danced on their skin. They screamed louder.
All of these people. All laughing. Living. Being.
Moments away from disappearing.
---
It started with silence.
The kind of silence that isn't empty, but *waiting*. The moment before thunder. The final inhale before a scream. For everyone across the city, the air felt wrong—too tight, too still, too full of something unseen.
Jane paused mid-step. Her hand tightened around Namjoon's. "Did you feel that?"
He looked up at the sky. The colors had shifted. That warm orange of evening was gone, replaced by a swirling shade of bruised violet, the clouds rippling like torn silk. The wind stopped. The children in the park were gone. The bark of the dog had turned into a whimper, then silence.
Then—a hum.
Low, vibrating. Like static crawling up the spine.
"Joon..." Jane whispered.
He opened his mouth to answer but never got the chance.
The sky cracked open.
A bolt of light exploded from the heavens like a god's sword splitting time itself. But it made no sound. Just a blinding white light that erased the world.
Jane fell to her knees. Namjoon tried to catch her, arms wrapping around her pregnant belly protectively, his voice shouting something she couldn't hear. Her heart thundered. Then—black.
---
Grace’s scream was drowned by the roar of the crowd. The bass collapsed. The lights shut off. A flash, like the sun being born again, split the arena. She felt her knees give in. Hands reached for her, friends shouted, and then—nothing. She dropped, like a marionette cut loose.
In the club, the lights exploded in glass and fire. Music screeched to a halt. The couple looked up, mouths open in shock, as the ceiling above them shimmered with white.
In the grocery store, the elderly woman dropped her basket. Cans rolled. The light bulbs popped one by one, like gunshots.
At the bus stop, the drunk man blinked. The air tasted metallic. He tried to shout, but the words were eaten by the wind.
The girl by the car looked up and saw her boyfriend vanish before her eyes.
The karaoke friends held each other as the floor beneath them buckled.
And then, across every corner of the city, people collapsed.
Gone.
---
They awoke not with a jolt, but a slow crawling awareness. The sun burned red above. The ocean licked the sand lazily. Palm trees swayed in a wind that smelled of salt, decay, and something unnameable.
Jane lay motionless on the shore, her hair tangled with seaweed and sand. Her dress was soaked, belly rising slowly with breath. Grace lay a few feet away, face-down, fingers twitching.
All around them—nothing. No Namjoon. No concert crowd. No city.
Just a vast, untouched island. Mountains loomed in the distance like sleeping beasts. The beach curved around endlessly, bordered by dense forest thick with vines, shadows, and secrets. Birds called in unfamiliar tones. And far in the trees, something moved. Watching.
The bodies of others littered the sand—the old woman, the drunk man, the couple, the karaoke friends—dozens of them. Unmoving. Unconscious. A canvas of lost souls.
The waves whispered their arrival.
The island had claimed them.
And time, though still moving, had already started to fracture.
#i am miserable#cw: gore#bts imagines#kim namjoon fanfic#jungkook fanfic#grace#stranded#isolation#survival#psychological thriller#game#kpop#writers on tumblr#writers#army
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Masterlist / 16
Her
pairing: Jungkook x reader
Genre: Romance/ Angst/ Drama/ SlowBurn
Words- 1.2k~
Y/N’s perspective
The sun had barely risen, but I was already awake—wide awake, staring at the ceiling like it had answers written across it. It didn’t.
My chest was hollow, tight. I felt like I hadn’t really slept, only closed my eyes and drowned in thoughts. His voice still echoed in my ears from last night.
"Yes, this is me."
"Please don’t cry, Y/N. Believe me, everything will be okay."
But nothing felt okay this morning. Not the space beside me, not the air that refused to fill my lungs, and certainly not the silence that surrounded me.
I reached out instinctively to the nightstand, my fingers searching for the cold, familiar feel of my phone.
But it wasn’t there.
My hand froze mid-reach. My heart did too.
Where’s my phone?
I sat up, the sheet crumpling around me like a noose. My eyes searched the room, desperate, scanning the dresser, under the pillow, the corner by the curtain. Nothing.
I kicked off the blanket and climbed out of bed barefoot, heart pounding, skin cold with dread.
They took it.
The thought slammed into me like a wave, icy and sharp.
They knew.
No, no… calm down, Y/N. Maybe it’s just misplaced.
I checked again. The drawers. The wardrobe. Even inside my shoe cabinet.
Gone.
I stormed out of my room, heartbeat thudding in my ears. The house was already stirring—maids shuffling in the hallway, their expressions carefully blank when they saw me. Like they knew. Like they were told.
I saw her then.
My mother.
Si-eun stood by the sitting room window, dressed immaculately in a pale silk robe, her posture too stiff, her smile too quick.
She turned to me like she was expecting this.
"Good morning, Y/N," she said, her tone clipped, cheerful. "The designer has arrived. I wanted to take you to her myself."
"Where is my phone?" I asked, voice low but trembling.
Her eyes didn’t flinch. She simply tilted her head like I was being ridiculous.
"You don’t need that right now," she replied calmly. "You have more important things to focus on. Your wedding is in just a few days."
I blinked. “So you took it.”
She didn’t answer.
"You heard me last night," I said. The realisation tasted like iron in my mouth.
She moved toward me, brushing invisible lint off my sleeve. "Sweetheart, this is not the time to get caught up in… distractions. You’re getting married. You’re going to be a wife. You should be thinking about your future."
My throat burned. I felt like screaming, but my voice betrayed me—like the rest of my life.
"You don’t understand," I croaked, but she cut me off with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
"I do understand," she said. "More than you think. And I understand how crucial it is for you to look your best on your big day. That’s why the designer is here early."
Then she reached out and took my hand. Her grip was warm but suffocating.
"Come," she said, as if everything was perfectly fine. "Let’s choose your wedding dress. She’s waiting."
I didn’t move at first. I just stared at her, my mother, who had watched me grow, who had held my hand through childhood sickness, school events, teenage heartbreak.
And now she was the one orchestrating this prison.
What if they know? The thought returned, louder, pulsing in my skull.
What if they heard everything?
What if Namjoon told them? What if they suspected before?
What if they’ve done something to Jungkook?
My breath stuttered.
They wouldn’t hurt him… would they?
But then again, I’d never imagined they’d cage me either.
As she tugged me gently toward the dressing room, I followed in silence, but inside my head, every step was a scream.
I sat on the soft, cushioned stool as the designer, a polite woman with a kind voice, started laying out fabric samples. White. Ivory. Champagne. Lace. Satin. Beads.
She smiled and asked questions, but I couldn’t hear her properly over the voice in my head.
"I love you. I want to marry you only."
I had said it.
I’d cried it.
And someone had listened.
"Y/N, what do you think about this neckline?" the designer asked again.
I looked up, startled, and blinked at the delicate embroidery. I nodded without meaning to.
My mother sat across from me, watching like a hawk. Her lips were curved in approval, but her eyes said everything else. She wasn’t going to let me be alone. Not with my thoughts. Not with my memories.
And certainly not with my phone.
I felt numb as the measuring tape wrapped around my arms, my waist, my chest.
I stared at my reflection as they fitted sample clothes against me. I looked like a stranger. Like a doll.
My lips were pale. My eyes are hollow. My heart is somewhere else.
With him.
With Jungkook.
Was he okay?
Did he eat?
Did he sleep?
Was he hurting?
Was he angry at me?
Was he… still holding on?
My fingers curled into fists.
What if they really knew everything?
What if my father was already planning something?
What if they tried to erase him from my life completely?
The thought made my stomach churn.
I couldn’t ask.
I couldn’t confirm.
Because if I did—and they didn’t know—then I’d give it all away.
So I had to pretend.
Pretend to smile.
Pretend to nod.
Pretend this was still my life.
But it wasn’t.
My life was out there, somewhere far from these white silks and powdery perfumes. My life was with him.
And yet, I sat there—silent, powerless—as everyone around me smiled. The staff, the designer, the planner. All talking about centrepieces, flower arrangements, and seating charts.
Like I wasn’t falling apart on the inside.
I tried to speak again, to interrupt—to say anything—but my mother held my hand tighter and said,
"Y/N, the press release will go out in two days. Everything has to be perfect. Your dress, your smile, your posture. No phones. No distractions. We can’t afford any scandal. Do you understand?"
Scandal.
That’s what love was to them.
Something to hide. To erase.
Not a feeling. Not a bond. Just… inconvenience.
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t.
The dressmaker held up a sketch—a modern silhouette with a high neck and dramatic veil. My mother smiled widely.
"This one," she said. "She’ll wear this one."
The designer looked at me.
"Do you agree, Miss?"
I opened my mouth.
And nothing came out.
Because what was the point?
I nodded again.
Good girl.
That's what they wanted, right?
A good daughter.
A quiet bride.
A girl who’d forget the boy with bandaged knuckles and sad eyes. A girl who wouldn’t try to run away.
A girl who wouldn’t dream at night about someone whispering “baby” like a prayer.
But I wasn’t that girl.
Not anymore.
I was someone else now—someone scared, and desperate, and drowning. Someone who had tasted love and couldn’t pretend it was bitter.
As the designer stepped away, my mother leaned close, her voice barely above a whisper.
"You will thank us someday, Y/N."
I stared at her, and for a second, I thought I saw something behind her eyes—regret? fear? love?
I didn’t know.
All I knew was that this wasn’t a choice anymore.
It was a sentence.
And I didn’t know how much time I had left to fight it.
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Masterlist / 16
Her
pairing: Jungkook x reader
Genre: Romance/ Angst/ Drama/ SlowBurn
Words- 1.2k~
Y/N’s perspective
The sun had barely risen, but I was already awake—wide awake, staring at the ceiling like it had answers written across it. It didn’t.
My chest was hollow, tight. I felt like I hadn’t really slept, only closed my eyes and drowned in thoughts. His voice still echoed in my ears from last night.
"Yes, this is me."
"Please don’t cry, Y/N. Believe me, everything will be okay."
But nothing felt okay this morning. Not the space beside me, not the air that refused to fill my lungs, and certainly not the silence that surrounded me.
I reached out instinctively to the nightstand, my fingers searching for the cold, familiar feel of my phone.
But it wasn’t there.
My hand froze mid-reach. My heart did too.
Where’s my phone?
I sat up, the sheet crumpling around me like a noose. My eyes searched the room, desperate, scanning the dresser, under the pillow, the corner by the curtain. Nothing.
I kicked off the blanket and climbed out of bed barefoot, heart pounding, skin cold with dread.
They took it.
The thought slammed into me like a wave, icy and sharp.
They knew.
No, no… calm down, Y/N. Maybe it’s just misplaced.
I checked again. The drawers. The wardrobe. Even inside my shoe cabinet.
Gone.
I stormed out of my room, heartbeat thudding in my ears. The house was already stirring—maids shuffling in the hallway, their expressions carefully blank when they saw me. Like they knew. Like they were told.
I saw her then.
My mother.
Si-eun stood by the sitting room window, dressed immaculately in a pale silk robe, her posture too stiff, her smile too quick.
She turned to me like she was expecting this.
"Good morning, Y/N," she said, her tone clipped, cheerful. "The designer has arrived. I wanted to take you to her myself."
"Where is my phone?" I asked, voice low but trembling.
Her eyes didn’t flinch. She simply tilted her head like I was being ridiculous.
"You don’t need that right now," she replied calmly. "You have more important things to focus on. Your wedding is in just a few days."
I blinked. “So you took it.”
She didn’t answer.
"You heard me last night," I said. The realisation tasted like iron in my mouth.
She moved toward me, brushing invisible lint off my sleeve. "Sweetheart, this is not the time to get caught up in… distractions. You’re getting married. You’re going to be a wife. You should be thinking about your future."
My throat burned. I felt like screaming, but my voice betrayed me—like the rest of my life.
"You don’t understand," I croaked, but she cut me off with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
"I do understand," she said. "More than you think. And I understand how crucial it is for you to look your best on your big day. That’s why the designer is here early."
Then she reached out and took my hand. Her grip was warm but suffocating.
"Come," she said, as if everything was perfectly fine. "Let’s choose your wedding dress. She’s waiting."
I didn’t move at first. I just stared at her, my mother, who had watched me grow, who had held my hand through childhood sickness, school events, teenage heartbreak.
And now she was the one orchestrating this prison.
What if they know? The thought returned, louder, pulsing in my skull.
What if they heard everything?
What if Namjoon told them? What if they suspected before?
What if they’ve done something to Jungkook?
My breath stuttered.
They wouldn’t hurt him… would they?
But then again, I’d never imagined they’d cage me either.
As she tugged me gently toward the dressing room, I followed in silence, but inside my head, every step was a scream.
I sat on the soft, cushioned stool as the designer, a polite woman with a kind voice, started laying out fabric samples. White. Ivory. Champagne. Lace. Satin. Beads.
She smiled and asked questions, but I couldn’t hear her properly over the voice in my head.
"I love you. I want to marry you only."
I had said it.
I’d cried it.
And someone had listened.
"Y/N, what do you think about this neckline?" the designer asked again.
I looked up, startled, and blinked at the delicate embroidery. I nodded without meaning to.
My mother sat across from me, watching like a hawk. Her lips were curved in approval, but her eyes said everything else. She wasn’t going to let me be alone. Not with my thoughts. Not with my memories.
And certainly not with my phone.
I felt numb as the measuring tape wrapped around my arms, my waist, my chest.
I stared at my reflection as they fitted sample clothes against me. I looked like a stranger. Like a doll.
My lips were pale. My eyes are hollow. My heart is somewhere else.
With him.
With Jungkook.
Was he okay?
Did he eat?
Did he sleep?
Was he hurting?
Was he angry at me?
Was he… still holding on?
My fingers curled into fists.
What if they really knew everything?
What if my father was already planning something?
What if they tried to erase him from my life completely?
The thought made my stomach churn.
I couldn’t ask.
I couldn’t confirm.
Because if I did—and they didn’t know—then I’d give it all away.
So I had to pretend.
Pretend to smile.
Pretend to nod.
Pretend this was still my life.
But it wasn’t.
My life was out there, somewhere far from these white silks and powdery perfumes. My life was with him.
And yet, I sat there—silent, powerless—as everyone around me smiled. The staff, the designer, the planner. All talking about centrepieces, flower arrangements, and seating charts.
Like I wasn’t falling apart on the inside.
I tried to speak again, to interrupt—to say anything—but my mother held my hand tighter and said,
"Y/N, the press release will go out in two days. Everything has to be perfect. Your dress, your smile, your posture. No phones. No distractions. We can’t afford any scandal. Do you understand?"
Scandal.
That’s what love was to them.
Something to hide. To erase.
Not a feeling. Not a bond. Just… inconvenience.
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t.
The dressmaker held up a sketch—a modern silhouette with a high neck and dramatic veil. My mother smiled widely.
"This one," she said. "She’ll wear this one."
The designer looked at me.
"Do you agree, Miss?"
I opened my mouth.
And nothing came out.
Because what was the point?
I nodded again.
Good girl.
That's what they wanted, right?
A good daughter.
A quiet bride.
A girl who’d forget the boy with bandaged knuckles and sad eyes. A girl who wouldn’t try to run away.
A girl who wouldn’t dream at night about someone whispering “baby” like a prayer.
But I wasn’t that girl.
Not anymore.
I was someone else now—someone scared, and desperate, and drowning. Someone who had tasted love and couldn’t pretend it was bitter.
As the designer stepped away, my mother leaned close, her voice barely above a whisper.
"You will thank us someday, Y/N."
I stared at her, and for a second, I thought I saw something behind her eyes—regret? fear? love?
I didn’t know.
All I knew was that this wasn’t a choice anymore.
It was a sentence.
And I didn’t know how much time I had left to fight it.
#jeonjayykkayy#jk#pwp fics#jungkook and reader#angst#fluff#her#bts imagines#series#i am miserable#slow burn#i love you#forbidden love#billionaire#poor guy#wedding
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---
Prologue – Dead Hour
They begged.
They didn’t listen.
Blood soaked the dirt where hope once stood. Grace, shaking, half-blind from the bruises, dragged herself across the forest floor. Every breath was war. Every blink a battle. Her fingers curled weakly as she reached for Jane — her only anchor in this nightmare.
But the kicks didn’t stop.
Not until Jane stopped screaming.
She was seven months pregnant.
She wasn’t supposed to die like this.
The men left as the clock neared midnight — no footsteps, no faces, just shadows swallowed by the trees. Grace tried to scream, but her throat cracked instead. Jane gasped softly, trembling hands wrapped around her belly, tears running into the soil.
And as the final minute ticked toward 12:00…
Nothing.
No help.
No savior.
Just the sound of bones beneath breath.
Jane’s mind drifted — to Namjoon. His warmth. The silly little notes he left her on fridge doors. His voice, promising forever.
And then…
Silence.
The night devoured her.
Grace collapsed beside her, eyes wide, not with fear — but rage.
Because the dead don’t stay dead.
And tomorrow, they’ll wake again.
In *Dead Hour*, death isn’t the end.
It’s the routine.
---
Hello everyone, this story is available on Wattpad, this was an teaser or prologue of 'dead hour'. If you're interested in reading then you can read it in my Wattpad account, "jeonjayykkayy" same as here. This is a work of fiction and please don't copy, it's the original work of mine. Also, this is an ongoing series.
Thank you~
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---
Prologue – Dead Hour
They begged.
They didn’t listen.
Blood soaked the dirt where hope once stood. Grace, shaking, half-blind from the bruises, dragged herself across the forest floor. Every breath was war. Every blink a battle. Her fingers curled weakly as she reached for Jane — her only anchor in this nightmare.
But the kicks didn’t stop.
Not until Jane stopped screaming.
She was seven months pregnant.
She wasn’t supposed to die like this.
The men left as the clock neared midnight — no footsteps, no faces, just shadows swallowed by the trees. Grace tried to scream, but her throat cracked instead. Jane gasped softly, trembling hands wrapped around her belly, tears running into the soil.
And as the final minute ticked toward 12:00…
Nothing.
No help.
No savior.
Just the sound of bones beneath breath.
Jane’s mind drifted — to Namjoon. His warmth. The silly little notes he left her on fridge doors. His voice, promising forever.
And then…
Silence.
The night devoured her.
Grace collapsed beside her, eyes wide, not with fear — but rage.
Because the dead don’t stay dead.
And tomorrow, they’ll wake again.
In *Dead Hour*, death isn’t the end.
It’s the routine.
---
Hello everyone, this was an teaser or prologue of 'dead hour'. This is a work of fiction and please don't copy, it's the original work of mine. Also, this is an ongoing series.
Thank you~
#psychological thriller#bts#jungkook#kim namjoon fanfic#wattpad#bts series#tumblr writers#survival#pregnancy#disappearance#dead hour#jeonjayykkayy#thriller#stranded#forest#kpop tag
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🌸✨ TAGLIST ✨🌸
For all updates, oneshots, imagines, and emotional heartbreaks 🤍
(smut | angst | fluff | mafia au | kpop ff)
💌 Taglist:
@jungkookmyoneandonlybaby
Thank you for your support~
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Thank you for your support~
🔖 Want to be added to the taglist?
→ Like, reblog, or reply to this post
→ Or send me an ask/message 💬
I’ll make sure you never miss an update 🖤 Soon, I am going to add more~
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Masterlist / 15
Her
pairing: Jungkook x reader
Genre: Romance/ Angst/ Drama/ SlowBurn
Words- Approx. 2k
Jungkook’s POV
The moment Jimin’s footsteps faded behind the front door, the apartment was swallowed by silence. A silence so loud it rang in my ears.
I stood there for a long time, unmoving.
The bundle of cash lay scattered on the dusty floorboards—my share. My payment. Our blood-earned money.
My fingers twitched.
My jaw clenched.
I bent down slowly, scooping it all up with trembling hands. It felt heavier than it should’ve been. As if each note carried a part of me Jimin had just ripped away.
My chest tightened, burning, and a lump lodged itself in my throat. I sat down on the edge of the bed, elbows digging into my knees, and stared at the floor. My mind was spinning, spiralling, caught between his words and mine.
“From today onwards, you’re nothing to me.”
Nothing. He said it like I didn’t matter. Like the years we struggled together, fought together, meant nothing.
And yet…
I knew why he did it. He was trying to pull me out of the storm I refused to leave. Trying to save me from myself. But it still hurt like hell.
“Yeah… go,” I muttered under my breath, running a hand through my hair, voice hoarse and cracking. “Leave me too.”
You all do, anyway.
I rubbed my face hard, trying to get rid of the tears that threatened to spill, but my hands came back damp. I sniffled once, hard, as I dragged myself to the bathroom. A splash of cold water couldn’t cleanse this ache, but I had to move. I had to function.
I had to work
Author's perspective
The air was still and heavy when Jungkook stepped out of the apartment.
The metal door clicked shut behind him, and with it, the weight of a thousand unsaid words sealed off in the silence he left behind. His eyes burned, not just from lack of sleep but from the fight—the words Jimin hurled, the ones he returned, and the ones that stayed unspoken like sharp stones wedged in his throat.
Jungkook shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders hunched against the morning chill. The city hadn’t quite woken up yet, but the early buzz was beginning—delivery vans rumbling, neon signs flickering off, crows cawing into the dim gray sky. He didn’t look up. Couldn’t.
His boots scuffed against the cracked pavement, the soles worn thin, the laces frayed. Just like him.
He walked fast—too fast—but it still felt like the road beneath his feet was a conveyor belt moving backwards, dragging him into a spiral he couldn’t escape. His mind looped with the images of last night. The trembling in Y/N’s voice. Her sobs. She said she wanted to run away. Her saying his name with a kind of desperation he never thought he’d hear from her.
He had said no.
He had said no, even when every piece of him had screamed yes.
And Jimin… God, Jimin had left him. His brother. His only person. Gone.
He clenched his jaw as he reached the café’s back door, the rusted one near the alley. It groaned open when he pulled it, the familiar scent of bitter coffee and sweet bread hitting him like a memory he wasn’t ready for. The kitchen light flickered above, casting tired shadows on the walls.
No one greeted him.
He didn’t expect them to.
Jungkook changed in the storage room—if you could call pulling off his hoodie and tying on a stained apron “changing.” His reflection in the dusty mirror startled him. His eyes looked swollen. Hollow. His lips were chapped. He looked like someone who hadn’t been eating, and maybe he hadn’t. Not really.
He tucked his hair under the black cap, adjusted the strap, and headed out front.
“Morning,” mumbled the owner, not even looking up from the register.
Jungkook gave a nod and took his station by the espresso machine.
The hiss of steam, the clink of cups, the hum of the grinder—it should’ve been comforting. Routine. But today, it felt like a punishment. Each cup he filled felt like a reminder that he was stuck. Not just physically, but mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. His soul felt bruised, and his bones ached not from labour but from loneliness.
A customer snapped their fingers to get his attention.
“Americano. Extra shot.”
Jungkook blinked, startled, then nodded silently.
His hands shook slightly as he pulled the shot. The scent of the brew, dark and rich, reminded him of the first time Jimin had laughed at him for mixing sugar before pouring milk. “You ruin it like that,” he’d teased. His smile had stretched wide, his eyes soft and amused.
Now that memory tasted bitter.
He burned his fingers while lifting the metal jug.
“Shit,” he muttered, jerking his hand away. The skin sizzled faintly red.
“You okay, kid?” called the boss.
“Fine,” Jungkook replied, teeth gritted.
He wasn’t fine. But he always said he was.
Hours passed in blurs of coffee orders and polite nods. The crowd thickened as morning turned to noon, and the café filled with laughter, chatter, the scrape of chairs, the tapping of laptop keys. Jungkook stayed silent. Kept his head down. But his thoughts were loud.
‘Jimin hates me.’
‘Y/N is going to be married in a week.’
‘My mother still needs her surgery.’
‘And me? I’m just… making coffee.’
At one point, he looked up and saw a girl with long, dark hair at a table near the window. She was laughing into her phone, cheeks pink, fingers twirling her straw.
For a moment, his heart leapt.
Y/N?
But no.
It wasn’t her. Of course, it wasn’t.
She wasn’t laughing right now. She was probably crying. Hiding her phone. Dreading her wedding. All because of him.
He felt like he was drowning—sinking beneath layers of failure and guilt.
A short break came at 3 PM.
He sat in the alley behind the café, knees drawn up, sipping cold coffee from a paper cup. It tasted like cardboard. He didn’t care. His fingers traced the rim slowly.
His thoughts wandered.
Back to when he first got the café job. How proud he’d been to tell his mother. The way her voice, tired but loving, had cracked through the phone. “I’m so proud of you, baby.”
Now, even that voice felt far away.
She didn’t even know how much he was suffering. How much he missed Jimin. How much he was losing his mind.
He leaned his head against the cold brick wall and finally—finally—let a tear slip.
Just one.
He bit down on his knuckle to keep the rest from following.
But it hurt. God, it hurt.
How was it that one person—one girl—could make him feel everything and nothing at once?
A door slammed somewhere behind him.
He sat up, wiped his face.
“Break’s over,” the manager called.
Jungkook stood up, bones heavy. He threw the cup in the trash and went back inside.
And just like that, the mask was back on.
Another order. Another smile.
Another piece of him quietly breaking inside.
Got it! Here's a detailed scene from Jimin's point of view, working at the restaurant, with deep sensory and emotional layers, as requested.
Ji
The metallic clink of knives on porcelain echoed around him like a dull heartbeat.
Jimin wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, the cloth of his apron sticking to his lower back, damp and uncomfortable. The restaurant was already half full, the breakfast crowd a mix of local businessfolk and tired-eyed tourists. Somewhere near the back, the coffee machine hissed like it was alive, steam curling up and fogging the counter’s edge.
He didn’t say a word.
Didn’t smile like he usually did.
Didn’t even greet the regulars who called him “sunshine” every other morning.
Because today, he wasn’t. Not even close.
His fingers trembled slightly as he stacked two plates—scrambled eggs with toast and avocado on one, an omelette with cheese and peppers on the other—and slid them onto a tray. The orders weren’t heavy, but his arms ached. Not from physical labour—he was used to that—but from the tightness in his chest. That weight pressing down since dawn.
He hadn’t spoken to Jungkook since he left.
Didn’t look back either.
Because if he had, he would’ve cracked.
He would’ve gone back and hugged his dumb younger brother and told him everything would be fine, and that he could cry all he wanted—but he didn’t.
Because love sometimes looked like silence.
Jimin gritted his teeth, brushing past a chair that wasn’t pushed in properly. It scraped against the wooden floor with a screech, loud and sharp enough to make him wince. He caught an old lady looking at him from the window seat. She offered a tiny, wrinkled smile.
He didn’t return it.
Just bowed lightly and moved to Table 3.
“Here’s your order,” he said, voice low but steady, placing the plates down with practised hands.
“Thank you,” one of the men said. “You alright, kid? You look...”
Jimin nodded quickly, cutting off the pity.
“Fine, sir. Enjoy your meal.”
He didn’t wait for a response. Just turned and walked back toward the kitchen, the sound of sizzling oil and murmured conversations around him like background noise in a storm of his own thoughts.
He washed his hands.
Twice.
Maybe three times.
He wasn’t sure. He just stood there at the sink, hot water running, staring at the dull silver basin while the world around him blurred at the edges. His reflection in the steel panel across was distorted—his face stretched, his eyes sunken.
He barely recognised himself.
His mind wouldn’t stop replaying this morning.
Jungkook yelling after him.
Jungkook said he’d been left alone.
Jungkook thought he wasn’t loved.
The sponge in his hand slipped and fell into the sink, but Jimin didn’t move. Just stood there, breathing hard.
You also deceive me, right? You never considered me your brother.
That voice. That ache. That brokenness in his tone.
It haunted him.
Because Jimin did love him.
More than anything.
He just didn’t know how to save him anymore.
The manager yelled his name from across the kitchen.
“Yah, Park! Orders are backing up!”
“Coming!” he called, snapping out of the haze and grabbing the next tray.
Two cappuccinos, one blueberry waffle, and one grilled cheese with soup.
Table 5.
He moved with robotic precision, every muscle in his body obeying like they’d been trained—but his heart was elsewhere. Still stuck in the apartment, in the kitchen, where the cash fell on the floor and his brother screamed at a wall.
He bit his tongue to stop the sting in his eyes.
He had no time to cry.
The bell above the restaurant door jingled. A group of teens entered, their laughter too loud, their presence heavy. One of them knocked over a salt shaker. Another whistled at a waitress. Jimin stared, eyebrows furrowing, his exhaustion curling into silent anger.
Jungkook would’ve scolded them. Loudly. Brave like that.
But Jimin just walked past.
Because if he opened his mouth right now, he wasn’t sure what would come out—anger or pain.
During his fifteen-minute break, he sat on the steps behind the kitchen.
The alley smelled of cigarette smoke and frying oil and distant rain. He hated it, but today it felt better than the noise inside. The cool wind against his skin was a relief, whispering against the heat stuck beneath his collar.
He leaned back, head resting on the cold brick wall.
Closed his eyes.
Tried to breathe.
But it all came rushing back again.
Jungkook’s voice. His eyes when he cried. The crack in his voice when he said, “Now you go also. I’m left alone.”
Jimin clenched his jaw, biting down hard enough to hurt.
He remembered when they were kids—Jungkook was always trailing after him. Always asking questions. Always looking at him like he was some kind of hero.
Now?
He probably looked at him like a traitor.
Jimin dug his nails into his palm until they left crescent-shaped marks.
Back inside, the crowd thinned.
He wiped the tables quietly.
Folded napkins.
Cleaned the espresso machine.
Did every menial task with silent discipline, trying to fill the void that had cracked open inside him.
The other workers left him alone. Even Sun-hee, the chatterbox pastry chef, didn’t ask why he was so quiet today. Maybe they knew. Maybe they just respected his silence.
But he was tired of silence.
Tired of pretending that what he did this morning hadn’t broken him, too.
By the time the lunch shift started, the restaurant was busy again.
People ordered pasta, steak, and risotto.
Laughter echoed.
Cutlery clinked.
Jimin smiled where he needed to, bowed where it was polite, thanked and nodded and took plates back and forth—but he wasn’t there.
He was thinking about the boy who once ran barefoot down the street just to bring him a popsicle on a hot day. The boy who stitched up Jimin’s hand when he broke a glass and cried harder than him. The boy who never had much but gave Jimin his whole heart.
And now?
Jimin had to push him away—for his own good.
But God, it hurt.
It hurt like hell.
And if Jungkook never forgave him… Jimin wasn’t sure he’d forgive himself either.
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Masterlist / 15
Her
pairing: Jungkook x reader
Genre: Romance/ Angst/ Drama/ SlowBurn
Words- Approx. 2k
Jungkook’s POV
The moment Jimin’s footsteps faded behind the front door, the apartment was swallowed by silence. A silence so loud it rang in my ears.
I stood there for a long time, unmoving.
The bundle of cash lay scattered on the dusty floorboards—my share. My payment. Our blood-earned money.
My fingers twitched.
My jaw clenched.
I bent down slowly, scooping it all up with trembling hands. It felt heavier than it should’ve been. As if each note carried a part of me Jimin had just ripped away.
My chest tightened, burning, and a lump lodged itself in my throat. I sat down on the edge of the bed, elbows digging into my knees, and stared at the floor. My mind was spinning, spiralling, caught between his words and mine.
“From today onwards, you’re nothing to me.”
Nothing. He said it like I didn’t matter. Like the years we struggled together, fought together, meant nothing.
And yet…
I knew why he did it. He was trying to pull me out of the storm I refused to leave. Trying to save me from myself. But it still hurt like hell.
“Yeah… go,” I muttered under my breath, running a hand through my hair, voice hoarse and cracking. “Leave me too.”
You all do, anyway.
I rubbed my face hard, trying to get rid of the tears that threatened to spill, but my hands came back damp. I sniffled once, hard, as I dragged myself to the bathroom. A splash of cold water couldn’t cleanse this ache, but I had to move. I had to function.
I had to work
Author's perspective
The air was still and heavy when Jungkook stepped out of the apartment.
The metal door clicked shut behind him, and with it, the weight of a thousand unsaid words sealed off in the silence he left behind. His eyes burned, not just from lack of sleep but from the fight—the words Jimin hurled, the ones he returned, and the ones that stayed unspoken like sharp stones wedged in his throat.
Jungkook shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders hunched against the morning chill. The city hadn’t quite woken up yet, but the early buzz was beginning—delivery vans rumbling, neon signs flickering off, crows cawing into the dim gray sky. He didn’t look up. Couldn’t.
His boots scuffed against the cracked pavement, the soles worn thin, the laces frayed. Just like him.
He walked fast—too fast—but it still felt like the road beneath his feet was a conveyor belt moving backwards, dragging him into a spiral he couldn’t escape. His mind looped with the images of last night. The trembling in Y/N’s voice. Her sobs. She said she wanted to run away. Her saying his name with a kind of desperation he never thought he’d hear from her.
He had said no.
He had said no, even when every piece of him had screamed yes.
And Jimin… God, Jimin had left him. His brother. His only person. Gone.
He clenched his jaw as he reached the café’s back door, the rusted one near the alley. It groaned open when he pulled it, the familiar scent of bitter coffee and sweet bread hitting him like a memory he wasn’t ready for. The kitchen light flickered above, casting tired shadows on the walls.
No one greeted him.
He didn’t expect them to.
Jungkook changed in the storage room—if you could call pulling off his hoodie and tying on a stained apron “changing.” His reflection in the dusty mirror startled him. His eyes looked swollen. Hollow. His lips were chapped. He looked like someone who hadn’t been eating, and maybe he hadn’t. Not really.
He tucked his hair under the black cap, adjusted the strap, and headed out front.
“Morning,” mumbled the owner, not even looking up from the register.
Jungkook gave a nod and took his station by the espresso machine.
The hiss of steam, the clink of cups, the hum of the grinder—it should’ve been comforting. Routine. But today, it felt like a punishment. Each cup he filled felt like a reminder that he was stuck. Not just physically, but mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. His soul felt bruised, and his bones ached not from labour but from loneliness.
A customer snapped their fingers to get his attention.
“Americano. Extra shot.”
Jungkook blinked, startled, then nodded silently.
His hands shook slightly as he pulled the shot. The scent of the brew, dark and rich, reminded him of the first time Jimin had laughed at him for mixing sugar before pouring milk. “You ruin it like that,” he’d teased. His smile had stretched wide, his eyes soft and amused.
Now that memory tasted bitter.
He burned his fingers while lifting the metal jug.
“Shit,” he muttered, jerking his hand away. The skin sizzled faintly red.
“You okay, kid?” called the boss.
“Fine,” Jungkook replied, teeth gritted.
He wasn’t fine. But he always said he was.
Hours passed in blurs of coffee orders and polite nods. The crowd thickened as morning turned to noon, and the café filled with laughter, chatter, the scrape of chairs, the tapping of laptop keys. Jungkook stayed silent. Kept his head down. But his thoughts were loud.
‘Jimin hates me.’
‘Y/N is going to be married in a week.’
‘My mother still needs her surgery.’
‘And me? I’m just… making coffee.’
At one point, he looked up and saw a girl with long, dark hair at a table near the window. She was laughing into her phone, cheeks pink, fingers twirling her straw.
For a moment, his heart leapt.
Y/N?
But no.
It wasn’t her. Of course, it wasn’t.
She wasn’t laughing right now. She was probably crying. Hiding her phone. Dreading her wedding. All because of him.
He felt like he was drowning—sinking beneath layers of failure and guilt.
A short break came at 3 PM.
He sat in the alley behind the café, knees drawn up, sipping cold coffee from a paper cup. It tasted like cardboard. He didn’t care. His fingers traced the rim slowly.
His thoughts wandered.
Back to when he first got the café job. How proud he’d been to tell his mother. The way her voice, tired but loving, had cracked through the phone. “I’m so proud of you, baby.”
Now, even that voice felt far away.
She didn’t even know how much he was suffering. How much he missed Jimin. How much he was losing his mind.
He leaned his head against the cold brick wall and finally—finally—let a tear slip.
Just one.
He bit down on his knuckle to keep the rest from following.
But it hurt. God, it hurt.
How was it that one person—one girl—could make him feel everything and nothing at once?
A door slammed somewhere behind him.
He sat up, wiped his face.
“Break’s over,” the manager called.
Jungkook stood up, bones heavy. He threw the cup in the trash and went back inside.
And just like that, the mask was back on.
Another order. Another smile.
Another piece of him quietly breaking inside.
Got it! Here's a detailed scene from Jimin's point of view, working at the restaurant, with deep sensory and emotional layers, as requested.
Ji
The metallic clink of knives on porcelain echoed around him like a dull heartbeat.
Jimin wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, the cloth of his apron sticking to his lower back, damp and uncomfortable. The restaurant was already half full, the breakfast crowd a mix of local businessfolk and tired-eyed tourists. Somewhere near the back, the coffee machine hissed like it was alive, steam curling up and fogging the counter’s edge.
He didn’t say a word.
Didn’t smile like he usually did.
Didn’t even greet the regulars who called him “sunshine” every other morning.
Because today, he wasn’t. Not even close.
His fingers trembled slightly as he stacked two plates—scrambled eggs with toast and avocado on one, an omelette with cheese and peppers on the other—and slid them onto a tray. The orders weren’t heavy, but his arms ached. Not from physical labour—he was used to that—but from the tightness in his chest. That weight pressing down since dawn.
He hadn’t spoken to Jungkook since he left.
Didn’t look back either.
Because if he had, he would’ve cracked.
He would’ve gone back and hugged his dumb younger brother and told him everything would be fine, and that he could cry all he wanted—but he didn’t.
Because love sometimes looked like silence.
Jimin gritted his teeth, brushing past a chair that wasn’t pushed in properly. It scraped against the wooden floor with a screech, loud and sharp enough to make him wince. He caught an old lady looking at him from the window seat. She offered a tiny, wrinkled smile.
He didn’t return it.
Just bowed lightly and moved to Table 3.
“Here’s your order,” he said, voice low but steady, placing the plates down with practised hands.
“Thank you,” one of the men said. “You alright, kid? You look...”
Jimin nodded quickly, cutting off the pity.
“Fine, sir. Enjoy your meal.”
He didn’t wait for a response. Just turned and walked back toward the kitchen, the sound of sizzling oil and murmured conversations around him like background noise in a storm of his own thoughts.
He washed his hands.
Twice.
Maybe three times.
He wasn’t sure. He just stood there at the sink, hot water running, staring at the dull silver basin while the world around him blurred at the edges. His reflection in the steel panel across was distorted—his face stretched, his eyes sunken.
He barely recognised himself.
His mind wouldn’t stop replaying this morning.
Jungkook yelling after him.
Jungkook said he’d been left alone.
Jungkook thought he wasn’t loved.
The sponge in his hand slipped and fell into the sink, but Jimin didn’t move. Just stood there, breathing hard.
You also deceive me, right? You never considered me your brother.
That voice. That ache. That brokenness in his tone.
It haunted him.
Because Jimin did love him.
More than anything.
He just didn’t know how to save him anymore.
The manager yelled his name from across the kitchen.
“Yah, Park! Orders are backing up!”
“Coming!” he called, snapping out of the haze and grabbing the next tray.
Two cappuccinos, one blueberry waffle, and one grilled cheese with soup.
Table 5.
He moved with robotic precision, every muscle in his body obeying like they’d been trained—but his heart was elsewhere. Still stuck in the apartment, in the kitchen, where the cash fell on the floor and his brother screamed at a wall.
He bit his tongue to stop the sting in his eyes.
He had no time to cry.
The bell above the restaurant door jingled. A group of teens entered, their laughter too loud, their presence heavy. One of them knocked over a salt shaker. Another whistled at a waitress. Jimin stared, eyebrows furrowing, his exhaustion curling into silent anger.
Jungkook would’ve scolded them. Loudly. Brave like that.
But Jimin just walked past.
Because if he opened his mouth right now, he wasn’t sure what would come out—anger or pain.
During his fifteen-minute break, he sat on the steps behind the kitchen.
The alley smelled of cigarette smoke and frying oil and distant rain. He hated it, but today it felt better than the noise inside. The cool wind against his skin was a relief, whispering against the heat stuck beneath his collar.
He leaned back, head resting on the cold brick wall.
Closed his eyes.
Tried to breathe.
But it all came rushing back again.
Jungkook’s voice. His eyes when he cried. The crack in his voice when he said, “Now you go also. I’m left alone.”
Jimin clenched his jaw, biting down hard enough to hurt.
He remembered when they were kids—Jungkook was always trailing after him. Always asking questions. Always looking at him like he was some kind of hero.
Now?
He probably looked at him like a traitor.
Jimin dug his nails into his palm until they left crescent-shaped marks.
Back inside, the crowd thinned.
He wiped the tables quietly.
Folded napkins.
Cleaned the espresso machine.
Did every menial task with silent discipline, trying to fill the void that had cracked open inside him.
The other workers left him alone. Even Sun-hee, the chatterbox pastry chef, didn’t ask why he was so quiet today. Maybe they knew. Maybe they just respected his silence.
But he was tired of silence.
Tired of pretending that what he did this morning hadn’t broken him, too.
By the time the lunch shift started, the restaurant was busy again.
People ordered pasta, steak, and risotto.
Laughter echoed.
Cutlery clinked.
Jimin smiled where he needed to, bowed where it was polite, thanked and nodded and took plates back and forth—but he wasn’t there.
He was thinking about the boy who once ran barefoot down the street just to bring him a popsicle on a hot day. The boy who stitched up Jimin’s hand when he broke a glass and cried harder than him. The boy who never had much but gave Jimin his whole heart.
And now?
Jimin had to push him away—for his own good.
But God, it hurt.
It hurt like hell.
And if Jungkook never forgave him… Jimin wasn’t sure he’d forgive himself either.
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Masterlist / 15
Her
pairing: Jungkook x reader
Genre: Romance/ Angst/ Drama/ SlowBurn
Words- Approx. 2k
Jungkook’s POV
The moment Jimin’s footsteps faded behind the front door, the apartment was swallowed by silence. A silence so loud it rang in my ears.
I stood there for a long time, unmoving.
The bundle of cash lay scattered on the dusty floorboards—my share. My payment. Our blood-earned money.
My fingers twitched.
My jaw clenched.
I bent down slowly, scooping it all up with trembling hands. It felt heavier than it should’ve been. As if each note carried a part of me Jimin had just ripped away.
My chest tightened, burning, and a lump lodged itself in my throat. I sat down on the edge of the bed, elbows digging into my knees, and stared at the floor. My mind was spinning, spiralling, caught between his words and mine.
“From today onwards, you’re nothing to me.”
Nothing. He said it like I didn’t matter. Like the years we struggled together, fought together, meant nothing.
And yet…
I knew why he did it. He was trying to pull me out of the storm I refused to leave. Trying to save me from myself. But it still hurt like hell.
“Yeah… go,” I muttered under my breath, running a hand through my hair, voice hoarse and cracking. “Leave me too.”
You all do, anyway.
I rubbed my face hard, trying to get rid of the tears that threatened to spill, but my hands came back damp. I sniffled once, hard, as I dragged myself to the bathroom. A splash of cold water couldn’t cleanse this ache, but I had to move. I had to function.
I had to work
Author's perspective
The air was still and heavy when Jungkook stepped out of the apartment.
The metal door clicked shut behind him, and with it, the weight of a thousand unsaid words sealed off in the silence he left behind. His eyes burned, not just from lack of sleep but from the fight—the words Jimin hurled, the ones he returned, and the ones that stayed unspoken like sharp stones wedged in his throat.
Jungkook shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders hunched against the morning chill. The city hadn’t quite woken up yet, but the early buzz was beginning—delivery vans rumbling, neon signs flickering off, crows cawing into the dim gray sky. He didn’t look up. Couldn’t.
His boots scuffed against the cracked pavement, the soles worn thin, the laces frayed. Just like him.
He walked fast—too fast—but it still felt like the road beneath his feet was a conveyor belt moving backwards, dragging him into a spiral he couldn’t escape. His mind looped with the images of last night. The trembling in Y/N’s voice. Her sobs. She said she wanted to run away. Her saying his name with a kind of desperation he never thought he’d hear from her.
He had said no.
He had said no, even when every piece of him had screamed yes.
And Jimin… God, Jimin had left him. His brother. His only person. Gone.
He clenched his jaw as he reached the café’s back door, the rusted one near the alley. It groaned open when he pulled it, the familiar scent of bitter coffee and sweet bread hitting him like a memory he wasn’t ready for. The kitchen light flickered above, casting tired shadows on the walls.
No one greeted him.
He didn’t expect them to.
Jungkook changed in the storage room—if you could call pulling off his hoodie and tying on a stained apron “changing.” His reflection in the dusty mirror startled him. His eyes looked swollen. Hollow. His lips were chapped. He looked like someone who hadn’t been eating, and maybe he hadn’t. Not really.
He tucked his hair under the black cap, adjusted the strap, and headed out front.
“Morning,” mumbled the owner, not even looking up from the register.
Jungkook gave a nod and took his station by the espresso machine.
The hiss of steam, the clink of cups, the hum of the grinder—it should’ve been comforting. Routine. But today, it felt like a punishment. Each cup he filled felt like a reminder that he was stuck. Not just physically, but mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. His soul felt bruised, and his bones ached not from labour but from loneliness.
A customer snapped their fingers to get his attention.
“Americano. Extra shot.”
Jungkook blinked, startled, then nodded silently.
His hands shook slightly as he pulled the shot. The scent of the brew, dark and rich, reminded him of the first time Jimin had laughed at him for mixing sugar before pouring milk. “You ruin it like that,” he’d teased. His smile had stretched wide, his eyes soft and amused.
Now that memory tasted bitter.
He burned his fingers while lifting the metal jug.
“Shit,” he muttered, jerking his hand away. The skin sizzled faintly red.
“You okay, kid?” called the boss.
“Fine,” Jungkook replied, teeth gritted.
He wasn’t fine. But he always said he was.
Hours passed in blurs of coffee orders and polite nods. The crowd thickened as morning turned to noon, and the café filled with laughter, chatter, the scrape of chairs, the tapping of laptop keys. Jungkook stayed silent. Kept his head down. But his thoughts were loud.
‘Jimin hates me.’
‘Y/N is going to be married in a week.’
‘My mother still needs her surgery.’
‘And me? I’m just… making coffee.’
At one point, he looked up and saw a girl with long, dark hair at a table near the window. She was laughing into her phone, cheeks pink, fingers twirling her straw.
For a moment, his heart leapt.
Y/N?
But no.
It wasn’t her. Of course, it wasn’t.
She wasn’t laughing right now. She was probably crying. Hiding her phone. Dreading her wedding. All because of him.
He felt like he was drowning—sinking beneath layers of failure and guilt.
A short break came at 3 PM.
He sat in the alley behind the café, knees drawn up, sipping cold coffee from a paper cup. It tasted like cardboard. He didn’t care. His fingers traced the rim slowly.
His thoughts wandered.
Back to when he first got the café job. How proud he’d been to tell his mother. The way her voice, tired but loving, had cracked through the phone. “I’m so proud of you, baby.”
Now, even that voice felt far away.
She didn’t even know how much he was suffering. How much he missed Jimin. How much he was losing his mind.
He leaned his head against the cold brick wall and finally—finally—let a tear slip.
Just one.
He bit down on his knuckle to keep the rest from following.
But it hurt. God, it hurt.
How was it that one person—one girl—could make him feel everything and nothing at once?
A door slammed somewhere behind him.
He sat up, wiped his face.
“Break’s over,” the manager called.
Jungkook stood up, bones heavy. He threw the cup in the trash and went back inside.
And just like that, the mask was back on.
Another order. Another smile.
Another piece of him quietly breaking inside.
Got it! Here's a detailed scene from Jimin's point of view, working at the restaurant, with deep sensory and emotional layers, as requested.
Ji
The metallic clink of knives on porcelain echoed around him like a dull heartbeat.
Jimin wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, the cloth of his apron sticking to his lower back, damp and uncomfortable. The restaurant was already half full, the breakfast crowd a mix of local businessfolk and tired-eyed tourists. Somewhere near the back, the coffee machine hissed like it was alive, steam curling up and fogging the counter’s edge.
He didn’t say a word.
Didn’t smile like he usually did.
Didn’t even greet the regulars who called him “sunshine” every other morning.
Because today, he wasn’t. Not even close.
His fingers trembled slightly as he stacked two plates—scrambled eggs with toast and avocado on one, an omelette with cheese and peppers on the other—and slid them onto a tray. The orders weren’t heavy, but his arms ached. Not from physical labour—he was used to that—but from the tightness in his chest. That weight pressing down since dawn.
He hadn’t spoken to Jungkook since he left.
Didn’t look back either.
Because if he had, he would’ve cracked.
He would’ve gone back and hugged his dumb younger brother and told him everything would be fine, and that he could cry all he wanted—but he didn’t.
Because love sometimes looked like silence.
Jimin gritted his teeth, brushing past a chair that wasn’t pushed in properly. It scraped against the wooden floor with a screech, loud and sharp enough to make him wince. He caught an old lady looking at him from the window seat. She offered a tiny, wrinkled smile.
He didn’t return it.
Just bowed lightly and moved to Table 3.
“Here’s your order,” he said, voice low but steady, placing the plates down with practised hands.
“Thank you,” one of the men said. “You alright, kid? You look...”
Jimin nodded quickly, cutting off the pity.
“Fine, sir. Enjoy your meal.”
He didn’t wait for a response. Just turned and walked back toward the kitchen, the sound of sizzling oil and murmured conversations around him like background noise in a storm of his own thoughts.
He washed his hands.
Twice.
Maybe three times.
He wasn’t sure. He just stood there at the sink, hot water running, staring at the dull silver basin while the world around him blurred at the edges. His reflection in the steel panel across was distorted—his face stretched, his eyes sunken.
He barely recognised himself.
His mind wouldn’t stop replaying this morning.
Jungkook yelling after him.
Jungkook said he’d been left alone.
Jungkook thought he wasn’t loved.
The sponge in his hand slipped and fell into the sink, but Jimin didn’t move. Just stood there, breathing hard.
You also deceive me, right? You never considered me your brother.
That voice. That ache. That brokenness in his tone.
It haunted him.
Because Jimin did love him.
More than anything.
He just didn’t know how to save him anymore.
The manager yelled his name from across the kitchen.
“Yah, Park! Orders are backing up!”
“Coming!” he called, snapping out of the haze and grabbing the next tray.
Two cappuccinos, one blueberry waffle, and one grilled cheese with soup.
Table 5.
He moved with robotic precision, every muscle in his body obeying like they’d been trained—but his heart was elsewhere. Still stuck in the apartment, in the kitchen, where the cash fell on the floor and his brother screamed at a wall.
He bit his tongue to stop the sting in his eyes.
He had no time to cry.
The bell above the restaurant door jingled. A group of teens entered, their laughter too loud, their presence heavy. One of them knocked over a salt shaker. Another whistled at a waitress. Jimin stared, eyebrows furrowing, his exhaustion curling into silent anger.
Jungkook would’ve scolded them. Loudly. Brave like that.
But Jimin just walked past.
Because if he opened his mouth right now, he wasn’t sure what would come out—anger or pain.
During his fifteen-minute break, he sat on the steps behind the kitchen.
The alley smelled of cigarette smoke and frying oil and distant rain. He hated it, but today it felt better than the noise inside. The cool wind against his skin was a relief, whispering against the heat stuck beneath his collar.
He leaned back, head resting on the cold brick wall.
Closed his eyes.
Tried to breathe.
But it all came rushing back again.
Jungkook’s voice. His eyes when he cried. The crack in his voice when he said, “Now you go also. I’m left alone.”
Jimin clenched his jaw, biting down hard enough to hurt.
He remembered when they were kids—Jungkook was always trailing after him. Always asking questions. Always looking at him like he was some kind of hero.
Now?
He probably looked at him like a traitor.
Jimin dug his nails into his palm until they left crescent-shaped marks.
Back inside, the crowd thinned.
He wiped the tables quietly.
Folded napkins.
Cleaned the espresso machine.
Did every menial task with silent discipline, trying to fill the void that had cracked open inside him.
The other workers left him alone. Even Sun-hee, the chatterbox pastry chef, didn’t ask why he was so quiet today. Maybe they knew. Maybe they just respected his silence.
But he was tired of silence.
Tired of pretending that what he did this morning hadn’t broken him, too.
By the time the lunch shift started, the restaurant was busy again.
People ordered pasta, steak, and risotto.
Laughter echoed.
Cutlery clinked.
Jimin smiled where he needed to, bowed where it was polite, thanked and nodded and took plates back and forth—but he wasn’t there.
He was thinking about the boy who once ran barefoot down the street just to bring him a popsicle on a hot day. The boy who stitched up Jimin’s hand when he broke a glass and cried harder than him. The boy who never had much but gave Jimin his whole heart.
And now?
Jimin had to push him away—for his own good.
But God, it hurt.
It hurt like hell.
And if Jungkook never forgave him… Jimin wasn’t sure he’d forgive himself either.
#her#jk fic#bts jimin#bts series#jeon jungkook#bangtan#angst#romance#soft#army#jeonjayykkayy#i love you#series#fic masterlist
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🌸✨ TAGLIST ✨🌸
For all updates, oneshots, imagines, and emotional heartbreaks 🤍 (smut | angst | fluff | mafia au | kpop ff)
💌 Taglist: @jungkookmyoneandonlybaby Thank you for your support~
🔖 Want to be added to the taglist? → Like, reblog, or reply to this post → Or send me an ask/message 💬
I’ll make sure you never miss an update 🖤 Soon, I am going to add more~
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🌸✨ TAGLIST ✨🌸
For all updates, oneshots, imagines, and emotional heartbreaks 🤍
(smut | angst | fluff | mafia au | kpop ff)
💌 Taglist:
@jungkookmyoneandonlybaby
Thank you for your support~
@kelsyx33
Thank you for your support~
🔖 Want to be added to the taglist?
→ Like, reblog, or reply to this post
→ Or send me an ask/message 💬
I’ll make sure you never miss an update 🖤 Soon, I am going to add more~
#taglist#taglish#kpop tag#bts thv#bts tae tae#bts yoongi#bts series#bts jimin#bts jhope#bts jungkook#bts jin#bts namjoon#jeonjayykkayy#my fic#idk how to tag this#idk what else to tag#bangtan sonyeondan
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𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 14
Her
pairing: Jungkook x reader
Genre: Romance/ Angst/ Drama/ SlowBurn
Words- Approx. 1k - 2k
Author's Note: I want to thank those who like my post, reblog it. I have been thinking about posting "her" series and completing it. So now I am going to complete this series. Thank you again for the love you gave me. I am very grateful to those who reblog my post, and soon there will be a tag list of those people who support me through likes, comments, and reblogs, so stay tuned. And lastly, if you haven't read the previous parts of this series so please read it and then read this one, not to have confusion and misinterpretation, and please comment so that I can improve myself. Thank you~
Author's perspective
"Hello... this is Jungkook."
His voice was quiet—barely a whisper—but to her, it echoed louder than anything else in the stillness of the night.
Y/N froze, the phone pressed against her ear like it had become part of her skin.
Her heart thumped so violently against her ribcage that she feared it would give her away.
Her cheeks flushed with a wave of sudden warmth, a soft burn trailing across her skin as reality settled in.
Jungkook. It was really him.
Her breath caught in her throat, tangled like a knot she couldn’t undo.
A thousand words formed and collapsed inside her, like sandcastles crumbling under waves.
The soft rustle of her bedsheets filled the silence, the only proof she was still tethered to the moment and not floating away.
Her fingers trembled as they clutched the phone tightly.
Her body felt too warm beneath the blanket, yet too cold at the same time—as if she were on the verge of burning and freezing all at once.
She didn’t know how long she had stayed silent, but he waited.
Then, his voice came again—gentle this time, almost worried.
"Y/N?"
It broke something inside her.
"Jungkook?" she breathed out, the name escaping her lips like a prayer—fragile and laced with disbelief.
"Yes... It’s me."
And then she remembered.
The wounds.
The bruises.
That haunting flicker of pain he wore so carelessly beneath the moonlight when he stood a little too close to her room.
The image flashed through her mind like lightning cracking open the dark.
"…Were you hurt?" she asked softly, her voice cracking under the weight of her thoughts.
Her breath caught again, her eyes welling up as memories clawed their way back to the surface.
The ache in her chest grew, sharp and unbearable.
There was a pause on the other end. Then, a quiet sigh.
"You’ve already seen it… so I guess there’s no reason to hide it."
"What?" she whispered, eyes wide in the darkness. "Reason?"
"I…" He took another breath. "Namjoon and I had a fight."
Her world collapsed.
"What?!" she gasped, sitting up straight, the blanket falling off her shoulders. Her heart pounded like a war drum.
Her voice was barely louder than a whisper, but the fear in it was deafening. “What did you just say?”
"I said… yes, we fought. He saw me coming out of your room."
The world spun.
“No… no no—Jungkook, you—” She clutched her head, heart racing wildly, chest rising and falling in harsh waves. She could barely breathe.
“What if he told my parents?! What if they know?! My mother—she said… she said the wedding has been moved up. It's happening in a week.”
Silence.
Then, her voice cracked again. “You messed up. Jungkook… you messed up.”
She was spiralling. Panic laced every breath she took, her limbs shaking uncontrollably.
“I told you he knew, Jungkook. Namjoon knew. But you—you fought with him? Why would you—?”
“I handled it,” Jungkook’s voice came low, calm, almost rough around the edges. “Everything’s been settled.”
His tone wasn’t comforting. It was dark.
Something was mocking underneath the calm.
Something feral.
“You what?” she whispered. “Settled? With Namjoon?”
She tried to breathe again, but the air felt too thin, too sharp. Her pulse roared in her ears.
“No, no, no—this is bad. Really bad. Jungkook, you don’t get it. They moved the wedding because they must have known something. My mother must’ve seen the bruises or noticed something last night—what if she told my father?! What if—what if they sent someone to hurt you?!”
Her voice broke with a cry. “I told you… I warned you—”
“Y/N.”
She heard the strain in his voice now.
“No,” she said, gasping. “I don’t care anymore. Jungkook, go. Just go far away. Run away with me. Please. I don’t want to marry Namjoon. I love you—only you.”
She choked on her words, lips trembling, sobs clawing up her throat. Her hand clutched her chest, her heart feeling like it was splitting into pieces.
Jungkook was quiet. Then, his voice came low, steady—but aching.
“Y/N… nothing’s going to happen. I told you. It’s settled—”
“Don’t say that!” she yelled, cutting him off, voice soaked in tears.
“You don’t get it! You’re not listening! Didn’t you hear me?! My wedding’s been moved up. A week, Jungkook. One week. That’s not settling—it’s over! There’s no way out!”
The room felt like it was closing in on her. Her legs curled up into her chest, her shoulders shaking violently.
“I already knew,” Jungkook admitted. “But running away? That’s not a good idea.”
She screamed inside, frustration boiling over.
“Can’t you understand?! It’s the only option left!” she cried. “You think we can wait? Pretend like nothing happened? Huh? Do you think they’ll let me go? That they’ll forgive me—us?!”
“Y/N—”
“No!” she cut him off again. “Don’t! Don’t give me your calm, don’t try to make this okay! You don’t know them, Jungkook. You don’t know what they’re capable of.”
Jungkook’s voice hardened. “Yes, I do. You’re the one who told me, remember? You’re the one who warned me. Don’t forget it now just because you’re scared.”
She quieted down.
“If we marry,” he continued, his voice softening again, “we’ll do it the right way. With your parents’ blessing. And Namjoon’s approval.”
She let out a hysterical laugh, tears still streaming down her face.
“There’s no such thing as right anymore.”
"Please," he whispered. “Don’t cry. Please.”
But she couldn’t stop. She was breaking apart.
Her hair was a mess, tangled between her fingers as she tried to keep herself together.
Her voice was raw from crying, hands trembling like leaves in a storm.
“Kook…” she whispered. “I want you. Only you. I believe you… only you.”
His heart stopped. A small smile tugged at his lips, the tears in his own eyes finally spilling over. And then, he chuckled softly.
“Kook, huh?”
She blushed, hiding her face with her hand.
“Yah, I can’t call you that now?”
Jungkook laughed—genuinely this time. “Yes, baby, yes you can. But don’t you think it’s too early for that? I mean, yesterday you were all wildcat on me.”
“Shut up,” she muttered, cheeks burning, lips curled into a shy smile.
“Okay, okay,” he said, laughing again.
“Baby,” she echoed, heart fluttering.
“Yes, baby.”
Just like that… the storm inside them calmed.
They talked.
For hours.
They told each other everything: their fears, their dreams, their favourite foods, embarrassing stories, and their first crushes.
He talked about his job. She talked about her childhood.
Laughter echoed through the late hours. Sometimes soft. Sometimes loud. And when silence came, it was peaceful.
Y/N fell asleep first, the phone still pressed against her ear, a smile on her lips and tears dried on her cheeks.
Jungkook listened to her breathing until he couldn’t fight the sleep anymore either.
He whispered one last time.
“I love you.”
And then the line went quiet.
Jungkook's perspective
The light of the morning didn’t feel like morning at all.
It crept in through the half-open blinds, pale and cold, casting lines across the floor like bars of a prison.
My eyes opened slowly, the weight of last night still glued to my bones. My throat ached from all the talking.
My chest?
From everything else.
She said she loved me. She wanted to run away with me.
Even now, her voice echoed inside my skull—her broken sobs, her panicked whispers, her wild declarations.
A part of me wanted to laugh like a fool. Another part wanted to throw up. And the deepest part?
It wanted to cry.
I rolled over with a groan, palm pressed against my forehead. My head was pounding—not from sleep but from thinking too much.
The scent of the worn-out couch I had passed out on filled my nose—cigarettes, fake leather, and the faint sweetness of laundry detergent that didn’t quite do its job.
Footsteps echoed from the other side of the apartment.
I blinked slowly, and then I saw him.
Jimin.
He was by the kitchen counter, grabbing his keys, already dressed, hair damp from the quick shower he must’ve taken.
He didn’t even look at me.
“Jimin,” I rasped.
Silence.
I sat up straighter. “Hyung?”
He froze—but didn’t turn. Instead, he pulled his wallet from the drawer, shoved it into his pocket, and moved as if I wasn’t even there.
My chest tightened.
“Are you really ignoring me now?”
Still nothing.
I stood up slowly. My legs felt heavy, like I’d been carrying a hundred sins in my sleep. I dragged myself toward him. “Just say something, will you?”
Jimin finally turned. But it wasn’t kindness in his eyes. It wasn’t even concern. It was a cold stillness.
“I’ll talk,” he said sharply, “when you stop being so goddamn stubborn.”
I blinked, stunned. “Stubborn?”
“You think love is the only thing that matters?” Jimin snapped, stepping forward. “You think you can just toss everything away—our work, our responsibilities, our mother’s treatment—for a girl? Huh? You think that’s noble, Jungkook?”
I clenched my fists. “You don’t know what I—”
“I do know,” he said, cutting me off. “And it’s late. Get dressed. We have work.”
I stood there, jaw locked, chest heaving.
But Jimin was already turning away.
He opened the drawer again and pulled out a thick white envelope. The moment I saw it, my stomach dropped.
“And if you’re wondering,” he said dryly, “our payment has already been taken care of. I went to collect it—since you were too busy playing Romeo.”
Then, without warning, he threw the envelope at me.
It hit my chest and fell to the floor. The bills spilled out like paper knives, slicing at my pride.
Jimin didn’t flinch. “That’s your share. Take it. From today onwards, you’re nothing to me.”
My throat tightened. “Jimin…”
But he wasn’t done.
“Unless you’ve forgotten,” he said, voice bitter, eyes hard, “we’re working our asses off for Mom. For her hospital bills. Her medicine. Her life.”
He stepped closer, his breath sharp with frustration. “But hey—maybe that doesn’t matter anymore, right? Since Y/N is your whole world now.”
And just like that, he turned, walking out.
No more words.
No glance back.
Just the sound of the door unlocking, creaking open, and then—
Click.
Gone.
Silence.
I stared at the scattered cash on the floor. My hands trembled—not from weakness but from the volcano rising inside me. I clenched my jaw so tight I thought my teeth might shatter.
Then—
“Yeah, yeah!” I yelled, voice cracking as I crouched down and grabbed the envelope. “Now you leave too! Everyone does, right? That’s what you all do! Just leave!”
I stood up and hurled the envelope across the room. The bills scattered in the air like confetti at a funeral.
“You also deceive me, huh?” I yelled louder, my voice breaking. “You never gave a damn about me! I was just a burden to you, right?!”
My throat burned.
My heart burned.
“You think I’m nothing to you now?!” I screamed toward the door he had slammed shut. “Then maybe I always was! Maybe I was never your brother!”
I sank to my knees. I buried my face in my hands, fingers tugging at my hair as tears threatened to fall. But I held them back.
I had to.
I wasn’t a crybaby.
I wasn’t weak.
But when the person you love scolds you…
When they look at you like a stranger…
When someone who was your world turns their back, it doesn’t just hurt.
It kills.
Like standing on a cliff’s edge.
And realising…
Even an inch forward could end everything.
#jjk fluff#angst#slow burn#blog#bts#bts jimin#bts jungkook#namjoon#her#jeonjayykkayy#series#bangtan sonyeondan#kpop#fanfic#x reader#my ocs#jk fic#fluff#hold me#marriage#forbidden love#forbidden romance#romantic
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𝐎𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 I 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
—Fading Into You—
Pairing:
Yandere!Y/N × soft!Jungkook
Word Count: ~2.7k
Genre:
Psychological Thriller · Toxic Romance · Obsession · Angst · Darkfic · Tragedy
Content Warnings:
Yandere behavior · Psychological manipulation · Non-consensual intimacy (implied) · Drugging · Emotional abuse · Mental breakdown · Isolation · Dependent relationship dynamics · Power imbalance · Distorted love/obsession · Trauma response · Dubious consent · Gaslighting.
Summary:
Jungkook is trapped in Y/N's obsessive love, where manipulation, control, and dependency become his reality. As the line between affection and torment blurs, he struggles to remember what freedom felt like, while she keeps him bound in a twisted cycle of desire and pain.
He remembers doing it. Every harsh word. Every final tear. The suitcase was thrown open in the middle of the night. The apartment door slammed behind him. The look in her eyes as he left—the kind of pain that etches itself onto your soul.
He remembers the silence that followed. The relief. The ache. The weight of freedom pressed against his lungs. He was supposed to be free. But now, he wakes up in her bed.
The light is warm, orange, and lazy, leaking through blackout curtains and tracing lines across the white sheets. There's a heavy comforter over him, soft as clouds and suffocating.
He can't move—not fully. His limbs are weighted. His neck is sore. The head is foggy and too thick to make sense. Everything smells like her. Lavender, rose, and a faint metallic tang. Familiar.
Intimate. Wrong. He blinks once. Then again. Soft humming. Then a voice—sweet, smooth, and far too calm. "Morning, baby."
His heart seizes. He jerks upright, dizziness crashing down like a wave. She's there. Y/N. At his bedside, dressed in pale silk, her smile was radiant.
She places a tray on the nightstand with a glass of orange juice and two slices of French toast, golden and glistening. She leans in and brushes his hair back.
"Still tired? You've been out for a while. The medicine can be heavy initially, but it helps with the transition." He stares at her, throat dry.
"W-What? What medicine? Where—"
She cups his cheek. "Shh, don't strain yourself—just rest. I've taken care of everything. You're safe now." His eyes dart around.
The room is familiar—but wrong. This used to be her room. Or... maybe not? The walls are painted differently now.
The air smells fresher. Cleaner. Newer. No windows. Just thick curtains that never move.
He pulls at the blanket. Beneath it, he's wearing unfamiliar clothes—soft pyjama pants, no shirt.
His chest is bare, scattered with faint bruises, as though he'd fallen. Or been dragged. Panic coils tight in his stomach.
"Let me go," he whispers. "I... I need to leave." She sits beside him, tucking a napkin into his collar, like they're sharing breakfast after a lazy Sunday morning.
"You left before," she says gently. "It nearly killed me. But you came back. This time... you're staying." His pulse races. "Y/N. I didn't come back. You—"
"Shh." She feeds him a bite of toast. "You always come back. You just forget sometimes. It's okay. I forgive you." He tries to get up. His body won't move.
She smiles, ever so tenderly. "Your body's still adjusting. You'll feel normal soon. You just need time. Sleep some more. I'll be right here when you wake up."
The door clicks behind her. Locked. The hours blur. He can't tell what time it is. Every moment feels thick and stretched.
He slips in and out of awareness. Sometimes she's there. Sometimes she's not. Always the same food. Always the same words.
"I missed you."I love you so much."You're better now."He screams once.
She puts a finger to her lips. "Don't. You'll scare the neighbours." He screams again. She doesn't flinch.
Day five. (He thinks.)
He tries the door again. Still locked. He throws the tray across the room. Food splatters against the wall.
She comes in silently. Kneels before him. Wipes it all up. He watches, helpless.
"You're scared," she says. "I understand. I've studied this. It's a trauma response. But it gets better. I promise."
"Let me go, please," he says. She smiles and climbs into his lap. He tenses. Her hand cups his jaw. Her thumb drags gently over his lips.
She kisses him. Not rough. Not demanding. Sweet. Tender. Loving. His hands remain at his sides.
"You said you missed me," she whispers. "You said you couldn't breathe without me. You were crying when I found you. Shaking. Cold. Alone."
"I—"
"You begged me to take you back."
"I didn't—"
"You did."
She leans in closer, her breath hot against his neck. "And I did. Because I'm yours. Always." He turns his face away, jaw clenched. She doesn't react.
She merely hugs him. Nightfall. Or so he assumes. She undresses him. Bathes him. Gently.
Kisses his shoulders as she towels him off. Holds his hand as they walk—he's too weak to resist. He lies back on the bed, and she slips in beside him, wrapping her arms around his chest.
"You're quieter today," she says, nose buried in his collarbone. "I like it when you're soft like this." He says nothing.
"I want us to be happy," she murmurs. "We can try again. A new beginning. No more fights. No more lies." She kisses his lips. He doesn't kiss back. She doesn't stop.
Day ten. (Maybe.)
He tries to starve himself. Doesn't eat. Doesn't drink. She holds him in her arms like a child. Rubs his back. Whispers lullabies.
"You don't have to punish yourself," she says. "I've already forgiven you." He sobs quietly. She feeds him herself. Spoon to mouth. Sip by sip.
"You're doing so good, baby."
The loop continues. The bed. The tray. Her smile. "I love you."
"I know you love me, too." He wonders how long before his memory fades entirely.
How long before he starts to believe her? How long before he wants to believe her?
The light is too bright this time. Jungkook wakes up again. Same bed. Same scent.
The ceiling above him wears a fresh coat of paint, white and perfect. No cracks. No dust. Not a single blemish to prove that time has passed at all.
He doesn't move. He listens instead. The sound of birds chirping. A breeze. Humming.
Her voice. It always begins like this now. "Good morning, baby." He doesn't answer. Doesn't flinch.
She leans over him like she always does, eyes too wide, too loving. She kisses his forehead.
Her perfume sinks into his skin. Her touch burns him. Her lips are a brand.
"You're quiet again. Are you thinking about that? About the last time you left?"She always says the same things.
He's trapped in a carousel made of memories he never permitted her to shape. Days repeat. Movements mimic. Smiles don't change. Neither do her lies. But today—
He remembers something. The pain. The cries. The screaming. The loop. She doesn't know he remembers.
She doesn't know he dreams of her sobbing, screaming at him to love her again, while he claws at the walls until his nails bleed.
The room resets each morning, but his mind is beginning to fray. Cracks she can't patch fast enough. He tries to test it.
Watches where she places the tray. She hums the same tune when she brushes his hair.
She always dresses him the same—grey sweatpants, black T-shirt. Every bruise on his body fades overnight.
Sometimes, he hears the door open. A whimper. A man's voice. Then silence. He's not the only one here.
She makes love to him again. Or so she calls it. He lies still beneath her. Eyes glazed. Hands fisted in the sheets.
She rides him slowly, murmuring sweet nonsense. Kisses his chest. Whispers, "I missed you," as if she were who left.
He turns his head to the wall and counts her moans. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. She comes undone with a sigh and buries her face in his neck.
"You're mine," she breathes. "You're finally mine again." He wants to scream. He wants to throw her off.
But the drugs make his limbs too heavy. He cries quietly. She kisses his tears. Licks them away like they're holy. "We're okay now. You'll see."
Day... twenty?
He thinks it's day twenty. He tries to kill himself. He wraps the bedsheet around his neck, ties it to the headboard, and leans forward.
His knees buckle. The world spins. Then—
Hands. Arms. Her scream. "NO! No, n,o no, Jungkook—"
She sobs as she unknots the fabric, dragging him back onto the bed. He sees red where the rope burned his skin. She kisses the wound.
"You can't leave me again. Never again." She cries on his chest, rocking him like a baby. "What do I need to do? Tell me. Anything. I'll fix it. I'll fix you."
He closes his eyes. He dreams of her bleeding. The room changes again. Slightly. New flowers in a vase. New tray. Different mug.
She paints a mural on the wall—a meadow, filled with wildflowers and butterflies. He stares at it for hours. She sits beside him, stroking his arm.
"Do you remember this place? We went there once. You smiled there.
You kissed me without me asking. You said it felt like home." He doesn't remember.
But she makes him watch a video. A projector plays across the wall.
He and she. Laughing. Holding hands. His heart stutters. Was it real? Was it a dream?
Is she rewriting their memories, or has she pulled him into hers? He screams again.
She turns the video off. "You're still healing," she says. "That's why it hurts." That night, she touches him again.
But this time, he kisses her back. Just once. Just long enough for her to stop crying.
He tells himself he's buying time. He tells himself he's surviving.
But he dreams of her moaning his name with a feverish devotion. Of her nails dragging down his chest.
Her mouth left bruises like promises. He wakes up hard. Ashamed. Sick. He turns to the wall. She holds him tighter. "Do you love me?"
She asks it often now. He doesn't reply, but she smiles anyway. "You do. You're just scared. But I'll teach you again. We'll keep doing this until you remember." She kisses him gently.
His eyes are empty. One night, she cried harder than ever.
"Why don't you love me anymore?" she sobs, dragging her fingers through her hair. "Why can't you remember what we had?" He watches her.
Something shifts inside him. He reaches for her. She flinches. He wipes her tears.
She breaks down in his lap, weeping like a child. "I did everything for you. I gave up everything. They called me crazy. They said I needed help. But I didn't. I just needed you."
She kisses his hands. His chest. His neck. "I know you're still in there. I know you love me." He kisses her. Hard.
She gasps. Whimpers. They fall into the sheets. He lets her consume him. Let's her touch him everywhere.
She makes love to him like she's worshipping a god. He lets her believe it.
When she falls asleep, curled into him like a prayer, he whispers— "I hate you." But the worst part is— He's not sure if he means it.
She touches him, and he doesn't move. She bathes him, dresses him, feeds him like a child—and he lets her.
The man who used to kick and fight and cry is gone. In his place is something soft.
Quiet. Obedient. She thinks it means he loves her now. But it's not love. It's a ruin.
"Jungkook?" She kneels in front of him.
He's sitting on the edge of the bed, arms slack, head tilted slightly as he stares at the window that doesn't open.
His pupils barely focus. His lips are dry.
"Did you hear me, baby? I said I made your favourite today." She touches his cheek. He flinches. Not visibly, not enough for her to see.
But inside, something shrivels. She waits. He blinks. Nods.
She beams, presses a kiss to his forehead. "That's my good boy." He hates it when she says that.
He used to cry when she touched him. Now, he just sits. Feels.
Feels her fingers trailing down his chest. Her mouth on his skin.
Her voice whispering soft nothings into the hollowed parts of him she's carved out over months. He lets her make love to him.
And afterwards, he curls into her like he needs her warmth to survive. Because he does. Because she's made it that way.
Sometimes he sees her watching him while he sleeps. Her hand cradled his cheek.
Her eyes were wide with a twisted love that borders madness.
"You're perfect like this," she whispers. "So quiet. So soft." He wonders what she sees.
Does she see the bruises she left on his psyche? Does she see the monster she made? Or does she just see her favourite toy finally behaving?
He doesn't know anymore. He doesn't know himself. One day, he speaks. "Why me?" She turns.
She was brushing his hair gently, running her fingers through the soft strands. "What do you mean, angel?" His voice cracks.
It's dry, unused. "Why...me?" She pauses. Then she smiles.
"Because you were kind. Because you were beautiful. Because you looked at me like I was enough. Even before I became what you needed." He swallows.
She kisses the back of his neck."You don't remember. But I do."
He doesn't argue. He just sits there, letting her brush and kiss and whisper. His fingers twitch. Not from rebellion. From habit.
There's a calendar hidden behind the dresser. He doesn't know how he found it. He marks the days with a nail.
One for each time she touches him. Two for each time he lets her. By now, the wood is worn down.
He counts over a hundred. She gives him paint. "To keep your mind busy," she says.
He paints the walls with broken pieces of memories. A boy in the rain. A girl in red.
A shadow with wings. A body was curled up on the floor. She watches him and cries. "You're healing," she whispers.
He doesn't tell her he's dying. One night, she lies on his chest and asks him again. "Do you love me now?" He looks down at her.
At her flushed cheeks. Her damp lashes. Her lips were swollen from kisses he didn't return. He opens his mouth.
"Yes." Her eyes fill. "Say it again." He strokes her hair. "I love you." She sobs into his skin.
Kisses his chest. Whispers a thousand I-love-you's. He holds her tightly. And closes his eyes.
He dreams of freedom. But it hurts now. The sun in his dreams is too bright. The touch of other people—too foreign.
He wakes with a gasp, sweating, panting. She soothes him. "Shhh, baby. It's okay. It was just a dream. You're home." And he nods.
Because it is home now. She made it that way.
She starts talking about children. "One day, maybe. A little boy who looks like you. Or a girl who giggles like I do. Wouldn't that be nice?"
He says nothing. She takes his silence as hope. There are no more locks on the door. He never tries to leave.
She lets him go outside—to the garden she built just for him. He sits there for hours, staring at the wind chimes.
They sound like music. Like memories he doesn't want back. One day, she finds him humming. A song she used to sing to him in the early days.
Her eyes well up. "You remember." He nods. He does. He remembers everything now.
And he's still here. They make love again. But this time, he touches her first. She cries. He kisses away her tears.
"Forever?" she asks. He cups her cheek. "Forever." Even if forever means dying this way. Even if love means never leaving.
He clings to her like the broken man he's become. And she holds him like she's saved him.
In the dark, after she sleeps, he traces a heart on her back. Inside it, he writes her name. Because he can't forget. Because she made sure of that.
Because she is the only thing that feels real anymore.
And maybe...
Maybe he loves her now. Or maybe he just doesn't know how to live without her.
Either way— He doesn't try to escape. Not this time.
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𝐎𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 I 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
—Fading Into You—
Pairing:
Yandere!Y/N × soft!Jungkook
Word Count: ~2.7k
Genre:
Psychological Thriller · Toxic Romance · Obsession · Angst · Darkfic · Tragedy
Content Warnings:
Yandere behavior · Psychological manipulation · Non-consensual intimacy (implied) · Drugging · Emotional abuse · Mental breakdown · Isolation · Dependent relationship dynamics · Power imbalance · Distorted love/obsession · Trauma response · Dubious consent · Gaslighting.
Summary:
Jungkook is trapped in Y/N's obsessive love, where manipulation, control, and dependency become his reality. As the line between affection and torment blurs, he struggles to remember what freedom felt like, while she keeps him bound in a twisted cycle of desire and pain.
He remembers doing it. Every harsh word. Every final tear. The suitcase was thrown open in the middle of the night. The apartment door slammed behind him. The look in her eyes as he left—the kind of pain that etches itself onto your soul.
He remembers the silence that followed. The relief. The ache. The weight of freedom pressed against his lungs. He was supposed to be free. But now, he wakes up in her bed.
The light is warm, orange, and lazy, leaking through blackout curtains and tracing lines across the white sheets. There's a heavy comforter over him, soft as clouds and suffocating.
He can't move—not fully. His limbs are weighted. His neck is sore. The head is foggy and too thick to make sense. Everything smells like her. Lavender, rose, and a faint metallic tang. Familiar.
Intimate. Wrong. He blinks once. Then again. Soft humming. Then a voice—sweet, smooth, and far too calm. "Morning, baby."
His heart seizes. He jerks upright, dizziness crashing down like a wave. She's there. Y/N. At his bedside, dressed in pale silk, her smile was radiant.
She places a tray on the nightstand with a glass of orange juice and two slices of French toast, golden and glistening. She leans in and brushes his hair back.
"Still tired? You've been out for a while. The medicine can be heavy initially, but it helps with the transition." He stares at her, throat dry.
"W-What? What medicine? Where—"
She cups his cheek. "Shh, don't strain yourself—just rest. I've taken care of everything. You're safe now." His eyes dart around.
The room is familiar—but wrong. This used to be her room. Or... maybe not? The walls are painted differently now.
The air smells fresher. Cleaner. Newer. No windows. Just thick curtains that never move.
He pulls at the blanket. Beneath it, he's wearing unfamiliar clothes—soft pyjama pants, no shirt.
His chest is bare, scattered with faint bruises, as though he'd fallen. Or been dragged. Panic coils tight in his stomach.
"Let me go," he whispers. "I... I need to leave." She sits beside him, tucking a napkin into his collar, like they're sharing breakfast after a lazy Sunday morning.
"You left before," she says gently. "It nearly killed me. But you came back. This time... you're staying." His pulse races. "Y/N. I didn't come back. You—"
"Shh." She feeds him a bite of toast. "You always come back. You just forget sometimes. It's okay. I forgive you." He tries to get up. His body won't move.
She smiles, ever so tenderly. "Your body's still adjusting. You'll feel normal soon. You just need time. Sleep some more. I'll be right here when you wake up."
The door clicks behind her. Locked. The hours blur. He can't tell what time it is. Every moment feels thick and stretched.
He slips in and out of awareness. Sometimes she's there. Sometimes she's not. Always the same food. Always the same words.
"I missed you."I love you so much."You're better now."He screams once.
She puts a finger to her lips. "Don't. You'll scare the neighbours." He screams again. She doesn't flinch.
Day five. (He thinks.)
He tries the door again. Still locked. He throws the tray across the room. Food splatters against the wall.
She comes in silently. Kneels before him. Wipes it all up. He watches, helpless.
"You're scared," she says. "I understand. I've studied this. It's a trauma response. But it gets better. I promise."
"Let me go, please," he says. She smiles and climbs into his lap. He tenses. Her hand cups his jaw. Her thumb drags gently over his lips.
She kisses him. Not rough. Not demanding. Sweet. Tender. Loving. His hands remain at his sides.
"You said you missed me," she whispers. "You said you couldn't breathe without me. You were crying when I found you. Shaking. Cold. Alone."
"I—"
"You begged me to take you back."
"I didn't—"
"You did."
She leans in closer, her breath hot against his neck. "And I did. Because I'm yours. Always." He turns his face away, jaw clenched. She doesn't react.
She merely hugs him. Nightfall. Or so he assumes. She undresses him. Bathes him. Gently.
Kisses his shoulders as she towels him off. Holds his hand as they walk—he's too weak to resist. He lies back on the bed, and she slips in beside him, wrapping her arms around his chest.
"You're quieter today," she says, nose buried in his collarbone. "I like it when you're soft like this." He says nothing.
"I want us to be happy," she murmurs. "We can try again. A new beginning. No more fights. No more lies." She kisses his lips. He doesn't kiss back. She doesn't stop.
Day ten. (Maybe.)
He tries to starve himself. Doesn't eat. Doesn't drink. She holds him in her arms like a child. Rubs his back. Whispers lullabies.
"You don't have to punish yourself," she says. "I've already forgiven you." He sobs quietly. She feeds him herself. Spoon to mouth. Sip by sip.
"You're doing so good, baby."
The loop continues. The bed. The tray. Her smile. "I love you."
"I know you love me, too." He wonders how long before his memory fades entirely.
How long before he starts to believe her? How long before he wants to believe her?
The light is too bright this time. Jungkook wakes up again. Same bed. Same scent.
The ceiling above him wears a fresh coat of paint, white and perfect. No cracks. No dust. Not a single blemish to prove that time has passed at all.
He doesn't move. He listens instead. The sound of birds chirping. A breeze. Humming.
Her voice. It always begins like this now. "Good morning, baby." He doesn't answer. Doesn't flinch.
She leans over him like she always does, eyes too wide, too loving. She kisses his forehead.
Her perfume sinks into his skin. Her touch burns him. Her lips are a brand.
"You're quiet again. Are you thinking about that? About the last time you left?"She always says the same things.
He's trapped in a carousel made of memories he never permitted her to shape. Days repeat. Movements mimic. Smiles don't change. Neither do her lies. But today—
He remembers something. The pain. The cries. The screaming. The loop. She doesn't know he remembers.
She doesn't know he dreams of her sobbing, screaming at him to love her again, while he claws at the walls until his nails bleed.
The room resets each morning, but his mind is beginning to fray. Cracks she can't patch fast enough. He tries to test it.
Watches where she places the tray. She hums the same tune when she brushes his hair.
She always dresses him the same—grey sweatpants, black T-shirt. Every bruise on his body fades overnight.
Sometimes, he hears the door open. A whimper. A man's voice. Then silence. He's not the only one here.
She makes love to him again. Or so she calls it. He lies still beneath her. Eyes glazed. Hands fisted in the sheets.
She rides him slowly, murmuring sweet nonsense. Kisses his chest. Whispers, "I missed you," as if she were who left.
He turns his head to the wall and counts her moans. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. She comes undone with a sigh and buries her face in his neck.
"You're mine," she breathes. "You're finally mine again." He wants to scream. He wants to throw her off.
But the drugs make his limbs too heavy. He cries quietly. She kisses his tears. Licks them away like they're holy. "We're okay now. You'll see."
Day... twenty?
He thinks it's day twenty. He tries to kill himself. He wraps the bedsheet around his neck, ties it to the headboard, and leans forward.
His knees buckle. The world spins. Then—
Hands. Arms. Her scream. "NO! No, n,o no, Jungkook—"
She sobs as she unknots the fabric, dragging him back onto the bed. He sees red where the rope burned his skin. She kisses the wound.
"You can't leave me again. Never again." She cries on his chest, rocking him like a baby. "What do I need to do? Tell me. Anything. I'll fix it. I'll fix you."
He closes his eyes. He dreams of her bleeding. The room changes again. Slightly. New flowers in a vase. New tray. Different mug.
She paints a mural on the wall—a meadow, filled with wildflowers and butterflies. He stares at it for hours. She sits beside him, stroking his arm.
"Do you remember this place? We went there once. You smiled there.
You kissed me without me asking. You said it felt like home." He doesn't remember.
But she makes him watch a video. A projector plays across the wall.
He and she. Laughing. Holding hands. His heart stutters. Was it real? Was it a dream?
Is she rewriting their memories, or has she pulled him into hers? He screams again.
She turns the video off. "You're still healing," she says. "That's why it hurts." That night, she touches him again.
But this time, he kisses her back. Just once. Just long enough for her to stop crying.
He tells himself he's buying time. He tells himself he's surviving.
But he dreams of her moaning his name with a feverish devotion. Of her nails dragging down his chest.
Her mouth left bruises like promises. He wakes up hard. Ashamed. Sick. He turns to the wall. She holds him tighter. "Do you love me?"
She asks it often now. He doesn't reply, but she smiles anyway. "You do. You're just scared. But I'll teach you again. We'll keep doing this until you remember." She kisses him gently.
His eyes are empty. One night, she cried harder than ever.
"Why don't you love me anymore?" she sobs, dragging her fingers through her hair. "Why can't you remember what we had?" He watches her.
Something shifts inside him. He reaches for her. She flinches. He wipes her tears.
She breaks down in his lap, weeping like a child. "I did everything for you. I gave up everything. They called me crazy. They said I needed help. But I didn't. I just needed you."
She kisses his hands. His chest. His neck. "I know you're still in there. I know you love me." He kisses her. Hard.
She gasps. Whimpers. They fall into the sheets. He lets her consume him. Let's her touch him everywhere.
She makes love to him like she's worshipping a god. He lets her believe it.
When she falls asleep, curled into him like a prayer, he whispers— "I hate you." But the worst part is— He's not sure if he means it.
She touches him, and he doesn't move. She bathes him, dresses him, feeds him like a child—and he lets her.
The man who used to kick and fight and cry is gone. In his place is something soft.
Quiet. Obedient. She thinks it means he loves her now. But it's not love. It's a ruin.
"Jungkook?" She kneels in front of him.
He's sitting on the edge of the bed, arms slack, head tilted slightly as he stares at the window that doesn't open.
His pupils barely focus. His lips are dry.
"Did you hear me, baby? I said I made your favourite today." She touches his cheek. He flinches. Not visibly, not enough for her to see.
But inside, something shrivels. She waits. He blinks. Nods.
She beams, presses a kiss to his forehead. "That's my good boy." He hates it when she says that.
He used to cry when she touched him. Now, he just sits. Feels.
Feels her fingers trailing down his chest. Her mouth on his skin.
Her voice whispering soft nothings into the hollowed parts of him she's carved out over months. He lets her make love to him.
And afterwards, he curls into her like he needs her warmth to survive. Because he does. Because she's made it that way.
Sometimes he sees her watching him while he sleeps. Her hand cradled his cheek.
Her eyes were wide with a twisted love that borders madness.
"You're perfect like this," she whispers. "So quiet. So soft." He wonders what she sees.
Does she see the bruises she left on his psyche? Does she see the monster she made? Or does she just see her favourite toy finally behaving?
He doesn't know anymore. He doesn't know himself. One day, he speaks. "Why me?" She turns.
She was brushing his hair gently, running her fingers through the soft strands. "What do you mean, angel?" His voice cracks.
It's dry, unused. "Why...me?" She pauses. Then she smiles.
"Because you were kind. Because you were beautiful. Because you looked at me like I was enough. Even before I became what you needed." He swallows.
She kisses the back of his neck."You don't remember. But I do."
He doesn't argue. He just sits there, letting her brush and kiss and whisper. His fingers twitch. Not from rebellion. From habit.
There's a calendar hidden behind the dresser. He doesn't know how he found it. He marks the days with a nail.
One for each time she touches him. Two for each time he lets her. By now, the wood is worn down.
He counts over a hundred. She gives him paint. "To keep your mind busy," she says.
He paints the walls with broken pieces of memories. A boy in the rain. A girl in red.
A shadow with wings. A body was curled up on the floor. She watches him and cries. "You're healing," she whispers.
He doesn't tell her he's dying. One night, she lies on his chest and asks him again. "Do you love me now?" He looks down at her.
At her flushed cheeks. Her damp lashes. Her lips were swollen from kisses he didn't return. He opens his mouth.
"Yes." Her eyes fill. "Say it again." He strokes her hair. "I love you." She sobs into his skin.
Kisses his chest. Whispers a thousand I-love-you's. He holds her tightly. And closes his eyes.
He dreams of freedom. But it hurts now. The sun in his dreams is too bright. The touch of other people—too foreign.
He wakes with a gasp, sweating, panting. She soothes him. "Shhh, baby. It's okay. It was just a dream. You're home." And he nods.
Because it is home now. She made it that way.
She starts talking about children. "One day, maybe. A little boy who looks like you. Or a girl who giggles like I do. Wouldn't that be nice?"
He says nothing. She takes his silence as hope. There are no more locks on the door. He never tries to leave.
She lets him go outside—to the garden she built just for him. He sits there for hours, staring at the wind chimes.
They sound like music. Like memories he doesn't want back. One day, she finds him humming. A song she used to sing to him in the early days.
Her eyes well up. "You remember." He nods. He does. He remembers everything now.
And he's still here. They make love again. But this time, he touches her first. She cries. He kisses away her tears.
"Forever?" she asks. He cups her cheek. "Forever." Even if forever means dying this way. Even if love means never leaving.
He clings to her like the broken man he's become. And she holds him like she's saved him.
In the dark, after she sleeps, he traces a heart on her back. Inside it, he writes her name. Because he can't forget. Because she made sure of that.
Because she is the only thing that feels real anymore.
And maybe...
Maybe he loves her now. Or maybe he just doesn't know how to live without her.
Either way— He doesn't try to escape. Not this time.
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𝐎𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 I 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
—Fading Into You—
Pairing:
Yandere!Y/N × soft!Jungkook
Word Count: ~2.7k
Genre:
Psychological Thriller · Toxic Romance · Obsession · Angst · Darkfic · Tragedy
Content Warnings:
Yandere behavior · Psychological manipulation · Non-consensual intimacy (implied) · Drugging · Emotional abuse · Mental breakdown · Isolation · Dependent relationship dynamics · Power imbalance · Distorted love/obsession · Trauma response · Dubious consent · Gaslighting.
Summary:
Jungkook is trapped in Y/N's obsessive love, where manipulation, control, and dependency become his reality. As the line between affection and torment blurs, he struggles to remember what freedom felt like, while she keeps him bound in a twisted cycle of desire and pain.
He remembers doing it. Every harsh word. Every final tear. The suitcase was thrown open in the middle of the night. The apartment door slammed behind him. The look in her eyes as he left—the kind of pain that etches itself onto your soul.
He remembers the silence that followed. The relief. The ache. The weight of freedom pressed against his lungs. He was supposed to be free. But now, he wakes up in her bed.
The light is warm, orange, and lazy, leaking through blackout curtains and tracing lines across the white sheets. There's a heavy comforter over him, soft as clouds and suffocating.
He can't move—not fully. His limbs are weighted. His neck is sore. The head is foggy and too thick to make sense. Everything smells like her. Lavender, rose, and a faint metallic tang. Familiar.
Intimate. Wrong. He blinks once. Then again. Soft humming. Then a voice—sweet, smooth, and far too calm. "Morning, baby."
His heart seizes. He jerks upright, dizziness crashing down like a wave. She's there. Y/N. At his bedside, dressed in pale silk, her smile was radiant.
She places a tray on the nightstand with a glass of orange juice and two slices of French toast, golden and glistening. She leans in and brushes his hair back.
"Still tired? You've been out for a while. The medicine can be heavy initially, but it helps with the transition." He stares at her, throat dry.
"W-What? What medicine? Where—"
She cups his cheek. "Shh, don't strain yourself—just rest. I've taken care of everything. You're safe now." His eyes dart around.
The room is familiar—but wrong. This used to be her room. Or... maybe not? The walls are painted differently now.
The air smells fresher. Cleaner. Newer. No windows. Just thick curtains that never move.
He pulls at the blanket. Beneath it, he's wearing unfamiliar clothes���soft pyjama pants, no shirt.
His chest is bare, scattered with faint bruises, as though he'd fallen. Or been dragged. Panic coils tight in his stomach.
"Let me go," he whispers. "I... I need to leave." She sits beside him, tucking a napkin into his collar, like they're sharing breakfast after a lazy Sunday morning.
"You left before," she says gently. "It nearly killed me. But you came back. This time... you're staying." His pulse races. "Y/N. I didn't come back. You—"
"Shh." She feeds him a bite of toast. "You always come back. You just forget sometimes. It's okay. I forgive you." He tries to get up. His body won't move.
She smiles, ever so tenderly. "Your body's still adjusting. You'll feel normal soon. You just need time. Sleep some more. I'll be right here when you wake up."
The door clicks behind her. Locked. The hours blur. He can't tell what time it is. Every moment feels thick and stretched.
He slips in and out of awareness. Sometimes she's there. Sometimes she's not. Always the same food. Always the same words.
"I missed you."I love you so much."You're better now."He screams once.
She puts a finger to her lips. "Don't. You'll scare the neighbours." He screams again. She doesn't flinch.
Day five. (He thinks.)
He tries the door again. Still locked. He throws the tray across the room. Food splatters against the wall.
She comes in silently. Kneels before him. Wipes it all up. He watches, helpless.
"You're scared," she says. "I understand. I've studied this. It's a trauma response. But it gets better. I promise."
"Let me go, please," he says. She smiles and climbs into his lap. He tenses. Her hand cups his jaw. Her thumb drags gently over his lips.
She kisses him. Not rough. Not demanding. Sweet. Tender. Loving. His hands remain at his sides.
"You said you missed me," she whispers. "You said you couldn't breathe without me. You were crying when I found you. Shaking. Cold. Alone."
"I—"
"You begged me to take you back."
"I didn't—"
"You did."
She leans in closer, her breath hot against his neck. "And I did. Because I'm yours. Always." He turns his face away, jaw clenched. She doesn't react.
She merely hugs him. Nightfall. Or so he assumes. She undresses him. Bathes him. Gently.
Kisses his shoulders as she towels him off. Holds his hand as they walk—he's too weak to resist. He lies back on the bed, and she slips in beside him, wrapping her arms around his chest.
"You're quieter today," she says, nose buried in his collarbone. "I like it when you're soft like this." He says nothing.
"I want us to be happy," she murmurs. "We can try again. A new beginning. No more fights. No more lies." She kisses his lips. He doesn't kiss back. She doesn't stop.
Day ten. (Maybe.)
He tries to starve himself. Doesn't eat. Doesn't drink. She holds him in her arms like a child. Rubs his back. Whispers lullabies.
"You don't have to punish yourself," she says. "I've already forgiven you." He sobs quietly. She feeds him herself. Spoon to mouth. Sip by sip.
"You're doing so good, baby."
The loop continues. The bed. The tray. Her smile. "I love you."
"I know you love me, too." He wonders how long before his memory fades entirely.
How long before he starts to believe her? How long before he wants to believe her?
The light is too bright this time. Jungkook wakes up again. Same bed. Same scent.
The ceiling above him wears a fresh coat of paint, white and perfect. No cracks. No dust. Not a single blemish to prove that time has passed at all.
He doesn't move. He listens instead. The sound of birds chirping. A breeze. Humming.
Her voice. It always begins like this now. "Good morning, baby." He doesn't answer. Doesn't flinch.
She leans over him like she always does, eyes too wide, too loving. She kisses his forehead.
Her perfume sinks into his skin. Her touch burns him. Her lips are a brand.
"You're quiet again. Are you thinking about that? About the last time you left?"She always says the same things.
He's trapped in a carousel made of memories he never permitted her to shape. Days repeat. Movements mimic. Smiles don't change. Neither do her lies. But today—
He remembers something. The pain. The cries. The screaming. The loop. She doesn't know he remembers.
She doesn't know he dreams of her sobbing, screaming at him to love her again, while he claws at the walls until his nails bleed.
The room resets each morning, but his mind is beginning to fray. Cracks she can't patch fast enough. He tries to test it.
Watches where she places the tray. She hums the same tune when she brushes his hair.
She always dresses him the same—grey sweatpants, black T-shirt. Every bruise on his body fades overnight.
Sometimes, he hears the door open. A whimper. A man's voice. Then silence. He's not the only one here.
She makes love to him again. Or so she calls it. He lies still beneath her. Eyes glazed. Hands fisted in the sheets.
She rides him slowly, murmuring sweet nonsense. Kisses his chest. Whispers, "I missed you," as if she were who left.
He turns his head to the wall and counts her moans. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. She comes undone with a sigh and buries her face in his neck.
"You're mine," she breathes. "You're finally mine again." He wants to scream. He wants to throw her off.
But the drugs make his limbs too heavy. He cries quietly. She kisses his tears. Licks them away like they're holy. "We're okay now. You'll see."
Day... twenty?
He thinks it's day twenty. He tries to kill himself. He wraps the bedsheet around his neck, ties it to the headboard, and leans forward.
His knees buckle. The world spins. Then—
Hands. Arms. Her scream. "NO! No, n,o no, Jungkook—"
She sobs as she unknots the fabric, dragging him back onto the bed. He sees red where the rope burned his skin. She kisses the wound.
"You can't leave me again. Never again." She cries on his chest, rocking him like a baby. "What do I need to do? Tell me. Anything. I'll fix it. I'll fix you."
He closes his eyes. He dreams of her bleeding. The room changes again. Slightly. New flowers in a vase. New tray. Different mug.
She paints a mural on the wall—a meadow, filled with wildflowers and butterflies. He stares at it for hours. She sits beside him, stroking his arm.
"Do you remember this place? We went there once. You smiled there.
You kissed me without me asking. You said it felt like home." He doesn't remember.
But she makes him watch a video. A projector plays across the wall.
He and she. Laughing. Holding hands. His heart stutters. Was it real? Was it a dream?
Is she rewriting their memories, or has she pulled him into hers? He screams again.
She turns the video off. "You're still healing," she says. "That's why it hurts." That night, she touches him again.
But this time, he kisses her back. Just once. Just long enough for her to stop crying.
He tells himself he's buying time. He tells himself he's surviving.
But he dreams of her moaning his name with a feverish devotion. Of her nails dragging down his chest.
Her mouth left bruises like promises. He wakes up hard. Ashamed. Sick. He turns to the wall. She holds him tighter. "Do you love me?"
She asks it often now. He doesn't reply, but she smiles anyway. "You do. You're just scared. But I'll teach you again. We'll keep doing this until you remember." She kisses him gently.
His eyes are empty. One night, she cried harder than ever.
"Why don't you love me anymore?" she sobs, dragging her fingers through her hair. "Why can't you remember what we had?" He watches her.
Something shifts inside him. He reaches for her. She flinches. He wipes her tears.
She breaks down in his lap, weeping like a child. "I did everything for you. I gave up everything. They called me crazy. They said I needed help. But I didn't. I just needed you."
She kisses his hands. His chest. His neck. "I know you're still in there. I know you love me." He kisses her. Hard.
She gasps. Whimpers. They fall into the sheets. He lets her consume him. Let's her touch him everywhere.
She makes love to him like she's worshipping a god. He lets her believe it.
When she falls asleep, curled into him like a prayer, he whispers— "I hate you." But the worst part is— He's not sure if he means it.
She touches him, and he doesn't move. She bathes him, dresses him, feeds him like a child—and he lets her.
The man who used to kick and fight and cry is gone. In his place is something soft.
Quiet. Obedient. She thinks it means he loves her now. But it's not love. It's a ruin.
"Jungkook?" She kneels in front of him.
He's sitting on the edge of the bed, arms slack, head tilted slightly as he stares at the window that doesn't open.
His pupils barely focus. His lips are dry.
"Did you hear me, baby? I said I made your favourite today." She touches his cheek. He flinches. Not visibly, not enough for her to see.
But inside, something shrivels. She waits. He blinks. Nods.
She beams, presses a kiss to his forehead. "That's my good boy." He hates it when she says that.
He used to cry when she touched him. Now, he just sits. Feels.
Feels her fingers trailing down his chest. Her mouth on his skin.
Her voice whispering soft nothings into the hollowed parts of him she's carved out over months. He lets her make love to him.
And afterwards, he curls into her like he needs her warmth to survive. Because he does. Because she's made it that way.
Sometimes he sees her watching him while he sleeps. Her hand cradled his cheek.
Her eyes were wide with a twisted love that borders madness.
"You're perfect like this," she whispers. "So quiet. So soft." He wonders what she sees.
Does she see the bruises she left on his psyche? Does she see the monster she made? Or does she just see her favourite toy finally behaving?
He doesn't know anymore. He doesn't know himself. One day, he speaks. "Why me?" She turns.
She was brushing his hair gently, running her fingers through the soft strands. "What do you mean, angel?" His voice cracks.
It's dry, unused. "Why...me?" She pauses. Then she smiles.
"Because you were kind. Because you were beautiful. Because you looked at me like I was enough. Even before I became what you needed." He swallows.
She kisses the back of his neck."You don't remember. But I do."
He doesn't argue. He just sits there, letting her brush and kiss and whisper. His fingers twitch. Not from rebellion. From habit.
There's a calendar hidden behind the dresser. He doesn't know how he found it. He marks the days with a nail.
One for each time she touches him. Two for each time he lets her. By now, the wood is worn down.
He counts over a hundred. She gives him paint. "To keep your mind busy," she says.
He paints the walls with broken pieces of memories. A boy in the rain. A girl in red.
A shadow with wings. A body was curled up on the floor. She watches him and cries. "You're healing," she whispers.
He doesn't tell her he's dying. One night, she lies on his chest and asks him again. "Do you love me now?" He looks down at her.
At her flushed cheeks. Her damp lashes. Her lips were swollen from kisses he didn't return. He opens his mouth.
"Yes." Her eyes fill. "Say it again." He strokes her hair. "I love you." She sobs into his skin.
Kisses his chest. Whispers a thousand I-love-you's. He holds her tightly. And closes his eyes.
He dreams of freedom. But it hurts now. The sun in his dreams is too bright. The touch of other people—too foreign.
He wakes with a gasp, sweating, panting. She soothes him. "Shhh, baby. It's okay. It was just a dream. You're home." And he nods.
Because it is home now. She made it that way.
She starts talking about children. "One day, maybe. A little boy who looks like you. Or a girl who giggles like I do. Wouldn't that be nice?"
He says nothing. She takes his silence as hope. There are no more locks on the door. He never tries to leave.
She lets him go outside—to the garden she built just for him. He sits there for hours, staring at the wind chimes.
They sound like music. Like memories he doesn't want back. One day, she finds him humming. A song she used to sing to him in the early days.
Her eyes well up. "You remember." He nods. He does. He remembers everything now.
And he's still here. They make love again. But this time, he touches her first. She cries. He kisses away her tears.
"Forever?" she asks. He cups her cheek. "Forever." Even if forever means dying this way. Even if love means never leaving.
He clings to her like the broken man he's become. And she holds him like she's saved him.
In the dark, after she sleeps, he traces a heart on her back. Inside it, he writes her name. Because he can't forget. Because she made sure of that.
Because she is the only thing that feels real anymore.
And maybe...
Maybe he loves her now. Or maybe he just doesn't know how to live without her.
Either way— He doesn't try to escape. Not this time.
#kpop fanfic#jungkook#bangtan sonyeondan#bangtan#obsessive yandere#possesive love#jeonjayykkayy#jeon jeongguk#fading into you#writing aesthetic#tumblr writers#psychological thriller#isolation#isolated thoughts#she fell first he fell harder#tw drugs#memory loss#jjk smut#kpop smut#kpop#fic rec#fictive#my fic#pwp fics
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𝐎𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 I 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
—Hush, Darling—
Pairing:
Jeon Jungkook × Female Reader (Y/N)
Genre:
Dark Romance
Mafia AU
Psychological Drama
Erotica
Angst
Content Warnings:
Explicit Sexual Content (18+)
Power Imbalance
Dubious Consent / CNC Elements
Emotional Manipulation
Possessive Behavior
Graphic Descriptions
Mentions of Fear and Vulnerability
Dom/Sub Undertones
Dark Themes (Mafia, Control, Obsession)
Word Count: ~1.7k
Summary: Rain pours outside, thunder rolls—and inside the mansion, things are no quieter. Y/N, a quiet village girl, never imagined her night would end tangled in silk sheets with Seoul’s most feared mafia boss. Jungkook is intense, possessive, and not exactly gentle. But beneath the storm and shadows, his voice drops low: “Hush, darling… it won’t hurt much.” And suddenly, home feels a lot less innocent.
Rain, heavy and insistent, slammed against the towering glass windows, leaving trails like shimmering silver veins etched across the inky blackness of the velvet night. The storm, a brooding presence, made its voice known through the low, guttural rumble of thunder that echoed in the distance, reverberating through the expansive, silent grand halls of the Jeon estate, a sound that seemed to vibrate in the very bones of the building. Inside the master bedroom, a sanctuary of luxury and hidden desires, shadows pirouetted and swayed, cast by the soft, golden light emanating from a single, unassuming bedside lamp. The rest of the room, cloaked in deep shadows, seemed to breathe with a slow, seductive tension, a palpable energy that hung heavy in the air, promising secrets and unspoken desires.
Jungkook stood motionless near the panoramic window, a silhouette against the storm-tossed landscape. His crisp black shirt, carelessly unbuttoned halfway down his muscular torso, offered a tantalising glimpse of the intricate artwork etched across his chest and collarbone – a testament to a life lived on the edge. The rain's reflection danced and shimmered on his exposed skin, like liquid diamonds clinging to the contours of his body. His head was tilted ever so slightly, his senses acutely tuned, listening intently – perhaps to the relentless drumming of the rain against the glass, or perhaps to the almost imperceptible rustle of fabric behind him, a sound only he seemed to register.
Y/N stood awkwardly, frozen in place near the edge of the enormous, ornate four-poster bed, a monument to indulgence and privilege. She was barefoot, her delicate feet bare against the cool marble floor. Her dress, a simple dress, was still damp from the brief, frantic dash from the car into the unforgiving embrace of the rain. In the opulent surroundings of the mafia king's bedroom, she looked jarringly out of place – like a delicate wildflower, carelessly pressed between the pages of an antique, impossibly expensive book. Innocent. Untouched. Vulnerable.
And he could smell it on her – the intoxicating scent of innocence, a fragile bloom in a garden of thorns.
"Come here," his voice, a low, steady command, cut through the silence like a honed blade. It wasn’t a suggestion, but an undeniable directive, imbued with the weight of his authority. His eyes, dark and fathomless as a midnight sea, tracked her every movement, every breath, holding her captive in their intense gaze.
Y/N hesitated, her muscles tense, her body resisting the pull. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic war drum in her chest, unsure if its frantic rhythm was fueled by fear or by a burgeoning, forbidden desire–or perhaps, a dangerous cocktail of both. But her feet, seemingly acting of their own accord, moved slowly, tentatively, bare on the cold, unforgiving marble floor, drawn toward him as if by an invisible force.
The storm rumbled again, a primal growl that seemed to mimic the anticipation building within the room, as Jungkook reached for her waist, his touch deliberate and possessive. He pulled her into his embrace with slow, measured force, closing the distance between them. One hand slid up her spine, sending shivers dancing across her skin, the other curled possessively around the back of her neck, claiming her.
He didn’t kiss her—not yet. He wanted to savour the moment, to prolong the exquisite torture. He looked at her with an intensity that made her breath catch in her throat, as if she were a complex secret, a hidden code that only he possessed the key to unlock.
"You're trembling," he murmured, his voice a low rasp against the silence, a sound that vibrated through her very core.
She nodded faintly, her throat tight, her voice caught in a web of apprehension and anticipation. "I'm... cold."
He leaned closer, his breath ghosting across her ear, sending a delicious shiver down her spine. His breath was hot, a stark contrast to the chill that gripped her. "You're scared."
She couldn’t lie. Not when his hands moved with such calculated precision—firm, yet strangely reverent, gently undoing the zipper of her dress with excruciating slowness, each movement a deliberate act of seduction.
"You have every reason to be," he whispered, his fingers trailing along her now bare shoulder, igniting a firestorm beneath her skin. "But not of me. Not tonight."
The dress slid from her shoulders, pooling around her feet like spilt silk, a discarded barrier between them. Her skin was covered in goosebumps, flushed and sensitive under the warm, golden light. Jungkook’s eyes darkened, his jaw tightened, a visible sign of the control he was exerting.
“Lie down,” he said, his voice low and commanding, brooking no argument.
Y/N obeyed, lowering herself onto the vast bed, her movements hesitant, almost reverent. The mattress yielded beneath her weight, sinking slightly, the cool satin sheets a sensual contrast against her heated skin. Jungkook watched her, his gaze intense and unwavering—every curve, every breath, every flicker of emotion that crossed her face—as he unbuckled his belt with one hand, his movements fluid and practised.
His body moved with a predator's grace, a seamless dance of controlled power, shedding clothing with effortless efficiency, until he hovered over her—a dark, imposing figure, radiating heat. The scent of spice and musk, his signature, filled the air, thick and intoxicating.
He knelt between her legs, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through her system, one palm sliding up her thigh with devastating slowness, mapping the contours of her flesh. She gasped softly, her breath hitching in her throat, when his lips kissed the inside of her knee, a shocking act of intimacy.
"Hush, darling…" he said, his voice deep and honeyed, a soothing balm to her rising panic, his gaze flicking up to meet hers, holding her captive. He dipped closer, his lips hovering near her core, his breath warm against her skin. "It won’t hurt much."
Her fingers clutched the sheets, digging into the soft fabric, seeking an anchor in the storm that raged within her.
Then he was on her—mouth, tongue, hands—a symphony of dominance and indulgence, a calculated assault on her senses. Her moans rose like desperate prayers beneath the crashing rain, a soundtrack to their intimate dance.
And when he finally thrust inside her, slow and deliberate, a possessive claiming, she cried out—a sound caught between pain and pleasure, a visceral expression of the moment.
His hand immediately pressed against her mouth, not to silence her, but to ground her, to offer a sense of control in the face of overwhelming sensation.
"I know," he murmured against her lips, his voice thick with passion. "I know, baby. But you’re doing so well."
Every movement was measured—his hips rolling, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, clinging to him as if her life depended on it. The storm outside raged with renewed intensity, a mirror to the tempest within the room, but inside, only heat existed, a consuming fire that threatened to devour them both. His pace increased, sweat dotting his brow, strands of dark hair falling into his eyes, obscuring his vision.
“Look at me,” he growled, his voice raw and demanding, and she did, her gaze locked on his. Her eyes were wide, dilated with a mixture of fear and desire, her lips parted, her breathing shallow and ragged.
Jungkook kissed her then—hard, possessive, claiming her with every fibre of his being, with all the pent-up hunger of a man who’d waited too long for something he didn’t believe he could have. Her taste, her heat, her everything—he wanted to drown in it, to lose himself completely in the intoxicating sensation of her.
The headboard rocked against the wall, a rhythmic percussion to their passion. The sheets twisted and tangled, a testament to the force of their embrace. Her cries echoed through the room, louder now, less afraid, tinged with a growing sense of abandon. Jungkook whispered filthy things into her skin—things that made her legs shake, things that ignited a firestorm within her.
The air was thick with the scent of sex and rain, a heady combination that heightened their senses.
His voice dropped again, raspy and intimate against her throat. “You belong to me now, Y/N. You understand that?”
She could only nod, her body trembling uncontrollably, sobbing softly as she shattered around him, splintering into a million pieces. He followed, cursing her name into the crook of her neck, a raw and primal declaration of possession.
When it was over, when the storm had finally subsided, he didn’t pull away. Instead, he stayed there, buried deep within her, a silent promise of connection, kissing her jawline, her temple, her lashes, each touch a tender act of contrition.
The thunder outside softened into a gentle lull, a soothing melody that mirrored the calm that had settled over the room.
And for a moment, just for a fleeting moment, even Jungkook, the ruthless mafia king, for the first time looked vulnerable, almost human, stripped bare by the intensity of their encounter.
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