jiniretbabii

[jiniretbabii]

Whispers of the Void

A dedication to my late fiancé:

Warning: deep angst, passed partner/spouse (if you cry, don’t worry I am too 💔)

**Hongjoong:**

Subject: The Ship Sailed Without You

My Compass,

This silence… it’s louder than any stage, any storm we ever faced. The helm feels cold under my hands without you beside me, pointing out stars I was too focused to see. I built *everything* – the crew, the music, this life – thinking you were the unshakeable harbor. How arrogant was I? The universe just… took you. No warning shot across the bow, just stillness. Utter, deafening stillness.

I try to work. The notes bleed into noise, meaningless scribbles. I see your smile in the monitor’s reflection sometimes, hear your laugh when I hit a wrong key. Then reality crashes back, a wave of ice water. Who do I show the demos to now? Who tells me honestly if it’s brilliant or trash? Who anchors me when the world spins too fast?

The crew tries. They tiptoe around the gaping hole you left, their eyes too bright with pity. I hate it. I hate this hollow victory. We reach new heights, and all I feel is the crushing weight of the emptiness beside me. You were my true north. Now I’m adrift in a sea of "what ifs," and the shore is nowhere in sight. I miss your steady hand. I miss *you*, down to the marrow of my bones. This ship feels like a ghost vessel without your light.

Forever lost at sea,

Hongjoong

**Seonghwa:**

Subject: The Echo in Our Home

My Love,

The apartment is too quiet. Painfully, unnervingly quiet. I still set the table for two. I still reach for your hand in the empty space beside me on the couch. Your favorite mug sits pristine on the shelf – I can’t bear to touch it, yet I can’t bear to put it away. It’s a monument to the impossible.

I try to keep things… normal. I make the bed neatly, water your plants (they’re thriving, you’d be proud), cook meals I know you loved. But sitting down to eat alone… the silence swallows me whole. I hear your laugh echo down the hallway, catch the phantom scent of your shampoo on a pillow. For a fraction of a second, hope flares. Then the crushing weight of *knowing* settles again.

How can the world keep turning? How do people laugh, cars move, sun rise? It feels obscene. My reflection in the mirror looks haunted, eyes holding a sorrow I never understood before. I was the caretaker, the steady one. But who takes care of the caretaker when his reason for being steady is gone? I’m drowning in the routines we built, each one a reminder that you’re not here to share them. This isn’t a home anymore. It’s a museum of our love, and I’m the lone, grieving curator.

I miss your warmth beside me. I miss *everything*.

Lost in the echo,

Seonghwa

**Yunho:**

Subject: The Dance Floor is Empty

My Sunshine,

Remember that stupid little dance we’d do in the kitchen when breakfast burned? I’d spin you, you’d laugh, and suddenly burnt toast was the best meal ever. I tried doing it yesterday. Just a silly twirl by the counter. The silence that followed… it shattered me.

My body moves on stage. Smiles happen. Energy flows. It’s muscle memory, a desperate performance to outrun the void inside. But it’s hollow. Empty calories for the soul. The moment the lights dim, the silence rushes in, heavier than ever. I keep expecting your voice in the crowd, your proud smile beaming at me from the wings. It’s just… darkness.

I replay our messages. Your laugh in those voice notes… it’s a lifeline and a torture. I go to our favorite park bench. The space beside me feels vast, cold. People walk past with their loved ones, their happiness a physical blow. How? How did this happen? One moment, planning our future, the next… an unfillable silence. My sunshine is gone, and I’m stumbling in the permanent twilight you left behind. The world feels muted, colorless. I dance, but my heart is leaden. I miss your light more than words can hold.

Forever missing my rhythm,

Yunho

**Yeosang:**

Subject: The Silence You Left

My Quiet Peace,

They think I’m handling it. Because I’m quiet. Because I don’t scream or break down publicly. They don’t see the scream trapped inside my ribs, a silent, endless howl that scrapes my bones raw. They don’t see the way I trace your side of the bed, fingertips memorizing the cold emptiness where your warmth should be.

I find your hair tie on the nightstand. A forgotten book with your bookmark still in place. These tiny, insignificant things are now relics that stop my breath. I sit in our corner of the couch, wrapped in your favorite blanket, drowning in the silence that used to be our comfortable, understanding quiet. Now it’s just… absence. A deafening void.

I talk to you sometimes. Whispering into the stillness, hoping somehow… But the silence only answers, heavier each time. The world keeps moving, loud and bright, and I feel like a ghost drifting through it. My smiles feel painted on, my words automatic. The real me is cocooned in this suffocating blanket of grief, replaying every quiet moment, every soft look, every time your hand found mine without a word. That quiet understanding… it was my sanctuary. Now it’s my prison. I miss your presence, your quiet strength. I miss *you*, with a depth that terrifies me.

Trapped in the silence,

Yeosang

**San:**

Subject: Where Did My Heart Go?

My Everything,

They tell me to be strong. To breathe. But how do I breathe when my lungs refuse to work? How do I be strong when my foundation is *gone*? It feels like someone reached into my chest, ripped out my heart, and just… walked away with it. You took *everything* with you.

The fire I had on stage? It’s ash. Cold, dead ash. I move, I perform, but it’s a shell. An echo of who I was when you were here to witness it. Backstage, in the quiet… that’s when it hits. A tidal wave of agony so intense I double over, gasping for air that won’t come. I scream into pillows until my throat is raw. I clutch your hoodie until the scent fades, then clutch it harder, desperate for any trace of you.

I replay our last kiss, our last laugh, our last mundane conversation about dinner. I torture myself with the "if onlys." If only I’d held you longer that morning. If only I’d called instead of texted. If only… The pain is a physical thing, a constant, gnawing presence. My passion feels like a betrayal now. How can I feel anything but this all-consuming despair? You were my reason, my joy, my *sanity*. Without you, I’m just… lost. A raw nerve ending exposed to a world that feels too harsh, too bright, too *empty*. I miss you like a limb. I miss you like oxygen. Come back. Please.

Shattered,

San

**Mingi:**

Subject: Words Fail Me (But I'll Try)

My Anchor,

Words… they were my armor, my weapon, my playground. Now? They crumble to dust in my mouth. How do I describe this… this *nothingness* where you used to be? How do I rap about love when mine is buried? The rhymes feel hollow, the beats just noise. The studio is suffocating, filled with ghosts of the songs I wrote for you, *about* you.

I try to write it out. Pages and pages of jagged, messy scrawl – anger, confusion, disbelief, a pain so deep it defies language. It looks like madness. Maybe it is. I read your old messages, listen to your voice notes. Your laugh… it breaks me every time. I hear you calling my name sometimes, clear as day. I turn, heart hammering… and face the crushing silence.

I wander the city at night. The places we loved feel haunted. That bench by the river, the late-night noodle spot… they’re just painful landmarks now. I see couples holding hands, and it’s a physical ache. How is it possible? One day you were here, vibrant, real… the next, just… gone. Poof. Like a cruel magic trick. My anchor is gone, and I’m adrift in a hurricane of grief I can’t articulate. I miss your grounding touch, your smile that made everything okay. I miss *you* so desperately, words are just… inadequate.

Wordlessly lost,

Mingi

**Wooyoung:**

Subject: Laughter Died With You

My Joy,

The silence is the worst part. Not the crying, the screaming, the numb hours staring at walls… it’s the *silence* where your laughter used to be. That bright, infectious sound that could light up any room, any darkness in my soul… gone. Snuffed out.

I try to fill it. I turn the music up too loud. I talk too much, joke too hard, hug the others too tightly, too desperately. They think I’m coping. Maybe I’m fooling them. I’m definitely not fooling myself. It’s just noise to drown out the deafening quiet you left behind. When I’m alone… the mask crumbles. The silence rushes in, and it’s filled with memories. Your head on my shoulder. Your hand in mine. The way your eyes crinkled when you found something truly funny.

I cook your favorite dish. It tastes like ash. I wear your hoodie. It smells less and less like you, and the panic that brings is primal. I find myself talking to you constantly – narrating my day, asking stupid questions, begging for a sign… anything. Just a whisper. Just… something. The silence is absolute. It mocks me. How can the world contain so much noise and yet be so utterly, devastatingly silent where your spirit used to resonate? You were my sunshine, my spark, my reason to be loud. Without you, my laughter feels like a lie, and the silence is a tomb. I miss your light. I miss your sound. I miss *you* so much it feels like dying slowly.

Drowning in the quiet,

Wooyoung

**Jongho:**

Subject: The Strength You Gave Me is Gone

My Rock,

They expect me to be strong. The foundation. The unbreakable one. You always said that, too. "My strong Jongho." How do I tell them? How do I tell *anyone* that the strength you saw in me… it came from *you*? You were the bedrock. My safe harbor. My reason to push harder, reach higher, because I wanted to make you proud.

Now? I feel brittle. Hollow. Like a single wrong note could shatter me completely. I hit the high notes on stage, the power is there technically, but it feels… empty. Soulless. It echoes in a void you used to fill. I come home to an apartment that feels too big, too quiet. Your slippers by the door. Your toothbrush in the holder. Tiny landmines of memory that stop me dead.

I try to be stoic. To carry the weight. But the weight is crushing. It’s the weight of a future erased. The weight of your absence at every meal, every quiet moment, every potential celebration. Who do I share my victories with now? Who wipes the sweat from my brow and tells me "well done"? Who holds me when the world feels too heavy? You were my strength, my comfort, my *home*. Without you, I feel like a child lost in a storm. The power I wield feels meaningless. I miss your steady gaze, your quiet belief in me. I miss *you* with a ferocity that scares me. I’m not strong. Not anymore. You took my strength with you.

Broken,

Jongho

*** From Jiji (Myself) today marks the 5th year anniversary of my fiancé First Officer Jaeyul Nuh. We met in 9 years ago in the flight academy in Ontario, CA. First Canadian Gen Korean in his family. He loved planes and we found a passion together during the hard training to become pilots. He joined the airlines shortly after me. We both feel in love shortly during our training. He was my world. He even fought against cultural differences to be with me. Me, a Muslim Afro-Moroccan and him a Catholic Korean. I joined Delta airlines and he, Air Canada. Our schedules different and sometimes caused us to fight, but that didn’t stop us nor our love, it actually brought us closer. He asked me to marry him on my 20th birthday. On August 18th 2018. I immediately said yes. During 2020, the world faced Covid 19. He got sick and his immune system was heavily compromised. He was a fighter, he refused to give up until Allah called him home. He passed on June 13th at 00:16 EST in New York, NY.

You’ll always live my heart. No matter where I go in this dark world. I will always remember you, whom always brought light.

To my heavenly husband: I love you, I miss you. Thank you for showing me love, passion. Days it’s hard to step foot into that cockpit knowing our passion once shared is only left to me. Fly high above the heavens. May Allah grant us to see each other again in Jannah. One day we’ll fly together again. Inshallah. Forever and always.

Jaeyul Nuh 10-8-1996 - 06-13-2020

[jiniretbabii]

𝕮𝖔��𝖙𝖗𝖔𝖑: 𝕾𝖆𝖓 𝖝 𝕽𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗

Part 2 of 4

Warning ⚠️: this chapter contained the following:

Drugging, kidnapping, recorded attempted SA, gun violence, death, mafia, non-con smut (it’s for a good cause), car sex, unprotected sex (don’t do it), oral sex F receiving, language, angst, virginity loss, mentions of dead relatives.

The scent of braised short ribs and seafood stew lingered mockingly on the cool Seoul air as San stared into the Phantom’s empty back seat. Fury, cold and razor-sharp, sliced through his usual glacial control, followed instantly by a chilling wave of professional dread. *This damn woman.* The thought wasn’t just exasperation; it was a primal recognition of the catastrophic vulnerability he’d allowed. He slammed the door, the heavy *thunk* echoing his own failure.

Food bags forgotten on the curb, he moved. Not frantic, but with the lethal, focused intensity of a predator scenting blood. His phone was in his hand, a secure line dialed before he’d taken three strides towards the dark alley mouth.

It rang twice. "Hey San, long time." Wooyoung’s voice, usually laced with easy confidence, held a note of surprise.

"Wooyoung," San’s voice was a low, controlled rasp, belying the urgency coiling in his gut. "That damn brat escaped. Pull surveillance footage from my location now. Track her. Real-time. Priority Alpha." The designation meant life or death.

A sharp intake of breath on the other end. "Shit. I’m on it." The frantic clatter of keys became the soundtrack to San’s sprint down the grimy alley. "Lady Park can’t seem to sit still, huh?" Wooyoung tried for levity, missing the mark badly.

San gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached. "She thinks she outsmarted me. Fuck!" The rare curse exploded from him. "Why the fuck didn’t I lift the partition?" The oversight felt like a gaping wound in his professional armor.

Silence, then Wooyoung’s voice turned grave, all pretense gone. "Umm, San… bad news. You’re in Moon territory. Deep. And… fuck. Thermal signature and partial cam feed… she ducked into Moon Woo-Suk’s place. The Rusty Anchor."

Moon Woo-Suk. The name hit San like a physical blow. Seonghwa’s most vicious rival also the rival of the Vercetti syndicate. A man whose hatred for the Parks was legendary, whose operations thrived on human misery – trafficking, drugs, extortion. The image of Y/N – spoiled, sheltered, utterly out of her depth – walking into *that* den… Ice flooded San’s veins.

"She’s in immediate, critical danger," San stated, the words clipped, final. He burst out of the alley onto the chaotic side street, scanning the neon jungle. The Rusty Anchor’s flickering sign beckoned like a tombstone. "Send backup. Heavy. *Now.* But Wooyoung," he paused, his voice dropping to a near whisper thick with warning, "for the love of everything, *do not* breathe a word of this to Seonghwa. Not yet. Not until she’s secure. Understood?"

"Understood. And yeah I’m not saying shit to boss. Backup en route. ETA five minutes. I’m hacking deeper into their local cams," Wooyoung confirmed, the keyboard clatter intensifying. "Be careful, San. That place is a fucking viper pit."

San didn’t reply. He was already moving. He sprinted back to the Phantom, not for comfort, but for the custom compartment beneath the driver’s seat. His fingers found the release. Inside, nestled in foam: a Desert Eagle .50 AE, cold and heavy, and a matte-black combat knife. He slid the knife into a sheath at his ankle, chambered a round into the massive pistol with a decisive *clack-clack*, and tucked it into his shoulder holster beneath his coat. Adrenaline sharpened his senses, turning the bustling street into a hyper-focused tableau of threats and exits.

He covered the distance to the dive bar in seconds. No hesitation. He slammed the heavy, scarred door open with enough force to crack the frame, the impact echoing like a gunshot in the smoke-choked gloom.

All eyes snapped to him – the grizzled regulars, the couple in the corner, the bartender wiping a glass with his filthy rag. The thudding bass seemed to falter.

The bartender, the same shaved-head, tattooed man, recovered first, putting on a mask of bored annoyance. "How can I help you, sir?" His gravelly voice held a practiced indifference.

San’s gaze swept the room, missing nothing: the sticky floor, the worn furniture, the faint, lingering trace of expensive perfume beneath the stench of stale beer and cheap tobacco. *Her* perfume. His eyes locked onto a stool near the end of the bar. A faint, smudged mark on the sticky surface. Foundation. And on the floor beside it, glinting dully under the weak light, a small, broken silver bracelet – dainty, elegant, utterly out of place. The charm, a delicate ‘YNP’, lay nearby.

He strode forward, his movements silent and deadly. He scooped up the bracelet, the broken clasp sharp against his palm. He held it up, the silver catching the light inches from the bartender’s face. His voice, when he spoke, was deceptively soft, colder than liquid nitrogen.

"I’m going to ask one more time. Where is Park Y/N? 166 cm. Korean-Italian. Brunette. Designer clothes. Smells like fucking orchids and entitlement. Where. Is. She?"

The bartender’s eyes flickered, a micro-expression of fear quickly masked by bluster. He shrugged, deliberately slow. "Sir, I’m sorry, but nobody like that’s been in here tonight. Just locals. You got the wrong place."

San didn’t blink. He saw the lie in the man’s sweat-slicked temple, the too-casual grip on the rag. He saw the faint white residue clinging to the inside rim of a chipped rocks glass near the sink. *Drugged.* The ice in his veins turned to fire.

He moved faster than the eye could follow. One hand shot out, grabbing the bartender’s wrist and slamming it palm-down onto the scarred wood of the bar. The other hand drew the combat knife. There was no hesitation, no theatrics. With brutal, clinical precision, San drove the blade straight through the man’s hand, pinning it to the bar like a specimen. The *thunk* of steel biting deep into wood was sickeningly loud.

"*AAAGGGHHH! FUCK! SHIT!*" The bartender screamed, his face contorted in agony, his body jerking against the immovable force of San’s grip.

San leaned in, his face inches from the man’s, his obsidian eyes devoid of mercy, reflecting only the abyss. He held the broken bracelet up again, the charm dangling. "Then," he hissed, the softness gone, replaced by a guttural rasp that promised unimaginable pain, "*what is this?*"

Terror, raw and absolute, flooded the bartender’s eyes. The professional facade crumbled. "Moon!" he gasped, blood bubbling at his lips from biting his tongue. "Moon took her! Fuck! I just… I just slipped her the mickey with a lethal dose of some aphrodisiac! I swear! I don’t know where they took her!” San wiggles the knife more. He knows he’s lying. In a panic the bartender screamed, “Warehouse… maybe near the airport? Please… the hand…!"

San didn’t waste a second. He slammed the bracelet onto the bloody bar top. In one fluid motion, he released the knife hilt, letting the man shriek, and drew the Desert Eagle from his shoulder holster. The sheer size of the weapon was obscene in the cramped bar. He didn’t aim. He didn’t need to at this range.

***BOOM! BOOM!***

The deafening reports shattered the air, drowning out the music, the screams. Two massive .50 caliber rounds tore into the bartender’s chest, lifting him off his feet and slamming him back against the liquor shelves in a shower of glass and cheap whiskey. Silence descended, broken only by the ringing in everyone’s ears and the dripping of blood and booze.

San holstered the smoking cannon, already pulling his phone. "Wooyoung! She’s drugged. Moon has her. Warehouse district near Incheon Airport. Find it. *Now!*"

"Got it!" Wooyoung’s voice was tight, focused. "Feeding satellite and traffic cam data… triangulating cell pings from known Moon associates converging… Got a lock! Abandoned textile warehouse, Hang-dong 3-gu, near the old cargo terminal. Sending coordinates *now*. Backup is twenty minutes out!"

"Tell them to secure the perimeter. No one in or out. I’m going in hot." San was already running, bursting out of the bar into the night, the Phantom roaring to life as he slid behind the wheel. He punched the coordinates into the nav system. Twenty kilometers. He’d make it in fifteen.

The air in the abandoned warehouse was thick with dust, damp, and the metallic tang of old machinery. Flickering fluorescent lights cast long, dancing shadows, illuminating rusted looms and piles of mildewed fabric. In the center of a cleared space, under the starkest light, stood a grimy, stainless-steel surgical table. Strapped to it with thick leather restraints was Y/N.

The drug Moon’s men had forced into her system was a monstrous cocktail. The initial roofie-induced unconsciousness had receded, replaced by a horrifying, hyper-awareness fused with chemical chaos. A lethal dose of a powerful aphrodisiac raged through her like wildfire, setting every nerve ending alight with a searing, unwanted arousal that warred violently with her terror. Her skin burned, hypersensitive to the rough touch of the restraints, the cold metal beneath her. Sweat plastered her hair to her temples. Her breathing came in ragged, shallow gasps. She felt simultaneously on fire and freezing, her body trembling uncontrollably.

Voices swam in and out of focus, distorted, cruel.

"…make sure the camera gets a good angle…"

"…daddy’s little princess won’t be so high and mighty…"

"…violate every inch… then we slice her up nice and slow… send Seonghwa the pieces…"

Panic, raw and primal, clawed at her throat. She tried to move, to scream, but the drugs and the restraints held her fast. A pathetic whimper escaped her lips. "P-please…" she slurred, her voice thick, alien. "L-let me go…"

Laughter echoed around her – harsh, mocking, devoid of humanity. Three figures loomed at the edge of the light. Moon, his sharp features twisted in sadistic glee, stood front and center. Beside him, a hulking brute fiddled with a professional-looking video camera on a tripod. Another man, leaner, with scarred knuckles, checked the gleaming array of surgical tools laid out on a nearby cart – scalpels, bone saws, things Y/N’s mind couldn’t fully process.

"Let you go?" Moon chuckled, stepping closer. He ran a cold finger down her burning cheek, making her flinch violently. "Oh no, *agassi*. The fun’s just starting. That little cocktail we gave you? It’s gonna make you *beg* for what comes next, even while we carve you up. Poetic, isn’t it? Daddy fucks with Moon’s business, Moon fucks with Daddy’s precious heir. Permanently."

He nodded to the man with the camera. "Lee, make sure you get everything. Close-ups. I want Seonghwa to see the exact moment his world ends." He turned back to Y/N, his eyes gleaming with malevolent anticipation. He started unbuckling his belt. "Alright, Princess. Time to earn your infamous party title one last time. Scream pretty for the camera."

Moon began to slice off the clothes, slowly, agonizing.

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut, tears of terror, shame, and chemical-induced agony streaming down her face. The fire in her veins roared, a traitorous response warring with the icy dread of violation and mutilation. The sound of the belt buckle clinking was deafening. She braced for the touch, the horror…

San left the Phantom a block away, its engine still ticking as it cooled. He moved like a wraith through the warehouse district’s labyrinthine alleys, guided by the GPS dot on his tactical watch. The coordinates led him to a vast, dilapidated structure, its corrugated metal walls stained with rust and graffiti. Two black SUVs skidded to a halt nearby – Wooyoung’s backup, clad in tactical gear. San held up a fist, signaling them to hold position, secure the exits. He pointed two fingers at his eyes, then at the building: *I’m going in.*

He didn’t use the doors. He scaled a rusted fire escape with simian grace, his movements silent despite the metal groaning under his weight. Near the roof, he found a grimy skylight. Peering through the grime, the scene below froze the blood in his veins.

The surgical table. The restraints. Y/N’s trembling, naked sweat-slicked form. The camera. The tools. Woo-Suk, unbuckling his belt, leering down at her.

A soft thud of his pants dropping to the ground. His erect cockhead pulsing in his calloused hand. “Lift her legs.” He commanded.

“No stop please!” She begged.

“Oh cmon that drugs is making you feel good. You’re already dripping wet.” He slides his rough digit along her soaking folds. She shuttered at the touch.

“Someone’s so sensitive. If you’re good my men here can also get a good turn, huh?”

Rage, white-hot and obliterating, consumed San. Every shred of control, every ounce of professional detachment, vaporized. This wasn’t just a principal; this was *Y/N*, the infuriating, reckless girl he’d failed, now facing unspeakable horror. The sight ignited a primal fury he hadn’t known he possessed.

He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t plan. He acted.

Drawing a HK- MP5, he took aim not at Woo-Suk, but at the large, industrial fluorescent light fixture directly above the surgical table. He fired once.

***BOOM!***

The massive round shattered the fixture in an explosion of glass and sparks. The area plunged into near darkness, illuminated only by the remaining flickering lights at the warehouse edges and the camera’s own spotlight, now wildly swinging.

Chaos erupted. Woo-Suk yelled, stumbling back. The cameraman cursed, fumbling with his equipment. The man by the tools grabbed a scalpel.

San didn’t wait for the debris to settle. He kicked out the remaining skylight glass and dropped, landing in a crouch ten feet from the table, amidst a shower of glass fragments. He rose, the MP5 already tracking.

Moon recovering fastest, pulled a pistol from his waistband. "Fuck! It’s the guard dog! Kill hi—"

***BOOM!***

San’s shot took Moon’s center mass. The force lifted the smaller man off his feet, throwing him backwards into a pile of moldy fabric, a gaping, ruinous hole in his chest. He didn’t make another sound.

The hulking cameraman roared, dropping the camera and charging, a meat cleaver now in his hand. San sidestepped the clumsy swing with contemptuous ease. As the brute stumbled past, San brought the heavy tactical down in a vicious arc, the solid steel slide cracking against the man’s temple with a sickening *crunch*. He dropped like a sack of cement.

The third man, the one with the tools, lunged at San with a scalpel, aiming for his neck. San caught the wrist in a vice-like grip, stopping the blade centimeters from his skin. He stared into the man’s terrified eyes. There was no mercy there. Only cold, homicidal fury. With his free hand, San drew the combat knife from his ankle sheath. In one brutal, upward thrust, he drove it under the man’s ribcage, angled towards his heart. He twisted the blade, feeling the sickening grate on bone, then ripped it free. The man gasped, blood bubbling from his lips, and collapsed.

Silence, thick and heavy, broken only by Y/N’s ragged, terrified breathing and the drip of blood onto the concrete floor. San stood amidst the carnage, chest heaving, the MP5 smoking in one hand, the bloodied combat knife in the other, his pristine coat spattered with gore. He scanned the immediate area – clear.

He turned to the table. Y/N was staring at him, her eyes wide with a maelstrom of emotions: residual terror, agonizing chemical torment, disbelief, and a dawning, overwhelming relief that warred with everything else. Her body was still wracked with tremors, the drug’s fire unabated.

"San…?" she whimpered, her voice a broken rasp.

He tossed the tactical weapon and wiped the knife clean on a relatively unstained part of his coat before sheathing it. He approached the table, his movements suddenly careful, deliberate. His usual icy mask was gone. His face was grim, etched with lines of fury and something else… concern? Regret?

"Don’t talk," he ordered, his voice rough but lacking its usual steel. He started working on the leather restraints with swift, efficient movements. Sliding off his coat, immediately wrapping it around her body. His fingers, usually so precise, trembled slightly as they brushed against her feverish skin. "You’re safe now. But we need to move. That drug…" He didn’t finish the sentence. The lethal aphrodisiac was still coursing through her, a time bomb beneath her skin.

As the last restraint fell away, Y/N didn’t try to sit up. She stared up at him, tears welling again, this time a confusing mix of gratitude and the unbearable chemical anguish. The fire in her veins screamed, warping her perception. The man who’d been her jailer, her tormentor, now stood bathed in the flickering half-light, drenched in the blood of her would-be violators, her savior.

"I hate you," she whispered, the words thick with tears and the drug’s influence, yet devoid of their previous venom. It was a statement of fact, tangled with something else entirely.

San met her gaze, his dark eyes holding hers for a heartbeat. He saw the terror, the pain, the chemical storm, and beneath it all, the shattered defiance. He didn’t flinch. He simply reached down, sliding one arm under her shoulders, the other under her knees, lifting her off the cold steel with surprising gentleness. She instinctively curled into him, her face pressing against the blood-spattered fabric of his coat, seeking an anchor against the internal inferno.

"I know," he said, his voice low, gravelly, carrying the weight of the night, of his failure, and of the dangerous road ahead. He held her close, turning towards the warehouse entrance where the tactical team was now breaching, their flashlights cutting through the gloom. "I know. Hold on, Y/N. The real fight’s not over yet." The antidote, if it even existed, was a race against time they hadn't even begun. The warehouse was secured, but the fire inside her was still burning out of control.

The warehouse district dissolved into a blur of rust and despair as San gunned the Phantom towards the city lights. Y/N lay across the black leather backseat, a study in tortured beauty. Her skin glistened with a feverish sheen, her breath came in ragged, shallow gasps that hitched into soft, involuntary whimpers. Her body arched and trembled, fighting invisible bonds far tighter than the leather restraints had been. The scent of her fear and the cloying, chemical sweetness of the drug filled the luxurious cabin, a horrifying contrast.

"Wooyoung!" San barked into the headset, his voice stripped of its usual ice, raw with an urgency that bordered on panic. He swerved around a slow-moving truck, tires screeching. "Antidote. Is there *anything*?"

The frantic clatter of keys was the only answer for agonizing seconds. Then Wooyoung’s voice, strained and hesitant: "San… low doses, yeah, there are suppressants. But the readings from the residue in that bar glass… the dose she ingested… it’s off the charts. Tox screen simulation shows…" He paused, the silence thick with dread. "Shit. San, the only way to stop the systemic cascade before it hits her heart, before it causes permanent neurological damage or… or kills her… is to…"

"Spit it out, Wooyoung!" San roared, slamming his palm against the steering wheel. The car lurched.

"You have to make her cum." Wooyoung’s voice was a horrified whisper. "Forcefully. Repeatedly. It’s the only physiological counteragent potent enough to override the compound’s binding at this concentration. It’s designed that way – a sick fucking failsafe."

San slammed on the brakes. The Phantom fishtailed violently before shuddering to a stop in the middle of a deserted access road. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by Y/N’s escalating, pained gasps from the back.

"*Do what now?*" San’s voice was dangerously low, disbelieving.

"Induce an orgasm, San," Wooyoung repeated, his voice cracking. "Repeatedly. You gotta fuck her until she’s making a mess. It’s the only way to metabolize the toxin fast enough. Without it… her core temperature keeps rising, her heart rate… San, she’s spiking into dangerous arrhythmia territory *now*. You have maybe 30 minutes before critical systems start failing."

A soft, desperate moan came from the backseat. "S-San…" Y/N’s voice was a broken thread. He turned.

Moonlight streamed through the sunroof, illuminating her face. Her plump lips were swollen, parted, a thin trail of saliva glistening at the corner. Her eyes, wide and unfocused, held a terrifying mixture of agony and a desperate, chemical-fueled need. Sweat plastered her hair to her temples and neck. She writhed, her hands clawing weakly at the leather seat, her thighs rubbing together frantically, seeking friction, seeking relief from the unbearable internal fire. "P-please…" she sobbed, the sound raw and guttural. "It… *hurts*… everywhere… make it stop…"

San stared, his mind reeling. The clinical horror of Wooyoung’s words collided violently with the visceral reality before him – the young woman entrusted to his care, reduced to this state of abject, chemical torment. Duty warred with revulsion, necessity with violation.

"I can find someone," San choked out, the idea abhorrent but grasping at straws. "A boyfriend… someone she trusts…"

"Checked her known associates, recent communications," Wooyoung cut in, his tone bleak. "No one. She’s single. No record of a boyfriend at all. No one *safe*. And San… we don’t have *time* for a pickup. Her vitals… they’re deteriorating fast on my remote monitor. You’re it. Or she dies. Or worse."

The weight of it crushed him. The impossible choice. Save her life by committing an act that felt like a profound betrayal of the very protection he was sworn to provide. Or let her suffer, burn out, or be permanently broken.

"Send a cleanup crew to the warehouse. Maximum discretion," San ordered, his voice devoid of inflection, a mask slamming down over the chaos within. "I’ll… handle this." He disconnected the call before Wooyoung could respond, cutting off the horrified silence on the other end.

In the sudden quiet of the car, Y/N’s panting became a ragged symphony of distress. Her soft groans escalated into cries, the sound tearing at the tense air. "SaAAaaan!" she wailed, her body convulsing in a fresh wave of agony, her back arching off the seat. Her eyes, when they found his in the rearview mirror, were pools of pure, animal desperation.

He was out of time. Out of options.

Gritting his teeth, San scanned the dark road. Ahead, a narrow, overgrown track led off into a dense copse of trees bordering an industrial park. Seclusion. Privacy. A necessity for the unspeakable act ahead. He wrenched the wheel, guiding the Phantom off the pavement. Branches scraped against the pristine paintwork as he drove deeper into the woods, finally stopping in a small, moon-dappled clearing. He killed the ignition. The only sounds were the ticking of the cooling engine, the rustle of leaves, and Y/N’s tortured breathing.

Taking a deep, steadying breath that did nothing to calm the storm inside, San climbed out of the driver's seat. The cool night air felt like a slap after the cloying heat of the car. He walked around to the rear passenger door, his movements deliberate, heavy. He opened it.

Y/N lay bathed in the dim interior light and moonlight, a vision of devastating vulnerability and chemical torment. Her eyes fluttered open, finding him. "Please…" she whimpered, reaching a trembling hand towards him. "Hurts… so much…"

"God, you’re a real pain in the ass," San murmured under his breath, the words devoid of their usual sharpness, filled instead with a bone-deep weariness and reluctant resolve. He slid into the spacious backseat beside her.

He looked down at her, really looked. Past the spoiled heiress, past the infuriating party girl, past the assignment. He saw the raw fear, the desperate, drug-fueled need, the flicker of the vibrant, infuriating spirit being consumed by poison. He saw a life he had to save, by any means necessary, even this.

Her hand, weak but insistent, fumbled against his chest, pulling him down. Her lips found his in a clumsy, feverish kiss, tasting of salt and desperation. It wasn't passion; it was a drowning woman gasping for air.

San was a man of iron discipline, honed in shadows and violence. Lust was a distraction he’d long learned to master. Temptation was a tool to be used, not succumbed to. But this… this was different. This was duty warped into something grotesque, yet inescapable. He had sworn to Seonghwa. *By any means necessary.* The words echoed like a death knell.

He didn't push her away. His body shifted, his weight settling gently over hers, the vast backseat accommodating them without crowding. He returned the kiss, not with passion, but with a grim, focused intensity. It was a necessary prelude, a way to gauge her responsiveness, to begin the terrible process. He broke the kiss, his lips brushing her ear. "You won’t remember any of this," he whispered, a desperate plea to the universe, to himself. "Thank god."

"Please…" she gasped, her head thrashing side to side. "It hurts… too much…" Her hands scrabbled weakly against his back.

San pulled back slightly, forcing himself to meet her glazed eyes. His own were dark, unreadable pools, hiding the internal war. "What hurts?" he asked, his voice low, deliberately calm, a counterpoint to her frenzy. He trailed a calloused finger down the column of her sweat-slicked neck, a touch meant to soothe, to distract, to map the territory of her agony.

She whimpered, her hips lifting involuntarily off the seat. "Mmmh…" It was a sound of pure, animal distress. Her eyes shut tight.

"Use your words, Lady Y/N," San commanded softly, his breath warm against her skin. The formality felt absurd, a desperate anchor to protocol in the face of chaos. "Where does it hurt? Tell me."

Her eyes squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corners. A shudder wracked her whole body. Her voice, when it came, was a broken, slurred whisper, thick with shame and unbearable need. "D-down… down there…" Her hand fluttered weakly towards the apex of her thighs, then clenched into a fist, as if fighting the admission, fighting the fire consuming her from within.

San closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, steeling himself. The confirmation. The point of no return. The grim, clinical necessity. He saw the terror warring with the chemical compulsion in her eyes, the unbearable tension in her trembling limbs.

"Alright," he breathed, the word heavy with the weight of the impossible task. "Alright. I’ll make it stop." His voice was a low rumble, stripped bare, holding only the grim promise of relief, however it had to be delivered. He shifted his weight, his hand moving with a terrible, purposeful gentleness towards the source of her torment, initiating the necessary, horrifying act of salvation. The moonlight watched, cold and silent, as the jailer became the reluctant physician, navigating the hellscape of chemistry to pull her back from the brink. The clearing held its breath, the only sounds the rustling leaves and Y/N’s hitched, expectant gasp.

Unbuckling his belt, he pulled down his pants and boxers in one go, enough to free himself. He hated to admit but she was absolutely stunning. Her body was perfect. Curvy, round and plump breast with rosy pink nipples. He could feel himself get hard. Slowly he began pumping himself. His swollen tip began to leak precum. “This might hurt, I’m sorry.”

Slowly pushing himself inside her soaking cunt. Her back arched off the leather. “Ah!” They gasped in unison. Her warm tight walls squeezed around his thick length.

Slowly he dragged his heavy cock in and out. The feeling, an out of body experience. Her soft disheveled moans filled the cabin. Her body pouring sweat, her breathing ragged. She weakly gripped onto San’s broad shoulders. “God you’re so tight.” He groaned into her ear. He pushed himself all the way in. His pelvic bone pressing hard against her core. Biting his lip to stop any sound from escaping. Her wet hole kept sucking him back in with each thrust. As if she didn’t want him to leave. It felt so good to him.

“Does it feel good?” He panted. “San…” her voice faded. Her body now limp. He looked down. Panic filled him. He grips her face with one hand and began to kiss her with desperation. Pumping into her faster, his other hand circling her clit. “Stay with me. I’m right here.”

Fading in and out, she could feel him pounding into her. The sensation was there, even in her state. “S-San…”

“That’s it stay with me. Let me take care of you.” His tongue slipped into her mouth. The taste of her was enticing. “Hold me,” he commanded her. She loosely wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders.

“Good girl.” He groaned.

He could feel her heart beat grow faster. He needed to make her cum.

Taking her legs, spreading them as far as the space of the Phantom allowed. He began mercilessly fucking into her. The moonlight bathed her olive skin. Her back arching off the leather seats. Eyes rolling back. It was really a sight. San could feel himself getting even harder. His body swelling with desire… no need.

Urgency.

The cabin began to get steamy. Condensation coated the windows.

Her moans became louder. “F-fuck!” She cried out. He could feel her walls crushing his cock. Pulsing around him, sucking him in. The lewd sounds of skin slapping, moans, pleas. “Please…” she begged, her small delicate fingers moved to her mouth. Coating her fingers in her spit. San grips her hand, places them in his mouth. His wet muscle swirling around them. “Play with your clit for me baby girl,” he commanded, “I know you can.”

Y/Ns weak hand trembled as she swirled her fingers coated with her and San’s saliva. Lazy circles around her clit. Her mind spinning. Her body began to jerk and shake. Eyes rolling back, only exposing the white of her eyes. “Cmon that’s it, keep going for me.” He grunted, slamming deeper, harder inside her.

Her body to convulse uncontrollably. Her hand fell onto the floor, a loud thud. “You’re not dying on my dick.” He spits a large glob onto her clit and began to rub fast.

His pace sloppy, frantic, aggressive.

Fucking into her and stimulating her small bundle of nerves. He could feel her body getting tight.

“Yes, fuck… Cmon Y/N, you’re almost there baby. Cmon cum for me,” he could feel her climax approaching, “cmon let go, give it to me.”

“SAN!” She screamed, her body gaining a burst of energy. She grips his shirt, pulling him close. His lips crash upon hers. He feels her wetness become like a tsunami. He slams into her at a jackrabbit pace. His cock bruising her cervix.

“Fuck please cum your fucking brat, I’m gonna cum!” He growled.

She quickly wraps her legs around his waist. A silent yet powerful gasp escaped her lips as she began dripping all over the seats. Her body shaking uncontrollably. Eyes rolling back. Her nails clawing into San. “C-cumming!” Y/N croaked.

“Finally.” He whispered, sweat dripping down his forehead.

San immediately slammed a few more times into her before finally caving into his own sweet release. His cock shooting out cum, painting her insides a milky shade of white.

He lays on top of her. His cock still throbbing. He stays still until he softens. Carefully he pulls out. A small stream of their mixed fluids drip out of her.

“Let’s get you home.”

The ride wasn’t long. He kept looking at the rear view to make sure she’s breathing. Still sweating and shaking, he knew he had a long night ahead of him.

Pulling into the parking lot. He used the secret penthouse elevator. He made sure no one could see the young heiress in her state. Entering the home, he carries her to her bedroom.

Swiftly locking her suite door. He lays her down.

Stripping faster than the speed of light, he climbed on top of her. “By any means necessary.” He groaned.

Spreading open her sweat coated legs, flattening his tongue, he dove into her. The warm muscle swirling around her core. Lapping every single drop of her. His large fingers pressing into her plush thighs.

Sucking on her clit, he groaned at the sweet taste of her juices. “I can’t fucking stand you, but goddamn you taste amazing.”

“T-too m-mUcH!” Her hands softly gripping the navy silk sheets.

“Good, take it and shut up.” He looked up, eyes dark gazing into hers.

He continue to lap up every once of juices she produces. Slicking two of his fingers of her creaminess, he pushed them deep into her. Fucking her at intense pace. Curving them upward finding that perfect spongy spot. Arching herself off the bed. San pressed her back down. “Don’t you fucking move. This is all your goddamn fault.”

Pulling his fingers out, she wines. “Don’t worry, I’m not done.” Flipping her onto her stomach, he aggressively pulls her onto her knees. He likes himself up. Brutally he slams himself into her.

Y/N’s body lurches forward. “Nuh-uh, take it like the disobedient bitch you are.” Gripping her hips tight, he snaps himself deep inside.

A puddle of drool begins to form onto the sheets, making the navy spot darker. “Fuck.. San! T-too much!”

“It wasn’t too much when you decided to run away? When you wanted to go to a bar of your family’s rival? Wasn’t too much to get drugged huh?” He ranted, “no, so shut the fuck up and take it, you’re lucky you’re important to me and I value your life.” His body now hot and covered in sweat. The sound of the bed shaking, their moans filling the air.

He saw how fast her orgasm was approaching. “Yeah, that’s it.” He bites his lip, slapping her round ass.

“Agh!”

“Let it out. Let. It. Fucking. Out!”

Her moans became incoherent babbles and slurs. Fisting the sheets, back arching as she trembles. Burying her face into the sheets, San grips her hair into a ponytail, “absolutely not. I need to know if you’re fucking cumming. Make me fucking hear those screams.” He wraps his other arm around her waist, pulling her closer into him. She turns her head, quickly their lips met. Teeth mashing into each other, sloppy, messy, desperate.

His cock now pulsing, “shit, you better cum right fucking now Y/N.”

“Yyes…”

“Cum. RIGHT. NOW!”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Y-yes San…”

“Try. AGAIN. Yes, WHAT?”

“YES SIR!”

A smirk was proudly displayed across his face. “That’s my good girl.”

They both climaxed together. A loud cry escaped her lips as he let out a high pitched groan. Filling her hole to the brim for a second time. He pulls out. Her body falling forward onto the soft sheets.

San checks her vitals.

She’s safe. For now.

The penthouse suite felt unnaturally still in the grey pre-dawn light. San stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, a towel slung low on his hips, water droplets tracing paths down the hard planes of his back and chest. He watched the city slowly awaken, but his focus was entirely on the figure in the massive bed behind him.

Y/N lay deep in sleep, the frantic tremors and feverish flush replaced by an unnatural stillness. Her breathing was even, if shallow, her face relaxed but pale against the stark navy pillows. The frantic, terrified creature from the woods was gone, replaced by an exhausted echo of the infuriating heiress.

He spoke softly into his encrypted comm, eyes never leaving her. "Vitals are stable. Temp normalized. HR back within safe parameters. She’s sleeping it off." His voice was flat, the professional mask firmly back in place, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed the ordeal.

On the other end, Wooyoung let out a shaky breath. "Good. That’s… good. San…" He hesitated, the silence thick with unspoken horror. "So you… *did* it? You had to…?"

San’s jaw clenched. He ran a hand through his damp hair, the gesture betraying a rare flicker of weariness. "There was no alternative, Wooyoung. Zero. It was that or watch her burn out or stroke out. The choice was obliterated." His voice hardened, turning glacial. "And this. Gets. Out. To. *Nobody*. Not a whisper. Not a hint. Especially not to Seonghwa. Understood?"

"Understood," Wooyoung replied instantly, his voice tight. "Scorched earth protocol on this. But… San? Out of morbid, terrified curiosity… she never had a serious boyfriend, right? Would that mean…?" He couldn’t finish the thought.

San froze. The question hit him like a physical blow, a detail horrifically overlooked in the desperate calculus of survival. His eyes snapped back to Y/N’s sleeping form, a wave of something cold and sickening washing over him. *Had he…?* He’d been focused solely on the physiological imperative, the mechanics of saving her life. The personal, intimate significance… he’d ruthlessly suppressed it.

"Hell if I know," he ground out, the roughness in his voice betraying more than he intended. He cleared his throat sharply, forcing professionalism. "It is categorically *not* my business to delve into her private affairs. The act was medical necessity. Period."

He needed to change the subject, fast. "The bigger problem is Moon. Your cleanup crew found the bodies *except* his. Correct?"

"Correct," Wooyoung confirmed, his tone grim. "Minho and the goons were there. Bagged and tagged. But Woo-Suk? Vanished. Like smoke. Forensics suggest he was injured – blood trail leading out a side exit – but he got away."

San’s fist tightened until his knuckles turned white. He turned fully towards Y/N, a storm brewing in his obsidian eyes. Moon escaping changed everything. It wasn't just an attack anymore; it was a declaration of war, and Y/N was now irrevocably the prime target. Her recklessness had painted a bullseye on her back larger than Seoul itself.

"Tighten security," San ordered, his voice like shards of ice. "Triple the perimeter detail. Armed reinforcements inside the penthouse, rotations every four hours. High alert protocol. And send a discreet, *elite* crew to shadow Seonghwa in Hong Kong immediately. Full protective detail, but they are to observe *only*. Do **not** engage him about this incident. Not a single word leaks. His focus needs to stay on the merger. We handle the fallout here."

He walked silently to the edge of the bed, looking down at Y/N. In sleep, stripped of her defiance and the chemical horror, she looked heartbreakingly young. Vulnerable. He reached out, almost against his will, and gently brushed a stray strand of hair from her damp forehead. His calloused thumb grazed her cheekbone, a touch so fleeting and gentle it contradicted everything about him. Her plump lips parted slightly on a soft sigh.

On the comm, Wooyoung’s voice was low. "San… she’s going to find out eventually. About the syndicate. About the Vercettis. About… Allegra. Seonghwa tried to build her a gilded cage to keep her ignorant, to keep her *safe* from this life. But last night… she walked right into the viper's nest. Ignorance is her biggest vulnerability now."

San’s gaze remained fixed on Y/N’s face. "I know," he murmured, the word heavy with reluctant acceptance. "He tried to shield her. Maybe too well. She has no defenses because she doesn’t know the war exists." His thumb still hovered near her cheek. "She has no clue what Seonghwa truly is… or what her mother *was*."

"Seonghwa tried his best," Wooyoung conceded quietly. "But keeping her in the dark… it might have made her the perfect target. Maybe it’s time to rip off the band-aid. Before Moon or someone else does it for her, violently."

San watched Y/N’s eyelashes flutter slightly. "I guess," he conceded, the words tasting like ash. The burden of that revelation felt heavier than any weapon. He straightened up, withdrawing his hand. "Keep me updated on Moon. Out."

He ended the call. The silence of the penthouse pressed in, broken only by Y/N’s soft breathing and the distant hum of the city. Moonlight, now fading as dawn approached, streamed across the room, bathing her in an ethereal silver glow. As he turned to walk away, a soft, breathy sound stopped him cold.

"San…" she murmured in her sleep, her voice thick with unconscious vulnerability. Just his name. A sigh. Then she settled deeper into the pillows.

A low, incredulous chuckle escaped San, rough and unexpected in the quiet room. *She calls for me, even in dreams, after I…* He cut the thought off, the sound dying quickly. He shook his head, a complex mix of exasperation, grim responsibility, and something dangerously close to tenderness warring behind his impassive mask. He turned away, heading for the guest suite, the image of her sleeping face seared into his mind.

Short while later, San went down to the parking garage. A flash light in hand along side of sanitation wipes. He scans the back seat.

There it was; a small pool of dried blood and their bodily fluids from where they did it. Slamming his hand on the roof.

“Shit.”

Sunlight, harsh and revealing, stabbed through the gaps in the blackout curtains. Y/N groaned, consciousness returning in a slow, painful tide. Her head throbbed with the mother of all hangovers, but it was a dull ache compared to the deep, pervasive soreness that seemed to radiate from her very core. She felt… bruised. Used. Exhausted in a way that went far beyond a simple bender.

*Was it all a nightmare?* The yacht, the screaming match with her father, San the jailer, the dive bar, the terrifying darkness… It felt surreal, fragmented. But the feeling of violation, of profound *wrongness*, lingered like a stain.

She shifted, the silk sheets cool against her skin. *Too* cool. Realization dawned. She was naked. Utterly. Panic flared, sharp and sudden. She sat bolt upright, wincing as muscles she didn't know she had protested violently.

"What the hell?" she whispered, her voice raspy. She looked down at herself, frantically scanning her arms, her torso. No bruises. No marks. Nothing visibly wrong. But the soreness… it was deep. Concentrated low in her belly, an unfamiliar ache that pulsed with every movement. Her thighs felt strangely weak. And *there*… between her legs… a distinct, raw tenderness that made her gasp when she shifted position.

She pressed her thighs together, a wave of confusing heat flooding her face. "God," she muttered, pushing sweat-dampened hair off her forehead. "My period must be coming early. Why the hell does it feel like… like I got absolutely fucked last night?" The crudeness of the thought shocked her, but it was the only comparison her fuzzy brain could conjure for the deep, physical aftermath she felt.

Pushing the disturbing thought aside, she threw back the duvet, determined to find answers. As she swung her legs over the side of the bed, something cold and unyielding encircling her right ankle snagged her attention. She looked down.

And froze.

A thick, sleek band of matte black metal, like polished obsidian, was locked snugly around her ankle. It wasn't jewelry. It was a high-tech restraint. Embedded discreetly within it was a small, dark lens – a sensor or camera? – and a tiny, pulsing green LED light. It felt heavy. Alien. Utterly violating.

"SAN!"

The scream tore from her throat, raw with fury and burgeoning terror. She bolted from the bed, ignoring the protests from her sore body, grabbing the first thing she found – a sheer, lavender silk robe – and yanking it on, not bothering to tie it. She didn't feel the cool marble under her bare feet as she sprinted down the hallway, a whirlwind of rage and confusion.

She didn't knock. She slammed open the door to the guest suite with enough force to rattle the frame.

San stood near the window, shirtless, a half-drunk cup of black coffee in one hand, an encrypted tablet in the other. Morning light etched the defined muscles of his chest and abdomen, highlighting old, faded scars she’d never noticed before. He turned, his expression utterly calm, infuriatingly nonchalant, as if he’d been expecting her.

"Ah," he said, his voice a smooth, deep baritone devoid of any surprise. "Good morning, Lady Park. Sleep well?"

"**WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?**" Y/N shrieked, jabbing a furious finger at the anklet. She stormed towards him, the robe gaping, her eyes blazing. "Did you put this… this *tracker* on me? Like some kind of *animal*? When? How?!" The implications were horrifying. Had he… while she slept…?

San set his coffee and tablet down on a nearby console with deliberate slowness. He turned fully to face her, his dark eyes sweeping over her disheveled state, lingering for a fraction of a second on the exposed skin at her throat before meeting her furious gaze. He didn't flinch.

"That, *madam*," he stated coolly, taking a deliberate step towards her, "is your new accessory. A state-of-the-art biometric tracker and proximity alarm. Waterproof, shockproof, tamper-proof. Courtesy of your concerned security detail. Installed while you were… indisposed last night."

She backed up instinctively as he advanced, her back hitting the cool wood of the door he’d left ajar. He kept coming, stopping mere inches away, his height and sheer presence dwarfing her, trapping her against the door. The scent of soap, coffee, and his own clean, masculine smell enveloped her, mixing confusingly with her own panic.

"D-did something happen?" she stammered, the fury momentarily drowned out by a surge of cold dread. Her face burned crimson. Fragments of dreams – intense, visceral, *humiliating* dreams involving heat, desperation, and him – flickered at the edge of her consciousness. "Last night… after the bar… I don't… I don't remember anything! Why am I so sore? Why do I feel like…?" She couldn't voice the feeling.

“Like what?” He pressed, face stern, emotionless.

She blushed, “like I-I was being fucked. It feels so sore.”

San’s lips twitched, almost imperceptibly. Not a smile. A grim acknowledgment of the absurdity yet the truth he wont acknowledge. "Ehh," he shrugged, the picture of casual indifference, though his eyes held a dangerous glint. "Besides you deciding to take a scenic tour through enemy territory? Besides getting monumentally, dangerously shitfaced in a viper pit? Besides nearly getting yourself trafficked or carved up for parts?" He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr that vibrated in her bones. "No, Lady Y/N. Nothing much happened."

"R-rival territory?" she whispered, the term chilling her blood. "What enemies? What are you talking about?"

San finally moved. He placed one hand flat on the door beside her head, caging her completely. With the other, he reached out, not touching her, but his finger pointed accusingly at the anklet. "Yes. *Rival* territory. Moon Woo-Suk’s territory, to be precise. A secret your precious, protective father has spent a fortune and two decades trying to bury. A secret he tried to shield you from, building you this pretty prison to keep you blissfully ignorant." His gaze locked onto hers, sharp and unrelenting. "But you, in your infinite, spoiled wisdom, decided to kick down the door and waltz right into the lion's den."

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in, his eyes boring into hers, stripping away the last vestiges of her carefully constructed reality. "So, surprise, *Princess*," he hissed, the term laced with bitter irony. "Welcome to the family business. You’re not just the heiress to a tech empire. You’re the daughter of Park Seonghwa, head of the most powerful Korean syndicate this side of the Han River. And your dearly departed mother, Allegra? She wasn’t just an artist. She was Allegra *Vercetti*. Sicilian royalty. Blood calls to blood, Y/N. And thanks to your little field trip last night, *everyone* knows exactly whose blood runs in your veins. Moon knows. And he’s coming for you."

The world tilted. The plush penthouse, her designer robe, the city skyline outside – it all blurred into meaningless shapes. The words "syndicate," "Vercetti," "Moon," echoed like gunshots in the sudden silence of her mind. Her father… a criminal? Her mother… connected to the *mafia*? The safe, privileged world she knew evaporated, leaving only the cold, hard edges of the tracker on her ankle and the terrifying certainty in San’s merciless eyes. The soreness, the forgotten night, the explicit dreams… they paled in comparison to the horrifying truth now laid bare. The target wasn't just painted; it was branded onto her soul. And San, her jailer, her reluctant savior, was the only thing standing between her and the darkness her family had spawned.

[jiniretbabii]

𝕮𝖔𝖓𝖙𝖗𝖔𝖑: 𝕾𝖆𝖓 𝖝 𝕽𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗

Part I of 4

Preview:

Park Y/N is the only child of Park Seonghwa and his late wife Allegra Vercetti. The young woman is well known in the press as the wild child along with other heiresses. A recent incident of her careless behavior strikes her father’s final nerve. The 20 year old will have to be on lockdown until she corrects herself or until her father says so. Unfortunately Seonghwa has to leave for a business trip for a month. He knows Y/N will not sit down to save her own life, so he instructs he’s loyal guard dog, Choi San to keep watch over her. Secrets will unravel during this tumultuous and unpredictable time as Y/N discovers more than she should have.



Warning ⚠️: This episodes contains the following:

DUI (don’t even think about it), drugging, mild language, alcohol abuse, kidnapping, age gap reader is 20, San is 34. Seonghwa is 42 (DILF) no smut in this episode (sorry yall)

The Seoul skyline glittered like a spilled jewel box beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Park penthouse, a view Park Y/N usually found thrilling. Tonight, it felt like the bars of a gilded cage. She perched on the edge of a silk-upholstered chaise longue in her cavernous bedroom, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume and impending doom. Her freshly manicured nails – a daring shade of venomous green – picked absently at the intricate embroidery. Across the room, her father, Park Seonghwa, stood silhouetted against the city lights, radiating a fury she’d never truly witnessed before.

He wasn't yelling. Not yet. The silence was worse. It vibrated with the echo of slammed doors and the frantic whispers of staff hastily dismissed. His usual impeccable composure, the armor he wore like his bespoke Tom Ford suits, was fractured. The lines around his eyes, usually etched with calculated charm or weary indulgence, were deep trenches carved by anger and something else… fear?

"Y/N," his voice cut through the stillness, low and dangerous. It wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of a guillotine blade. "Do you have the faintest comprehension of what your little *stunt* on Jeju Island cost me?"

She flinched, not meeting his eyes. Her gaze remained fixed on the geometric pattern of the rug beneath her bare feet. The memory of Jeju was a chaotic blur – pulsating music on the borrowed yacht, the tang of expensive tequila, the shriek of her friends, the terrifying lurch as the vessel veered drunkenly towards the wooden dock, the sickening crunch that wasn't quite metal on wood thanks to a last-second drunken swerve that only grazed a pylon. Then the blinding flashes. The shouted questions. The frantic calls.

"A lot," she mumbled, the words tasting like ash. The usual defiance, the flippant charm that smoothed over every scrape, felt useless here.

"A lot?" Seonghwa scoffed, turning fully towards her. The city lights cast half his face in shadow, the other half starkly illuminated, revealing the tightness in his jaw, the storm in his dark eyes. "Try millions, Y/N. Millions funneled into the Jeju police department's 'community outreach fund.' Millions more to silence every media outlet from Seoul to Busan. Compensation for the terrified residents who watched you nearly turn their peaceful dock into a disaster zone. Payoffs to the yacht owner whose property you *borrowed* without asking. Again." He took a step closer, his polished Oxfords silent on the marble floor. "Money isn't the point. You could have *died*. You could have killed your friends. You could have killed innocent people!"

His voice rose now, cracking with an emotion she rarely heard: raw, parental terror stripped bare of its billionaire veneer. "You are *twenty*, Y/N! You have an IQ that rivals the highest ranked in the world, straight A's at that ridiculously expensive university you barely attend! Your professors rave about your talent and intellect, you are similar to your mother! Your talent nearly a carbon copy! Tell me you have her eye, her soul!" He gestured wildly towards a large, abstract canvas leaning against a wall – a swirling vortex of color and emotion, the only piece of her mother’s work in this sterile room. "Yet you choose to spend your nights acting like… like a caricature! A vapid, entitled party princess with a death wish!"

The mention of her mother, gone five years now, struck a nerve deeper than the yelling. Y/N lifted her chin, a spark of rebellion igniting. "Because everyone else *is* having fun, Dad! Every other heiress I know is out *living*, not buried in textbooks or painting sad landscapes! They travel, they party, they experience things!"

Seonghwa stared at her, the anger momentarily frozen into something colder, more disappointed. "Ah," he breathed, the sound chilling. "So it's about being a follower. About partying like you've earned the right to burn through a fortune you didn't build, to risk lives you didn't create. Let me remind you, *agassi*, the oxygen you breathe, the clothes on your back, the ridiculous yacht you nearly destroyed – it's all fueled by *my* money. Money I earned. Money you have contributed *nothing* to. Your only achievement seems to be perfecting the art of reckless entitlement."

He walked to her sleek, modern desk, picking up a sleek black folder. Y/N recognized the embossed logo of their family's security firm. He opened it, revealing not financial reports, but grainy, unflattering photos: her stumbling out of a club at dawn, laughing too loud; the damaged yacht pylon; headlines hastily pulled from the web – 'Park Heiress Drunken Joyride Ends in Near Tragedy!'. Beneath them lay a single sheet – the astronomical breakdown of the Jeju 'settlements'.

"You confuse access with achievement, Y/N," he said, his voice regaining its terrifying calm. "You mistake my protection for permission. That ends now."

He snapped the folder shut. The sound was final. "Effective immediately, every credit card, every line of credit attached to the Park name and accessible to you is canceled. Your trust fund distributions are frozen. Your access codes to the building, the cars, the private jet – revoked."

Y/N’s breath hitched. Grounded. Like a child. Humiliation warred with panic. "Dad—"

"You're confined to this penthouse," he continued, ignoring her. "Indefinitely. Security detail doubled. No visitors approved without my explicit permission. Especially not that pack of hyenas you call friends."

He paused, watching the color drain from her face, the reality sinking in. Then he delivered the coup de grâce. "And since your ingenuity for sneaking out seems to rival your talent for chaos," his lips thinned into a grim line, "while I am unavoidably away for the next month finalizing the Hong Kong and EU merger, you will not be staying here alone."

A flicker of hope. Maybe Aunt Minji? She was a pushover. Or the penthouse in Busan with the lax staff?

"You will be staying," Seonghwa stated, each word a hammer blow, "under the constant supervision of Choi San."

*No.* The word screamed silently in Y/N's head before it tore from her lips. "No! Dad, please! Not him! Anyone but him!" Panic, raw and primal, surged through her. Images flashed: Choi San, a near-silent, immaculately dressed figure who occasionally appeared at her father's side during high-security events or lingered in the periphery of tense board meetings. Not an employee, exactly. More like a... fixture. A cold, unreadable fixture with eyes like chips of obsidian that seemed to see through every lie, every pretense. He moved with the unnerving stillness of a predator and the precision of a scalpel. Rumor among the bored, gossipy heiresses whispered he was former special forces, intelligence, something lethally covert. His presence alone made her skin prickle with unease. He wasn't charmed by her smile, intimidated by her name, or bribable by her pouts. He was an impenetrable wall.

Seonghwa met her wide, terrified eyes. There was no relenting, only grim resolve. "Precisely because it's him. Because you cannot charm him. You cannot bribe him. You cannot slip past him. He answers only to me, and he has explicit instructions. Your life, Y/N, for the next three weeks, will consist of this apartment, your studies, and perhaps some therapeutic painting. There will be no parties. No clubs. No alcohol. No unauthorized contact. San will ensure it."

He walked towards the door, pausing with his hand on the crystal knob. "Consider this your last warning. Disobey San, test his boundaries, and the consequences will make Jeju look like a minor parking violation. You wanted to be treated like an adult? This is the reality check you've earned."

He left, closing the door with a soft, definitive click that echoed like a cell door slamming. The sudden silence in the luxurious bedroom was deafening. The glittering city outside now seemed mocking. The vibrant painting of her mother felt like a reproach.

Y/N slumped back onto the chaise, the venomous green nails digging into the silk. Choi San. Four weeks. Trapped. The ultimate party princess, the girl who danced on tables and commanded attention in every room, reduced to a prisoner in her own gilded palace. A cold dread, deeper and more unsettling than her father's anger, seeped into her bones. It wasn't just the loss of freedom; it was the terrifying unknown of being scrutinized, controlled, by that impassive, enigmatic shadow her father called Choi San. What *could* he do? What *would* he do? The whispers about his past, the sheer, unyielding aura of him, promised that this wouldn't be mere boredom. It felt like an exile into the care of a perfectly disciplined, utterly ruthless warden.

Outside the penthouse, unseen by Y/N, Seonghwa stood in the dimly lit hallway, pressing his forehead against the cool wall. The anger had drained, leaving only exhaustion and a profound, aching worry. He pulled out his phone, scrolling to a secure number. He typed a single message: **"She's yours for four weeks. Keep her safe. Keep her contained. No exceptions. Report only emergencies. - S."**

A reply came almost instantly, devoid of greeting or pleasantry: **"Understood."**

The sender: **Choi San.**

Seonghwa pocketed the phone, his gaze drifting towards his daughter's locked door. He hadn't mentioned the other reason for choosing San, the one buried beneath the disciplinary measures. The recent, vague threats intercepted by their security, whispers of rivals or opportunists who might see his reckless daughter as a vulnerability. San wasn't just a jailer; he was a shield. The most lethal one Seonghwa knew. He prayed it wouldn't come to that. He prayed three weeks of brutal monotony under San's frosty gaze would be the shock she needed. But as he walked away, the image of San's cold, assessing eyes lingered – a silent promise of structure, yes, but also a chilling reminder of the dangerous world that existed beyond Y/N's bubble of curated chaos. The game had changed, and the stakes were far higher than she realized. The party was over. Winter, in the form of Choi San, had arrived.

The next day had came, Seonghwa is standing at the entrance with his designer suitcase talking to San. Y/N hides behind a pillar of the grand staircase overheating the conversation. Sitting on the marble steps easily tucked away, she remains still, silent. “Make sure she’s safe. Jeju was nearly exposed if we didn’t react fast enough. But something tells me that she’s potentially at risk. We don’t know who but you clearly the details are vague,” he sighed deeply, “and the possible danger that follows.” He tries to whisper.

“Sir you know I’ll do what’s necessary.” San said, voice deep and rich as velvet.

“Discipline her as you see fit. This behavior has gotten far too reckless and I worry for her reputation and her future.”

She could hear San chuckle. She could feel her blood boil. “I don’t believe it will come to that, but as you wish.”

“WHAT?!” She shouted, her voice echoing.

Her father’s brow furrowed. “I wonder how long you were going to eavesdrop, get down here and say hi to San.”

Her long wavy hair bounced as she stormed down the steps, her heels clicking, her short plaid Channel dress riding up as she stomps, the sound bouncing off the walls. “You know this is completely unacceptable! I can handle being grounded and everything stripped but this is too far!” Y/N protest.

“I have to go, honey, please for your sake and mine, just do as followed.” Planting a soft kiss pressed on her forehead, he turned to San, “As you see fit.” His voice lowered.

The elevator doors sealed shut with a soft, final *thunk*, swallowing Park Seonghwa and the last vestige of Y/N’s familiar, indulgent world. The vast, silent expanse of the penthouse foyer suddenly felt suffocating, the air thick with the scent of her father’s cologne and the chilling implication of his parting words: *"Discipline her as you see fit."*

Y/N didn’t move. She stood rooted to the cool marble, the echo of her own horrified. His words still ringing in her ears, drowned out only by the pounding of her heart against her ribs. The click of her Channel kitten heels on the floor seemed absurdly loud in the sudden stillness. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the man now standing calmly towering over her, a monolith of contained power in his black turtleneck and trousers.

The air was thick, you could slice it with a knife. Her eyes glaring into his eyes. San obviously unnerved by the young heiress.

The stare down was useless. She gave up.

"I-I’m gonna go back to my room," she mumbled, the defiance momentarily choked by the sheer, icy reality of her situation. She turned, aiming for the sanctuary of her bedroom, the plaid hem of her dangerously short dress brushing her thighs.

"Actually," Choi San’s voice cut through her retreat, smooth as obsidian and just as unyielding, "according to the schedule, you’re going to be in the study for the next two hours. Completing that overdue assignment for Professor Kim. He was… persuaded… to grant an extension."

Y/N whirled around, disbelief warring with outrage. "You’re kidding." The scoff was automatic, a shield.

"Of course not." San held up his phone, the screen displaying a meticulously organized digital calendar. Blocked in cold, impersonal font: *16:00 - 19:00: Academic Study - PoliSci Essay (Overdue). Location: Study. Supervisor: CS.* "It says here," he stated, his dark eyes meeting hers, devoid of amusement. "And as per your father’s explicit instructions, you require supervision for all activities. So," he gestured towards the hallway leading to the study, his movement economical, precise, "to the study, Lady Y/N."

The title, delivered in that soft, deep baritone, felt like a taunt. Resignation, bitter and heavy, settled over her. This *was* her prison sentence. With a sigh that was more of a growl, she stalked past him, the click of her heels now sounding like shackles. She felt his gaze on her back, assessing, unwavering, as she entered the richly paneled study.

The air here smelled of old leather and lemon oil. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the beams. A large, blank canvas stood on an easel near the window, a silent reproach next to the intimidating pile of political science textbooks and her neglected laptop on the mahogany desk. Fresh tubes of acrylic paint and pristine brushes were neatly arranged on a side table – her father’s hopeful, misplaced gesture towards her ‘therapeutic’ art.

For two hours, Y/N wrestled with political theory, her concentration fractured by San’s silent presence. He sat in a high-backed leather armchair near the door, seemingly engrossed in a tablet, yet she felt hyper-aware of him. His stillness was unnerving. He didn’t fidget, didn’t sigh, didn’t glance at his watch. He simply *was* – a constant, oppressive reminder of her captivity. She typed furiously, channeling her frustration into arguments about state sovereignty, her fingers flying over the keys, punctuated by irritated clicks of her tongue.

Finally, she slammed the laptop shut. "Done," she announced, the word clipped. San didn’t look up immediately, finishing whatever he was reading before setting the tablet aside. He rose and walked over to the desk, his movements silent on the Persian rug. Quickly opening the laptop, he scanned the screen briefly, his expression unreadable. A curt nod. "Adequate."

The dismissal stung. Adequate? She was top of her class when she bothered to show up! Before she could retort, his attention shifted to the canvas. "Your schedule also allows for allocated creative time following academic completion," he stated, checking the tablet again. "You have one hour."

A spark ignited in Y/N’s chest. Not defiance, not yet, but something primal, a need to *create*, to prove she was more than the headlines, more than the ‘party princess’ label. She grabbed a stool, climbed onto it, ignoring how the short dress rode precariously high on her thighs, and seized a large brush and a tube of cobalt blue. The blank canvas wasn't a reproach now; it was an escape hatch.

For the next hour, the world outside the penthouse, the watchful guard, the cancelled credit cards – it all dissolved. Y/N moved with a fierce, focused grace. Acrylics became her weapons: slashes of indigo rage, swirls of crimson frustration, delicate traceries of gold hope. She layered textures, blended hues with an instinctive mastery that silenced the inner chaos. The abstract piece that emerged wasn't sad; it was turbulent, passionate, breathtakingly complex – a storm captured in pigment, worthy of any gallery. She stepped back, breathing heavily, paint smudged on her cheek, her arms streaked with color. A genuine sense of accomplishment warmed her, momentarily eclipsing her resentment.

She adjusted her dress, suddenly aware again of the man in the room. She turned, expecting to find him engrossed in his tablet once more. Instead, his dark eyes were fixed on her, not on the painting, but on *her*. An intense, unwavering gaze that seemed to catalogue every smudge of paint, the flush on her cheeks, the way her chest rose and fell with exertion. It wasn't leering, but it was profoundly invasive, stripping away the armor of her defiance.

Heat flooded her face, a confusing mix of embarrassment and anger. "You know," she said, her voice sharper than intended, "you don’t have to look at me the *whole* time, Mr. Choi. The painting’s over there." She gestured vaguely towards the canvas.

San didn’t flinch. His expression remained impassive, though a flicker of something – curiosity? assessment? – might have passed through his obsidian eyes. "I’m aware," he replied, his voice low and steady. "I wanted to ensure you were actually engaged in your task. Focus can be… elusive."

"Well, it’s done," she snapped, climbing down from the stool, suddenly feeling exposed under his scrutiny. She deliberately turned her back to him, pretending to organize the paint tubes.

He walked towards the canvas, his steps silent. He studied it for a long moment, his head tilted slightly. The silence stretched, thick with tension. Then, a single word, uttered with a neutrality that somehow carried weight: "Beautiful."

The unexpected compliment, delivered in that deep, calm voice, caught Y/N completely off guard. A genuine blush, hot and unexpected, bloomed across her cheeks, clashing with the paint smears. She ducked her head, fiddling with a brush. "...Thanks," she mumbled, the word barely audible. The confusion deepened. Handsome, dangerous, infuriating… and now, capable of noticing beauty?

The moment shattered as San consulted his tablet. "Dinner is scheduled for 19:30," he announced, his tone reverting to its business-like clip. "You have precisely fifteen minutes to freshen up and change. Meet me in the dining room. Do not be late."

The warmth vanished, replaced by icy fury. Fifteen minutes? After painting for a hour, covered in acrylics? He expected her to shower, change, and present herself like some clockwork doll?

"Seriously?" she whirled to face him, paintbrush clutched like a weapon. "What the hell? I’m not a prisoner on a chain gang! Look at me!" She gestured dramatically at her paint-splattered arms and dress. "This isn’t just sweat, *Choi* San, it’s *paint*. It takes more than fifteen minutes to get this off, let alone find something decent to wear!"

San didn’t raise his voice. He simply met her outburst with that unnerving calm, his gaze level. "Fifteen minutes," he repeated, the words dropping like stones. "The schedule is non-negotiable. Punctuality is the first principle of discipline." His eyes held hers, a silent challenge. *Discipline her as you see fit.*

The deliberate invocation of her father’s words was the final spark. Rage, white-hot and blinding, surged through Y/N. All the frustration, the humiliation, the claustrophobia of the last few hours coalesced into pure, reckless defiance. She shoved past him, her shoulder brushing against the solid wall of his chest. The brief contact sent an unwanted jolt through her, ignored in the storm of her anger.

"Kiss my ass, San," she spat over her shoulder, the venomous green of her manicure flashing as she flipped her hair. She didn’t run; she stalked out of the study with deliberate, furious strides, the sound of her heels echoing like gunshots on the polished floor.

She didn’t go to her room. She went to her en-suite bathroom – a marble cavern of luxury that now felt like a cell. She slammed the door, not bothering to lock it, a petty act of rebellion knowing he probably wouldn’t follow. *Yet.* Stripping off the ruined dress, she stepped into the massive rainforest shower, turning the water as hot as she could bear. Steam billowed, fogging the glass. She scrubbed at the paint with savage intensity, the scalding water mirroring the heat of her anger. Fifteen minutes? She’d take forty-five. Let him stew. Let him learn she wasn’t some automaton to be wound up and set on a schedule.

As the steam curled around her, hiding her from the world, a sliver of doubt pricked through the fury. *Discipline her as you see fit.* What did that *mean* coming from Choi San? What methods did that impassive face, those watchful eyes, conceal? The hot water pounded her skin, but a different kind of chill settled in her bones. She had drawn a line in the sand. The consequences, she knew with a sudden, sinking certainty, would be swift, precise, and utterly unfamiliar. San wasn’t her father, prone to shouting and cutting off funds. San was something else entirely. And she had just dared him to show her exactly what. The luxurious steam suddenly felt like the quiet before a very different kind of storm.

The scalding water had been a baptism in defiance. Y/N stood under the torrent, eyes closed, fists clenched, letting the steam coil around her like armor. *Fifteen minutes?* The thought was a sneer in her mind. She’d deliberately taken her time, luxuriating in the rebellion, scrubbing every speck of paint with agonizing slowness. She’d blow-dried her hair section by meticulous section, applied lotion with deliberate languor. *Let him wait. Let him learn.*

Peering at the ornate clock embedded in the shower tiles, a smirk touched her lips. "Hmm," she murmured aloud to the steam-filled expanse, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "Must be… forty minutes? Definitely more than fifteen." The petty victory tasted sweet, a small reclaiming of control in her gilded cage. Wrapping herself in a thick, Egyptian cotton towel, she pushed open the fogged glass door, stepping onto the cool marble floor of her expansive bathroom suite.

The steam parted like a curtain.

Choi San stood just inside the doorway, silhouetted against the dimmer light of her bedroom beyond. He hadn’t entered the wet area, but his presence filled the space, an iceberg suddenly calved into her tropical lagoon. His arms were crossed over his chest, emphasizing the formidable breadth beneath the black turtleneck. His expression wasn’t angry; it was utterly devoid of warmth, a mask of chillingly controlled displeasure. His dark eyes, sharp as obsidian shards, pinned her where she stood, damp and suddenly vulnerable in nothing but the towel.

"Lady Y/N," his voice cut through the residual steam, low, soft, yet carrying the lethal precision of a scalpel. It wasn’t loud, but it froze the blood in her veins. "Was my warning not clear enough?"

Y/N gasped, a jolt of pure shock ripping through her. Instinctively, she clutched the towel tighter, stumbling back a half-step, her bare feet slipping slightly on the wet marble. "Oh my god! Get out!" she shrieked, humiliation flooding her cheeks crimson. "I’m naked! Have you lost your mind? Get OUT!" Her voice cracked, high-pitched with panic and outrage.

San didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. His gaze remained fixed on her face, utterly ignoring her state of undress as if it were irrelevant. It was the *disregard* that was most terrifying. He took one deliberate step forward, crossing the threshold into the steamy bathroom.

"Clear instructions," he stated, his voice hardening, losing any vestige of softness. "Fifteen minutes. Non-negotiable." Another step. The sheer size of him, the controlled power radiating off him in waves, made the spacious bathroom feel claustrophobic. "You chose defiance."

Before she could scream again, his hand shot out, not roughly, but with unyielding purpose. His large fingers closed around her slender wrist like a steel manacle, cool and impersonal against her damp skin. The contact was electric, shocking in its violation and its absolute lack of hesitation.

"Hey! Let go! You can't—" she yelped, trying to wrench her arm back, but his grip was immovable.

He didn't drag her; he *guided* her with implacable force, pulling her unresisting body past him and out of the humid sanctuary into the cooler air of her vast bedroom. The towel, loosened by her struggles, slipped. She fumbled desperately, managing to keep it clutched to her chest, but the exposure, the sheer violation of the moment, burned hotter than any anger. Tears of rage and humiliation pricked at her eyes.

"Since you decided to ignore my directives and the established schedule," San announced, his tone flat, devoid of inflection, yet carrying the weight of absolute authority, "you forfeit dinner. Immediately."

"No!" The denial ripped from her, primal. The thought of being denied even basic sustenance felt like a new, deeper level of imprisonment. "You can’t just starve me! That’s… that’s abuse!"

San stopped near the foot of her enormous bed. He finally released her wrist, but the space he occupied felt just as confining. He turned fully to face her, his expression carved from stone. "Discipline her as you see fit," he quoted, the words dropping like ice chips. "Your father’s mandate. My interpretation. Starvation implies deprivation beyond necessity. You will not perish from missing one meal. This," he gestured vaguely towards the penthouse, "is consequence."

He held out his hand, palm up. An imperious command. "Your phone. Now."

Y/N stared at his hand, hatred crystallizing in her chest, cold and sharp. It wasn’t just anger anymore; it was a deep, seething loathing for this man, his control, his calm, his intrusion. "No," she whispered, clutching the towel tighter, backing away a step.

"Phone," San repeated, his voice dropping lower, acquiring an edge like ground glass. "Do not make me enforce this further, Lady Y/N. You will not enjoy the alternative."

The threat, delivered with chilling calm, was unmistakable. The image of him effortlessly dragging her naked from the bathroom flashed in her mind. What *was* the alternative? Would he physically search her? Pin her down? The possibilities were terrifying, humiliating. With a trembling hand, fury warring with fear, she snatched her glittering, diamond-encrusted phone from the dressing table nearby and slammed it into his waiting palm. The impact stung her fingers.

"iPad," he demanded, his gaze never leaving hers. "Laptop. Any device capable of communication or entertainment."

Tears of pure, impotent rage blurred her vision as she stomped to her desk, yanked open drawers, and threw the sleek devices at him one by one. He caught them easily, stacking them neatly in his arms, utterly unfazed by her fury.

"Privileges revoked," he stated, the finality in his voice like a tombstone slamming shut. "For twenty-four hours. No communication. No distractions."

He turned towards the door. "Inside," he commanded, nodding towards her bedroom. It was redundant; they were already there, but the word felt like locking her in a cell.

As he walked past her towards the door, he paused. From the inner pocket of his impeccably tailored jacket, he produced a small, unassuming book bound in dark blue cloth. He held it out to her. Not roughly, but with the clinical detachment of a jailer delivering rations.

"Here," he said. "Marcus Aurelius. *Meditations*. A study in self-discipline and acceptance of circumstance. Perhaps you will find it… instructive." The dry understatement was a slap.

She didn’t take it. She glared at him, her eyes burning holes into his impassive face. The hatred was a physical thing now, a coiled serpent in her gut.

San simply placed the book on the edge of her pristine vanity. "Lights out at twenty-two hundred," he stated, his voice returning to its baseline calm, the storm of his displeasure seemingly passed, leaving only the chilling aftermath. "I suggest you use the time productively. Reflection is often beneficial after poor choices."

He walked to the bedroom door, opened it, and stepped into the hallway. Before closing it, he turned back. His dark eyes swept over her, still damp, clutching the towel, trembling with fury and humiliation. There was no pity there. Only assessment. And warning.

"Goodnight, Lady Y/N," he said, the title now a mocking formality. "Do not test me again tonight. The consequences escalate."

The door clicked shut. The subtle sound of the electronic lock engaging echoed in the sudden, suffocating silence.

Y/N stood frozen, the cold marble biting her bare feet. The luxurious room, once her sanctuary, felt alien, hostile. The silence screamed. The absence of her phone, her lifeline to the outside world, was a physical ache. The book on the vanity – *Meditations* – felt like an insult carved in paper.

The hatred bloomed, vast and consuming. Hatred for San’s icy control, his unwavering authority, his violation of her privacy, his casual cruelty in denying her food and connection. Hatred for his imposing presence, his quiet strength that made her feel small and powerless. Hatred for his handsome face that only made his actions feel like a deeper betrayal. Hatred most of all for the terrifying efficiency with which he had dismantled her defiance and imposed his will.

She looked at the closed door, imagining him standing guard on the other side, a silent, immovable sentinel. Her fists clenched so tightly her nails dug into her palms, leaving crescent moons in the soft skin. The towel slipped further, but she barely noticed.

*Choi San.* The name was a curse in her mind. This wasn't just a warden. This was an enemy. And the battle lines, drawn in steam and defiance and confiscated electronics, were now etched in stone. The cold dread of his "escalating consequences" warred with the white-hot furnace of her hatred. The night stretched before her, long and silent and empty, the first true taste of the prison sentence her father had ordained. And the jailer outside her door was utterly, terrifyingly real.

The night was a battlefield. Y/N lay cocooned in absurdly expensive silk sheets, tossing and turning, the plush mattress feeling like a bed of nails. Sleep was a traitor, abandoning her to the relentless replay of the evening’s humiliations: the steam, the towel, San’s implacable grip, the confiscated lifelines, the cold dismissal. Hatred, a seething, venomous thing, coiled in her chest, hotter than any hangover. *How dare he? How dare her father unleash this… this automaton of control?* Plans for revenge, petty and grand, flickered and died in the oppressive darkness, crushed under the weight of his absolute authority. The gilded bars of her cage felt thicker, colder.

As the first pale fingers of dawn crept past the heavy blackout curtains, painting the room in shades of grey, exhaustion finally pulled her under. It was a thin, restless sleep shattered by the soft but decisive click of her door opening.

"Y/N." San's voice, low and devoid of sleep, cut through the fragile silence. "Time to wake up. You have thirty minutes to freshen up, get dressed, and meet me downstairs for breakfast."

She groaned, burying her face deeper into the pillow. Blinking gritty eyes, she forced herself to look towards the doorway. San stood there, not in his usual intimidating black, but in grey sweatpants and a simple white cotton tank top. The change was jarring, almost more unsettling. The tank top revealed arms thick with defined muscle, powerful shoulders, a torso that tapered into lean hips. He looked less like a corporate enforcer and more like a warrior caught off-duty. Her sleep-fogged gaze traveled downwards, lingering for a fraction of a second too long on the prominent bulge straining against the thin grey fabric. *He’s huge.* The unbidden, shocking thought jolted her fully awake, a flush of heat spreading from her neck to her cheeks.

"Do I need to repeat myself?" His voice hardened, the softness gone, replaced by the familiar, stern command. His dark eyes pinned her, noticing her lingering gaze, his expression unreadable.

"N-No," she stammered, scrambling upright, the silk sheets pooling around her waist. "No, sir." The word slipped out, an automatic response to the sheer authority radiating from him.

San’s eyebrow arched, a flicker of something – surprise? amusement? – crossing his impassive features for a nanosecond. "Sir?" he echoed, his voice dropping an octave, almost a purr. "Hmm. I like that." A ghost of a smirk touched his lips before vanishing. "Twenty-nine minutes now."

Mortification warred with the lingering shock. She practically fell out of bed, scrambling for the en-suite, slamming the door behind her. She moved with frantic efficiency, splashing cold water on her face, brushing her teeth with aggressive strokes. Dressing felt like armor: dark plaid mini skirt, white collared polo shirt, a simple black cashmere sweater, minimal jewelry, her trademark thigh high socks and Mary Jane heels- a uniform of status, not style. She descended the marble stairs with exactly thirty seconds to spare, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

San was already seated at the far end of the ridiculously long dining table, the polished surface reflecting the weak morning light. A simple spread was laid before him: steamed rice, grilled fish, kimchi, miso soup. He didn’t look up from the iPad propped beside his plate, his fingers scrolling with precise movements.

"Sit," he commanded without lifting his gaze. "You have thirty minutes to eat breakfast. Then, grab your bag. University: ten-thirty to seventeen-hundred. The faculty," he finally glanced up, his obsidian eyes locking onto hers, "are in direct contact with me. Attendance and participation are monitored. Real-time. I will know if you are not in class, or if your focus wavers." He returned his attention to the screen. "Clock is ticking."

Breakfast was ashes in her mouth. She forced down the food mechanically, the silence punctuated only by the scrape of her chopsticks and the soft tap of his finger on the tablet screen. The weight of his surveillance was suffocating. He wasn’t just a warden; he was a spider at the center of a web, connected to every aspect of her prison. The drive to Seoul National University was equally silent. San navigated the dense Seoul traffic with unnerving calm in the sleek, black Rolls-Royce Phantom, the partition up, isolating her in the cavernous, soundproofed back seat. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His presence was the sentence.

Stepping onto the bustling campus felt like stepping onto an alien planet. The energy – students laughing, rushing to classes, debating in huddles – was jarring, almost painful. Y/N usually thrived here, the center of attention, holding court. Today, she felt like a ghost. Her usual group, the glittering constellation of fellow trust-fund kids and socialites, seemed distant, their loud conversations grating. They waved, called out, but their eyes held questions, maybe even a flicker of judgment about Jeju. She gave tight smiles, mumbled excuses, and hurried past, head down, towards her Comparative Politics lecture.

The lecture hall felt cavernous and cold. Professor Kim’s droning voice about geopolitical frameworks was white noise. Y/N stared blankly at her notes, the words blurring. Her mind was back in the penthouse, replaying San’s grip, his cold pronouncements, the terrifying efficiency of his control. The vibrant life of the campus outside the window felt like a cruel mockery. She was present physically, a puppet fulfilling a schedule, but her spirit was locked away, fuming and helpless. The hours crawled by, each minute a grinding exercise in misery. Lunch in the crowded cafeteria was a solitary affair, picked at without appetite. Whispers seemed to follow her. Was it her imagination, or were people glancing at her phone, then at her? *Did they know? Had news of her digital amputation leaked?* Humiliation burned her ears. No that’s impossible, her father gotten rid of all the evidence.

As she trudged out of her last seminar, Philosophy of Ethics (the irony was not lost on her), dragging her feet towards the main plaza where San would be waiting, a familiar voice cut through her fog of despair.

"Y/N! Hey! Over here!"

Ha-eun, her closest friend since prep school, bounded over, her face a picture of genuine concern. Ha-eun was different – sharp, grounded, studying architecture on actual merit, not just legacy. She wasn’t part of the wild party circuit, a fact Y/N had sometimes mocked but now desperately appreciated.

"Y/N, oh my god!" Ha-eun grabbed her arms, her eyes scanning her face. "Where have you *been*? I’ve been texting, calling… nothing! Are you okay? After Jeju… your dad must be furious? You look… exhausted." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "And kinda… haunted?"

Seeing Ha-eun’s familiar, worried face was like a lifeline thrown into stormy seas. The dam Y/N had been desperately holding back cracked. Tears welled, hot and sudden.

"Ha-eun," she choked out, her voice thick. "It’s… it’s awful. My dad… he’s lost it. He’s got me locked down like a criminal. Cancelled everything. And he’s sent this… this *monster* to watch me. Twenty-four/seven. He dragged me naked out of my bathroom, Ha-eun! He took my phone, my everything! He starves me if I’m late! He’s like a robot, a terrifying, controlling—"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down!" Ha-eun’s eyes widened in horror. "Naked? Starves you? What the hell, Y/N? Who is this guy? That sounds… illegal! Dangerous! You need to—"

The smooth purr of a powerful engine cut Ha-eun off mid-sentence. The sleek, obsidian Rolls-Royce Phantom glided to a silent stop mere feet away on the curb. The rear passenger window slid down soundlessly, revealing San. He wasn’t looking at Y/N. His dark, unreadable gaze was fixed intensely, appraisingly, on Ha-eun. The warmth, the concern on Ha-eun’s face instantly froze under that arctic scrutiny.

Before Y/N could react, San opened the driver's door and stepped out. He moved with the quiet lethality of a predator, instantly dominating the space around them. Students nearby instinctively gave the imposing figure a wide berth.

"Lady Y/N," San stated, his voice devoid of warmth, a formal pronouncement. His eyes never left Ha-eun. "Introduce me to your… companion." It wasn't a request.

"T-This is Ha-eun, my friend," Y/N stammered, panic rising. "San, this is—"

"Ha-eun," San repeated, tasting the name. He took a step closer, looming over the smaller woman. His posture was rigid, his gaze dissecting. "Ha-eun Lee. Architecture. Third year. GPA 3.8. Commendable." His voice was flat, factual, chilling. "Your association with Lady Y/N is noted." He paused, letting the weight of his observation hang. "Let me be unequivocally clear, Miss Lee. The Park family, and specifically the future CEO of Park Global Holdings," he inclined his head minimally towards Y/N, the gesture devoid of respect, "does not have room for distractions. Or," his voice dropped, gaining an edge like honed steel, "bad influences."

Ha-eun paled, taking an involuntary step back. "I… I’m her *friend*," she managed, her voice trembling slightly. "I was just worried about her!"

"Worry is irrelevant," San stated coldly. "Association is a privilege, not a right. Privileges can be revoked. Lady Y/N’s focus is paramount. Her time is allocated. Her associations are vetted." His eyes narrowed fractionally. "Consider this your vetting. Maintain distance. Focus on your commendable GPA. Do not become an obstacle."

Y/N stared, horror-struck, her blood turning to ice. "SAN!" she shrieked, finding her voice, raw with fury and humiliation. "What the HELL is wrong with you? How DARE you talk to her like that? She’s my best friend! She’s not a ‘bad influence’, she’s the only decent person I know! Apologize to her RIGHT NOW!"

San didn’t even glance at her. His focus remained laser-locked on Ha-eun, who looked like she might faint. He gave a single, derisive scoff, a sound of pure contempt. "Sentimentality is a luxury the future CEO cannot afford." He finally turned his head, his obsidian eyes meeting Y/N’s blazing ones. "Your allocated time for socialization is over."

He moved with shocking speed. One large hand clamped onto Y/N’s upper arm, just below the shoulder. His grip wasn't bruising, but it was unbreakable, a steel vise. It propelled her forward with irresistible force.

"Let GO of me!" Y/N screamed, digging her heels in, trying to wrench her arm away. "I’m 20 years old! I’m not a CHILD! You can’t manhandle me like this!" She twisted, trying to appeal to the gathering onlookers. "Help! Someone! He’s kidnapping me!"

But the bystanders only stared, bewildered, intimidated by the sheer presence of the man in the tailored suit dragging the furious heiress towards the gleaming Rolls-Royce. San ignored her struggles and shouts completely. He wrenched open the rear passenger door.

"Inside. Now." The command was a whip-crack.

When she resisted, planting her feet, he simply applied more pressure to the grip on her arm, bending her forward at the waist, and *pushed*. She stumbled, falling gracelessly onto the cool, butter-soft leather of the back seat. Before she could scramble up, San slammed the door shut with a heavy, final *thunk*. The sound of the central locking engaging echoed in the sudden, oppressive silence of the soundproofed cabin.

She lunged for the opposite door handle. Locked. She pounded on the tinted window separating her from the front. "LET ME OUT! SAN! OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR RIGHT NOW!"

He slid smoothly into the driver’s seat, the partition remaining firmly up. He adjusted the rearview mirror, his eyes meeting hers in the reflection – cold, impassive, utterly in control. He started the engine, the powerful machine purring to life with a vibration she felt in her bones.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM?" she screamed, throwing herself against the partition, her voice raw and cracking. Tears of rage, humiliation, and sheer helplessness streamed down her face. "I CAN’T HAVE FRIENDS NOW? IS THAT IT? I HAVE TO BE YOUR PERFECT LITTLE PRISONER WITH NO ONE? HA-EUN ISN’T A BAD INFLUENCE, SHE’S THE ONLY GOOD THING LEFT! YOU MONSTER! YOU CONTROLLING PSYCHO!"

San didn’t react. He didn’t flinch. He simply pulled the car away from the curb, merging seamlessly into the Seoul traffic. His eyes remained fixed on the road ahead, his profile a mask of granite. He didn’t raise the partition to block her out; he let her screams echo uselessly in the luxurious cage, a constant, grating reminder of her powerlessness.

He drove with the same unnerving calm he did everything. The bustling city outside the tinted windows blurred past – a world she could see but not touch, full of people living lives she was barred from. Her fists clenched until her nails bit into her palms, the pain a small counterpoint to the agony of humiliation and the white-hot fury consuming her. She screamed until her throat was raw, pounding the partition until her fists ached, but San remained an impenetrable fortress of silence and control.

The hatred solidified, colder and harder than before. It wasn't just for him anymore. It was for the system he represented, for the father who had unleashed him, for the gilded cage that felt tighter than ever. And as the silent, relentless drive continued, a chilling realization began to pierce through the rage: San hadn’t just been disciplining her. His words to Ha-eun… *‘The future CEO’*. Her father’s words echoed: *‘Discipline her as you see fit.’* Was this just about punishment? Or was it about *molding*? The thought was more terrifying than any physical confinement. They weren’t just locking her up; they were trying to reshape her, break her down, into something cold and efficient… like him. And the ruthless jailer driving the car seemed terrifyingly qualified for the task. The fight felt hopeless, but the fire of defiance, fueled by pure, unadulterated hatred, refused to be extinguished. It banked, waiting.

The silence in the Rolls-Royce after her screaming fit was profound, broken only by the muffled roar of Seoul’s relentless traffic and the frantic hammering of her own heart against her ribs. Y/N slumped against the butter-soft leather, utterly spent. Tears had carved tracks through her meticulously applied foundation, leaving her face a ruined landscape of smudged mascara and flushed skin. Strands of hair clung damply to her temples, escaping the messy knot she’d wrestled it into after her futile struggle. Her knuckles throbbed from pounding the partition. The luxurious cabin, once a symbol of her privilege, now felt like a velvet-lined tomb.

She stared blankly out the heavily tinted window. The city pulsed with life – neon signs flickering on as dusk deepened, crowds flowing along sidewalks, couples laughing, street vendors calling out – a vibrant world she was utterly severed from. San’s implacable silence was a wall. Her protests, her rage, her very existence seemed irrelevant to the man driving with unnerving calm. He was a monolith. Unmovable. Unfeeling.

Exhaustion finally won. The fight drained out of her, leaving behind a hollow ache of humiliation and a chilling sense of powerlessness. She let her head fall back against the headrest with a soft thud, closing her eyes, wishing she could disappear into the leather.

The subtle hum of the partition lowering broke the silence. She didn’t open her eyes.

"If you’re quite finished," San’s voice, cool and devoid of any inflection beyond mild observation, came from the front. She felt his gaze on her through the rearview mirror like a physical touch. "I’d like to grab dinner. I placed an order for takeout earlier."

Before she could muster a scathing retort – *As if I’d eat anything you touched, you controlling freak!* – her traitorous stomach betrayed her. A loud, prolonged growl echoed embarrassingly loud in the quiet cabin.

A low sound, almost imperceptible, rumbled from the front seat. Was that… a chuckle? San cleared his throat. "We’ll be quick. It’s not far from home." His tone held a hint of… something. Not amusement, perhaps, but a weary acknowledgment of the absurdity.

She opened her eyes, glaring at the reflection of his impassive profile in the mirror. "Fine," she spat, the word tasting like ash. Resigned. Defeated. For now.

The Phantom glided to a smooth stop curbside a few minutes later. They were in a chic, upscale district, but tucked discreetly between designer boutiques was a small, unassuming restaurant with a simple, elegant sign: *Bomul Gohyang* (Treasure Homeland). It looked intimate, expensive, and utterly devoid of the paparazzi or familiar faces that usually populated her world. San unbuckled his seatbelt with a decisive click and turned in his seat, his dark eyes meeting hers directly for the first time since the campus.

"I’ll be quick," he stated, his voice firm. "Stay put." He paused, a ghost of that earlier dryness returning. "Not that you have much choice." He tapped the central locking control on his door panel – a soft, definitive *thunk* echoed through the cabin – and exited, closing the driver's door with a solid, expensive sound.

Y/N watched him stride towards the restaurant entrance, his posture straight, movements economical and purposeful. He didn’t look back. The partition remained down, an unusual oversight, perhaps born of the brief errand or a misplaced sense of her current docility.

As soon as he disappeared inside the warmly lit interior, a slow, predatory smirk spread across Y/N’s tear-stained face. The hollow ache vanished, replaced by a surge of adrenaline-fueled defiance. *Fucking idiot.*

Her eyes darted around. The street was relatively quiet, mostly high-end pedestrians focused on their own destinations. The alleyway beside the restaurant yawned dark and inviting. It was her chance. Her *only* chance. The central locking was engaged, but San, in his haste or arrogance, had left the partition down. The driver's compartment was accessible.

Heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, Y/N scrambled over the center console. It was awkward, inelegant, her skirt catching on the polished wood, but desperation lent her agility. She landed heavily in the plush driver’s seat, the unfamiliar scent of leather and San’s faint, clean cologne filling her nostrils. Her fingers fumbled over the unfamiliar controls on the door panel. *Lock symbol… lock symbol…* There! A button depicting a padlock. She jabbed it. Another soft *thunk*. The locks disengaged.

She glanced frantically towards the restaurant door. No sign of him. Taking a deep, shaky breath, she pushed open the driver's door and slid out onto the sidewalk. The cool evening air hit her face, feeling like freedom. Without a backward glance, she darted into the mouth of the dark alley.

The alley was narrow, cluttered with dumpsters and discarded boxes, smelling faintly of damp concrete and garbage. She ran, her heels slapping softly on the wet pavement, adrenaline masking the burn in her lungs. She emerged onto a parallel street, one pulsing with a completely different energy. Neon signs screamed in Korean and English: karaoke bars, neon-lit barbecue joints, flashing game arcades. The sidewalks teemed with young people, office workers letting loose, tourists gawking – a chaotic, vibrant anonymity.

*Perfect.* She pulled the hood of her thin cashmere sweater up over her distinctive hair, tucking stray strands away, and melted into the throng. She kept her head down, walking briskly, putting distance between herself and the Rolls-Royce. Her mind raced. Her father’s reach was vast, San’s resources formidable, but Seoul was a city of twenty-five million souls. A needle in a haystack. She had a few hundred thousand won crumpled in her pocket – emergency cash she always carried. Enough for… what? A cheap motel? A bus ticket out of the city? Somewhere San wouldn’t think to look immediately.

The exhilaration of escape warred with a gnawing fear. Where *could* she go? Who could she trust? Ha-eun… but contacting her would put a target on her friend’s back, and San undoubtedly monitored her known associates. Her usual haunts – the exclusive clubs, the designer hotels – were out of the question. She needed somewhere… off-grid. Somewhere no one would expect Park Y/N to set foot.

Her wandering steps led her away from the main neon drag, down progressively narrower, quieter streets. The buildings grew older, grimmer. Graffiti marred the walls. Flickering fluorescent lights cast long, distorted shadows. The cheerful buzz faded, replaced by an oppressive silence broken only by distant sirens and the occasional shout. This felt like the Seoul her curated life had always shielded her from.

Spying a flickering, cracked neon sign depicting a frothy beer mug down a particularly shadowed side alley, she hesitated. *The Rusty Anchor*. The name screamed dive bar. The smell wafting out – stale beer, cheap tobacco, fried food, and something vaguely sour – confirmed it. It was the antithesis of her world. And therefore, perhaps, the perfect hiding spot. Just for a little while. Just to think.

Pushing open the heavy, scarred wooden door, the smell intensified, almost a physical assault. A cloud of blue-tinged cigarette smoke hung thick in the dimly lit room. The air thrummed with the dull thud of bass from unseen speakers, playing some mournful Korean trot song. Sticky floors, mismatched furniture, and a long bar lined with worn stools. A handful of patrons – men who looked like they’d seen better decades, a couple hunched over a table in intense, low conversation – glanced up as she entered. Their gazes were assessing, lingering a fraction too long on her expensive jeans and the quality of her sweater beneath the hoodie, even in the gloom.

Ignoring the stares, she walked straight to the bar, sliding onto a vacant stool as far from the others as possible. The bartender, a grizzled man with a shaved head and a tattoo snaking up his thick neck, wiped a glass with a dubious-looking rag. He raised a bushy eyebrow.

"What can I get you?" His voice was gravelly.

Y/N met his gaze, trying to project a confidence she didn’t feel. "Your strongest." Her voice came out hoarse, betraying the strain of the day.

A slow, knowing smirk spread across his face, revealing stained teeth. "Rough day, huh?"

She managed a brittle, humorless chuckle. "You don’t know the half of it."

He nodded, seemingly unsurprised, and turned to his bottles. He selected a cheap-looking bourbon, poured a generous measure into a chipped rocks glass, added a single, sad-looking ice cube, and slid it towards her. An Old Fashioned, minus the fashion. "Strong enough," he grunted.

Y/N took a tentative sip. It burned fiercely going down, harsh and medicinal compared to the smooth, aged spirits she was accustomed to. But beneath the burn… something else? A faint, almost chalky aftertaste? She dismissed it. Nerves. Bad booze. She needed the numbness. She took another, larger gulp, the heat spreading through her chest. She glanced around again. The patrons seemed to have lost interest, returning to their drinks or conversations. Just locals in a dive. Not her father's men. Definitely not San.

Sighing, she knocked back the rest of the drink in one go, the harshness making her eyes water. The warmth spread faster now, a comforting fog trying to edge out the fear and fury. "Can I get another one, please?" The words felt slightly thick already.

The bartender smiled, a slow, reptilian stretching of his lips. "Of course." He refilled the glass, just as generously. "On the house for such a… thirsty customer." His eyes held hers for a beat too long.

Gratitude warred with unease. She pushed it down. Free drink. Liquid courage. She grabbed the fresh glass and tilted it back, guzzling the cheap bourbon like water, desperate to drown the reality of her situation. The burn was intense, immediate. But almost instantly, a wave of dizziness crashed over her, far stronger and faster than any alcohol buzz she’d ever experienced. Her vision blurred at the edges. The thudding bass seemed to warp, slowing down and speeding up erratically. Her heart began to hammer, not with fear, but with a strange, frantic arrhythmia.

*No…* Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through the encroaching fog. She didn’t get drunk *this* fast. Not even on cheap rotgut. This was wrong. This was terrifyingly wrong. Her limbs felt suddenly heavy, leaden. She looked down at the empty glass still clutched in her suddenly clumsy fingers. Tilting it towards the dim light over the bar, she peered inside.

There, clinging to the very bottom, almost dissolved but unmistakable, was a faint residue of fine, white powder.

Horror, pure and paralyzing, washed over her. *Roofied.* The word screamed in her mind. The bartender’s smile. The ‘on the house’. The speed of the effect. She’d walked right into it. Stupid, spoiled, sheltered idiot.

She tried to push herself off the stool, to run, but her legs refused to obey. They buckled, sending her crashing back onto the stool, her arms barely catching her weight on the sticky bar top. The room tilted violently. Sounds became distorted, echoing down a long tunnel. The faces of the patrons swam in and out of focus, their expressions morphing from indifference to something predatory, amused.

"Whoa there, sweetheart," a voice slurred nearby, too close. She couldn’t tell who.

She tried to speak, to scream for help, but only a weak gasp escaped her lips. Her vision was tunneling, darkness crowding in from the edges. She fumbled for her purse tucked inside her jacket, maybe her phone… but her fingers were numb sausages.

Then, cutting through the distorted noise, a new voice. Male. Cold. Familiar in a way that sent a fresh jolt of terror through her dissolving consciousness. It came from behind her, somewhere near the door.

"Well, well, well…" the voice drawled, laced with cruel amusement. "Look what the cat dragged into the gutter. If it isn’t the Party Princess Park herself. Slumming it tonight, *agassi*?"

Recognition flickered, a name surfacing through the chemical haze – Minho? One of the spoiled, lesser chaebol heirs she’d publicly humiliated at a club months ago? Or Jaehyun, whose advances she’d spurned with cutting mockery? It didn’t matter. The malice was palpable.

She tried to turn her head, to see, but her neck muscles were useless. The world spun. "W-what?" she managed to slur, the word thick and unintelligible.

The last thing she registered before the darkness swallowed her whole was the bartender’s stained grin widening, and the chilling sound of multiple footsteps moving towards her, converging in the gloom. Then, nothing.

**Back at the Curb:**

San emerged from *Bomul Gohyang* carrying two large, fragrant paper bags. The rich aromas of braised short ribs and spicy seafood stew momentarily cut through the city smells. He approached the Phantom, his senses immediately prickling. The blackout windows revealed nothing, but the atmosphere felt… wrong. Empty. Still.

He pressed the unlock button on the key fob and pulled open the rear passenger door. The empty expanse of leather seats yawned back at him. The food bags hit the sidewalk with a soft thud.

A low, guttural curse escaped his lips, a rare crack in his controlled facade. "*This damn woman.*" Fury, cold and sharp, warred with a surge of professional alarm. He slammed the rear door shut, locked the car again with a decisive beep, and turned, his eyes scanning the bustling street with predatory intensity. The alley. She’d gone into the alley. Of course she had.

He didn’t run. He moved with lethal purpose, a shark cutting through water, his gaze sweeping the shadows, the doorways, the faces of passersby. Every instinct screamed *danger*. Not just the danger of her escaping his control, but the far more immediate peril of a spoiled, recognizable heiress with limited cash and zero street sense vanishing into Seoul’s underbelly. His mind raced through possibilities, probabilities, the network of eyes he *could* activate, but time was the enemy now.

**The Dive Bar - Moments Earlier:**

The bartender watched the expensive-looking girl slump forward, her head hitting the sticky bar top with a soft thud. He nodded curtly to the three men who had materialized from the gloom near the pool table. One of them, a lean figure with sharp, predatory features , as Y/N’s fading consciousness had vaguely registered – sauntered over, a cruel smirk playing on his lips.

"Tidy work, old man," the man said, tossing a wad of cash onto the bar. It landed beside Y/N’s unconscious head. "Told you she’d be desperate enough to wander somewhere stupid."

"Just hold up your end," the bartender grunted, pocketing the money without counting it. "She disappears. Permanently. No traces back here."

His smirk widened. "Oh, she’ll disappear. After she pays for Seonghwa’s every fucking insult." He gestured to his two companions, burly men with blank faces. "Get her in the van. Out the back. Now."

One of the men effortlessly hoisted Y/N’s limp form over his shoulder like a sack of rice. Her hood fell back, revealing her pale, slack face. The other man scanned the bar; the few remaining patrons quickly found their drinks utterly fascinating, looking anywhere but at the scene.

As they carried her towards a battered metal door marked ‘Staff Only’ at the back of the bar, he paused, looking down at her. "Sleep tight, Princess," he whispered, his voice dripping with venomous promise. "The party’s just getting started. And it’s gonna be *dark*."

The metal door clanged shut behind them, sealing Y/N into a terrifying unknown, her escape attempt ending not in freedom, but in a trap far more dangerous than the gilded cage she’d fled. The Rusty Anchor returned to its dull thrum, the only evidence of her passage the faint smear of expensive foundation on the sticky bar top and the lingering scent of fear beneath the stale beer and cigarettes. San’s hunt had just become infinitely more urgent, and infinitely more grim.

[jiniretbabii]

Guys please if you can share and or donate!

Hey guys! I have a friend with two adorable cats and we need some help. The cats are showing signs of health issues and need to go to the vet ASAP, but my friend needs help getting the money to pay for the visit. Please donate or spread the word, however you can, that would mean a lot to us! Their cashapp and venmo are @/Selenitesinclair

[jiniretbabii]

HEEEEY ALL! Sorry I have been MIA lately. Little backstory I’m an airline pilot so when I’m not on here working on my fics I’m flying across the world. SPLIT, Money Talks and Downtown will be in the works! Money Talks Part 3/4 will be updated tonight at 23:00 PST!!!

[jiniretbabii]

OMG I WISHED PEOPLE FUCKING REALIZED THIS!!!!!!

So I have read several people complaining that they can't be expected to know the "unwritten rules" of fandom. So here's what I wish people knew:

Fanfiction is fiction.

Fictional people are not real.

Fictional people do not have rights.

Fictional people cannot be abused.

Reading or writing about something does not mean the desire to do or support it in the real world.

If I find art upsetting/triggering/disgusting/outraging/unpleasant/squicky/distressing/offensive, it is on me not to read it, not the creators and hosts to remove it.

Curate your own experience. The back buttons exist for a reason.

If you don't trust yourself to do that, get someone you trust to do it for you.

Fandom is an adult space. Adults create and own and host fandom spaces. If minors want to participate, then the onus is on them and their parents/guardians/trusted adults to ensure they participate appropriately, not on strange adults to stop being adults.

You often don't know the assault status or mental health status or neurotype or race or nationality or religion or gender or sexuality or age of a creator or consumer, and they do not have to disclose to you to justify their fantasy.

AO3 is not a safe space. It is not intended to be a safe space. Proceed accordingly.

Just because you don't like something or find it offensive doesn't mean it is a "problem" that "has to be dealt with".

Most characters in anime are not white.

There is no onus on you to reblog or share anything.

Everyone makes mistakes in fandom and is less than their best self sometimes.

Persistent pseudonyms encourage long term relationships.

Ship wars are stupid.

Someone else enjoying things does not impact on your own enjoyment of other things.

Tagging and warning is a courtesy, not a requirement. Assume any fic might contain untagged content.

Rating is an imprecise art, not a science.

Don't hassle IP creators.

Most people who are in fandom are hoping to make connections based on a shared passion.

Trying to profit from transformative fanworks puts us all at risk.

No one is obligated to share your head canon or fanon.

Being kind rarely fails to pay off.

It is okay to block and remove people who make your experience unpleasant. You don't have to placate them. (Learn from my mistakes).

Britpicking is a good thing.

You don't have to justify why you like a canon/pairing/trope/kink. Sometimes navel gazing is fun, but you don't have an obligation to explain yourself, especially to strangers. I share the overwhelming desire to refute an unfair accusation, but the people accusing you are rarely doing so in good faith, so you're batting a losing wicket.

I'm not your Mum. (Well, okay, a very few of you can call me Mum or Mom, but if you are one of them you already know who you are ❤️)

If you aren't mature enough to take responsibility for your online experiences, you aren't mature enough to be in fandom spaces.

[jiniretbabii]

Let’s support Bom! She’s incredible! She deserves to see Ateez!!!!!

Even if it was a joke the getting money for writing fics actually isn’t a bad idea!!😭😭 A lot of authors on here have Patreon and it wouldn’t hurt to set one up🤷‍♀️ Your work is defo good enough to pay for!!!!

You've convinced me. If anyone wants a personalized text fic, drabble, or full fic from me feel free to request here :). Or you can simply donate which is ABSOLUTELY appreciated!

Want a super freaky bunny hybrid Hwa fic with your name? A frat boy Sangi smut? Or a cute poly Ateez boyfriend text-fic? Request it here and I'll get it done in a timely manner!

[jiniretbabii]

I will allow this man to do unspeakable things to me… I do not care…

Something about Seonghwa in a fitted shirt makes me want to jump on his cock icl 💕

Imagine how pretty he would be with his hair all sweaty and messy, looking up at you while you ride his dick :(( all pouty and messy, his shirt still on and just enough buttons open to play with his pretty nipples 💔

somebody put me in a cage i shouldnt be allowed on the internet

[jiniretbabii]

Spend the Night:

Hongjoong x F. Manager Reader

MDNI (This ain’t for yall)

Warning ⚠️: SMUT

Oral (f. Receiving), fingering (f. Receiving) unprotected sex (use a condom plz)

Friends to lovers

The hum of the airplane's engines droned softly in the background, lulling passengers into a calm stupor. Y/N sat next to Hongjoong, the leader of Ateez, who had succumbed to sleep beside her, his head gently resting on her shoulder. She cast a glance at him, marveling at his peaceful expression. Hongjoong, her hyung by ten days, still radiated an aura of charm even in slumber. Wrapped in a cozy sweatshirt, he looked so unguarded, and her lips curled into a fond chuckle at the sight.

She couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy at how effortlessly he could seem comfortable, especially when she was squeezed into a tight pencil skirt and an elegant silk blouse that seemed to restrict her every movement. Adjusting her position delicately so as not to disturb him, she felt the constriction of her garter belt against her skin and cursed her choice of attire. The discomfort served as a constant reminder of her role: managing the hectic lives of eight energetic idols was a demanding job, but somehow, all her irritation faded when she looked at Hongjoong, an unwavering pillar of support for their group.

Eventually, the airplane touched down at Charles de Gaulle Airport, and with it came a flurry of excitement M streams and activity. The anticipation in Paris held an intoxicating allure, and Y/N rallied her focus, knowing they had an exciting itinerary awaiting them—the prestigious Paris Fashion Week.

Once they stepped through the arrivals gate, the excitement was palpable. They were greeted warmly by the Balmain team, who embraced Hongjoong with cheerful acknowledgment. “Hongjoong! It’s a pleasure to work with you again!” a team member exclaimed as they shared a hearty handshake and a brief hug.

“Thanks! Always great to see you,” Hongjoong replied, a sparkle of enthusiasm lighting up his eyes. As they turned to Y/N, she extended her hand professionally. “I’m Y/N L/N, the manager of Ateez. I’m here to accompany Hongjoong for this engagement if that’s alright.”

The Balmain team’s eyes widened, clearly taken aback. After a series of approving looks, one stylist spoke up, in awe of her breathtaking beauty, “You look like a model! No- a goddess. You’re far too beautiful and well put together for this chaos of a man.” The playful jab drew amused chuckles from the group, and a blush crept across Hongjoong’s cheeks, flustering him. Secretly, he appreciated the compliment directed toward Y/N. She was indeed striking—her poised elegance completely captivating.

As they ventured into the design studio, a vibrant blend of fabric samples and creative sketches surrounded them. Hongjoong was led to a dressing area while Y/N settled into a corner, bringing up her schedule on her iPad. Absorbed in her work, her brow slightly furrowed, and from his perch, Hongjoong couldn’t tear his gaze away. A stylist noticed him staring and leaned in with a knowing grin. “You like her, don’t you?”

Embarrassed but unable to deny the truth, he mumbled, “She’s amazing. She deals with so much for the group. She’s one real backbone of Ateez.”

The stylist chuckled knowingly. “I see that look on your face—someone’s definitely smitten. You do know this is the city of love, right? Why not tell her how you feel?”

Hongjoong shook his head with newfound determination. “No, it’s not that simple. She’s my manager. I don’t want to complicate things. It must stay professional.”

“Love blossoms in all situations,” the stylist insisted, a teasing lilt in their voice, leaving Hongjoong in thought while the fitting began.

As the team worked on styling Hongjoong in a stunning charcoal suit that accentuated his figure, blonde hair slicked back and face framed with large oversized glasses. Y/N set aside her iPad, her eyes lighting up at the sight of him. “You look incredible, Hongjoong,” she praised, her tone genuine.

Blushing, he replied, “Honestly, I have to admit I don’t look nearly as good as you do.” His tone slightly deepened.

The room was then filled with soft awes and giggles.

Her heart raced, a warmth blooming in her chest at his compliment. She felt herself blush, feeling momentarily flustered under his tender gaze.

The hours slipped away, and soon they found themselves seated for an extravagant dinner with the Balmain team. Y/N felt the buzz of the atmosphere around her, a symphony of laughter and clinking glasses. However, Hongjoong’s mesmerizing gaze was focused solely on her. She stirred her food absentmindedly, while he mentally savored the moment—he craved more than just the sumptuous meal laid out before him; he craved her.

After dinner, they made their way to the luxury hotel in central Paris. The lobby sprawled elegantly before them, ornate chandeliers casting a soft glow over polished marble floors. As they approached the front desk, Y/N felt a sense of apprehension. “We have two suites reserved.”

The clerk hesitated, tapping furiously at the keyboard. “Actually, it appears one of your rooms has been double booked… however, we’ve upgraded you both to our grand suite.”

Y/N frowned, a micro-level of irritation rising. “If you’d please check again, that isn’t acceptable; I can’t share a room…”

Hongjoong could sense her annoyance and gently placed a hand on her shoulder, leaning closer. “Hey, it’s okay, Y/N. It’s not like the members are with us. We can handle this.” Despite his calming presence, she still pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration, but she ultimately nodded. “Alright, fine.”

The receptionist handed Y/N the key to their suite, her expression apologetic. “Welcome to Paris!”

Once they entered the grand suite, Y/N’s annoyance dissolved into awe. The room overflowed with elegance; roses adorned every surface, gifts neatly arranged for Hongjoong. But as she scanned the space for her luggage, she quickly found her frustration rising once more. “I don’t see my things.”

A quick contact to the front desk confirmed the unfortunate truth: her luggage had been misdirected. Slumping onto the edge of the king-sized bed, she let out a long sigh of exasperation, “fucking hell.” She groaned.

“What’s wrong?”

“They misplaced my luggage at the airport and contacted the hotel that it arrive tomorrow.” Her deep voice laced with irritation.

Hongjoong, concerned by her demeanor, walked over to her, his voice soft as he asked, “Hey, if you want, I have spare pajamas you can wear for tonight.”

His offer surprised her. “You have pajamas?” she questioned, raising an eyebrow playfully.

“Yeah! Just a pair—I always keep one handy in case of emergencies,” he admitted with a sheepish grin.

“Very resourceful,” she retorted, the corners of her mouth curling upward. “But I can’t just wear your pajamas around. That’s….” She faltered, her heart racing at the thought of being so close to him. “That’s just not professional.”

He stepped closer, his expression earnest. “Y/N, it’s just us. Besides, it’s okay to not be professional if I see you like this. You deserve to relax. And I promise I won’t peek.”

Caught off guard by his sincerity, she felt her resolve crumbling. Hongjoong’s gaze held a warmth that felt both inviting and electric. “Okay, just for tonight,” she finally agreed, a hint of a reluctance playing on her voice.

“Perfect,” he replied, relief flooding through his veins. “While you change I’ll go shower.”

She heard the shower start, she peaked making sure he wasn’t around. She felt as if the coast was clear. She began to undress, despite working so close to Hongjoong, this seemed too intimate for her. Trying to compose herself, she began to unbutton her silk blouse. Slowly sliding the delicate fabric down her arms revealing her black see through lacy bra that held her large, round breast. Unzipping her right pencil skirt, allowing the skirt to fall to the floor.

A sigh of relief escaped her lips. Standing in her expensive matching lingerie and tall red bottom heels, she could feel eyes on her. She turns to see Hongjoong, looking at her, a gaze she can’t read. His eyes looked almost predatory.

Sitting at the table sipping wine, legs crossed in a white bathrobe. He watches her every move. Her heart began to race.

‘How long was he watching?’ She ask herself.

“I-I thought you were showering?” She asked face blushing.

Setting the wine glass down. He walks over to her. Circling her, taking in her beauty. Her body was as if it was sculpted by Aphrodite herself.

She stiffened as he came even closer. Her breath hitched, caught in her throat.

Slowly Hongjoong wraps his arms around her waist, their eyes locked into a gaze. His hands moved to her back. Fingers ghosting up her spine, sending her chills. His hands gently unhooks her garter belt.

“I know how much you hate wearing those things.” He whispers in her ear. “Such a nuisance, like you always say.”

He’s not wrong, she always complained about wearing garter belts but refuses to wear pantyhose.

Dropping to his knees, he unhooks the stockings from the garter, eyes never breaking from hers.

“What are you doing, Hongjoong…” her voice barely above a whisper.

“Taking care of you, baby.”

Her eyes widened at the sudden nickname. Face burning from the intimate situation.

“You look—,” he paused, searching for words, “so sexy like this.”

Her cheeks flushed at the compliment, and she shuffled a bit awkwardly. “This-we shouldn’t be like this.”

He chuckled, his eyes blown with lust and desire. “But here we are.”

In a panic, she rushed over to the bedside going towards the phone.

“H-Hongjoong I’ll see if they have another room,” she replied, her heart pounding through her chest. Attempting to reach for the phone beside the large bed, he gently takes her hand, placing the phone back on the hook, the other wrapped around her waist. Their bodies pressed together. “Baby, I can’t allow you to do that.” He whispered in her ear.

The atmosphere in the suite was thick, tense. Through the thick white bathrobe, she could feel something thick and hard pressing on her ass.

“Hongjoong, please. What’s gotten into you?” She gasped as she felt his free hand trace up her stomach, his lips brushing against her neck.

“I wish you’d stop being so fucking oblivious.” Turning her around so their eyes can meet again. His face was unreadable.

Pushing her against the bed, her arms pressing against the plush mattress for leverage. Slowly she crawled back. She felt so exposed, so confused.

“I been in love with you the second I saw you.” He said as he began to crawl upon the bed to be closer to her.

She fell backwards upon the mattress, soon she was being hovered over by her boss.

Taken aback by his words, a wave of emotions washed over her. “What?” She replied in shock.

“For someone so intelligent, you’re incredibly stupid when it comes to reading feelings.” He teased.

She turned her head in embarrassment. She thought back to all this time, the signs were all written in bold letters for years. She thought it was just admiration. She didn’t realize her Hongjoong was in love with her.

“The way you carry yourself, how you devote your time to us, the little things you do to make this idol life easier to bare, the way you take time for us. The sacrifices you make, it makes me want you so fucking bad.” He grips her face, making her look at him.

“Those tight ass skirts and dresses you wear, how your big round ass looks. It makes me want to take you right then and there… EVERY. FUCKING. TIME.”

She looks in his eyes, her mind flooding. She feels herself getting wet from the confession.

“Hongjoong please this isn’t professional.”

He scoffed, “we’re far past professional baby. The way you’re looking at me, you in this lingerie- did you plan this?”

“NO!” She protested as she poorly attempted to get up to only be pushed back down by his small yet strong palm.

Pinning her hands above her head with one hand , he chuckles, “I’m only teasing. I know you’re not the type to do this.”

“The nights I lay in bed thinking of how you’d look and sound under me as I make you mine,” he began to slowly grind himself against her clothed core. “thinking all the ways I would make you cum, how you’ll sound moaning my name.”

“H-Hongjoong!” She gasped and the friction began to lightly brush against her clit.

He looks down and sees a wet spot forming between her clothed heat.

“Tonight don’t worry about being professional and being Ateez’s manager. Tonight it’s my turn to make care of you.”

His dainty fingers began to ghost between her clothed core. Pressing lightly on her hardened bud. She tossed her back at the sensation.

Slowly he worked his fingers through her lace panties. He could feel how wet she grew.

“Fuck you’re getting so wet, tell me, have you fantasized about this?” He moaned at the wetness coating his fingers.

“I try not to.” She confessed.

“Tell me more, what do you think about?” He demanded, his body heating up.

Y/N now vulnerable, she had to confess her sins, “many times when it’s just us in the studio while you work I think of those songs you write, the more intimate ones and I think who are those about. Sometimes wishing it was about me. Those long nights when it’s just us and we are resting. Those peaceful nights without dealing with Wooyoung and his tantrums.” She chuckled.

Hongjoong pulled his fingers away, she whined at the instantly halt. “Don’t mention any of the members. I just want to hear about me.”

“I’m sorry.” She whined.

He smirked, pleased with her expression, “good girl. This is about me, about us.” Pulling her thong to the side, he pushed in one finger.

“OH!” Her back arched off the bed, her mouth slightly open.

“How many times have you thought about you and I, like this?”

“I can’t count the amount of times.”

“Guess baby girl.”

“Hundreds.”

Pleased with her answer he slid a second finger, pumping into her tight, drooling hole.

“Fuck you’re so tight, so wet for me.”

“F-fuck! H-HONGJOONG!” His length throbbed at the sound of his name escaping her lips so lewdly.

Without hesitation, he pulls his fingers out, yanks off her panties. The cold air hitting her bare exposed pussy caused her to shiver.

Seconds later he dives his head in between her thick plump thighs. His wet tongue devouring her cunt.

The feeling was too much to handle. The suite was filled with her moans and pants. “Oh. My. God!” She cried out. She locks eyes with Hongjoong. His pupils blown with ecstasy. He hummed in satisfaction, knowing he’s the one tasting her sweet juices, that he’s the one making her feel this goddamn good.

As his tongue swirls and sucks her bundle of nerves, he places two fingers back inside, pumping into her wetness faster.

The moans turned into screams. Y/N felt a knot tightening in her stomach.

Her legs began to tremble from the stimulation. Hongjoong began to feel his fingers being clamped, damn near crushed by her tight squeezing pussy.

She’s close. She’s so fucking close.

Oh it made him harder than he already was.

He works his tongue and fingers faster as he began to grind himself into the mattress, desperate for friction. Groaning into her pussy, he refuses to stop, “HONGJOONG I-I’m going to!”

That’s all the confirmation he needed.

He goes even faster, making her see stars. Knocking the sound from her. The sound of her gushing pussy more sweet nectar was better than any music he’s ever heard.

Her eyes rolled back, palms fisting the white sheets under her. “KIM HONGJOONG! IM CUMMING! I-BABY PLEASE! IM FUCKING CUMMING!” She screamed, her usually deep velvet voice now many octaves higher.

Her body convulsed as her orgasm washed over. He pulls away from her now drenched core, face and fingers coated in her sweet, creamy juices.

Looking down at his most precious work. He looks at her fucked out state.

“Im far from done with you baby. I’m going to make love to you all fucking night.”

Ripped off her delicate lace bra, throwing off his robe, she looks down to see his aching reddened tip. His heavy cock standing straight up, pressing against his lower abdomen.

He’s a lot bigger than she imagined. Her eyes widened.

He smirked at her expression.

“You like what you’re seeing?”

“Yes…” her voice trailed off.

“It’s all yours baby. I’m all yours.”

He laid on top of her. His lips met her plump lips.

Passionately kissing, he pushed his tongue in her mouth. She openly allowed him. His hands roamed and felt her large breast,

“You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this.” He hushed against her lips.

Her hands reached around and began to caress his back. “Hongjoong.” Was all she could say.

“Can I put it inside?”

Franticly nodding her head, desperate for him as he was for her, “please fuck me.”

In one swift movement, he was buried deep inside her. The stretch stung but it felt so good. She was so full. His tip pressing against her cervix.

Gasping in unison, they stayed still. He allowed her to adjust to his size. “f-fuck you’re so tight, so warm.” He could cum just from feeling her alone.

She slightly moved her hips up for any form of friction.

He giggled, “desperate aren’t we?”

Desperate she was. “Stop fucking teasing me already. Just fuck me!” She begged.

My god he loved this side of her. She was begging for his cock. Was this reality?

“Anything for you baby.” He placed his palm on her cheek as his other hand gripped her right thigh, raising it to his hip, he wanted, no needed to go deep.

Slamming his cock deep inside her. A yelp escaped her mouth. Her head laid back, gasped for air as he mercilessly drilled inside her.

“FUCK!” She cried out in pleasure. Her nails digging into his back.

He loved the pain of it. He wanted her to mark every inch of him. Making her claim her territory.

“mmm baby, you feel so fucking good. Your pussy is made for me. You’re made for me!” He groaned. Her wet pussy kept sucking him back in.

The sound of juices squelching, skin slapping, moans and pleas harmonized an erotic melody.

“Hongjoong!”

“Yes baby?”

“P-please! Kiss me!”

His lips smashed onto hers. The tempo increasing. Her nails dragged harsher into his skin. “AUGH! FUCK, YES KEEP DOING THAT BABY GIRL! MARK ME! Make me your property!”

Those words did something to her, it made her wetter than before. Hongjoong felt her pussy becoming even more juicy, so sloppy. “Mmm, keep getting wetter for me.”

The sensation was so much. His cock so deep, abusing her cervix also brushing against that sweet spot.

That knot feeling came back. Her eyes rolling back. She knew she was close.

“Baby, I’m so close!” She cried out. Hongjoong felt her walls squeezing his length.

“Y/N… I… I LOVE YOU!” He shouted feeling himself getting close also.

Her eyes widened. “H-hongjoong.”

He was a babbling mess, “please, I love you, I love you, I love you! I need to cum!”

Her heart raced, she realized she also loved him. After all these years, she was with the man she wanted.

“Kim Hongjoong, I love you!” She moaned out, she felt her body beginning to tremble, her orgasm approaching.

Tears began to weld in her eyes. Hongjoong placing his hand on her cheek. “Baby…”

“I fucking love you Hongjoong! Please! I’m so close!”

“I love you y/n…”

“CUM INSIDE OF ME!” She gasped out feeling her orgasm crashing.

Getting on his knees, taking her thighs in his hands, he began to brutally pound into her pussy. Her juices squirting out of her, walls gripping his cock, body trembling, words completely incomprehensible.

Hongjoong felt his cock throbbing, his face flushed, jaw slacked. “I-IM CUMMING BABY!”

Her insides felt so warm as she was being filled with Hongjoong’s cum. Her pink fleshy walls now decorated white.

He immediately collapsed onto her. His length now softening inside her.

“Do you mean that?” He asked, panting. Slowly he pulled out, soft moans escaping each other’s lips. Laying beside her, he caressed her body. Trying to come down from her orgasm. She looked into his eyes, dazed. “Yes,” she weakly placed her hands upon his hot cheek. “I love you.”

“Please be mine.”

“I thought I was?”

He chuckled. “You’re mine Y/N.”

“I’m yours, Kim Hongjoong.”

She looks down to see he’s hard again. Her eyes grew larger. He noticed her shock.

Pressing his lips against her ear…

“I did say all night…”

[jiniretbabii]

Welcome to New World Net!

Greetings, we are a multifandom kpop writing network. Thank for you choosing us for your writing journey, we hope to see you with us! With boy groups and girl groups alike, we welcome each and every piece of work you create. With an 18+ environment, let your thoughts run free here.

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[jiniretbabii]

Deserve It: San x Fem! Reader

Pairing: San x Female! Reader (She/her pronouns, little description of body)

Word Count: A little under 1.7K

Genre: Light angst, fluff

TW: reader has a period and light period cramps, backaches, kinda of allusions to depression? Reader is just Not Having it today and doesn't want to Life at the moment. She still pulls through like the strong badass you- I mean she is. Food mention, San makes reader eat a little bit even though she doesn't feel like it, sleep mention. Could be seen as a little suggestive if you squint really hard but mostly it's just pure fluff. San calls reader "princess", "pretty girl," "strong girl", "my love," "baby", "beautiful" San lifts and carries her everywhere because she deserves it.

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Let me know if I forgot a tag! Hope you enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It felt like a bad day. 

It really wasn’t, objectively. Nothing had happened to make it a “bad” day, but it never felt like a good day. 

From the start of the day, she woke up exhausted, and the dull pain in her lower abdomen made her groan. Furthermore, the coolness of her bed and the lack of the familiar pressure of an arm around her waist told her that her boyfriend, whom she distinctly remembered falling asleep with, had already been up and moving for a while. And when she opened her eyes, sure enough, they landed on a small piece of paper folded into a tent on her bedside table.

Early schedule, didn’t want to wake you. I’ll be home for dinner, my love. I hope you have a good day~!

With love, Your Sannie

He had even signed the note with a little heart, and the sight brought a small smile to her face. But as she continued to wake, the pain in her abdomen reminded her of its presence, and her head fell back on the pillow with a groan.

This was not a day where she wanted to be active and productive. She would have much rather spent the day curled up in bed with copious amounts of warm drinks. Like hot cocoa for one. San always made it when she started her period. He had read that caffeine made cramps worse, so every time he saw any caffeinated beverage in her hand, he would gently whisk away the cup and return with a warm mug of hot chocolate, made just the way she liked it. 

But instead of resting in bed with hot chocolate and her boyfriend, who had abandoned her to the cruel world without his morning hour of cuddles before they both had to get up for the day, she was forced to be a responsible, productive adult.

Ugh.

The hours of the day of work, classes, and homework passed with a speed that somehow dragged each and every hour along as much as it hurried, and before she knew it, she was back at the front door of her dwelling, grateful that the day was finally over. 

She pushed open her door with a heavy sigh, dropping her bag on the bench beside the front door, and kicked off her shoes. Normally she would put them neatly beside the door, and would get onto San if he just barged in and threw them about, but tonight she just could not be bothered. They could wait until she regained the strength to be a person. For now, she was determined to become an actual, literal couch potato.

Only one thing was standing in her way of fulfilling that goal, and that was her boyfriend, who had come home at some point during the day and made himself comfortable right on the spot she was going to claim.

She would have cried from frustration if she wasn’t also relieved to see him. A full day of forcing herself to be the baseline of a productive human being tired her out, and now, more than the desire to become one with her couch, was the desire to be wrapped in the strong arms of the love of her life. 

He laid sprawled on his back across the couch, long legs kicked out like he owned the couch (he did - he bought it for her) dressed in his most comfortable pair of sweatpants and a large, oversized sweater. His eyes, which had been previously transfixed on the phone in his hands as he laid there, doom scrolling, flitted over to her, and she could see the excitement shining in them as they followed her approaching form.

“Hey, princess.” He greeted her with a soft smile filled with love. His adoration for her washed over her, and in an instant, tears sprang to her eyes, forcing a small pout to form on her lips. As soon as he saw the tears and the frown present on his love’s face, concern immediately flooded his features. “Are you okay?”

She responded with a low whine that turned into a grumble and plopped herself unceremoniously onto his chest. He let out a small huff as the air was forced out of his lungs, and he immediately discarded his phone to the side as she quickly made herself comfortable on top of him. Her legs straddled his waist and her arms curled around his body, nose burying itself firmly in the side of his neck, where she immediately took a deep break of her boyfriend’s comforting scent. She could faintly smell the cologne he must have put on at his event that day, still clinging to him all these hours later. 

“Aww, princess.” He murmured, his hands stroking up and down her back as she melted into his body. “Bad day?”

“Yeah.” She sniffed. “No. Not really. Just an off day.”

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah… I want cuddles.”

“I can give you cuddles.” He smiled softly, arms readjusting so they could wrap around her and pull her closer into him. With each breath she took, he could feel the tension in her body slowly melting away, and he was secretly proud.

She was always a strong person, even when she didn’t feel like it. Sometimes it just struck him how she could still keep going, despite everything that she does. He admired her strength, and used it as inspiration, but he couldn’t lie that he treasured the times she was vulnerable with her. She didn’t have to be the strong person she was with him. She could lean on him to be her strength sometimes, and he relished in every opportunity to provide her the same comfort that she would give him in a heartbeat.

“Have you eaten, baby?” He hummed after a few minutes.

“No… I haven’t eaten.” She mumbled against his neck.

“Well, that’s no good. I gotta get some food in my baby.” He chuckled.

“ I don’t really wanna.” 

“No?” He asked.

“Nooooo.” She responded in a petulant whine. “I put in the bare minimum today even when I didn’t want to. I deserve some cuddles.”

“You do, baby.” He soothed, hands pressing and rubbing circles up and down her back and along her sides. “My lovely girl, you deserve all the love for being so strong today. But you need to eat, and give your body fuel.”

“But then I’d have to get up.” She protested.

“I’ll carry you.” He countered. 

She pulled her face out of his neck to give him a strong pout, to which he chuckled and promptly kissed.

“I promise you’ll thank me when you’re not waking up in the middle of the night to go snack because you skipped dinner and were starving.” He hummed. “Up we get.”

She huffed a sigh. “Uggggghhhhh, fineeeeee.” With a massive, petulant groan, she summoned all her strength to unwind her arms from around San and push herself up. He gave a hum, and in a quick movement, pushed himself up into a sitting position, arms up to catch her as she fell back into his chest with a startled yelp. This gave him the opportunity to swing his legs around and off the couch, and with a firm grip, he hoisted himself and his girlfriend off of the couch. In the move up, her legs instinctively twined around his waist, and his hands gripped her thighs for stability.

“San!” she gasped.

“What?” He questioned. 

“Put me down!” She slapped his shoulder gently, “I can walk on my own two legs!”

He snorted out a laugh at that. “Nah. I said I’d carry you, and I’m gonna carry you. Let me have this.”

Her lips twisted in a fake pout, but she didn’t protest, and he carried her into the kitchen, setting her down onto the counter before moving to the fridge. He didn’t want to deprive her of any more cuddles, so he warmed up a bowl of leftovers from a previous dinner and pressed it into her hands.

“Eat.”

She did so without a word. As she chewed her food, she watched him bustle around the kitchen, doing what dishes were left over from breakfast this morning and sneaking in kisses to her hands or cheeks every opportunity he got. When she finished her food, he took the bowl from her hands, washed it, and placed it in the dishwasher.

“Come on, princess.” He hummed, making his way to her so he could scoop her up once more. “Let’s get you changed, and we can have all the cuddles you want.” 

“Could you massage my lower back?” She mumbled into his shoulder as he walked, legs swaying back and forth. “It’s been hurting all day.”

“Of course, baby. It is about that time of the month for you.” He promised.

Once in the bedroom, he deposited her onto their bed and fished out a pair of comfortable pajamas, helping her change into them, before slipping into the bed beside her. Once under the covers, he opened his arms to her. She wriggled into them and sighed as her body molded to fit into his shape, just like she belonged there. His hands made their way to her lower back and his thumbs dug in, massaging away the pain. He could feel the relief in her body as she released a happy sigh into his shoulder, body releasing the pent-up tension it had been holding onto all day.

“My pretty girl.” He murmured, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “My beautiful, strong girl. You did so well today.”

She mumbled something into his shoulder.

“Hm?”

Her head lifted a bit. “I barely put in the bare minimum today… I don’t know why but today was just not it for me. I wanted it over as soon as I woke up.”

“I know, princess.” He sighed. “But you still picked yourself up and got out of bed and still got through it. My wonderful, strong girl. Get some sleep, okay? We can cuddle all morning until we have to get up, like we usually do.”

“I’d like that.” She mumbled, mouth already muffled by the fabric of his sweater. “I missed you this morning.”

“I missed you too, princess.” He smiled. “Now, sleep.”

And as she slowly fell deeper and deeper into slumber, the last thought she remembered was that even if it hadn’t been an objectively “bad” day, it was still worth it to fall asleep in his arms like this.

[jiniretbabii]

This will definitely work on me 🍓🍰🎀

[jiniretbabii]

Concrete:

An Reader x San Angst Drabble:

Warning: Minor language, unprotected sex. MDNI

The drive over to San’s house felt like the longest journey of my life. My grip on the steering wheel was tight, knuckles white, as if it could somehow anchor me to my decision. Tears dripped steadily from my eyes, blurring my vision, but I didn’t care. I was resolute, my mind set on ending this toxic cycle. San wasn’t the man I fell in love with anymore—his once loving and affectionate demeanor now replaced by coldness, harshness, and dismissal.

A flashback from last week replayed in my mind, a scene that solidified my decision:

“Why can’t you tell me what’s going on, San? We’re supposed to be there for each other. You keep shutting me out!” I had pleaded, my voice breaking.

“Just shut the hell up and fucking leave already. Your constant nagging isn’t helping shit but making me more stressed. I’ve got enough shit on my plate—the last thing I need is some nagging bitch up my ass all the time!” he had snapped back, throwing a vase against the wall, shattering it on impact. His words cutting deep.

The memory stung, and I bit my lip to keep from breaking down completely. I didn’t believe in text breakups; I owed it to myself and to him to say this face-to-face. Pulling into the gated driveway. I looked up through the glass window. He was pacing around, biting his nail, lost in thought. For a moment, something inside me softened. I shook my head, reminding myself why I was here.

I exited the car, anxiously making my way to the front door. Turning the doorknob my heart pounded.

Was this right?

Did I have the courage to face him?

How will he take it?

My the click of my heels on the marble floor echoing through the mansion's entrance. My fingers traced the smooth banister of the staircase as my heart pounded in my chest. San looked up as I approached, his eyes swollen and red.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice a mere whisper.

“San,” I replied, my own voice trembling. “We need to talk.”

He nodded, swallowing hard. “You’re done with me.”

“That’s correct. I didn’t think you deserved a text,” I said, my tone firm despite the tears threatening to spill over.

His voice was shaky, his eyes filled with unshed tears. “What can I do to fix this?”

I bit my lip, looking away to compose myself. “San, you can’t fix it. I’ve made up my mind. I need something concrete, something real. Lately, you’ve been avoiding me, acting different. You’re not the same man I fell in love with. You’ve become so cold to me. I can’t do this anymore.”

He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. Instead, his tears finally broke free, streaming down his face. He reached out, trying to touch my hand, but I pulled away.

“I’ll always love you, but you can’t hurt me like this anymore. I can’t allow it,” I said, my voice breaking.

I turned to leave, but San got up and wrapped his arms around my waist, holding me tight. “Y/N, baby, please. I’m so sorry. Please, I can’t be without you,” he begged, his voice raw with desperation.

Tears fell from my eyes as I looked up at him. “I-I’m sorry,” I choked out, struggling to unlock his hands from my waist. His grip only tightened.

“Please, Y/N. I’ll change, I promise. Just don’t leave me,” he cried, his voice cracking with anguish.

I closed my eyes, the pain in his voice cutting through me. “San, you’ve had so many chances. I can’t keep breaking my own heart for you.”

He loosened his grip slightly, enough for me to turn around and face him. “I love you, San. But I need to love myself more right now. I need to heal.”

He nodded slowly, tears still flowing. “I understand,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I’m so sorry for everything.”

“Sorry isn’t good enough. How many times have you said sorry and keep DOING. THE. SAME. SHIT!” I finally snapped.

He sat in silence.

I continued, “it’s like talking to a brick wall sometimes. Fucking concrete. Doesn’t penetrate. Getting through to you feels like a burden and I’m so goddamn tired of it!”

“Baby-“

“I don’t need this anymore San. I can’t keep hurting myself.”

I leaned over, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek. “Goodbye, San,” I whispered, turning away for the last time.

As I walked out of the mansion, the weight of my decision settled over me. It was the hardest thing I had ever done, but I knew it was the right thing. Tears pouring nonstop.

Its over.

Damn it hurts.

As I walked toward my car, each step felt heavier than the last. The weight of my decision pressed down on me, but I knew it was the right thing to do. I fumbled for my keys, tears blurring my vision. Just as I was about to unlock the car, I felt a familiar grip on my arm, pulling me back.

“Y/N, wait,” San’s voice was thick with emotion.

Before I could react, his lips crashed onto mine, desperate and fervent. “I’m sorry,” he murmured against my lips. “I can’t let the woman I love leave me like this.”

I wanted to push him away, to remind myself of all the pain he had caused. But deep down, I couldn’t bear to see him hurt. His kiss was filled with a passion that had been missing for so long, and it stirred something inside me.

San’s lips moved to my neck, trailing kisses that sent shivers down my spine. He slid his hand down the side of my trench coat, exposing my shoulder. “S-San, please stop,” I whispered, but my voice lacked conviction.

“I hurt you, I betrayed your trust. You have every right to leave. But I can’t allow that.”

He couldn’t stop. It was as if he needed to prove his love, to make me stay. He lifted me onto the hood of my car, his kisses growing more tender and gentle, reminiscent of the San I had fallen in love with.

His hands held my hips, pulling me closer. Our kisses deepened, his tongue slipping into my mouth, exploring, pleading. “Baby, please, one more chance,” he begged between kisses.

I was silent, my mind a whirlwind of confusion and desire. “Please,” he repeated, his voice breaking.

One kiss.

“Baby, please,” he whispered again, his lips brushing mine.

A second kiss.

“I promise I’ll make it right,” he vowed, his eyes locked onto mine, filled with a raw sincerity I hadn’t seen in so long.

Another kiss.

My heart pounded in my chest, torn between the love I still felt and the pain he had caused. “One last chance, San,” I gasped for breath, my resolve wavering.

San’s eyes lit up with hope as he lifted me into his arms, carrying me back into the house. Our lips never parted, each kiss a mix of desperation and longing.

As we crossed the threshold, he kicked the door shut behind us. “I swear, Y/N, I’ll make it right. I’ll be the man you fell in love with again,” he promised, his voice filled with determination.

He carried me up the stairs to his bedroom, laying me gently on the bed. His hands were everywhere, rediscovering each curve and contour of my body, as if trying to memorize me all over again.

“San, this doesn’t change everything,” I whispered, my voice shaky.

“I know,” he replied, his eyes never leaving mine. “But I need you to know how much you mean to me. How much I love you.”

His words, combined with his touch, broke down my defenses.

Afterward, we lay tangled in each other’s arms, our breaths mingling. “I’ll show you, Y/N. I’ll prove that I can be the man you deserve,” San whispered, his fingers tracing patterns on my skin.

I looked into his eyes, seeing the hope and determination there. “I hope so, San. Because this really is your last chance.”

He nodded, pulling me closer. “I won’t waste it,” he promised, his voice filled with conviction.

His hand slowly slid down my body. Pulling away the fabric of the trench coat exposing the stockings I had on.

San's eyes darkened with desire, quickly he got up, immediately tearing off the coat, letting it fall to the floor. The sight of me in nothing but black lace lingerie made his breath hitch. Looking down I could see a tent starting to form in his sweatpants.

Yanking my legs apart, he climbs in between.

His hands slid up my thigh-high stocking-covered legs, sending shivers through my entire body. He began to kiss my stomach, each soft press of his lips causing my back to arch off the bed.

His hands roamed over my body, his touch both gentle and possessive. Positioned cozily between my thighs, he slowly pulled off my panties, the anticipation making my breath quicken. His lips found the spot I desperately needed him to touch, and he began suckling on my sensitive bud. A cry of pleasure escaped my lips as his tongue curled around it, the sensation overwhelming.

I gripped the silk bedsheets, my heels digging into the mattress. "Only I can make you feel this way," he groaned into the heat between my legs, his voice filled with a mix of possessiveness and love. His pupils were blown wide as he looked up at me. "Say it," he commanded softly.

I bit my lip, refusing to give in so easily. His response was immediate—he slid two fingers inside me, curving them upwards as he continued his assault on my clit. My cries grew louder, my body trembling with the intensity of his touch. "Say it," he urged again, his voice more insistent.

My only response was a moan, my mind too clouded with pleasure to form coherent words. His fingers worked faster, each movement bringing me closer to the edge. His tongue moved in tandem, driving me wild. I could feel my climax approaching quickly, the sensation building to an almost unbearable peak.

"SAY. IT!" he demanded, his voice a mix of desperation and command.

"I—I'm yours! Only you can make me feel this way!" I finally cried out, unable to hold back any longer.

San's movements sped up, his fingers and tongue working in perfect harmony. "F-fuck! San, I'm cumming!" I screamed, the climax hitting me with a force that left me breathless.

He pulled away just as my body began to convulse with pleasure, lifting me up and positioning himself at my entrance. He pushed inside me slowly, filling me completely.

“FUCK!” He groans out, his teeth sinking into my shoulder. Our breaths mingled as he carried me over to the banister of the staircase. I gripped the banister tightly, wrapping my legs around his waist as he began to move.

Each thrust of his dick was filled with love and desperation, a silent promise that he would never let me go. "Y/N," he whispered, his lips brushing against my ear. "I love you. I’ll make this right, I swear."

His words, combined with the rhythm of his movements, sent waves of pleasure through me. I held onto him, our bodies moving in perfect sync. “B-baby. S-so big.” I cried out.

The intimacy of the moment was overwhelming, each touch and kiss a testament to the love we still shared.

“Baby all for you. I fucking love you.” He gasp in my ear.

"San," I moaned, my voice barely a whisper. "I love you too."

His grip on me tightened, his thrusts becoming more urgent. "I’ll never let you go," he vowed, his voice filled with emotion.

His thrust became even more sloppy, harder, faster.

I couldn’t hold it in anymore, “GOD! CHOI SAN! I’M CUMMING!” I threw one arm around his neck, pulling his lips onto mine.

His dick pushing even deeper inside. Tongues dancing with each other, lips attached, devouring each other’s moans.

I could feel his dick twitching and convulsing. He’s was so close. One last thrust was all it took.

“Y/N!” He cried out. His nails digging into my flesh. The warm thick ropes of his cum filling me.

As we reached our climax together, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of us. In that moment, all the pain and anger melted away, replaced by a love that was stronger than ever.

Still inside he carries me to the bed. Lying together, our bodies entangled.

We stayed like that for a while, wrapped in each other’s arms, our breaths slowly returning to normal. San’s eyes met mine, filled with a mix of hope and determination. "I’ll prove it to you, Y/N. I’ll be the man you deserve."

I nodded, my heart filled with a cautious optimism. "I believe you, San. Please don’t let me down."

He kissed me softly, a promise in his touch. "I won’t," he said, his voice steady and sure.

As we lay there, with the future still uncertain, I couldn’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe, we could find our way back to each other.

[jiniretbabii]

Made a surprise visit to a former student at the flight academy I worked at as a CFI. Today he earned his CFI license and we took one last flight together!

[jiniretbabii]

Have to give gigi (Yoongi) her cuddles and love before I go to work. The hardest thing about being a pilot is not being able to see my pets daily. (Ignore my battle scars and annoying baby talk voice! Pollen here in DC is a BITCH!!!)

[jiniretbabii]

My fur kid (Yoongi) decided today isn’t the day to write more Seonghwa yandere smut, she said cuddles only. 🥺

[jiniretbabii]

Fantasizing about you:

Ateez San Drabble:

Since #San was outing us Atiny for fanfics I decided to use our embarrassment as inspiration. PSA: CHOI SAN… YOU BETTER STAY TF OFF TUMBLR! THIS IS MY SAFESPACE! I don’t need you knowing I’m a whore for you and your other members!!!! 😭😭😭

Choi San, who alone in his dark room, deep into the night… bored. He wants to read something. He goes onto a writers website and types his name. He finds alot of stories but one catches his eye.

Choi San, who clicks on the link. He reads, realizing it’s an explicit fan fiction about him and a fan reader. He feels his body getting hot from the explicit dialogue and plot.

Choi San, who visualizes the reader as the story describes. The way her body wraps around him as they make love. The way she moans his name, “San baby go deeper.”

Choi San, who’s incredibly hard from the smut, begins to palm himself through his black boxers. Envisioning the scene that is written before him. He way he closes his eyes thrusting into his large hand, tightly wrapped his aching cock.

Choi San, who at this point is so deep into the fantasy loses all sense. He’s moaning, panting heavily as he continues on reading. The way the reader climbs on top of him and begins to ride him mercilessly. The way she begs for him to fill her with his hot thick cum. “Baby cum inside me.”

Choi San, who reads aloud his dialogue, “yes baby, I need to fill you so deep.” He begins to stroke faster. “Deeper, please, YES! OH GOD SAN!” The character calls out, closer to her climax. He imagines her voice, hearing it as if she was there with him. San, in the story and in his waking moment is close to climax. His moans fill the room as he strokes his throbbing cock, harder, faster, fantasizing it being the character’s wet aching pussy.

Choi San, who whimpers as the feeling was so intense. The story is close to the end, so he speeds up. “SAN! I-IM CUMMING!” “Me to baby, cum with me, come on baby, I got you.” He whispers as he feels his climax hit. In unison San and the character cum. His cock shoots out hot cum onto his hand and stomach. He comes down from his climax and lays his phone on the side of him.

Choi San, breathing heavily, body covered in a thin layer of sweat closes his eyes, wishing it was real. To feel the warmth of a beautiful woman making passionate love to. The way his fantasies run wild after his orgasm.

Choi San, who begins to make a habit every night to read a story about him and a character to get off when he’s most in need and tense.

Choi San, who won’t ever admit he enjoys the fanfictions as much as his precious Atiny.

It was quick I didn’t wanna make a whole story ✌🏼 This man might be lurking…. 👀👀👀