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taekritimin123 · 9 days ago

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wandering for you

⋆˙⟡ summary: after his recent promotion, your husband has been spending more and more time in the office, hoping to continue to climb his way up to the top of his company. you have a beautiful home, a lavish life together, and more money than you know what to do with. but in the cloud of his ambition, he’s forgotten all about the one who carried him to where he is– you. ⋆˙⟡ warnings/tags: MDNI! 18+, explicit, smut, angst, husband sannie!!, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (dont do that), multiple orgasms, sannie in a suit, good old fashioned missionary lovemaking with a side of desperation, creampie, san’s got a lil bit of a dirty mouth, mentions of separation/divorce, groveling and begging, all that good stuff! let me know if i missed anything♡︎ ⋆˙⟡ pairing: husband!san x fem!reader ⋆˙⟡ author’s note: this was entirely inspired by both san being who i envisioned as kai young when i read king of pride, in combination with the plot of king of greed … sorry bout it !!! sannie would also just be absolutely devastating while groveling and begging for forgiveness, i just had to. this is my first time writing our sweet sannie, so i hope you enjoy ♡︎ i am also still relatively new to writing so any constructive and kind feedback is more than welcome! thank you ♡︎ this is also possibly my last fic post until after my wedding which is 2 months away!!! ⋆˙⟡ word count: 6,210 ⋆˙⟡ read it on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68984456

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The ticking of the clock is deafening in the silence of your empty dining room. You’ve been sitting across from a vacant seat at your dining table for hours now, your husband’s untouched plate of food only growing colder as time continues to pass. Your empty wine glass, and bottle, sit next to your own cold dinner, plated on your best china, the set San’s boss gifted you as a wedding present. The candles you’d lit hours ago are nearly burned all the way down, wax dribbling over the edges of the gold candelabra. Despite your withering hope and growing rage, your stubbornness has you glued to your seat, staying put until San gets home.

It’s nearly midnight when you finally hear the lock to the front door of your penthouse click, followed by the familiar sounds of him setting down his briefcase and toeing off his shoes. Your chest tightens in anticipation for the interaction you now have to have, every moment you’ve spent alone this evening, and all the ones prior, filling you with more anger and disappointment. The speech you rehearsed in your head flutters out the window, like it doesn’t even want to be here either.

“Jagiya, I’m home,” he calls out quietly down the hallway. How he knew you’d be up waiting for him, you didn’t quite know. Maybe he didn’t either.

“In here,” you reply, tapping a freshly manicured fingernail on the tabletop. You’d gotten them painted San’s favorite shade of purple this morning, although your hopes for this evening were already dwindling after he left for work before you’d even woken up. You should’ve known, given his track record with quality time as of late.

He rounds the corner into your opulent dining room and stops dead in his tracks, his eyes landing on you before registering the state of your dining table. Your styled hair, your floor length satin dress with a devastating slit up one thigh, the first pair of Louboutin stilettos he ever bought you discarded next to your chair. The corner of his mouth quirks up, his cheek dimpling.

“You look beautiful, gongjunim,” his attention turns to the table, and you watch his face fall as he registers each item before him: a beautiful meal on your best china, the empty wine bottle, the candles that go out almost on cue, having burned all the way down. “You made hangjeongsal?” His tired brown eyes find yours again, his expression somewhat unreadable. “What’s the occasion? I didn’t have anything in my calendar today,”

“Your calendar,” you scoff, your anger already getting the best of you, “I didn’t realize I needed to ask to be penciled in for dinner with my own husband,” you pick up your empty glass, getting up from your seat at the table to head toward the kitchen, suddenly feeling stone-cold sober and desperate for another drink. “It’s midnight, San, you didn’t think to call? Text?” You hear him following behind you, his socked feet quietly padding across your tiled floor.

“I forgot to call, jagi, I’m sorry,” he gives you the same excuse you’ve heard a hundred times over, and your blood starts to simmer beneath your skin. “I was pulled into a last minute meeting that ran over, and–”

“You’ve been doing a lot of that lately,” you cut him off, “forgetting.” You round your kitchen island and turn around to face him, setting your wine glass down a little too hard on the marble, it’s a miracle it doesn’t shatter. You plant your hands on the cold surface and glare at him, but he suddenly looks so small. Despite his perfectly pressed suit and carefully styled hair, the light in his eyes is completely gone, the boy you fell in love with nowhere to be seen. This job of his is taking so much of him, so much from him, and he doesn’t even realize it. He looks at you in silence, already seeming defeated. Despite his current state, you can’t stop the anger from bubbling up inside of you.

“You don’t even know what today is, do you?” Your throat tightens, your voice raising with each word. Panic floods San’s eyes as he flips through his mental calendar, which you’re sure has no trace of you in it. He approaches the island, reaching for you across it, but you step back.

“Today? I–”

Your humorless laugh interjects before he can finish his thought, as you already know he has no clue. You know he has no clue, because every single anniversary before this one, he’d send flowers. Even when you were two broke college students, celebrating monthly dating anniversaries, he would pick dandelions from the courtyard by the library, wrapping them into a bouquet with a piece of notebook paper.

“You’ve been so deep in your precious job that you left me all alone on our goddamn anniversary,” your voice breaks on your last word, all the loneliness and disappointment you’ve been feeling recently starting to overshadow your anger. Your fingernails press crescents into your palms, and you ball your fists as tight as you can.

The color drains from his face, dread filling his eyes as he looks at his precious Rolex to confirm the date.

“Jagiya, I–”

“Save it.”

He freezes, letting you have the floor, preparing for the reprimanding he knows he absolutely deserves. “You left me alone, from sunrise to sunset, on our wedding anniversary, with not even so much as a text message. All. Day. Long.” You square your shoulders as you come back around the kitchen island, fighting the tightness in your throat as you reach for the dazzling ring on your left hand. You slip it from your finger, placing it on the island between you and your husband. He looks down at it, eyes widening like you just placed a lit stick of dynamite before him.

“This,” you gesture toward the shining diamond, “was a promise. To love each other, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer.” His lower lip quivers, waiting for you to continue. “But the richer version of you is making me miss when we had nothing, San. We didn’t have any money, we lived in a studio apartment, and we lived paycheck to paycheck. But at least you looked at me. At least you spent time with me, at least you never forgot a single important day.”

He looks past you, something unidentifiable dawning over his handsome features. His face is void of any emotion, his gaze goes glassy, he looks… numb.

“I didn’t mean to let you slip away,” he almost whispers, “I just wanted–” he chokes on his words. “I just wanted to give you everything after having nothing for so long.” He focuses on your face once again, and you soften slightly at just how broken he looks. You know from his perspective he has good intentions. You know he came from nothing and swore to himself he’d never be in that place again. But you can’t back down yet, you promised yourself you’d say everything you need to.

“We’ve had everything, San,” you gesture around the two of you to the beautiful penthouse he bought after his first big promotion. “We have cleaners for fuck’s sake.”

He lets out a watery laugh, looking to the floor, his smile not reaching his eyes. “I know, not entirely necessary, huh?” He tries to lighten the mood, but when his eyes meet yours again, the whisper of his beautiful smile disappears.

“I can’t do it anymore, Sannie.” You take a slight step back, needing to put space between the two of you. Suddenly his presence feels so suffocating. You didn’t want to give him an ultimatum, you swore to never be that level of crazy, but this isn’t crazy. You just want your husband back.

“Do… do what?” He’s scared. Scared to ask you that. More scared to hear your answer.

“Sit here in my trophy case all day and wish that you were here, when you very well could be, and still keep your status with the company,” you shake your head, pushing through every voice in your head telling you to stop, that this isn’t necessary. “You work too hard when you don’t need to, and I can’t just wait here every evening and hope you decide to come home before the sun goes down.” You realize you’ve been avoiding eye contact since beginning to respond to his question, and finally bring your eyes to meet his again.

“I can’t keep feeling completely alone, just waiting for you to be here. Something has to change, or I have to leave, San.”

The silence in the air is thick. Dense. Clawing down your throat, nestling deep into your belly. Despite your better judgment and the aching in your heart, you hold his gaze. Physically, he’s looking into your eyes, but he’s looking right through you, as if he’s hoping that you’re a mirage, and the real you will come bounding into the kitchen at any given moment, bursting through the words you just spoke.

Something is his eyes changes, and his breath turns shallow, his fists clenched at his sides, as if he’s stopping himself from reaching for you.

“Jagi, please, I can’t do this without you,” his voice breaks, like the dam that’s been holding in your tears all evening. They burn trails down your cheeks. “I love you,”

“You’ve been doing just fine without me for months, San, you hardly seem like you need me anymore,”

“Fuck, y/n, I do,” he runs his hands through his hair, mussing its perfect style, “life didn’t have meaning before I met you.” He motions like he wants to reach for you, but he stops himself. “I wanted to do this to give you the life you deserve, the life we deserve. To pay you back for all the support you’ve given me for years, I just–” tears well in his eyes, his voice catching in his throat. “I went about it the complete wrong way. I was trying to work harder, climb higher, bring more home to you, for you, but–” a tear escapes, gliding down his cheek, dripping from his chin, soaking into his shirt. “I lost sight of the present, and I take full blame for that.” He sniffles, closing the distance between you and dropping to his knees in front of you.

“Please, jagiya, I’ll do better, fuck,” he wraps his hands around the backs of your thighs, fingers gripping the satin, pulling you closer to him, and you let him. He rests his chin against your thigh, looking up to you, letting his tears freely fall down his cheeks. Yours mirror his.

It’s a reflex, when you cup his cheek with your hand. It’s a reflex, when he leans into your palm and closes his eyes.

“Please,” he whispers. “There’s no me without you. I’m so fucking sorry,”

A shaky exhale flutters out of you.

“You can say that you’ll do better as much as you want, but you have to actually keep to your word,” you wipe a tear with your thumb just before it dips into his dimple. He looks up at you, his deep eyes full of regret, longing, desire. Your heart aches in your chest, begging to be held. You sniffle.

“I will do anything for you.” His grip on your thighs tightens, and he ghosts a gentle kiss over the sliver of skin peeking out through the slit in your dress. “I’ll work 9 to 5, I’ll work from home when I can, I’ll make sure my assistant schedules everything during work hours,” he kisses you a little higher, his nose pushing up under your dress slightly.

“San…” You know how much he loves you. That isn’t the question, the question is: will he put you first? Will he dial it back at the office and be happy with the life you’ve already built together? Your head is spinning at the feeling of his mouth on you. You want to forgive him and trust him, but how do you know he’ll follow through?

“Please,” he nuzzles into your soft skin, “I know you have no reason to believe me after what I’ve been putting you through.” He presses another kiss to your exposed skin, softer this time. You struggle to keep your breathing in check. He sniffles, clearing his throat. You feel his tears seeping into the fabric of your dress. “But there is nothing in this universe that can keep me from loving you. And I will do anything to remind you of that.” You let him kiss you higher, a thumb hiking your dress up further.

“Please,” he whispers. The sound of his begging makes your skin prickle.

His lips have a way of lighting your body on fire. The first time he kissed you, after walking you home from the houseparty that brought him into your world. The first time he went down on you, on his knees under the table in a private study room late at night in the library, head nestled between your legs with one hand covering your mouth. You knew you were doomed from the start – the hold he has on your body, mind, and soul – there’s no escaping it.

Even now, with the threat of separation swirling around you, all you know is his lips on your skin. Soft, sweet, tender, desperate. He lets his teeth drag across the supple skin of your thigh, his tears sticking to you, your own starting to dry on your cheeks, leaving tracks through your makeup. You stifle the moan that threatens to rip from your throat.

“Jagi…” He peeks up at you through his lashes. Lashes you’d always hoped your children would inherit.

“You have a lot to prove, and even more to make up for,” you smooth the furrow between his brows with the pad of your thumb, and he grins at you.

“Why don’t I start now?” He drops another kiss to your leg before rising to his feet, instinctively wrapping his hands around your waist. “Have I told you how beautiful you look?”

“Yes,” you whisper. The way he’s looking at you makes you feel like you’re right back on the front porch of your college apartment on the night you met. You barely knew anything about him other than his name, but he looked at you like he knew every inch of your soul from the moment he laid eyes on you.

“Well, I’d like to tell you again,” he hesitantly leans in, softly kissing your cheek. You lean right back into him, your heart melting for him, and he kisses you again, the corner of your mouth this time. “You look so beautiful, jagiya.”

He raises a hand to your chin, gently turning your head to the side, kissing the hinge of your jaw. “Although…” He kisses the pulse point of your neck, “I’m really kicking myself for not getting home before you took off those heels.” His lips ghost over your ear. “You know how much I enjoy you in heels,”

Going from angry and disappointed to crumbling in your husband's hands was not your plan for the evening, but you should’ve known yourself better than that. Maybe you both need this.

“Go get them,” you whisper.

He shoots you a knowing grin before turning to walk back toward your dining room. He returns a moment later, your Louboutins dangling from his grasp. Before you can speak, he drops to his knees in front of you once again and holds out a hand. You pick up one of your feet and he tenderly cups your heel in his palm, sliding one shoe onto your foot. You give him your other foot, bracing yourself on the kitchen island to help you balance. Once both heels are securely on your feet, he stands to his full height in front of you, drinking you in.

“I know I missed dinner, but I’m so hungry.” He takes a step closer to you, his hands gliding over the soft satin of your dress, finding purchase on your hips.

“You can heat up your food,” you choke out as he dips his head into the crook of your neck, kissing your collarbone.

“That’s not what I want,” he whispers.

You try to step back to give him a dirty look over not wanting the dinner you painstakingly prepared for him, but before you can, he’s hoisting you up and wrapping your legs around his waist.

“San!” You yelp, instinctively wrapping your arms around his neck, feeling the tensed muscles of his broad shoulders. He looks up at you with determination in his eyes, turning the two of you around to walk back toward the dining table. He approaches an empty place at the massive table, and sets you right down on it.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing, Choi San?” You look into his deep eyes, any tears he cried have dried, the spark of the boy you love filling his dark irises.

“I told you I was hungry, my love,” he spreads your knees, standing between them and hiking your dress up in one fluid motion. Before you can formulate a response, he drops back to his knees in front of you.

”And I made your favorite meal for you.” You try to argue, but know it’s no use. Your breathing quickens with every glide of his hands across your skin. He slips his fingers under the hips of your delicate lace panties and slides them down your thighs. You lean back, propping yourself up on your hands, looking at him expectantly.

“You’re my favorite meal.” He grins, dimples mocking you as he slips your panties into his pocket. With that, he dives between your legs.

”Oh, Sannie,” you throw your head back as he licks into you, hands spread wide across your thighs, holding you open for him. Unfamiliar is the wrong word, because going down on you has always been one of San’s favorite pastimes, but it feels… Fresh. San has been too busy or exhausted for sex these days, and it’s been so long that this time thrums with the same energy and excitement as the first.

His tongue slides through your heat with practiced precision, the firm tip of it swirling around your clit. He groans as it swells under the heat of his mouth, sucking the sensitive bundle between his lips. Your nipples harden, peaking through your dress, the material of it making you feel all the more sensitive.

You feel a hand leave your thigh, followed by two fingers prodding at your entrance, He dips the tips in softly, just to the first knuckle before withdrawing to bring them to his lips. His eyes bore into yours as he licks your arousal from his fingers, wetting them with his tongue before bringing them back to your throbbing entrance.

“I will never,” he starts, thrusting his fingers deep inside you, “ever make you feel unwanted or forgotten ever again.” His voice breaks on his last word, and he peppers your inner thighs with kisses, setting a steady pace, easily finding that spot that makes your back arch. “I am so fucking sorry,” he whispers. Fresh tears make their way down his cheeks, spreading onto your skin as he works his mouth closer to your core.

Your heart twists, full of both love and longing, begging for his words to be true. You feel a stinging on the bridge of your nose, and a tear slips down your cheek as your husband sucks your clit into his mouth again. He weaves your thighs over his shoulders as he licks at you, and you press your heels into his back.

“Ah, Sannie,” you sob, grinding your hips against his mouth, melting into the searing heat building low in your belly. He finds a rhythm that ruins you, pumping his fingers and lapping at you like you’re going to disappear at any moment, burying his face into your heat. You run your fingers through his hair, holding his head firmly in place.

“C-close,” is all you can manage to mutter, your climax building quicker than you can process, the two of you falling into this familiar dance so easily. It’s been so long since you’ve been intimate with him like this, your body feels like embers crackling back to life into a roaring bonfire. You dig your stilettos into his back, drawing a rumbling satisfied groan from your husband’s throat.

“Come for me, jagi,” he growls, “let me hear you.” He replaces his tongue with the rough pad of his thumb, not letting the transition alter his rhythm in the slightest.

You bring your hand from his hair to his cheek, soaking in the way he’s looking at you with so much love in his eyes. It’s filthy, the way his puffy lips and glistening chin compliment the sheer obsession in his gaze. The way he’s looking at you so surely while doing unspeakable things to you.

He curls his fingers inside of you and you’re done for, your body seizing and trembling as your orgasm rips through you.

“O-Oh my—“ your brain goes numb, handing all control over to your husband. He jumps onto his feet, slowing his pace ever so slightly as he throws his free hand behind your neck to ease you down onto the table. You let it pulse through you, each wave melting you into the table beneath you. He softly rubs his thumb over your clit, drawing it out just enough.

“Good girl,” he whispers, running his hand down your sternum, over your belly. “Do you think you can give me another?” He pushes the heel of his hand firmly on your pubic bone, pumping his fingers slowly, teasing your clit.

“I think so,” you giggle breathlessly, your limbs feeling like jelly. He knows your body so well, you know he could have you coming all night long if you’d let him.

He continues his leisurely pace, watching your chest rise and fall as you catch your breath. You give him a nod, and that’s all he needs to bury his fingers deep inside you and bring his mouth to your cunt again.

“Ah!” You cry out, back arching off the table at the sudden change. He nods, grazing his teeth over your clit and growling into your core. Your hands fly into his hair again, holding him tight as you roll your hips over his mouth. He bumps your sensitive spot with the pads of his fingers with each thrust of them deep into you, using his thorough intimate knowledge of your body to his advantage as usual. He uses his free hand to gently push your thigh, spreading you open wider for him.

“So beautiful, spread out for me on our table,” he brushes his thumb over your clit while he watches you. “Let me see you touch yourself, jagi.”

He trails a hand up your soft body, fingers slipping beneath a strap of your dress, slowly sliding it down your shoulder, all while pumping his fingers in and out of you. He pulls your dress down just enough to free one of your breasts, giving your hard nipple a soft lick before kissing back down to your core.

Your hand slides up your belly, palming the soft swell of your breast before rounding your thumb and forefinger around your nipple, the wetness from your husband’s tongue making the sensation all the more delicious.

“That’s it,” he nearly whispers, his voice low and breathless. “My beautiful wife.”

He finally reconnects with your clit, setting back into a steady rhythm that he knows will have you crumbling in minutes. You writhe underneath him, rolling your nipple between your fingers in time with his persistent and practiced ministrations at your core.

You flutter around his fingers, and you feel him chuckle deeply against you. He nods again, egging you on, delivering a particularly firm suck to your clit.

“God, Sannie, I–” You feel your climax settling deep within you moments before it crashes over you, your body turning pliant, and your hearing muffles. You feel alive, in love, on fire.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, “so fucking beautiful.” He stands, letting any and all restraint fly out the window, bending over your spent form and crashing his lips to yours. The taste of you spreads across your tongue as he slides his own into your mouth, slipping his fingers out of you. You whine, feeling empty. While you feel more connected to him than you have in weeks, perhaps even months, it isn’t enough.

“Take me to bed, San,” you mumble between kisses.

You wrap your legs around his waist, hoping he’ll get the hint. He chuckles warmly into your mouth as you lock your ankles behind his back, and threads an arm beneath your waist. Without breaking the kiss, he scoops you up, keeping one hand firmly gripping your waist and the other splays wide under your ass. He squeezes your cheek before giving you a playful smack, making your cunt squeeze around nothing. Your dress is still hiked up around your waist, and your sensitive center rests firmly on his stomach, each step he takes giving you a pulse of pressure.

He carries you through your penthouse, blindly walking you to your shared bedroom. You feel a hand leave your waist and hear the doorknob turn, and he kicks the door open as he brings his lips to your neck.

“Do you remember our wedding night?” He whispers as he softly nibbles on the column of your throat, walking you across the room, toward your bed.

“Of course I do,” your voice comes out breathless. He nods, licking up your neck and pressing a kiss behind your ear.

“Do you remember how I fucked you on our wedding night?” The closeness of his mouth and the way he breathes his words straight into your ear has your skin prickling with goosebumps.

“Yes,” you gasp softly, thinking about San, who wanted you so desperately on your wedding night that he made love to you nearly fully dressed. Pounding into you deeper and harder than he ever had, tuxedo shirt open wide and pants pulled down just enough to give him access to you. He barely gave you enough time to take off your wedding dress.

“I’m feeling just as desperate for you right now as I did that night, if not more,” he taps your ass gently, and you loosen your legs around him. He gently eases you onto the floor, holding you tightly to his body until he knows you’re steady on your feet.

“But,” he loosens your dress around your waist, allowing it to cascade down your legs. “I need you to know that I love you more now than I did that night,” he kisses your forehead ever so softly. “And I will love you more tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that,” he emphasizes each string of words with kiss after kiss to your forehead, threading his fingers through your hair, holding you close to him. You rest your hands on his waist, leaning into his touch.

“We’re gonna be okay,” you whisper, a silent tear falling down your cheek. You didn’t realize how badly you needed to hear him say that.

“We are.” He tilts your head back, bringing your eyes up to his.

“I love you,” you remind him, as you bring your hands to the thin satin straps of your dress, easing them down your shoulders.

“I love you,” he replies, watching as the top of your dress inches down your chest, as you push it further and further down until it’s bunched around your hips and your breasts are exposed, nipples peaking as your husband’s gaze on you intensifies. With a final push, your dress eases over the swell of your hips and drops to the floor, pooling around your feet, leaving you fully bare.

Without his eyes leaving yours, he shrugs out of his suit jacket, dropping it to the floor behind him. He hooks a finger under the knot of his tie, loosening it to the point that he can pull it over his head. Your skin warms under his gaze, your mouth going dry as his fingers work at the buttons of his shirt, popping them open one by one, his tan chest peeking out from his crisp white shirt.

He untucks his shirt from his pants and opens it fully, and you run your hands over his warm skin, feeling each muscle beneath your fingertips. Your hands travel up over his chest, dipping beneath his shirt to wrap around his strong shoulders. He rolls his shoulders, and you help pull his shirt down his arms until it joins his jacket on the floor.

You stand there, chests heaving, silence deafening, hearts pounding.

“Make love to me, San,” you whisper.

He’s on you in a heartbeat, one hand in your hair and the other on his belt buckle, tongue tangling with yours as he works himself out of his pants, shimmying out of them and kicking them to the side.

You can’t stop yourself from trailing a hand down his body to palm his solid cock through the thin fabric of his boxer briefs. He hisses at the contact, his hand in your hair tightening. You nip and lick at each other’s lips, hands wandering and skin heating.

You squeal as he lifts you again, wrapping your legs around his waist for a brief moment before tossing you onto the bed. You giggle as you land, bouncing on the mattress and wiggling backwards until you meet the soft pillows at the headboard.

He stands at the foot of your bed, eyes dancing over your bare body as he rubs himself through his underwear, a smirk playing across his lips.

“Open your legs, jagiya.” His voice comes out low and gravely, and you obey his command. He shudders an exhale, the dark spot on his boxer briefs growing as he drinks you in. “Look at you,” he growls.

“Come here,” you beckon him.

Your mouth dries as he pushes his underwear down in one swift motion, his cock bobbing in front of him as he kicks the fabric out of his way. He strokes himself slowly, tugging his cock to the side as he stares at your center. You flutter around nothing, and his eyes darken.

He crawls up the mattress, hovering over you, arms resting on either side of your body. You let your eyes travel down his body, over his strong chest, his narrow waist, his velvety, solid cock, hanging so close to your aching cunt. Your breath catches in your throat, your core throbbing with need.

He brings his mouth down over yours, softly at first. Sweet, tender kisses, until he slips his tongue between your lips and desperation takes over. He groans into your mouth, kissing you hard, drawing your bottom lip between his teeth as he parts your legs wider with his knees.

“I need you,” he breathes.

“Take me.”

He sits back on his heels, pumping his cock as he admires you. Your hair fanned across your pillow, your puffy lips, your soft breasts. He bends over you to press one more kiss to your lips, then sits back on his heels, lining himself up with your entrance.

He notches the head inside, pumping into you little by little, inching further inside with each thrust. The feeling of him dragging in and out of you has every inch of your skin burning, a light sheen of sweat blooming across your skin. You roll your head back, eyes fluttering closed as he pushes deeper.

“Look at me,” he demands.

You peel your eyes open to meet his, his pupils blown wide as he bottoms out, every solid inch throbbing inside of you. Your mouth hangs open, letting out a whimper.

He fills you so perfectly, like you were made for each other. You were made for each other.

He draws out of you to the tip, pushing back inside even deeper than before. He holds your gaze, fucking into you slow and deep, your soft grunts and whines the only sounds in your quiet bedroom.

“Harder, please,” you meet each thrust the best you can, pushing yourself down the mattress onto him.

“Mm,” he nods, picking up his pace, fucking you faster and harder with each thrust. His brow furrows, and he bites down on his bottom lip. “Fuck, you feel so good jagiya.”

All you can do is moan, your mind going blank, the only thing running through it is how delicious your body feels under your husband. San brings his thumb to his lips, swirling his tongue around it before lowering his hand over your core. He swipes his thumb over your clit, and you melt even further into the mattress under him.

Your belly warms, and San inches further up the mattress, the new angle making his thrusts hit deep inside you, and you gasp, your back arching.

“That’s it,” he coos, “take it,”

“Fuck, Sannie,” you tighten around him and he groans, thrusting into you even harder, his thumb circling your swollen clit.

“Keep squeezing around me like that and I’ll fill you up.” You always fall apart when he starts to talk to you like this, his dirty words that he saves for the bedroom. You feel the fire pooling deep in your belly, each swirl of his thumb around your clit drawing you closer and closer to the edge.

“I need it, please,” you whine, taking everything he’ll give you. He bends over you, swiping his tongue across your bottom lip. His sweat-slicked body gliding over yours makes your head spin, and the extra stimulation of your nipples has you dancing on the edge.

“I’m gonna fuck you so full of my cum, you’ll be dripping for days,”

“Yes, please,”

“God,” his hips stutter, “come with me,”

He buries his face in your neck, biting down hard, pushing you both over the edge. A moan rips from your throat, and your body trembles as he stills inside of you, filling you to the brim with his release.

You stay in the moment for several beats, both of you trying to catch your breath and settle your heartrate.

“I love you so much,” he rolls his hips slowly as he starts to soften inside of you, peppering your forehead and cheeks with soft kisses.

“I love you,” you murmur, feeling sated and light. He carefully slips out of you, falling onto his side next to you. You stay on your back, threading your fingers between his when he rests a hand on your belly. He kisses every inch of you that he can reach– your temple, your cheek, your neck, your shoulder. You soak in the feeling of being in your bed awake together for the first time in days.

“So, now that I know what day it is and will never live it down, how are we celebrating our anniversary, jagi?” He breaks the silence, kissing your temple once more, brushing the sweat soaked hair from your forehead.

His question stills you for a moment, your nerves automatically causing you to worry what the following days will bring. How he’ll adjust his work schedule, how it’ll affect his mental health, if he’ll actually stick to his word.

“I don’t know, Sannie, it’s so late already. And you have to work early tomorrow, don’t you?” You don’t intend for your voice to come out so nervous. He strokes your hair for a few silent moments, then freezes.

He jumps out of bed, padding over to his discarded clothes. He kneels on the floor of your bedroom, digging through his suit jacket, searching each pocket until he finds what he’s looking for. The screen of his phone lights up, soft light dancing across his face.

“Are you seriously checking your phone right now? Choi San I swear, you are not out of the woods yet–”

You cut yourself off when he brings the phone to his ear, used to moving in silence when he’s taking important calls. You curse yourself for the gut reaction, but stay silent, watching him with a furrowed brow and bated breath.

“Hongjoong-ssi, it’s San.”

Why on earth is he calling his boss right now?

“I know it’s late, I apologize, but I need to let you know I’ll be taking the next two weeks off.”

You cock your head at him, trying to make out the muffled voice on the other end of the line. Hongjoong doesn’t sound upset by any means, he actually sounds quite calm. Encouraging, even.

“I will, thank you, hyung. I’m taking my wife on vacation.” He glances up at you, “I don’t know yet. Wherever she wants to go.” A shy smile, dimples peeking through. “It’s our anniversary.”

He hangs up the phone as you beam at him, your heart so full you can hardly stand it.

“Sannie?”

“Hm?”

“Go get my ring.”

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

hope you enjoyed ♡︎

taglist: @sunnysidesins @mingisprincxss @wooya1224

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taekritimin123 · 1 month ago

Text

Come to Mine

Pairing: idol!Yunho x backup dancer!reader

Genre: fluff and smut

Word count: 6.3k

Summary: You didn't plan for it to be this way. You just couldn't help being attracted to each other.

Warnings: smut, MDNI, oral (f receiving), fingering, penetration, safe sex (condom woo), it's very sweet and clumsy

A/n: This was such self indulgence, I hope you enjoy if you read <3 I can't believe the comeback is tonight! I hope everyone is having a good day <33 (sorry for any typos, I didn't feel like editing today)

Read it on ao3

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You couldn't believe your eyes when you received the email.

Congratulations, you've been selected as one of the dancers for Ateez's upcoming comeback. Rehearsals start next Monday, August 2nd. Please look out for our next message, which will contain the full schedule with dates and locations. We look forward to working with you!

You'd worked with several other Kpop groups over the last few years. You'd actually made it as a dancer, much to the surprise of your family. You'd like to say you were surprised too, but in truth you weren't. You had felt it in your bones that this is what you were meant to do and would be doing, ever since you first watched a Girl's Generation MV on your shitty middle school laptop.

Working with Ateez felt like the absolute pinnacle. You were only several years in, but you knew from hearing the chatter, from watching their performances, that backup dancing for them was a true honor, and a challenge. You'd gone to the audition with an open mind, not riding on the fact that you'd be selected. They told you all they wanted twelve girls total, a smaller number than you'd expected. And most of the girls you went with were more experienced, or had major connections within the industry, so it really was a shock to you that you were selected. It made your whole body buzz, your confidence skyrocketing. If they believed you could hang with the best of the best, you'd do everything you could to prove them right.

Sitting on the hardwood floor at the end of your first rehearsal, it all just felt right. The group was working together so well already; most of these girls you'd danced with before, and you realized looking around that if you'd ever had the chance to select a dance team yourself, you would have made almost the same selections they did. Everyone was a dance nerd, a true artist, focused, dedicated. Everyone took good care of themselves, was smart, driven, and so hardworking. You all spoke amongst yourselves after rehearsal, anticipating your first rehearsal with the boys, wondering what they'd really be like in person. You'd all followed them closely for years, and were all big fans. You couldn't not be, given just how talented they were, just how dedicated to their craft, the same way you were. But you all vowed to be as respectful as possible, and keep the giggling and ogling to yourselves when the time came.

It was comeback season for them, their schedules incredibly full. The next album was almost entirely finished already though, and you had no doubt they were already beginning work on songs that would make future albums too. It was still six months until the comeback you'd be performing in, the time feeling indescribably far away. Many of the other girls, like you, still had smaller projects to work on in the meantime. This was the beginning of a long journey, one that would begin slowly. It was high pressure, you could feel it. You needed your absolute best to show here, for the sake of your career.

You'd never have guessed how it would feel finally meeting them all.

Sweaty and exhausted, they all came in after their final music show performance. They'd been up since the early hours of the morning to film, and now it was closer to midday. You'd slept in, spending the morning stretching and readying your body for this important rehearsal. In hindsight you hadn't needed to, the first day with the members being more of a meeting, followed by an attempt to brainstorm what formations would be possible with the twenty of you. Then you each had to introduce yourselves, going down the line of twelve, each repeating your names and where you were from.

After saying your name, after bowing, your eyes caught on Yunho's. And in that moment you knew it was all over.

All you could think was, 'fuck, I don't need this.' Truly, you didn't. There was too much else to focus on. Life had been hectic for so many reasons, but now you were just trying to focus on being present, there for your friends and family, focused on your work. You'd been single for almost two years now, and it had been the best time of your life. The time with your friends had been beautiful, fulfilling, peaceful. The success you'd had with dancing had been all you could have dreamed of. But you knew in that moment that something was about to change, something you doubted you could put any stop to. It felt written in the stars, like it was meant to happen. It had to. You could tell.

He'd noticed you right away. You were the shortest of the girls selected; they'd skewed more towards choosing taller girls, so that the height differences wouldn't be too severe. You weren't tiny, but still he'd noticed right away that you were shorter than everyone else. Your big glasses, your messy wavy hair, your baggy sweat pants. You stood out amongst the rest of the girls, but not because you were flashy. You were almost too relaxed in your appearance. He loved it instantly. And he could tell it affected you when he looked your way, your eyes darting fast to the floor when he pierced you with his gaze.

He watched you intently over the next few rehearsals, seeing immediately how talented you were. You picked up everything with such ease; but you weren't cocky, weren't throwing it in anyone's face. You helped other girls when they needed it, and you spoke up when an instruction wasn't clear, helping the main choreographer realize their mistake. You were quiet, mostly, except when you needed to be loud. You seemed so put together, almost boringly so. Some of the other girls were chaotic, which made the boys or other dancers gossip. But as Yunho listened to it all he realized none of them really mentioned you. From the outside in you seemed unassuming, and he knew people thought the same thing about him. So he knew that just like him, there was something more under the surface. Something juicier, freakier, stranger. Every time he looked you right in the eyes, the few times you'd let him, he could see it written in your pupils. And the way you always looked way, like you'd just had the wind knocked out of you, made him think he was probably right.

It really didn't help that he was such a good dancer, so confident and technically gifted, with a certain quality to his movement that you could not put into words. You became mesmerized from the first moment you saw it in person. You'd been impressed with his dancing abilities for a while, but seeing it in person in front of you, seeing his massive tall body move with a level of control that should not have been possible, had you completely entranced. You couldn't help the giddiness you felt when heading to work, the excited texts sent to your best friend. Your crush was forming fast, threatening to inflate inside of you and make you float away. He was all you could think about when you laid in bed at night, awaiting the next time you'd get to be in his presence, and say the few words you did to each other.

Then one day, it changed.

"Y/n, could I go over the middle section with you?"

His voice came from behind you, as you carefully retied your shoes during a break in rehearsal.

"With me?" you asked, turning around to find him standing behind you.

"Yeah, I've been watching everyone in the mirror and you seem to know that section best. I missed that rehearsal where we first learned it, so I think I'm missing the timing a bit." He reached out a hand to help you up, and you took it automatically, the touch between you sending adrenaline through your heart and making you shiver.

"I think you've been doing it just fine. What part is confusing?" you asked.

"I'm wondering when the arms come up, when we're turning around. Is it on one, or the and of one?"

"It's on the and. Here, do you want to do it slowly together?" You couldn't believe the words were tumbling out of your mouth, so naturally from your years of helping assist dance classes at your high school.

"Yeah, that'd be great," Yunho replied, getting in position beside you. You began counting slowly, you both dancing crudely through the counts, reaching the confusing section with hesitation. "See, one and," you threw your arms up, spinning around and turning your back to the mirror, your hands coming out beside you. "They're not back down until the and of 2."

"Ah, that makes sense. So they're delayed compared to the shifting of our feet there," he said, and you nodded in agreement, watching him step through the moves himself, flawlessly.

"Yeah, that's perfect," you smiled at him.

"Thank you, that was really helpful. I'm worried I'm messing things up cause I missed that rehearsal," he smiled back, arms locked behind his back. It looked like he was nervous, to you, which endeared you even more to him.

"Your dancing looks perfect to me," you said, standing still and awkward, your nervousness also showing.

You both stood staring at each other, and this time you didn't flick your eyes away. It all felt like things were clicking into place, and any feeling you had to resist this little thing was all gone. Not that there really was much to begin with. But you were nervous at first, so unsure of his interest. You couldn't bring yourself to assume that someone like him would want to be friends with someone like you. You had to wait for the confirmation from him.

Easy conversation followed the next few rehearsals. Talking about the choreography was always an easy in, and Yunho took to using it as much as he pleased. He complimented your dance skills more than you thought he should, because you worried the other dancers would find it strange or have something to say about it. But no one said a word to you. You felt this thing happening, the two of you magnets pulled together, but it seemed like no one around you had any clue. It was normal enough for him to want to talk to a dancer about the routine, and so what if in those conversations things turned more personal, more jokey, more flirtatious. He complimented your glasses early on, you remember that, and it stuck with you for weeks. You couldn't get it out of your head, the way his head tilted to the side when he said it. His tone of voice, the look in his eye.

Then there was the rehearsal in the gymnasium. You were all sectioned off, the main focus of the day being how the background sets for the MV would fit around the group of you dancing. The director was there, talking with all of ateez and the head choreographer, as they all stood around on the floor. The rest of you were told to wait in the stands, as they set the exact measurements of the set pieces, needing you all on stand-by at a moments notice. It was times like this you realized just how big the budget they had was; they were paying you all to be here today, even though most of the day you spent just sitting there, your fellow dancer sitting next to you almost falling asleep on your shoulder three separate times.

He saw you as soon as you came in, your hair up in a messy bun, your hoodie swallowing you. Your socks didn't match, your shoe laces partially untied. You pushed your glasses up your nose as you stepped inside, nearly bumping into the girl in front of you. Unassuming. Clumsy. For some reason, everything he wanted.

He craned his neck to watch you sit down, waving when you finally looked in his direction. You waved back, the sleeve of your hoodie pulled over your hand. He stood amongst his members, wishing he could somehow say something to you. Everyone was discussing the slight differences in the placement of something, but he'd stopped listening as soon as he saw you enter, so he really wasn't sure what it was. He reached for his phone, wanting to shoot you off a quick text. But then he remembered, the managers had taken them today so the boys would be focused. Also, he still didn't have your number. He knew he needed to remedy that problem as quickly as he could.

You zoned out for a moment, everyone around you buried deep in their phones as soon as they realized they'd be stuck in the bleachers for a bit. But it didn't take long for your gaze to sweep back down, settling on the person you couldn't keep your mind off of. You were met with a surprise, holding a hand over your mouth to keep yourself from laughing.

Yunho was holding up a piece of paper in your direction, the word HI written in big bold letters. You weren't even sure where he got the paper from, much less the marker, but god did it make your heart constrict. How fucking adorable, how totally and completely cheesy. You were like Taylor Swift and her crush in 'You Belong With Me,' holding out written signs to each other and reading them through the window. Well, you could have been, if you had any paper of your own. You smiled, his action absolutely heartwarming, but you couldn't help feeling terribly disappointed that you couldn't reciprocate the gesture. That was until you remembered the back of your hoodie had the word HELLO written across it, right above the smiling sunflower. You held your hand out to him, beckoning him to wait a moment, as you turned and lifted up the hood to make sure he could see the white letters, that you hoped contrasted enough against the blue fabric that he could see them from so far away.

You turned to find him smiling, his shoulders jumping for a moment like he was laughing. It was just far enough away that you couldn't hear well, so you had no idea if he really was. The moment passed, and your heart was beating remarkably fast, but yet again it seemed like no one around you noticed. You blinked around, looking over your shoulder at your fellow dancers. Right then it hit you, that maybe you shouldn't be so openly doing this, whatever this was. You'd been warned time and time again that being involved with an idol was bad news, that plenty of dancers had done it and payed the price. One of your favorite fellow dancers had dated an idol, and you'd heard her horror story before over drinks one night. You knew people had complicated feelings on the subject.

But you also knew your own feelings weren't so complicated, at least when it came to him. Finally you all were beckoned down to the floor, the sets put in place. You all danced in front of them, the director trying out his camera movements, asking you to repeat certain sections so he could try different angles, see how the composition would look with so many bodies in the shot. You'd said hello to each other when you came down, but quickly you had to get to work, everyone's focus held on your dancing. It wasn't until you all wrapped up for the day that he said anything else.

"Hey, I've been meaning to get your number so we can text if we need to, like today," he said. Your stomach dropped; you couldn't believe the words you were hearing. Was he really asking for your number, here in front of everyone?

"Yeah, that would be great," you smiled, waiting for him to pull out his phone and hand it to you.

"My manager has my phone, do you have yours?" he asked.

"Uh, it's up in stands with the rest of my stuff. I'll have to go grab it," you responded, smiling apologetically.

"Yeah, no worries-"

"Everyone we need to clear out, we're supposed to be gone in five minutes! Let's get going!" the lead choreographer cut him off, calling out to the whole room.

"Yunho, I've got your bag, and the car is out front, we need to leave now," his manager came running up, placing a hand on his shoulder. You didn't know where he was headed, but it was probably another rehearsal, or interview, or photoshoot. One of the thousands of things they all had scheduled every week.

In the chaos you scrambled up the stairs, grabbing your stuff before dashing out the door, not wanting to get in trouble. Yunho waved to you from the car, it pulling away as soon as you exited the building and started your walk to the subway station. It had all happened so fast, and you hoped he didn't think that you'd forgotten. His question stuck in your mind over the next three days, until you had rehearsal again. And that time you walked in with your phone already open, pulled up to a new contact entry. You didn't even greet him that day; you just placed your phone in his hands, and looked up at him with big eyes. He blinked a moment, but it wasn't hard for him to know what you were asking. He put in his number, handing the phone back to you, and you sent off your first text of many.

🌸: hello :)

You waited that night after rehearsal, meeting up with your best friend for dinner. You could just feel it again, you knew he'd say something, if you had just a little patience.

🐶: I hope rehearsal didn't kill you today. They really didn't give you guys any breaks :(

Immediately you squealed, shoving your phone into your friend's face.

"How cute, he's so concerned for you," she laughed, poking your cheek.

"I can't believe he already texted," you sighed, grabbing another bite.

"He obviously likes you," she said, making your mind spin.

"Don't say that, you're getting my hopes up," you replied, shaking your head.

"Why else would he ask for your number?" she asked.

"To talk to me about work stuff, dance stuff, I don't know?" you replied.

"Did he ask for anyone else's number?" she asked.

"I don't know, he could have," you said, raising your shoulders.

"I doubt it," she smiled. "Look at you, you've caught yourself an idol. Better be careful, my girl," she joked, finishing off her drink.

"I wonder if this is a bad idea," you pondered, staring off into space and letting your mind wander.

"Don't overthink it. How often do you come across people you like? If he likes you too, you should go for it. You don't have any reason to hold yourself back from this. I mean, be careful of course. I don't want any death threats coming your way," she chuckled, reaching over the table and grabbing your hand. "Connecting with another person is a special thing, and it sounds like you two really have. Don't under sell that."

You left the restaurant and wandered home, a warm feeling in your chest. Hugging your friend goodbye you thanked her, so grateful to have someone you know you can tell anything to. As soon as you made it home, you pulled out your phone and responded to him.

🌸: It was fine, I just got very sweaty. my hair was a frizzy mess 🐶: you still looked so pretty 🌸: you are very sweet to me 🌸: why is that 🐶: I like you, that's why 🌸: you like me? 🐶: I want to see you outside of work 🌸: I want that too

Your breath caught in your throat. It was everything you could have hoped to hear and more.

🌸: how can we do that tho 🐶: we'll find a way 🌸: you could come to my place. it's very small. I live alone

He could have guessed that was the case. You never mentioned having roommates, or parents, or anyone else you lived with in the brief conversations you'd had.

🐶: can I come this Saturday? 🌸: okay :) 🐶: are you sure? 🌸: be here at 7 🐶: will do

You had two days of filming for a different group's music video, a huge group dance with nearly fifty dancers. You be finishing it up Saturday morning, and hoped that things ran on time. You wanted to have the time to get yourself ready, take a shower, pick out your clothes. Even though you'd just be at home, surely just lounging around. You wanted to wear your favorite sweats, and the black tank top you had that sat perfectly over your figure. You two wouldn't be going on dinner dates out, or to the bar for drinks, or to the cafe or farmer's market or any other place where Yunho could be spotted. He didn't have to explain that to you; you'd worked in this industry long enough to understand. He'd have to do everything he could to avoid being seen entering your building. If this did become a romance, it would be one conducted in the privacy of bedrooms, apartments, hotels. You couldn't walk out on the street holding hands, or even just walk down the street side by side. But then you reminded yourself of the if. You still didn't know what he wanted, exactly. You'd still never been in the same room just the two of you. The nerves gnawed at you as you showered, as you carefully set out the clothes you would wear as you dried your hair. You'd wear no bra with your tank top, you decided, and you'd wear your favorite bikini cut black underwear. You didn't like lacy thongs, you didn't like most women's clothing period. But you wanted to feel sexy when he arrived, wanted it to be clear to him what you were after.

🐶: I'm heading out now, I should be there in 17 minutes, according to google maps 🌸: see you soon :)

Your adrenaline surged, your body sweating despite the cool temperature of your tiny apartment. You scrambled around, cleaning every surface one time over again, making sure your dirty clothes were tucked away in your closet and not strewn about anywhere. You gave yourself a final look in the mirror, your glasses looking comically huge on your face. Your hair was a mess, but it always was. You'd never learned how to properly take care of your waves. The black tank top looked as good as you'd hoped though, so you shrugged. It was good enough.

You'd only sat on your couch for about thirty seconds when the doorbell rang, and you physically jumped. Opening your door you found him in a loose button up shirt, casual baggy pants, a baseball cap covering his nut brown hair, and a mask.

"Hi, come in," you said, your heart beating faster than it did even during your most difficult dance numbers.

"Thank you," he said, stepping inside, his jacket held over his arm. He pulled off his mask, folding it and shoving it in his pocket.

"Would you like some water?" you asked, awkwardly. You didn't know what to say, the two of you standing feet apart in your tiny living room.

"Sure, that'd be great," he said, looking around, taking everything in.

"You can sit on my couch, or on the floor, if you'd like. Sorry there aren't more options, my apartment is tiny," you said as you filled his glass. You decided to fill one for yourself, realizing now that you'd completely forgotten to eat dinner or drink any water this afternoon because of your nerves.

"It's perfect. I really like it," he said, sitting himself down cross legged on the floor, on the small rug that surrounded your coffee table. It was the only table you had here, the one you always ate your meals at. "Is this the rug you always lay on at night?" he asked as you came and set his water in front of him.

"Oh, no, that one's in my room," you smiled, sitting opposite him on your couch, cross legged too.

"I was gonna say, this is pretty small for laying on," he laughed.

"My other one is small too, I guess," you laugh in response.

"Can I see it?" His eyes have a mischievous glint to them as they meet yours.

"Sure," you say, smirking back at him. You're trying to put on a confident front, because you swear you keep seeing his eyes trail down your body hungrily, but as soon as you start walking towards your room your legs are shaky. Yunho reaches out and grabs your shoulder from behind, steadying you for a moment.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, just tired. Filming ran long this morning, we had to go over this one section like fifty times. I'm gonna be so sore tomorrow," you say.

"Do you have a foam roller? It's helps me a lot when my legs are cramping up on me," he says, as you open your bedroom door, revealing the tiny room to him. It only has room for your full bed, your dresser shoved into your closet.

"I should really get one," you say, turning to face him. "There's the rug," you smile, watching intently to see his reaction.

"That's the one you lay on every night?" he asks. You nod your head, chuckling. "That's even smaller than the one out there," he laughs, pointing in the direction of your living room.

"I wonder if you'd even fit," you laugh, looking down at the small strip of floor that isn't taken up by your bed frame.

"Let me try," he says, kicking off his shoes and setting them on your shoe rack outside your door. He crouches down, settling himself on his side, his legs bent up to make it possible for him to fit.

"Wow, so comfortable," he quips, sarcastically.

"It is if you're my size," you pout, looking down at him with your arms crossed.

"You really lay here every night before bed?" he asks.

"It's my favorite spot in the world," you nod.

"You think we could both fit?" he asks, pulling off his hat and tossing it on your bed, holding out an arm to you.

"Maybe..." you trail off, stepping over towards him, carefully setting yourself down in front of him. You're on you side too, your face maybe a foot from his, your back shoved up against your closet door. You stare into each other's eyes, still not having touched, the whole scene potentially still friendly and innocent.

A yawn hits you, a wave of exhaustion washing over your whole body. You really should have remembered to eat a good meal before this.

"Tired?" Yunho asks, you his eyes not leaving yours.

"I guess so. Sorry for yawning," you say.

"Am I boring you?" he jokes.

"No, not at all," you shake your head, smiling back at him. And then you both just stare, a good minute passing, your heart racing and racing in your chest, your body aching for something, anything.

"Can I kiss you now?" he asks, but still doesn't move. So you do instead, pulling yourself closer to him, your legs entangling as your lips finally meet, the first moments of the kiss awkward and stilted in that way it always is with a new person. But soon enough you've found each other's rhythm; you can tell he likes sucking on your bottom lip, and likes it when you open your mouth and let out those breathy moans, allowing him to dive his tongue inside, feeling over the plush softness of your tongue. It's heated so quickly, your arms desperately grabbing at each other, a sexual excitement awakened in you in a way it hadn't been in so many years. You got lost in it; you couldn't have even remembered your own name in that moment, because all you knew was his mouth and his hands, his tongue on your neck, the way your clit felt rubbing hard against his thigh, your climax reaching you so fast you don't even realize it until your hands are cramping up. They do that when you're too stimulated, when your whole nervous system has too much input and can't process it all. He senses a change in you, pulling back to see you holding your hands, trying desperately to calm the spasming muscles.

"What's wrong?" he asks, gently holding your hands in his own.

"It just happens sometimes, when I come," you whisper into the cool air of your bedroom. "My hands lock up like this." You start to giggle, a blush creeping over your face at the look he's giving you.

"You came?"

"Yeah, I know, I'm insanely sensitive," you laugh, still rubbing at your hands.

"Fuck," he groans, shaking his head back and forth, and you laugh again at how affected he is. "Are your hands going to be okay?"

"Yeah, just give them a moment. They'll be fine," you say, putting your face up to his again, your lips connecting and fire shooting through you once again.

Before you know it he's on top of you, kissing you hard, his hands snaking underneath your top to feel over your hard nipples, grabbing hungrily at your body. "Can I taste you?" he whispers through ragged breaths, and you nod into him, whispering yes on his lips. He moves down, pulling at the waistband of your sweatpants, and you lips your hips to help him. When he grabs at your panties he drags them off slowly, shoving them in the pocket of his jeans, moving his mouth down your thighs and licking up to your core. He swipes his tongue up your slit slowly, giving firm pressure to his movement, making you moan and arch your back in response, your knees falling wide and hitting the wall and bed you're caged between. Yunho hums at the taste of you, the heady sweetness better than he could have even imagined, his tongue swiping again and again up your entire slit, taking in as much of you as he can.

"Fuck you taste good," he whispers, before attaching his lips to your clit, sucking gently and making you squirm, your knees jumping up to cage in his head. Then he's adding a finger, and then another, slowly pumping them into you while he keeps sucking on your sensitive bud, ripping another orgasm out of you in seconds. He keeps touching you through your after shocks, making your moans high pitched and sharp as you feel overstimulated, but then as he keeps going you slip back into pleasure, and another orgasm builds faster than the first.

"Fuck, fuck," you scream, your hand in his hair, snaking through and grabbing hard onto it. It makes Yunho moan, the vibrations radiating through your core and sending you over the edge once again, your pussy fluttering around his fingers. This time you push him up, your body wracked from coming so hard and fast.

"You can come multiple times," he states, his lips and chin glistening from your slick. You just nod coyly, breathing hard, trying to regain your sanity as he moves on top of you again, kissing you hard. You moan at the taste of yourself, and at the way he's smothering you so entirely. "You like how you taste?" he asks, smiling into you as you nod your head yes, your lips not able to leave each other for more than a few seconds.

"Can I fuck you?" he asks into your ear, his low voice shuddering through you.

"Please," you whisper, grabbing at his pants to help push them down, laughing as he tries to stand and bumps his head on the door handle to your closet.

"Fuck," he mutters under his breath, holding his head for a moment, scrambling still to pull of his pants and finally get to what he's wanted all night. "You're making me so desperate that I'm hurting myself," he jokes, slipping a condom over himself with finesse, finally collapsing back onto you, rubbing his hard dick up and down your slit, attaching his lips to yours once again. Slowly he pushes in, testing the waters, watching your face as he stretches you out. He's loving your reaction, the way that just him putting his cock in you is making you so overwhelmed with feelings and pleasure.

"You're so big," you cry into his shoulder, grasping onto him for dear life.

"I know," he chuckles, his face in your hair, taking in the scent of you.

"Shut up," you giggle, hitting his shoulder playfully, holding back a moan from ripping out of you. He's just barely bottomed out, holding tight onto your hips to anchor himself.

"You okay?" he whispers, placing gentle kisses on your forehead temple, keeping himself still until you give him the okay. You nod against him, your face still buried in his shoulder, holding him to you.

"Please move Yunho," you beg, your body needing more from him now, even if the stretch is hurting. He slowly pulls himself out, pushing back in with care, the wet sounds loud and embarrassing. You're so wet it's starting to drip down your leg, and he slides in so easily, even though you're tight against him.

"Does that feel good?" he asks you, setting a slow pace, watching your body intently. You babble and nod against him, and he picks his pace up, hitting something so deep inside of you that it makes you head fly back against the ground again. Thankfully your rug is there on the floor, but it isn't the thickest, and the actions till hurts.

"Ow," you mutter, your eyebrows scrunching up in pain.

"Careful, careful," he coos, grabbing the back of your head in his large palm, slowing his movements. "Why are we on the floor when your bed is right there?"

You chuckle, blinking up at him with blown pupils, your walls still clenching hard around him.

"Let's move up there," he smiles, slowly pulling out of you, standing gingerly and helping you up carefully, too. You pull at his shirt, unbuttoning some of his buttons, making him pull if off over his head. He's completely revealed to you now, and he grabs at your top too, pulling it over your head and throwing it over the side of the bed.

"Your head okay?" he asks, moving on top of you again, cradling it in his hand.

"Yeah, it's okay," you laugh, staring up at him. "How's yours?"

"It's fine," he chuckles, kissing you deeply and grabbing at you, unable to stop himself. "You're driving me crazy," he whispers, and in a moment he's sheathed himself inside of you again, resting your head against your pillows as he starts fucking you hard, his mouth on yours as your tongues swirl around each other's mouths. He's hitting that spot inside you again, over and over sending waves of pleasure through your abdomen. You feel like you're being split open, like your entire body is filled by him, by everything he's meaning to you. The care, the attention, the perfect angle of his hips as they snap against yours, has your mind floating on a cloud of pure joy. God, it's never felt this good, and you don't want it to stop, don't ever want this feeling to end. You know you're stuck now, you're addicted, you've had one taste of him and you'll never want anyone else.

"Yunho," you whine against his lips, as you feel another orgasm building.

"Fuck, don't say my name like that, you're gonna make me come," he groans, lifting his head up to deepen his angle even further, fucking you even harder. "Are you close?" he asks, and you whimper in response, moaning high pitched and holding tight onto his biceps. "You're so fucking perfect," he says, his upper body falling down on top of yours again, as he holds you close. You come, the warmth and safety his body is giving you making you release, every part of your being comforted by the man above you.

"Yes, fuck that feels good," he groans into your ear, feeling the way you're squeezing so hard down onto him, your moans like screams again, stroking his ego in such an addicting way. "I'm never gonna get enough of you," he groans, finally releasing his load, his orgasm washing over him hard as his hips stutter, his face scrunching up in pleasure as he finally comes. He collapses on top of you, holding you close as you both come down from your highs, your breaths hard and fast and totally in sync.

"You're amazing," he mumbles, stroking a hand through your hair.

"No, you're amazing," you giggle, your head floaty and calm in your post orgasmic state. You poke his side, giggling into him when his body jumps.

"Don't you dare do that right now," he grumbles, tickling you back and twice as hard, making you shriek and laugh beneath him.

You stay cuddled up all night, not able to sleep cause you keep kissing, Yunho's large warm body making you feel safe in a way you didn't know you were missing.

"I should have taken these off before I fucked you," he laughs as he pulls off your glasses, placing them gingerly on your side table.

"Eh, it's okay," you laugh, snuggling into him closer. "They're always on, I'm used to it. I keep them on even when I dance most of the time, which is weird."

"I noticed," he said. "They're so fucking cute."

"You really like them?"

"Y/n, you're fucking perfect. Every thing about you."

926 notes · View notes

taekritimin123 · 3 months ago

Text

OH MY GOD

Inkfluence (04) | JJK

pairing: politician jungkook x journalist reader

warnings: yandere jungkook, murder, crazy kook, abduction, deaths, brief smut

word count: 4.5k

As vile as it sounds, politics has decayed into a ruthless game—where truth is treason, and those who pursue it are silenced, buried beneath the crushing weight of power. You entered the game with eyes wide open, fully aware there may be no escape. But it turned far more sinister when its master took a strange interest in a mere pawn—you.

Jungkook left you in the room and made his way through the crowd, spotting his father as he greeted the guests. Plastering on a fake smile, he approached and stood beside him. Leaning in, Jungkook whispered, “They're in the warehouse. Shall we pay them a visit?”

Jae-won placed a firm hand on his son’s shoulder and offered a proud grin. “I trust you with this, son. I know you can handle them—on your own.”

Jungkook smirked at his father’s words. With a final nod, he turned and headed toward the private exit.

Jungkook stepped into the car and took a moment to compose himself. His right-hand man silently handed him a gun along with a box of bullets.

He began loading it with slow precision, whistling an eerie tune as he worked. A twisted smile crept across his face, and then—he laughed. A low, maniacal sound that filled the car, sending a chill down the spines of the two men seated in front.

They exchanged a nervous glance. They already knew their boss was unhinged—but somehow, he always found new ways to be worse than before.

“Did you two inform the men in the warehouse about the setup?” Jungkook asked, his eyes fixed on the window.

The night felt darker than usual—almost as if it sensed what was about to unfold.

The two men nodded silently. As the car rolled to a stop, they quickly stepped out. One of them moved to Jungkook’s side and opened the door for him without a word.

Five more men approached and bowed. “Boss, they're ready,” one of them said. Jungkook gave a slight nod and tucked the gun behind his back, concealing it beneath his coat. “You all know what to do.”

Without another word, he strode into the room alone. Inside, two elderly men sat on the floor—blindfolded, their hands tightly bound. The air was heavy with silence, thick with anticipation.

When they heard footsteps approaching, the two men instinctively tried to shuffle backward, fear tightening their chests.

Jungkook crouched down to their level and gently pulled off their blindfolds. Their eyes widened in disbelief as they recognized the man before them.

“Mr. Mayor?” one of them breathed out.

Jungkook gave a calm, almost reassuring smile and raised a finger to his lips. “Shh… We’re going to escape.”

Their mouths parted in shock. Confusion flickered in their eyes—why was the mayor here? And more importantly, why would he be the one rescuing them? What had happened to the people who had taken them?

Jungkook untied the ropes binding their hands. Overcome with emotion, the two old men dropped to their knees before him, tears slipping down their cheeks as they quietly wept with relief, whispering repeated thank yous to their unexpected savior.

“Just follow me,” Jungkook said calmly. “I’ve got men waiting in the car. Stay quiet, understood?”

They nodded quickly and followed him in silence toward the exit.

But just as they were about to leave the building, three armed men appeared, guns raised and ready.

Without hesitation, Jungkook drew his weapon and fired—three clean shots. The attackers collapsed before they had a chance to pull their triggers

He turned to the two men, his expression firm. “My car’s not far. Go—leave this place. Don’t look back. I’ll handle the rest.”

Without waiting for a reply, Jungkook motioned for them to run, and they did—disappearing into the night without hesitation.

One of his men stepped beside him.

“Give me another gun,” Jungkook said, his voice low and steady, eyes still fixed on the retreating figures of the two old men.

The man handed Jungkook another gun. He took it without hesitation, a slow, chilling smile creeping across his face.

He raised both weapons and aimed them directly at their heads—then pulled the triggers.

A deafening silence followed the twin blasts.

But he didn’t stop.

Bang. A shot to the back.

Bang. Bang. Another. And another.

Each bullet punched into flesh with ruthless precision. He watched, expression unreadable, as their bodies collapsed to the ground in a tangled heap of blood and stillness.

Without a word, Jungkook turned and handed the weapons back to the man. “Clean this mess,” he said coldly, then walked away—unbothered, untouched, and deadly calm. Jungkook took out his phone and called someone.

“Meet me at my place,” he said flatly, his voice low and final. No names. No explanations. He hung up without waiting for a reply.

……

You wove through the crowd, eyes scanning every direction, desperately searching for Jung-hyun. You accidentally bumped into a woman, quickly muttering,

“I’m so sorry—” But instead of acknowledging your apology, she gave you a cold, unforgiving glare. What else did you expect from people like her?

Then—you spotted him. Jung-hyun.

Relief surged through you. You pushed past a couple, reached him, and tapped his shoulder.

He turned instantly, his posture tense—until he saw your face. His shoulders dropped as he let out a breath of relief.

“There you are,” he murmured. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”

“Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

You met his gaze, panic flickering across your face. Instead of answering, you simply said, “I want to go home now.”

He frowned, clearly wanting to ask what had happened, but he held back. Instead, he nodded and drove you home.

The ride was heavy with silence—neither of you spoke. After what had just happened in that room, the atmosphere felt too tense, too raw.

Jung-hyun kept stealing glances at you, his eyes full of unspoken concern.

After a few hours, you recognized the familiar neighborhood. You glanced at Jung-hyun and said, “Thank you for taking me home. Sorry about tonight—something just came up. Drive safe.”

He gave you a soft, understanding smile in response.

You stepped out of the car and took one last look at him before closing the door and heading inside your apartment. You furrowed your brow as you noticed the lights were off—Jiwoo usually cooked at this hour.

Flicking the switch on, you scanned the apartment, but she was nowhere to be found. You checked the bedroom; still no sign of her. Where could she have gone? She would have called or messaged if she were going to be late.

Reaching into your purse, you pulled out your phone and checked for any messages from her—but there was nothing. You tried calling, but there was no answer. Frustrated, you sent her a text, hoping for a response.

You took off your accessories and carefully placed them in the box. Slowly, you slipped out of the dress and set it aside—you’d wash it by hand later, you reminded yourself.

Grabbing a towel, you headed to the bathroom, turned on the shower, and let the warm water soothe your tense muscles. But your mind quickly clouded with the events from earlier. You pinched yourself, frustrated. You couldn’t focus—forgot your work, forgot why Jung-hyun had invited you in the first place.

You had failed him. And it was all because of that damn Jungkook.

You closed your eyes, mind slipping back to what happened between you and Jungkook in that room.

His touch. His voice. The way he dominated the moment.

You didn’t know what had gotten into you—but your right hand moved on its own, trailing slowly down your stomach until it found your aching core.

Your fingers pressed gently against your clit, drawing slow circles. A breathy moan escaped your lips.

“Fuck…”

Your eyes snapped open. Realization hits you like a slap. You yanked your hand away, staring at it in disbelief—shaken, breathless.

Did you really just…?

Because of him. Damn you, Jungkook.

……

"Ah!" Jiwoo cried out as Jungkook thrust into her, his movements rough and relentless. The room echoed with the sound of skin against skin, sharp and lewd.

"I'm going to cum, Gguk!" she moaned, eyes rolling back as the tension inside her snapped. Jungkook groaned, continuing to move until he felt his own release approaching. He quickly pulled out, spilling himself onto her back.

Their bodies collapsed onto the bed, both of them panting heavily from the intensity of what just happened.

Jungkook turned to Jiwoo, fingers gently gripping her chin.

"Would you do something for me, baby?" he asked, his voice low and coaxing. Jiwoo pouted at his words.

What is it this time? She already felt like she’d done more than enough—just by living with you.

“What is it?” She blushed when Jungkook suddenly kissed her pouty lips. Oh boy, she would do anything for Jungkook!

“Write everything Lee Seoha did twelve years ago,” he murmured darkly. Jiwoo’s eyes widened in shock.

“But… she’s my mother! I would never!” she snapped, voice trembling.

She tried to move away from him, panic rising in her chest—but Jungkook was faster. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her back, forcing her down onto her stomach.

“Oh, I’m sure you will,” Jungkook said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Drop the article tomorrow.”

Jiwoo winced as his grip on her hair tightened, pain shooting across her scalp. She tried to twist around—until she felt something cold and hard press against her bare back. She froze. Her breath hitched.

It was his gun.

“What do you think, baby?” Jungkook whispered, tightening his grip on Jiwoo’s hair as the barrel of his gun pressed harder against her back.

Jiwoo nodded slowly, her body trembling. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks as her lips quivered, the weight of fear and betrayal sinking in.

“Such a good girl,” he praised, voice low and dark. Jiwoo gasped sharply when Jungkook suddenly entered her again.

‘Shit, I’m late’, you thought, hastily grabbing your things. Just then, your phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number appeared on the screen:

"She’s not who you think she is."

You frowned at the text, confused.

Probably a wrong number, you thought, brushing it off. Or some scammer.

Either way, you didn’t give it much thought and continued on your way.

You sent another message to Jiwoo. She still hadn’t come home, and none of your previous texts had been answered. Worry began to gnaw at your chest.

You ran through the streets, heart pounding, until you finally reached the building where you worked. As always, your eyes lifted to the familiar logo above the entrance—and you couldn’t help but smile. It had become a comforting habit.

You pushed the door open and greeted your co-workers, trying to mask the unease bubbling beneath your calm exterior.

“You’re late,” Jung-hyun said, standing up from where he’d been sitting and walking over to you.

You turned to him with a sheepish smile. “Sorry, I was really exhausted last night.”

He smiled back and scratched the back of his head. “It was actually my fault. The venue was pretty far.”

You shook your head. “Not really. Oh—by the way, here are the jewelry pieces.”

You handed him a paper bag. “The dress isn’t clean yet, so I’ll probably return it tomorrow.”

Jung-hyun shook his head. “No, keep it. It’s yours now. Think of it as a gift.”

You gasped softly and quickly tried to refuse. There was no way you could accept something like that—especially from someone you’d just met a week ago. But Jung-hyun was persistent, and eventually, you gave in.

Your cheeks flushed as you looked down. “Thank you,” you murmured, touched by the gesture.

He returned to his office, and you sat back in your chair, diving into work. Your fingers moved wearily across the keyboard, tapping away until the ache made you pause. You stopped midway to massage your tired hands.

Needing a quick break, you grabbed your phone and started scrolling through your feed. As you browsed the latest updates, one article instantly caught your eye:

"The Secret Lee Seoha Buried for Over a Decade."

Your finger hesitated only for a second before tapping on it. The headline alone sent a chill down your spine. You began to read—and with each word, your chest tightened.

Someone had exposed Lee Seoha. The article laid out the details of the incident that happened twelve years ago—the very one that had destroyed your grandfather’s name.

Your heart pounded as you took in every line. It was too thorough, too specific—peeling back layers of deception that had been buried for years.

Your world stopped when you saw the name beneath the article.

Written by: Kim Jiwoo.

Your best friend.

You stared at the screen in disbelief. She wrote it? Jiwoo was the one who exposed Lee Seoha?

Your fingers trembled as you dialed her number, hoping—praying—that she’d pick up. The line rang once... twice…

“Sorry, but the person you are trying to reach isn’t available.”

The automated voice echoed through your office, cold and final.

You lowered the phone slowly, heart pounding. You didn’t know what to feel. Relief—because after all these years, someone finally exposed Seoha for what she did.

Confusion—why Jiwoo? Why would she be the one to uncover it all without telling you? And a quiet ache of sadness—because deep down, you always thought it would be you who would bring the truth to light.

But Jiwoo did it first. And now she was nowhere to be found.

Why wasn’t Jiwoo answering your calls? You pinched the bridge of your nose, the weight of everything pressing down on you. It was all too much—too fast. You couldn’t even begin to process the situation, and yet you had responsibilities that demanded your attention.

You couldn’t just drop everything to go looking for her. You had work to finish. With a heavy sigh, you sat back down, forcing yourself to stay composed.

“I just need to get through this day... then I’ll talk to Jiwoo.”

It was nearly five when you began tidying your desk. You slung your bag over your shoulder and, before leaving, opened the article again.

The comment section was flooded. People were shocked—some demanding answers, others throwing hate. The reactions were split down the middle. Half called it fake news, defending Seoha with fiery loyalty. The rest were furious, accusing her of lies and demanding justice.

You stared at the screen, heart sinking. Jiwoo had stirred a storm—and you were caught right in the middle of it.

The news spread like wildfire.

You had barely stepped out of your office when you overheard your co-workers buzzing about the same article. Their voices were loud with disbelief and curiosity. Some even turned to you, asking if you knew about it—if you believed it. You simply nodded, keeping your face unreadable, and made your way straight to the exit.

Your pace quickened, needing space, needing answers. That’s when Jung-hyun caught up to you, slightly breathless from trying to keep up.

“Hey—wait,” he said between breaths. You looked at him, confused.

“Is something wrong?”

“Do you want a ride?” he offered. “It’s unusually dark today. Looks like a storm’s coming—it’s not safe.”

You hesitated for a second before nodding. Maybe Jiwoo was already at the apartment. You needed to see her, to talk to her—and fast.

“Alright,” you agreed. “Let’s go.”

During the ride, Jung-hyun glanced at you and asked if you had seen the news. He didn’t even need to specify which one—he already knew you had. You sighed, overwhelmed, and began ranting. You told him how shocked you were when you read the article… but what shook you most was who wrote it. Jiwoo. Your best friend.

When the car finally reached your neighborhood, you unbuckled your seatbelt with urgency. “Thanks for the ride,” you said quickly before stepping out and shutting the door behind you.

As you walked toward your apartment building, you noticed the lights were on. But before you could reach the door, you heard it—voices. Loud. Angry. Arguing. You froze, standing still just a few feet away. You couldn’t make out the words clearly, but one stood out: “Mom.”

The crash of something breaking echoed next, followed by a thud that made your skin crawl.

Your heart raced. What the hell is happening? Without thinking, you rushed forward, gripped the doorknob with shaking hands, and twisted it open.

Your body froze, breath hitching as your mind struggled to process what you were seeing. Jiwoo was on the floor, her left hand cradling her reddened cheek. Standing over her, a woman loomed—right hand still slightly raised, as if the slap had just landed.

Then she turned.

And your heart stopped.

Lee Seoha.

The woman you’ve despised for as long as you can remember. The woman responsible for ruining your grandfather’s name. And now, she was here—inside your home—standing in front of your best friend.

Was it because of the article?

Your eyes flicked back and forth between Seoha and Jiwoo, confusion and anger flooding your chest. Jiwoo’s eyes widened the moment she saw you, her lips parting as if to speak… but no words came.

But how did Seoha even find Jiwoo’s address so fast?

Then your mind circled back—“mom.”

You remembered hearing that word just moments ago, and suddenly, something began to click.

Seoha’s husband… what was his name again? You couldn’t recall much, only the surname—Kim.

You’d heard she had two daughters. The eldest: Kim Jia. But the youngest? You’d never known her name.

Your eyes returned to Jiwoo—and the resemblance hit you like a slap. Same eyes. Same jawline. Same damn blood.

You clutched your chest as the realization punched through you. Jiwoo was Lee Seoha’s daughter.

And Seoha was here because of the article her own daughter had written.

You stumbled a step back.

Your hand flew over your mouth, trying to silence the sobs rising in your throat.

She lied to you.

Jiwoo—your best friend. The one you trusted like a sister. She knew. She knew how much you hated that woman.

And she sat there—listening, nodding, comforting you—while you ranted about her own mother.

You quickly ran out of the apartment, ignoring Jiwoo's desperate calls behind you. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

Your legs carried you aimlessly through dimly lit streets until you found a bench. You collapsed onto it, letting the sobs you held back finally break free. Your chest ached, your vision blurred with tears.

She lied to you.

But… then why did she expose Seoha?

Your thoughts spun in circles. She revealed her mother’s deepest secrets—did that mean she was genuine? Was she trying to make things right? Was she just too scared to tell you the truth, afraid you’d hate her if you knew?

You didn’t know.

And that uncertainty tore at you more than anything else.

You cried harder, burying your face in your hands.

Suddenly, your phone rang. The screen lit up with an unknown number. You declined the call with a frustrated swipe.

But a few seconds later—it rang again.

You answered it this time, ready to yell at whoever was on the other end for bothering you at such a moment. “Wh—”

Your voice caught in your throat when you heard a voice you recognized instantly.

“Told you, she’s not what you think she is.”

Your body froze. That voice.

Your mind raced back to the message you received earlier that morning. You swallowed hard.

“Jungkook? That was you?” You wiped the tears on your cheeks with trembling fingers, your voice cracked and raw from crying.

“Yes, sweetheart.”

His voice was both menacing and oddly comforting. You didn’t respond right away—your mind was still spiraling from everything that had just unraveled. The realization hadn’t sunk in fully, and yet… it was all right there, crashing down on you like a wave you couldn’t stop.

“How did you even know about that?” you asked timidly, your voice small.

But deep down, you already knew the answer. He was Jeon Jungkook, after all. Politics was his playground, secrets his currency. He knew everything—he always knew.

“I have my ways. I’ll send you a file. Make sure to open it.”

You frowned. A file?

Before you could say another word, the line went dead.

Seconds later, your phone buzzed again. A message. Same unknown number. Attached was a file.

With hesitation clawing at your chest, you tapped on it. The screen brightened with a series of photos—faces, names, details. Some of them looked vaguely familiar. Your eyes scanned quickly… until they stopped.

A man. One face that made your heart stutter.

Your grandfather’s former opponent. The one who had been critically injured during the bombing. His name stared back at you like a ghost from your past.

Your hands trembled just as your phone rang again. The same number.

You picked up, your voice shaky. “What was that file for—”

But Jungkook cut you off.

“It was a list of people who stood against your dear grandfather,” Jungkook spoke slowly, almost savoring each word. “They’re the ones who planned his downfall.”

He could practically picture your reaction—how your expression must’ve twisted at the weight of his words.

And he was right.

You stiffened, the blood draining from your face. These names… these people… they weren’t just names. They were the very ones who took everything from you. Your family. Your peace. Your life.

Your chest tightened. You closed your eyes, trying to keep yourself together, but you could feel it—rage crawling up your throat, despair simmering beneath your skin. It wouldn't be long before it all exploded.

“Why are you doing this?” you whispered, your voice low, hoarse.

The wind started to pick up. The sky darkened.

“Because I know you,” he replied coolly. “I know that deep down, you want revenge. And I’ll gladly give it to you, sweetheart.”

Revenge.

It was a word you hadn’t dared to utter in years. Yet it hit you with brutal clarity. It had once been your only goal—until you remembered what your grandparents taught you. They were the reason you buried that desire, the reason you learned to forgive, to move forward without hatred in your heart.

But they were gone now.

And Jungkook? He knew exactly how to strike when your world was at its weakest. You were exhausted. Angry. Broken. And in that vulnerable moment—when grief drowned your reason and fury blurred your judgment—you failed to see it.

And Jungkook was glad.

“Looks like it’s going to rain,” Jungkook said, voice calm and composed. “A black car will stop nearby—get in. My man will escort you to a hotel. I’m sure you don’t want to go back to that place.”

A short pause.

“Good night, sweetheart. I hope you reconsider my offer.”

The line went dead.

Moments later, as if on cue, a black car pulled up to the curb. You stared at it for a few seconds, hesitant. But what choice did you have? Stay here and wait for the storm… or go back to that apartment and face Jiwoo—and her mother?

Neither option felt right.

With a quiet sigh, you stood up and slid into the backseat. The driver gave you a brief glance through the mirror but said nothing.

The ride was eerily silent. No music. No words. Just the low hum of the engine and the sound of your own thoughts screaming in your head.

You leaned your forehead against the cool glass window, hoping—praying—that this was all just a nightmare you’d soon wake up from.

You woke up in an unfamiliar bedroom and quickly realized—it was the hotel room. You sighed, the weight of last night’s events pressing down on your chest. So it wasn’t just a dream. It was all real.

You turned your head toward the window, puzzled by how dark it was. Reaching for your phone, you noticed it was nearly dead. The screen lit up: 7:00 PM.

Did you really sleep through the entire day?

Your eyes shifted to the nearby table where a set of neatly folded clothes had been placed. You grabbed them and made your way to the bathroom. Just a quick bath—then you’d leave. Go where? You didn’t know. You just had to move.

The moment warm water touched your skin, your tense muscles slowly began to ease. God, how you loved a warm bath. It was the only comforting thing you had right now.

Once dressed, you moved around the room, packing your things in silence. You were halfway through when a voice behind you made you freeze.

“Leaving already?”

Your eyes widened. You turned around sharply—only to come face-to-face with Jungkook.

He was dressed in a black polo, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, paired with tight black jeans that hugged his legs perfectly.

“Eyes up here, sweetheart,” Jungkook said when he caught your gaze lingering lower than it should.

“I was about to leave,” you replied coolly, turning away to continue packing your things.

You heard his footsteps as he walked toward you.

“So you didn’t consider my offer?” he asked, his voice teasing, almost pouty.

Before you could respond, he grabbed your arm and turned you around to face him. You gasped at the sudden action and instinctively glared at him.

“Don’t touch me,” you said confidently, your voice sharp and steady despite the chaos swirling inside you.

“What if I did? What help can you give?” you asked, your voice cautious but firm.

Jungkook furrowed his brow at your words, then chuckled darkly.

“The kind of help you want,” he replied. “What do you want to do with them?”

You paused, your throat tightening. Then the words slipped out before you could stop them.

“I want them gone. I want them destroyed—just like what they did to my grandparents.”

A small, satisfied smile played on his lips as he leaned in and placed a light kiss on your cheek. His voice dropped to a whisper by your ear.

“Your wish is my command.”

You stepped back slightly, eyes narrowing as you studied his face.

You knew—he would never do something like this for free.

“What do you want in return, Jungkook?” you asked, voice calm but guarded.

His grip on your arm loosened as he stepped past you, settling himself on the edge of the bed.

“You already know what I really want,” he said, his voice calm, almost teasing.

You didn’t reply, just stared. But you knew—deep down, you always did.

“I have a second condition,” he added, leaning back slightly. “Well… actually, it works in your favor.”

You raised an eyebrow, heart skipping.

“I want you to be the one to write the article. The one that exposes every single one of them.”

Your breath hitched. For a moment, your eyes lit up—sparkling with the same fire you thought had died years ago. The same fire your grandfather once carried.

Yes, the situation was twisted. Yes, you were making a deal with the devil. But in this moment… you didn’t care.

Jungkook patted his lap, eyes steady.

“Come here.”

Without much thought, you moved—settling onto his lap. His hand came up to gently grip your chin, tilting your face toward him until your lips were just inches apart.

His thumb brushed lightly across your cheek, his voice low—smooth like velvet but laced with something darker.

"Just so you know, sweetheart. I keep every single word that came out of my mouth."

You swallowed hard, your body frozen in place as his gaze pierced through you. There was no teasing in his tone anymore—just a quiet promise laced with danger.

“You remember what I said that night?” he whispered, leaning in closer.

01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05

Taglist: @kokoandkookie @delulutofr @somehowukook @cdllevantae @magicalnachocreator @minimoninini @heyyymin @chimchoom @labbbaaa @namtits69 @polnaraffsrack @mar-lo-pap @iveivory

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taekritimin123 · 3 months ago

Text

Inkfluence (02) | JJK

pairing: politician jungkook x journalist reader

warnings: yandere jungkook, mention of deaths, sensitive topics, dub-con, oral sex (male and female receiving)

word count: 2.5k+

“Give me your phone,”

Jungkook said coldly, his tone laced with warning. Your eyes widened as you stared at him intently. The bathroom was anything but small—spacious even—but his presence made it feel suffocating. For a moment, you forgot how to breathe. Clutching your chest, you forced yourself to inhale and exhale. You didn’t move, only stared at him, and that was enough to make Jungkook lose his temper. He stepped closer, and you instinctively backed away. Without warning, Jungkook grabbed you and snatched the phone from your hand. You immediately kneed him in the groin. He dropped the phone and loosened his grip on your waist, crouching over in pain.

Seizing the chance, you grabbed your phone and bolted for the door. You managed to escape and found yourself back at the table you had left half an hour ago. Jiwoo looked at you with wide eyes, bombarding you with questions when she saw your panicked expression and how quickly you were grabbing your things. “We need to leave. Now,” you whispered urgently, grabbing her hand. Jiwoo eyed you with confusion. She had a lot of questions, but didn’t ask—not yet. She suspected you’d discovered something. You and Jiwoo were just about to walk away from the table when stage lights up again, and Jungkook stands there, holding a mic. His eyes instantly lock with yours. You're not sure if you're imagining things, but… did he just smirk at you? “Hello, everyone! Before this day ends, I just want to congratulate someone for her outstanding work. I've been a fan of hers for a long time. She embodies what it means to be a true journalist—deeply devoted to her profession, to the country, and to its people. Her choice of words? It's raw. No flowery language or sugar-coating—just the way I like it. Maybe one day, I’ll be the one featured in her work.”

Suddenly, the spotlight was on you. People turned their heads in your direction, eyeing you with confused expressions. “Please, come to the stage, Ms. Y/N L/N. You truly deserve to be recognized.” People might think Jungkook was simply being kind—giving someone like you the appreciation you deserved—but you knew better. His words and actions had a different intention buried beneath the persona he was displaying. He knew you were planning to leave, and this was just one of his ways to stop you. The crowd began to cheer, encouraging you to step onto the stage. Jiwoo looked at you and pursed her lips. “Just go up there—we shouldn’t make it too obvious,” she whispered. You wanted to leave so badly, but the pressure from the crowd and Jiwoo’s words finally pushed you to move. You walked toward the stage, avoiding Jungkook’s gaze.

Once you stood beside him, you made sure to keep a noticeable distance between you. Instead of looking at him, you focused on the crowd. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Jungkook watching you, his teeth sinking into his lower lip. He handed you the mic, and you took it hesitantly. “I…” You couldn’t find the right words. You were too overwhelmed—unaccustomed to this kind of attention. Ever since you were a kid, you’d always preferred being alone. But, like any other human, you needed interaction. No man is an island, after all. You longed for friendships—for people who saw you, truly saw you.

But you were never the apple of anyone’s eye. No one ever noticed you unless they needed help with something academic. To them, you were just a pawn—useful, but never valued. And now, here you were—standing under a spotlight with not less than five hundred pairs of eyes staring at you. Staring not just at you, but through you, straight into your soul. You were frozen, your mind unable to fully grasp what was happening. Minutes passed before you managed to gather yourself. You reminded yourself to stay professional. As much as you wanted to slap Jungkook and storm off the stage, you didn’t. Instead, you forced a polite smile and thanked him for his “wonderful” words about you. Quickly, you handed the mic back to him and turned to leave. But just as you took your first step, music began to play from the speakers.

“Ms. Y/N, it looks like Mr. Mayor would like to share a dance with you,” the host announced, his voice echoing across the hall. You froze mid-step. You turned your head slowly toward Jungkook. He was already facing you, hand extended, that same infuriatingly charming—and menacing—smile tugging at his lips.

The crowd went wild. After all, why would the Mayor—soon to be the next governor—choose to dance with someone like you? Whispers spread like wildfire. People began to suspect Jungkook had taken a special interest in you. But their expressions didn’t show admiration or joy—only pity. To them, you were just another toy he’d picked up, another pawn in whatever game he was playing. And they knew one thing for sure: his father would never approve. You might just become one of the many who would eventually face Jeon Jae-won’s wrath—all because of his son.

“May I?” Jungkook asked, voice laced with mockery. You glanced at the crowd. They were all watching, waiting for your next move—even Jiwoo. You turned back to Jungkook, ready to refuse. But before you could speak, he swiftly grabbed your waist and began to move with you in a slow, practiced rhythm. You tried to push him away, but his grip tightened. His breath was hot against your ear. “Try something, and you’ll see,” he whispered. A shiver ran down your spine. “Mr. Jeon,” you hissed, glaring at him, “let go of me—or you’ll see.”

Jungkook let out a soft laugh. From the outside, you looked like a couple enjoying a romantic moment on the dance floor. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. He ignored your resistance and spun you gently, as if he hadn’t just threatened you. “Makes me wonder… why journalism?” His tone had shifted again, casual—too casual. Like he hadn’t just gripped you against your will. You stayed silent, glaring at him. “Are there other reasons you chose this profession, beyond your so-called desire to help the nation?” he pressed, eyes narrowing. “Tell me, Y/N.” You still refused to answer. But you could feel his patience thinning—his clenched jaw gave him away. Then he said something that caught you off guard. “The fire in your eyes… your determination to build a better future for this country—it reminds me of someone.” His next words made your body tense. Your eyes widened, lips parted in shock.

“It reminds me of Mr. Shin.” Mr. Shin? Was he talking about Shin Sunwoo—the former mayor of your city… and your grandfather? You gasped as Jungkook’s hand squeezed your waist, snapping you back to the moment. “Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?” he asked with a smirk, clearly amused. “Did you remember something... memorable?” Every word he spoke dripped with veiled intent, each syllable laced with hidden meaning.

Shin Sunwoo.

Your grandfather. Once beloved mayor of the city—twelve years ago. You grew up under his roof, raised by him and your grandmother after your mother left you in their care. She’d been unable to handle the heartbreak of being abandoned by your father, who ran off with his mistress. But you didn’t grow up bitter. Your grandparents filled every void with love. Your grandfather was more than a guardian—he was your hero. When he ran for mayor, you watched him serve not just with authority, but with heart. He didn’t just win the position—he won the people. You were proud—so proud. Then… everything changed.

He was planning to run for a second term when tragedy struck. A mall in the heart of the city was bombed. Nearly a hundred lives lost, many more injured—including your grandfather’s rival in the upcoming election. And then, just days later, an article surfaced—It accused your grandfather of orchestrating the mall bombing. The writer? None other than Lee Seoha—a respected and widely trusted investigative journalist. Her words were like fire that managed to burn your entire world. People did not bother to verify whether the accusations were true; after all, the source was a credible reporter. The city’s once-favorite mayor was now labeled a devil, a murderer, and worse. You and your grandmother knew the truth—your grandfather’s intentions were pure and clear. He would never do such a thing. He knew he was being framed by his opponent.He tried to defend himself, but people twisted his words. Overwhelmed by shame, he took his own life.

Your grandmother couldn’t handle his death. Every day her heart ached, longing for her late husband, and due to unbearable pain, she passed away. The people moved on after what happened, some whispering that they deserved it—they took many lives. You were left alone. Your loved ones died carrying guilt and pain they didn’t deserve. They paid for hundreds of lives they didn’t take.

Your mother came back into your life, hugging you at your grandmother’s funeral as if she had never abandoned you. Your hatred toward her only grew stronger. You hated her, you hated everyone—and most of all, you hated Lee Seoha. She had been your inspiration to pursue journalism—but in the worst way. You couldn’t bear to see another family broken due to lies. You promised yourself that you would never be like her. You snapped back to reality as Jungkook stopped moving—and so did the music. Tears welled up in the corners of your eyes, stirred by the painful memories. Jungkook gently touched your cheek and wiped away the falling tears. He pulled you into a hug and whispered, “Don’t cry, sweetheart.” Then, he looked out at the crowd and smiled. At last, he had you in his arms.

You and Jiwoo were drinking alcohol in the apartment. This day had taken a lot out of you. You didn’t bother to find and confront your mother about why she was in this city and why the hell she was supporting the Jeons. Maybe you would do that when you found her again. For now, you just wanted to forget everything that had happened today and urged Jiwoo to drink with you. A notification popped up on Jiwoo’s phone, and she immediately grabbed it. You could see the frustration in her eyes and how she bit her lower lip. She looked at you and said she had to go somewhere. You were confused—it's literally midnight. Where would she be going at this hour? You just nodded since she seemed rushed. You placed your head on the table; the alcohol was slowly taking effect. You heard the door close. What’s with Jiwoo today? Everyone’s acting weird, you thought. Thirty minutes passed when you heard someone enter. You assumed it was Jiwoo, so you didn’t pay much mind. Suddenly, you felt someone breathing on your left ear. You quickly straightened your body and turned your head. You froze when you saw Jeon Jungkook.

He wore a black polo and white trouser. He looked good, you shook your head to drive away such thoughts. “What are you doing here?” You stood up, and before you could get away from him, he placed his hands on the table—trapping you. He did not answer, but instead, he kissed you on the lips. You tried to push his chest, but he did not budge, he grabbed both your hands and pinned you on the table.

You were tipsy, your surroundings were slightly spinning. Just a minute ago, you were pushing him, but now, you're letting him kiss you. Maybe this was all the alcohol’s fault. Jungkook bit your lower lip to make you open your mouth and you did. You let his tongue explore your mouth, yours and his are fighting for dominance. Jungkook loosens the grip he has on your hands, and places those into your clothed breasts—you are not wearing a bra. He quickly lifted your shirt and touched your now naked boobs. You moaned into his mouth as he pinched your right nipple. He stopped kissing you and gazed at your eyes—it seemed like waiting for confirmation. The moment you nodded, Jungkook moved his face in your chest and sucked your left nipple while pinching the other one. You moaned loudly when a warm feeling enveloped your nipple.

Jungkook kissed the valley of your breast down to your stomach. He hurriedly removed your short, and threw it somewhere. His dick hardened more at the sight of you wearing a lace underwear. He rubs your clothed clit in a circular motion, making you gasp at the new sensation. You looked so good and as much as he wanted to see you wearing such a piece of clothing—he would prefer that you wear none. He took it off and put it in his pocket. "Your pussy is so pretty, just like you," he said. It was inviting Jungkook, and he did not hesitate to dive in. Jungkook took a long lick from your clitoris down to your perineum, earning him another loud moan from you.

He keeps on sucking your pussy until he cannot hold it longer. Once you were wet enough, he inserted one finger into your hole. “Shit, shit” You muttered as you felt like you’re being ripped down there—well, you are. You never once touched yourself down there, you never had sex because, in the first place, you never really thought about it. You thought you were asexual. Jungkook smiled when he saw blood dripping from your cunt—you were a virgin. Jungkook puts another finger and fastened his pace. You were a moaning mess. The painful sensation that you felt when he inserted his finger subsided, and you began to feel pleasure. Jungkook pressed your clitoris, adding more pleasure. “Fuck, Jungkoo-k!” Your breathing became unstable, you felt something in your stomach. You're about to come and Jungkook knows it. He removed his fingers in your cunt, you whimpered with the sudden emptiness you'd felt. You quickly glance at him, “What the hell?” You softly shout at him, controlling your breath.

“Get on your knees.”

You immediately did what he said, and helped him unbuckle his belt. Your mind is hazy, you are aware of what is happening, and at the same time, you don't. Your lips parted when you saw how hard he was; his cock bulged from his brief. It looked like it wanted to be set free and you did, and as soon as you took off his underwear, his cock sprung free—your face came into contact with it. “Fuck” You muttered; it was huge, fat, and veiny. ‘Perfect’ is the perfect word to describe it. You grabbed his cock and licked its tip. Jungkook threw his head back and moaned. You started to suck the head, and eventually took his full length into your mouth.

Jungkook grabbed your hair and began to thrust in and out of your mouth. Tears formed in your eyes; you're gagging on his cock. Your throat burned as Jungkook fastened his pace; you held his thigh to make him stop, but he did not. He was engrossed in the sensation to even care about your condition. “Shit! I am close, baby.” Jungkook mumbled in between his moans; he hissed when you dug your nails on his thighs. You felt a warm liquid filling your mouth; he slowly removed his cock, careful not to spill any of his sperm. Jungkook crouched down at your level and grabbed your jaw.

“Swallow it.”

01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05

Taglist: @kokoandkookie @delulutofr @somehowukook

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taekritimin123 · 3 months ago

Text

Terms & Conditions: Part 2 (Final Act)

when the suit comes off, the truth does too.

pairing: CEO’s son!Jungkook x assistant!Reader

summary: You swore you came here to build a career — not fall apart in the hands of the CEO’s son.

warnings: power imbalance, office tension, explicit sexual content (oral sex m. receiving, unprotected sex, rough sex, dirty talk, possessiveness), infidelity (both parties), arranged engagement themes, physical violence (fight scene), public scandal, emotional manipulation, toxic power dynamics, angst, some hurt/comfort.

w.c: 10k

Part 1 is required reading. This is a finale part 2.

You don’t even wait until the floor clears for lunch.

There’s no strategy left in you anymore — no calculated timing, no softened voice. You step into the corridor just as the meeting room doors close behind him, your clipboard still clutched in your hand, the adrenaline already humming in your ears like static. And when he sees you, he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t pretend to be surprised. His gaze settles on yours with that same maddening calm — like the night he spent inside you meant nothing, like the woman draped over his arm the next evening wasn’t wearing the exact same shade of lipstick you left smeared across his throat.

Drawing in a single breath, you face him. "You're engaged."

It's not a question - it doesn't need to be. The silence that follows hangs heavy between you, thick enough to suffocate.

He releases a long sigh and, unusually, drops his typical facade of sarcasm and control. Meeting your gaze with unreadable eyes, he stands with hands in his pockets like a defendant who knows the verdict won't matter.

"Yes," he says simply. "I am."

You remain perfectly still, fingers tightening around your clipboard as you deliver your next words with razor-sharp precision. "So what was I, then? Disposable? Or just free?"

Your words strike true - you catch the flicker in his eyes, the subtle clench of his jaw, the shallow breath he takes. Yet he offers no apology, no explanation. Instead, he responds with the detached tone of a business presentation.

“It’s not like that.”

“No?” You step closer. Not much. Just enough to make him hold your gaze harder. “Then explain it. Explain why I was bleeding wine in front of investors while you stood there with your fiancée, saying nothing.”

He exhales through his nose, slow and tight, voice lowered now, like the weight of the conversation is finally dragging his composure down with it.

“It’s a business arrangement,” he says, words deliberate. “Old money. Shared capital. Our families have been connected since we were teenagers. This isn’t about love, or lust, or even choice. It’s about control. It’s about deals with names older than either of us.” A pause. “It’s expected.”

You laugh — short, bitter, too empty to sound like anything real.

“Expected,” you echo, your voice cracking on the word like it’s poison in your mouth. “And I was… what? Unexpected? A glitch in your system? Something to delete once the ink dried?”

His silence and downcast gaze speak volumes.

Your breath catches unsteadily as your heart pounds against your ribs. "You could've said something," you whisper, the words barely audible. "Could've stopped. Didn't have to kiss me, didn't have to stay."

His voice takes on a sharp edge. "And you didn't have to let me."

The accusation hits you like a physical blow, leaving you frozen in place. When you finally find your voice again, it emerges quiet and glacial. "I wasn't the one promising anything."

He meets your gaze, his expression unreadable but his voice carrying notes of both defense and warning. "You had a boyfriend."

The words strike deep - not because they're false, but because they expose the very wound you'd hoped he'd forgotten. He catches every micro-expression that crosses your face: the catch in your breath, the clench of your jaw, the momentary downward flicker of your eyes.

"You think this was one-sided?" he murmurs, drawing closer. "That I seduced you from nowhere? You kissed me back, begged for it, moaned my name while your boyfriend's contact was still in your phone."

You flinch but hold your ground, because beneath all the anger lies an unbearable truth: he's right. And that very fact feeds both your hatred for him and your self-loathing.

✓

You cut him from your life completely. No acknowledgment when he stands at the printer, no response to his comments in campaign threads, no glance during Monday syncs. You give him nothing - not a breath, not a look, not a hint of the woman who once surrendered to his touch.

Though you refuse to meet his gaze, you can feel it following you - heavy and deliberate, as if trying to summon back the version of you who trembled at his voice. Instead, you present him with a carefully crafted facade: high collars, red lipstick, clipboard held like armor. This version of you is untouched by memory, unmarked by the intimacy you once shared.

Two weeks later, she arrives. Nami. Her visit is mentioned casually in a morning brief about corporate guests from London, but the moment the elevator doors open, you understand. She embodies effortless elegance - her cream suit perfectly tailored, her heels precise, her smile polished to perfection. She and Jungkook move together with practiced grace, his arm hovering near hers without quite touching, their matched presence speaking of wealth and careful calculation.

Your stomach twists as you try to ignore them, but when his burning glance finds your desk, something shifts inside you. As Minho from strategic ops approaches with coffee and a smile, you seize the opportunity. Your fingers brush his arm, your laughter flows freely, your gratitude comes with lowered lashes and a voice too sweet to be genuine.

When you finally look across the space, Jungkook stands with Nami but his eyes are fixed on you. He remains motionless except for the tightening vein at his temple and the slight shift of his jaw. In that moment, you discover something colder than satisfaction blooming in your chest - the realization that you could wound him without a single touch, just as he wounded you.

You maintain your performance with Minho, your laughter pitched just loud enough, your proximity carefully calculated. Though you don't look Jungkook's way again, you can feel his unwavering attention. When you finally return to your desk, your smile falls away like a discarded mask. You press your lips together and resume working, knowing that if you must bleed, at least you're making him feel every drop.

✓

It’s late when he finds you again — not by accident, not by fate, but with the kind of deliberate intensity you can feel long before you hear the footsteps approaching from behind. You’re the only one left on the floor, most of the office dark now except for the hallway lamps casting low, golden streaks across the concrete, and the single strip of cold light above your desk where you sit, pretending to finish the expense report you opened twenty minutes ago but haven’t touched since.

You hear him before you see him — the soft thud of his shoes crossing the carpeted floor with just enough pressure to announce him and no one else.

He doesn’t speak your name — not at first — just lingers behind your chair for a moment too long, his presence as heavy as ever, a pull you can feel at your back like heat from an open flame.

When he finally moves, it’s slow — fingers brushing the edge of your desk, not touching you yet, just hovering like memory, like warning, until he steps closer, his voice low, already rough, already wrecked.

“You’re ignoring me.”

Silence is your only response as you click aimlessly through a spreadsheet, your eyes fixed on meaningless numbers while your throat constricts with the weight of everything left unsaid.

“Say something,” he pushes, his voice darker now, not cruel, but desperate in a way you’ve never heard it. “Or do you only speak when you’re on your knees?”

His crude remark ignites something in you. Rising with controlled fury, you send your chair rolling back with a sharp clatter. Your body turns to face him in one fluid motion as you shove his hand off your desk, stepping into his space until you're toe to toe, your carefully maintained composure finally shattering.

"Don't touch me." The words cut through the air between you, crystalline and absolute.

He remains rooted in place, breathing hard with stormy eyes and hands flexing at his sides - a man struggling against the magnetic pull between you, fighting the urge to close those final inches.

"I can't stop wanting you," he confesses through clenched teeth, each word brittle and raw. "You know that, right? You feel it too. Don't lie to me."

"You don't get to want me," you counter, your voice trembling with the effort to maintain your resolve. "Not while you still belong to someone else."

A soft curse escapes him as he reaches for your wrist, seeking something solid to anchor himself to - but you wrench away before his fingers can find purchase, your next words slicing through the tension like a blade across silk.

"Break it off."

He freezes as you fix him with an unwavering stare, your eyes blazing not with tears but with a fury that threatens to blind. "If you want to touch me again, if you want me at all," you continue, each word deliberately cruel and precise, "then end it. End your deal, your arrangement, your legacy contract or whatever the hell you call that woman, and choose me."

His jaw flexes, shoulders rigid, a muscle ticking in his cheek like the last thread holding him together. "It's not that simple," he manages finally - a hollow defense from a man suddenly realizing how little control he truly has.

Your voice drops to a whisper, steady and final. "Then this is over."

You leave him there, your heels clicking against the floor as you walk away without pause or backward glance. Your exhale trembles in your lungs as you disappear down the corridor, leaving him frozen in the harsh fluorescent light. The message is clear: if he wants you now, he'll have to earn you.

✓

You download the app that same night, your thumb hovering over the red-pink icon for a full minute before you tap it — like even that act alone requires courage, like even pretending you’re ready to move on might tear something inside you loose.

You don’t tell yourself it’s a statement. You don’t pretend it’s casual. It’s not about hunger or curiosity or trying to bury the feeling of Jungkook’s body still inside yours. It’s about escape. About choice. About quiet rebellion in the form of swipes and curated smiles and profiles that don’t mention empires or legacies or what their family owns in London.

Dan is the first to reach out, a welcome change from chasing someone else's silence. You like the fact that he doesn’t make you chase, doesn’t smirk behind every word, doesn’t leave you staring at your phone for three hours wondering if you imagined the weight of his silence. Dan is polite, easy to talk to, refreshingly available — a man who replies in full sentences, asks about your work with genuine interest, doesn’t look at you like you’re the puzzle he wants to solve before he breaks it.

You go on your first date with him the following Friday — a corner booth at a rooftop bar, not flashy, not elite, but just nice enough to make you wear a dress that hugs your waist and lipstick that isn’t red. Dan compliments you the second you sit down. He doesn’t stare at your mouth when you speak. He orders a whiskey neat, listens when you talk, smiles when you laugh. When he walks you to the curb and asks if he can see you again, he doesn’t linger too long or press too close. He just touches your elbow, soft and brief, and waits for your answer.

You say yes, though you're unsure if it's attraction or desperation driving you - if you're trying to forget or simply reclaim ownership of your body. That night, lying alone in bed, untouched by choice, you realize it's the first time in weeks you haven't dreamed of chains against your collarbone.

Dan becomes a steady presence. Your meetings increase from weekly to twice that, each time marked by thoughtful gestures - good morning texts before important meetings, unexpected coffee deliveries, genuine interest in your work and opinions. He never mentions your past, and Jungkook remains unspoken between you. Dan represents something fresh - no complicated history, no clandestine encounters, no sin-stained conference rooms. While love hasn't bloomed, you're finally open to its possibility.

The revelation comes naturally one morning, neither planned revenge nor calculated provocation, but something far more potent: simple truth. You're standing by the design team's table, adjusting files while half-listening to Lisa, the new junior manager from strategy, chat about Gangnam restaurants. Her perfectly manicured hand curls around her cold brew as others hover nearby, feigning work while eavesdropping.

When Lisa turns to you, eyes bright with curiosity about your upcoming second date, you feel your throat tighten. Across the floor, Jungkook stands with his back partially turned, close enough to overhear. Something reckless and wounded inside you makes you straighten your spine as you answer with practiced casualness, as if your voice had never caught in his throat.

"Tomorrow actually," you say, matching Lisa's enthusiasm when she comments on Dan's apparent interest. You offer a practiced smile - the kind reserved for men who don't leave marks on your soul. "He's nice. Stable. Makes plans, follows through."

Though you don't look directly at Jungkook, you notice the shift - his fingers gripping the desk edge with barely contained violence, his jaw tightening, shoulders tensing with unspoken words. His silence speaks volumes, and you savor this moment of control, cold and satisfying like salt in someone else's wound.

The smile remains fixed until you reach your desk, where reality spins slightly behind your eyes. You remind yourself of your choice - if he claimed it wasn't simple, you're making it elementary. You're moving forward, even if the progression feels like dying.

✓

It's been a month since you first let Dan in - not into your heart or the part that still twitches at Jungkook's voice, but into your space and body. When it happened, it was slow and considerate, with gentle hands and a mouth that didn't demand. You told yourself it was the right decision, even if it wasn't passionate or dangerous.

Dan had stayed the night, his chest warm against your back as he slept peacefully. You laid awake counting the ways his touch failed to ignite you, wondering when settling for "good" had become your compromise.

Now in the break room with your coworkers, you wear practiced casualness like armor as Mina leans in with a conspiratorial smile. "Are you still seeing that guy? The tall one?"

"Dan?" you ask, lifting your coffee cup.

She nods while Jiyoon from HR chimes in, "He's hot. Quiet, but... the good kind of quiet."

You could deflect, but something defiant stirs within you. "We've been seeing each other for a while now," you say evenly. "We slept together last weekend."

Their heads tilt forward as soft oh's and knowing mm-hmms fill the air. When Mina grins expectantly, you offer a measured laugh and a simple "He's good. Very... attentive."

It's just a casual comment, but the sudden silence behind you - where the automatic doors whisper open and closed - speaks volumes. You don't need to turn to know it's him. His presence pulses like a second heartbeat as you calmly sip your coffee, letting your words linger.

He stands frozen, tension radiating from his rigid frame, before walking away without a word. Though he doesn't speak, his silence echoes through your veins for hours as you approach the end of your workday.

You’re five minutes from slipping into your coat, catching the last train, and crawling into your apartment where Dan texted that he might stop by, and where your body aches more from stress than arousal. Your eyes are dry. Your shoulders sore. You’ve done nothing wrong all day, and yet the tension hasn’t left you since that moment in the break room — the quiet that trailed behind you like perfume, his silence thickening the air every time he passed.

The email lands in your inbox at 7:52 p.m. sharp.

From: Jeon Jungkook

Subject: Campaign Budget Review – URGENT

Need your eyes on the attached. Need edits by tonight. Stay.

The email lands without greeting or explanation - just a demand to stay late and review the campaign budget.

Though you could decline with a curt "will handle first thing tomorrow," you find yourself staying, unable to break free from the pull he still has on you after these past months. The numbers only need minor adjustments, but you meticulously revise each cell, turning the task into an act of quiet defiance.

By nine, the office falls silent save for your typing and the occasional sweep of headlights through the glass. His arrival comes not as a sound but as a presence - a shift in the air like an approaching storm. You maintain your focus on the spreadsheet, refusing to acknowledge how your pulse quickens under his gaze as he approaches your chair.

"You're sleeping with him." His words cut through the quiet.

You turn slowly, deliberately calm as you meet his eyes. "I'm sleeping with someone who isn't engaged," you say coolly. "Something new after you, I like that."

Though he doesn't flinch, his hands curl into fists. "Why?" The words strain like fraying rope. "You're bored. I know you are."

"And yet," you murmur, rising to face him, "I'm still choosing him over you."

He moves with sudden intensity, reaching for your waist with an instinctive need. You shove him away hard, your voice sharp with anger. "Don't you fucking touch me."

Instead of apologizing, he advances again, eyes burning. "You think I'm okay seeing you with someone else?" he hisses through clenched teeth. "You think I'm sleeping well at night, watching you walk around here like none of it meant anything—"

"Good," you cut in, breathless but unflinching. "Now you know how it feels."

His silence speaks volumes as he stares at you, finally understanding that what lies between you has transformed from seduction into consequence. You walk away first, knowing that this time, he has no right to follow.

✓

It’s the kind of evening that doesn’t tolerate mistakes — an annual investor gala held at the Seoul Grand Marquis, a glass-and-marble beast of a venue tucked into the heart of the business district, where every chandelier costs more than your rent and every napkin bears the weight of legacy branding. This night is about power, about vision, about shaking hands across glass tables while making eye contact that means money, and you’ve known since the moment the invitation appeared in your inbox that this would be a war disguised as a party.

Every department has representatives attending — not just for visibility, but for survival. The gala is where acquisitions are hinted at, expansions teased, internal stars subtly ranked by who they’re standing next to and how loudly the room stops to listen when they speak. It’s also the one night each year when employees are permitted to bring a date — a silent status symbol more than a courtesy. It’s the company’s way of saying: show us who’s beside you, so we know who you are outside of your salary.

Dan had offered without hesitation. He’d even asked what color you planned to wear before choosing his tie, showed up to your apartment early that evening with flowers wrapped in white tissue and a nervous smile that looked too genuine to ignore. You’d let him help with your zipper. You’d let him kiss your shoulder as you stepped into your heels. And you’d told yourself, not for the first time, that normal wasn’t boring — that stability could be seductive in its own quiet way.

You arrive just past seven, hand resting light against his arm, your dress a sleek, open-backed slip of black satin that clings at the waist and falls like smoke to the floor, elegant but not attention-hungry, chosen precisely for its control. You wear no necklace, just earrings — thin, delicate, silver — and your lipstick is not red. You’ve been careful with every inch of yourself tonight, each detail designed to say: I am not here to play the game. I am here to win it.

Dan’s hand lingers on your lower back as you’re escorted toward the mezzanine ballroom, his voice soft, full of small compliments, polite jokes, quiet awe at the decor. You listen, you smile, you nod — and yet even as the champagne flute settles between your fingers and the soft strings of a quartet unfurl through the air like silk, there’s only one thing you’re aware of beneath your skin.

The anticipation coils within you like a rising tide. You feel it the way sailors sense an approaching storm - not with fear, but with the quiet certainty of something inevitable approaching.

The air shifts, almost imperceptibly, but with unmistakable weight.

Conversations pause mid-sentence. Laughter drops in pitch. Heads begin to turn in one slow wave, like a tide drawn toward something gravitational. And you know — before you turn your head, before you finish your breath, before you even dare glance — that it’s him.

Jeon Jungkook arrives with all the ease of someone who has never had to ask permission to exist. His suit is black, tailored within a millimeter of precision, cut to showcase the width of his shoulders and the power of his frame in ways that were never accidental. His shirt collar is open. His watch is new. His posture is effortless. And beside him — arm tucked lightly through his, gaze serene, steps measured like choreography — walks her.

Nami.

Her dress is a shade between champagne and cream, expensive in the quiet way only generational wealth understands, cut high at the neck but low at the back, revealing the smooth curve of a spine trained to never flinch. Her hair is swept into a twist that probably cost more than your entire outfit, and diamonds gleam at her ears, her throat, her wrist — no single piece overwhelming, but together they form a statement louder than any introduction.

Together, they look untouchable - a picture of perfection as she leans into him with the quiet confidence of someone who belongs there. Her fingers brush his sleeve with practiced familiarity, each gesture speaking of countless moments shared and countless more to come.

While Dan remains absorbed in conversation beside you, eagerly trying to charm the executive before him, you feel yourself drawn across the ballroom into Jungkook's unflinching gaze. The man who once whispered promises against your skin now stares at you with an intensity that makes the rest of the room fade away.

His eyes find yours deliberately, purposefully.

He looks at you — all of you — and his stare does not flinch. His gaze traces your neckline, lingers at your mouth, dips to the curve of your waist where Dan’s hand rests lightly like a placeholder. And for a long, long moment, he says nothing.

His eyes speak volumes in that moment - a dark intensity that matches your unwavering stare. When you finally break his gaze, it's not from fear or weakness, but because you've seen enough. This carefully crafted facade - the ballroom, the elegance, the man himself - has lost its luster, and you're no longer interested in maintaining the illusion.

He doesn’t come near you, not once, not even when protocol would have allowed it, not even when the polite mingling between departments would have excused a nod, a half-smile, a harmless comment about the wine or the music or the work you're both supposed to be doing — instead, he remains at a distance all evening, and yet you feel him watching you like heat from a closed door, like the memory of being touched in a place no one else can see.

There’s no space between your bodies anymore, not truly — not with how often his eyes find you across the ballroom, always in the quiet between speeches, always in the hush just before applause, in the breath before someone says your name — his gaze never lingering long enough to be obvious, but never glancing away quickly enough to be innocent, always returning, always waiting, as if his vision can reach through fabric and skin and hours of practiced indifference.

You don’t give him the satisfaction of looking back.

You smile at Dan’s quiet jokes and accept the compliments from passing executives with a grace that feels like performance, not for the company, but for him, because everything about tonight has become a silent refusal to be anything less than composed — and if your spine is rigid beneath the satin of your gown, if your glass trembles slightly in your hand when you sip your champagne, no one else seems to notice.

Dan remains effortlessly attentive, not pushy, not overbearing, his presence beside you gentle in the way a safe harbor is, the kind of man who places a hand at the small of your back only when necessary — never to mark, never to command, only to anchor — and it’s during one of those moments, when you’re leaning in to listen to a conversation about the new China expansion strategy, that his fingers slide across your waist and settle low, pressing with the faintest pressure at the curve of your spine, grounding you without even knowing he’s touching a live wire.

You feel it instantly — not Dan’s touch, but the reaction it causes. Across the ballroom, Jungkook’s body shifts — subtly, almost imperceptibly, the kind of movement only someone who knows him too well would recognize — and even while mid-conversation with a group of executives near the bar, you see it, the sharp turn of his head, the flicker of his eyes, the rigid set of his shoulders the moment Dan’s hand settles exactly where Jungkook’s had once rested just before pushing you against his office door.

He doesn’t make a scene — he never does — but you see the way his jaw tightens, the way his hand flexes at his side like it’s fighting the need to close into a fist, the way his attention fractures mid-sentence as though his entire body has just become too tight to contain what he's feeling.

And then he walks away — not excusing himself, not smiling, not even pretending to maintain appearances, simply turning his back on whoever is still speaking and disappearing through the crowd with the kind of cold, singular focus that only ever means one thing when it comes to him: he’s going somewhere he isn’t supposed to be, to do something he’s no longer allowed to want.

Dan leans closer, says something about the main course arriving soon — something warm, something ordinary — and you nod, forcing a smile as if you’re still listening, still present, still in control.

But your body is already moving, your fingers setting down your glass, your eyes flicking toward the hallway behind the reception arch where the corridor leads away from the chandeliers and the silk and the curated spectacle of luxury, into the dim space lined with marble and mirror — a place built for privacy, for reapplication of lipstick and last-minute touch-ups, and, tonight, for whatever this has become between you and the man who just walked into the dark.

Without a word to Dan, you slip away into the shadows - drawn, as always, by a force stronger than reason.

The hallway behind the ballroom is dimly lit, lined with gilt-edged mirrors and low recessed sconces, the carpet thick enough to muffle footsteps, the air faintly perfumed with expensive citrus and something sweeter beneath it — and when you step past the velvet curtain that separates noise from silence, laughter from lust, you already know exactly where he’s gone.

The restroom is a cathedral of indulgence — marble floors, gold-trimmed stalls with private doors that close to the floor, velvet-paneled walls that swallow sound, plush settees for resting, reapplying, restrategizing. It’s the kind of room built for discretion. The kind of room that hears things and never repeats them.

You find him by the mirrors — his jacket off, sleeves rolled, chest rising a little too quickly for someone who claims to be fine. His eyes meet yours in the reflection first, and for a moment, neither of you speak. You stand there, inches apart and centuries away, the silence between you thick enough to drown in.

And then he turns.

“You need to stop,” he says, not as a command but as something closer to a plea, his voice rough, ragged at the edges, like he’s been holding it in all night and it’s finally breaking loose. “You can’t keep looking at me like I didn’t fuck you against a glass table and promise you it meant something.”

You don’t move. His steps are slow but certain as he closes the distance between you, and when he reaches you, his hands hover — not touching, not yet, just suspended at your waist like he’s begging your skin to remember him.

“I can’t do it anymore,” he breathes, softer now, just for you. “Not with you pretending he’s enough. Not with me standing there next to her, tasting you every time I close my fucking mouth.”

Fire burns in your gaze as you meet his eyes, wordless. Without hesitation, you pull him into a kiss.

Not gently. Not sweetly. You kiss him like punishment, like hunger, like you want to taste the lie in his throat and make it yours. His hands crash into your body the second your lips part — one gripping your jaw, the other dragging down to your hip, to your ass, squeezing hard enough to bruise. You pull him in with both fists knotted in his shirt, teeth clashing, breathless and furious and starving.

He breaks the kiss to bite at your neck, dragging his mouth down your throat as you walk him back into the furthest stall, slamming the door behind you with a force that makes the hinges rattle. He’s already unbuckling, already reaching for you, already so hard it’s like his body’s been waiting for this since the moment you left him standing in that empty office.

You sink gracefully to your knees before him, hands sliding up his thighs with deliberate intent. And when you look up at him, lips parted, breath hot, eyes blazing, you don’t need permission. You wrap one hand around his cock — flushed, thick, dripping at the tip — and lick a slow, deliberate stripe up the length, your tongue flat and obscene, your stare never wavering. He groans, low and choked, one hand flying to your hair, the other gripping the stall wall like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

You start slow — lazy, teasing, letting him feel every inch of your mouth as you take him in, lips sealing tight, jaw relaxed as you begin to move, your hand following where your mouth can’t reach.

“Fuck—” he gasps, eyes falling shut, hips jerking just slightly. “God, your mouth—fuck, I missed this—”

You hum around him — deep and wicked — and he moans so loudly it vibrates through your chest.

He can’t stay still.

He starts moving with you, thrusting gently, then harder, until one hand’s cradling the back of your head, the other buried in your hair, guiding you with slow, rough pressure as your lips slide wet and filthy down his cock again and again, saliva spilling at the corners of your mouth.

You let him take control, wanting him to come undone beneath your touch. And when you suck harder, faster, your throat relaxing, his rhythm stutters — his hips twitch, his breath breaks, and he pulls you off with a sharp, wet pop, panting, dragging you up into his arms, kissing you with his cock still hard between you, his mouth crashing into yours like he needs you to taste yourself on his skin.

The kiss deepens into something raw and primal, tongues and teeth clashing as their hands grasp desperately at each other. He spins you, presses you against the velvet-paneled wall, his hands yanking up your gown, dragging your panties down with such urgency that you nearly fall forward — but he catches you, hoists you up, lifts your thigh, and sinks into you in one deep, punishing thrust that knocks the air from your lungs and sends your moan echoing off the polished gold.

There's nothing gentle about the way he takes you - it's raw and primal, the way it's always been between you. Not when months of silence and pride and punishment collapse into a kiss against velvet and gold, into the way his hand cradles the back of your thigh and pulls your leg higher so he can fuck you deeper, so he can hear exactly how soaked and wrecked you already are for him.

He fucks you with a fierce desperation, like you're both his salvation and destruction - a sacred thing he worships even as he breaks you apart.

Every thrust is rough, brutal, breathtaking — the kind of rhythm that feels almost angry, like he’s trying to rewrite history with each snap of his hips, like he’s punishing you for every night you kissed another man and didn’t come apart like this, for every time you smiled at Dan like your body didn’t still ache for his hands.

He grunts low in your ear, hips snapping up as your back arches, as his fingers dig into your thigh so hard you know it’ll bruise, but you don’t care — not with the way he fills you, the way his cock drags inside you with punishing precision, not with the way your breath hitches every time the base of him slams against you and makes your whole body jolt.

“Fuck—” he groans, voice breaking at the edges as his forehead presses to yours, sweat beading at his temple, “You feel—fuck, you feel better than I remember.”

Your answer is nothing but a moan — low, ragged, your fingernails tearing down his back through his shirt, your teeth clenching around the chain that hangs against your throat now, heavy and swinging with each thrust, catching between your lips as you pant, as you let it cut into your tongue like it’s his name.

He grabs your hips and pulls you down harder onto him, hips pistoning now, his thrusts deeper, meaner, his teeth grazing your neck, your collarbone, biting the slope of your shoulder until you gasp and clench around him so tight he curses again, voice rough in your ear, all breath and gravel and loss.

“You miss this?” he growls, dragging his lips across your jaw, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear as his pace falters, then sharpens again, somehow harder, somehow deeper. “Miss me fucking you like this? Filling you up so deep you forget your fucking name?”

You whimper — not a word, not an answer, just the kind of helpless sound you make when there’s no more room in your head for anything but him. Your hips roll instinctively, chasing friction, clinging to him as the coil inside you twists tighter and tighter, unbearable now, heat flooding low in your stomach.

His pace never falters, his rhythm relentless and demanding. One hand leaves your thigh and slides up to your chest, yanking down the top of your gown just enough to expose the curve of one breast, and his mouth is on you instantly — tongue hot, lips sucking hard as his teeth graze over your nipple, as your head hits the wall behind you and you cry out, desperate now, pleading.

“Please— Jungkook, please—”

He groans against your skin, teeth grazing your chest, voice shaking with the effort to hold back.

“Say you missed it.”

“I— fuck, I— I missed you,” you gasp, your voice breaking as your nails dig deeper into his back, as your thighs start to tremble around his hips. “Missed this— I need— please, don’t stop—”

“I’m not gonna fucking stop,” he snarls, his pace suddenly brutal, unrelenting, his body crushing into yours, one hand tangled in your hair now, the other still fisted in your thigh, his breath hot against your lips as he kisses you again — filthy, wet, tongues colliding, teeth scraping, nothing left of restraint or dignity, just hunger clawing out of both of you like it had been caged for too long.

You come undone with a sob, your entire body trembling as your climax rips through you like fever and lightning, your hands fisting in his shirt and lips parted around his chain. Your thighs lock around him as your nails dig half-moons into his shoulder blades, marking him as yours in this moment of blazing truth.

And when you bite down on that chain — hard, trembling, gasping his name like a prayer — he follows with a broken moan into your mouth, his thrusts growing erratic, then jerking once, twice, deep, as he spills into you, his whole body shaking with it, his mouth crashing into yours like he can’t bear to come without you swallowing it whole.

You stay like that — still joined, still breathless — forehead to forehead, hearts galloping in sync, the air around you heavy with sweat, sin, and something too quiet to name.

Outside, beyond the velvet walls and marble doors, the music drifts on, while inside this sanctuary, you remain locked in an intimate silence with him, neither of you ready to voice the weight of everything left unsaid.

Your breath is still tangled in his mouth, his forehead still resting against yours, the weight of what just happened settling over you like the hem of your gown, rumpled now around your hips, clinging to sweat-slicked skin. Your heart is still galloping in your chest, still racing from the pace of him, the sound of him, the way he said your name like it had always been meant for him to say.

And Jungkook is still inside you.

He doesn’t pull out immediately — just holds you there, both of you trembling, breathing hard, his hands gentler now, soothing, one trailing down your thigh, the other brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face.

And then he smiles - not with triumph or victory, but with the resignation of a man who's accepted losing everything else just to have this moment.

“You’ve got glitter on your nose,” he murmurs, voice thick and wrecked, and when you frown, confused, he leans forward and kisses it. Just once. Softly. Playfully. As if the gala still exists somewhere far away and the only thing real in the world is this ridiculous little smear of sparkle and the woman beneath it who just broke him open all over again.

You laugh — a small, incredulous sound, still breathless, still shaking, and he grins like the sound of it is the only thing that’s ever mattered.

“I hate you,” you whisper through your smile, biting back another laugh as he kisses your jaw, your cheekbone, your collarbone where his chain left a faint indentation in your skin.

“No you don’t,” he breathes, adjusting the strap of your gown with slow, reverent fingers. “If you did, you wouldn’t still taste like yes.”

You hit him lightly on the chest, and he catches your wrist mid-slap and kisses the inside of it, then your palm, then your mouth again — slower this time, almost delicate — before you finally push him back with a grin.

“Get dressed,” you murmur, already reaching for your panties, smoothing your gown down, fingers trembling just slightly. “You look like someone who got exactly what he wanted.”

“I did,” he says simply, tucking himself back into his slacks with only half a care, his eyes never leaving you, even as he buttons his cuffs again. “And I’d look a lot worse if you hadn’t.”

It’s absurd — how easy this feels, how light, how young. How it almost resembles happiness.

You fix your lipstick in the mirror above the sink. He watches you like a man watching a storm recede, like he’s not ready for the calm yet but knows it’s dangerous to ask for more.

And then, as you open the door together, walking into the velvet-lined hallway with your shoulders back and your smiles just barely still in place — you see her.

There she stands - Nami, waiting with crossed arms and perfect posture in her immaculate dress. Her expression remains composed, but her eyes slice through both of you with devastating clarity, as if she's been anticipating this moment while hoping you wouldn't be foolish enough to make it real.

When she speaks, her voice carries a quiet, lethal precision: "Of course it's you."

You and Jungkook freeze in unison, but Nami simply turns away with the elegant dismissiveness of someone brushing dust from silk. The deafening silence lasts only a heartbeat before you both lurch into motion - Jungkook cursing under his breath as he adjusts his jacket, you stumbling after him on trembling legs, your hand reaching desperately for his sleeve as you call out her name. But she continues down the endless hallway, refusing to acknowledge either of you.

✓

You’re still walking side by side, your steps nearly in sync but your heart thrashing beneath your dress like it knows this illusion of calm is already burning at the edges, when the sound of raised voices cuts through the ambient hush of the ballroom and makes you stop cold in your tracks.

At first, you can’t quite place the tone — it’s not yet shouting, but it carries the kind of tension that doesn’t belong among canapés and champagne, and it wraps around your spine with the certainty of something about to go very, very wrong.

Then, through the ambient hush, your name echoes through the hallway, followed immediately by his in a voice that makes your blood run cold.

You turn the corner just in time to see Nami standing beside your shared table — poised, polished, untouched by the unfolding storm — her flute of champagne still untouched in her hand, her expression unreadable in the way only women raised in legacy can manage, as if nothing happening around her is worth acknowledging. She doesn’t look at you. She doesn’t look at Jungkook, either. She looks directly at Dan, with her chin tilted slightly upward, her voice smooth and composed, as if she’s merely answering a question no one had the nerve to ask.

“I thought you should know,” she says, the corners of her mouth lifting just slightly, not enough to be called a smile, but enough to make the accusation feel like a verdict, “she’s been fucking Jungkook.”

And there is no gasp, no cinematic moment of a dropped wine glass — just the collective breath of the room catching and holding, suspended like a violin string pulled tight, waiting for someone to cut it loose.

Dan stands still at first, not blinking, not reacting, just staring at Nami like he’s trying to decipher whether what she said was real or a very cruel joke told far too well. The silence that stretches in the beat that follows feels sharp enough to slice clean through your skin.

Your throat closes around his name as you take a step forward, not fast, not frantic, just instinctive — as if proximity alone could soften what he’s already begun to believe.

“Dan—”

His head snaps toward you. And in that moment, his expression — the confusion, the hope, the disbelief — shatters.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” he says, and the volume of it is enough to silence every conversation within earshot. A few heads turn. More follow. By the time he takes a step back from the table, every gaze in your radius is fixed directly on the three of you.

“I defended you,” he says, voice shaking now, but loud, too loud, and cracking under the weight of humiliation. “I told people you weren’t sleeping your way up. I fucking trusted you.”

Your skin goes cold as shame washes over you, leaving you frozen and mute in its wake. His words hang in the air like smoke after a fire, and though he hasn't said it outright, that one cruel word - slut - vibrates beneath the surface of his tone, threatening to break free. Just as you brace yourself for what comes next, you feel him.

Jungkook — behind you now, still close, but his presence shifts, sharpens, becomes something solid and storm-dark in the space between your shoulder blades. You don’t even need to see him to feel the change in him — how still he goes, how quiet, how charged.

Dan sees him too. And the second their eyes meet across the chaos, Dan’s lip curls into something bitter and ugly and furious.

“Oh, now you want to show your face?” he spits, his voice rising, unhinged now. “She fucks you in secret and I get to be the dumbass holding her coat like a goddamn idiot?”

And maybe that would have been the moment it ended. Maybe if Dan had stopped there, if he hadn’t gone further, if he’d swallowed the rest of what he was about to say and let the shame stay between the three of you — maybe then it could have been salvaged.

But he doesn’t. He looks you up and down, then turns back to Jungkook, and with a voice too loud and too clear, he finishes the sentence like he’s spitting blood.

“Enjoy your office slut while she still lets you have her.”

A heartbeat of silence fills the room before Jungkook launches forward with no warning. He just steps forward with a precision so sudden it looks like instinct, his fist connecting with Dan’s jaw in one clean, devastating arc that sends the entire room spinning around them like they were never meant to witness this moment, but now can’t look away.

Dan crashes into the edge of the table behind him, knocking over wine, cutlery, crystal, dragging a stunned gasp from the nearest guests — but before he can right himself, Jungkook is on him again, grabbing the front of his suit jacket, fury carved into every line of his face as he shoves him back and shouts something you can’t even hear over the surge of movement and voices and chairs scraping the floor as people rush forward to separate them.

Someone grabs Jungkook’s shoulders. Two others pull Dan away, blood at the corner of his lip, eyes wild with disbelief and rage. Security is already on its way. The scene is already ruined. The gala is over before dessert.

And all you can do is stand there in the wreckage — exposed, humiliated, heartsick — with the taste of Jungkook still on your tongue, and the entire room watching like they’ve been waiting for this to happen from the beginning.

It isn’t just the party that ends in silence — it’s something deeper, something more private, something inside you that doesn’t know how to keep breathing once the shouting has faded and the chaos has been contained into the shallow hush of luxury’s aftermath, as if the room itself is trying to pretend nothing ever happened.

The moment Jungkook is dragged back by two men in tailored suits — the kind of men who are hired not to be noticed unless something needs fixing — and the moment Dan stumbles upright, unsteady, his lip bleeding and his tie askew like it’s choking him instead of holding him together, is the same moment your body seems to finally register what it’s done, what you’ve done, as if the weight of your choices only now decides to settle across your skin like a second gown, invisible but suffocating.

The tears don’t arrive in any cinematic fashion; there is no gasp, no trembling lower lip, no dramatic collapse to the floor — only the hot, dry sting behind your eyes that refuses to blink away, the slow withdrawal of blood from your fingers until your hands feel foreign, and the unbearable tightness in your chest that makes it impossible to breathe without thinking first, as if even your lungs are ashamed of you now.

Without running, speaking, or begging, you remain still - exposed beneath their stares. You simply stand there, the way shame always does — still and exposed and far too visible — as the room folds in around you like paper, heavy with whispers and half-averted stares, the air thick with what no one is brave enough to say aloud but everyone is already retelling in their heads.

The ballroom, once glittering with laughter and wine and curated joy, has turned into a stage abandoned mid-performance, every guest now an unwilling actor stuck in place with champagne still bubbling in flutes they no longer remember picking up, as conversations die mid-sentence and eyes flick between Dan, Jungkook, and you, tracing the messy triangle like a scandal lit in gold.

And standing at the center of it all — flawless, upright, radiant even in betrayal — is Nami. She hasn’t moved, not even a little; her posture remains exquisite, the line of her shoulders unbent, her hands still folded gently in front of her like this evening belongs to her still, like nothing has been taken from her because she refuses to acknowledge anything could ever be taken from her at all. Her gown is still perfect. Her lipstick hasn’t smudged. Her expression has not cracked.

She does not speak to you, nor look at you, nor shift so much as a breath in your direction — not because she’s uncertain, not because she’s restraining herself, but because there is nothing left in this room that requires her effort, and that includes you.

Her silence carries a devastating weight beyond mere emptiness - it's the crushing finality of everything that's been lost.

And what makes you crumble — not outwardly, not visibly, not yet — is the realization that she never needed to raise her voice, never needed to fight, never needed to defend herself or even retaliate, because she knew all along that you would lose this on your own, that the moment she said your name aloud, the rest would collapse without her lifting a finger.

Dan, still tasting blood, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes wild with disbelief but now clearing, now hardening, and when they land on you, there is nothing soft left inside them — no confusion, no heartbreak, only the sharp glint of something that once trusted and now despises.

“You two deserve each other,” he mutters, his voice no longer raised, but quiet and dangerous in the way a knife is when it rests against skin, and without looking back, he turns and walks straight through the crowd, parting the onlookers like he’s been released from a cage and no longer cares who sees the wreckage left behind.

No one moves to intervene, and Jungkook remains rooted in place, making no attempt to follow. He remains where security left him — his lip split, his white shirt crumpled at the chest, his knuckles smeared with red like ink — and though he does not speak, the intensity in his gaze burns across the distance like a thread that refuses to be cut. He does not apologize. He does not look ashamed. But his eyes, dark and electric, are no longer filled with want — they’re filled with need.

He isn't asking for forgiveness - he's asking you to choose him despite everything. And you stand frozen, breath caught in your throat, unable to form words or even move beneath the weight of this moment.

Because somewhere beneath the soft echo of heels clicking away and gasps fading into murmurs, you finally feel it — the ruin, the humiliation, the spotlight you can’t step out of — and it presses down on you with a clarity so sharp you could almost laugh.

In the wake of shattered crystal and spilled wine, the gala lies in ruins. Dan stands with blood on his lip, while Nami remains pristine and untouchable in her calculated victory. And you - you are the architect of this destruction, having sacrificed everything not for ambition or vengeance, but for that most dangerous of forces: pure and consuming desire.

✓

The night is colder than it should be, air damp and heavy with the kind of post-rain clarity that makes the concrete shimmer like glass, the luxury sedans and town cars lined up in the marble-bricked circle drive outside the venue suddenly looking less like power and more like armor no one can wear anymore. And there, near the far end of the lot, standing with his back to the building and his fists curled loosely at his sides, is Jungkook — breathing unevenly, chest rising too fast, his once-immaculate shirt wrinkled and half-untucked, the corner of his mouth still smudged with blood that hasn’t yet dried.

His knuckles are scraped. His cuff is torn. His jaw is tight in a way that suggests the only thing holding him together is the silence he’s forced to stand in.

And she is already waiting for him.

Nami stands two paces from his side, her arms folded neatly across her waist, her coat draped like a sheath of silk across her shoulders, as pristine now as when she first walked into the ballroom — her expression unreadable, but her voice, when it comes, clear and sharp and final.

“You’ll lose the London deal,” she says, no anger in it, no bitterness, only the practical coolness of someone who has been trained her entire life to count what things are worth.

And for a moment, he doesn’t respond.

Just stands there with his gaze fixed on the ground like he’s trying to burn a hole through the pavement, shoulders still shaking from the tail end of everything he just threw away.

Then he breathes — one long, low exhale — and lifts his head.

“I already lost something more important,” he answers, his voice cracked and hoarse and quieter than it’s ever been.

Nami remains silent, already understanding the weight of his words without needing them explained. When she walks away, her departure is as final as the evening itself.

It’s not until she disappears around the curve of the entrance that you step forward — slow, careful, like your body hasn’t fully remembered how to move yet, like the sight of him under the parking lot lights has knocked all the breath from your lungs again.

In the heavy silence between you, his eyes find yours - wide and bloodshot, rimmed with a shame that asks for nothing but your presence, a silent plea that you haven't turned away. While his hands tremble at his sides, your heels echo once against the stone before falling still. Without hesitation, you reach for him, your fingers finding the bruise blooming along his jaw as your thumb gently wipes away the smear of red beneath his lip.

His eyes drift closed as he leans into your touch. When you finally break the silence, your voice carries a gentle certainty that barely ripples the quiet air between you. "Let me take you home."

The simple nod he gives in response marks a shift - after months of games and secrets and unspoken wanting, he surrenders to your lead. There's nothing left to fight now, and you're the only anchor he has left to hold onto.

this is it for this story! please share your thoughts and feelings, your feedback means the world to me.

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taekritimin123 · 3 months ago

Text

Terms & Conditions | Act 1 of 2 | jjk (m)

pairing: CEO’s son!Jungkook x assistant!Reader

genre: corporate lust, forbidden tension, and a shattering lie in silk and crystal.

summary: You swore you came here to build a career — not fall apart in the hands of the CEO’s son.

warnings:power imbalance, office tension, fingering, oral (f receiving), dry humping, unprotected sex, infidelity themes, toxic dynamics, emotional manipulation, angst, heartbreak, smut, dom!jungkook, heartbreak kink, chain kink, slight dumbification, broken glass

w.c: 15k

author's note: this is a story idea i’ve been dying to try for a while — something about the tension, the imbalance, the unraveling… it just begged to be written. i’d love to hear your thoughts — reblogs, comments, messages — anything. your feedback means the world to me. 🖤

You don’t remember the last time your palms weren’t sweating before walking through those glass doors.

It’s only your second week at Jeon & Co., a name that sounds more like a private gallery or old-money auction house than one of South Korea’s most dominant conglomerates. They own everything — from high-end beauty brands to media networks, and you’re in their marketing sector, nestled under the glittering branch that manages global creative campaigns. The best of the best. Exactly where you’re supposed to be.

You graduated with honors, survived three interviews, and beat out hundreds of equally desperate graduates. You have a boyfriend, a freshly ironed blazer, and a bulletproof five-year plan that includes zero scandals, zero distractions, and certainly zero involvement with anyone who wears cufflinks before noon.

Every morning in the elevator, you repeat these words like a mantra: no distractions, no mistakes. Not here.

When the doors nearly close, someone slides in - tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a watch worth several months of your rent. You keep your gaze fixed ahead despite your racing heart, trying to ignore the immediate presence beside you and the expensive leather-and-spice cologne that fills the small space.

“Which floor?” he asks, voice dipped in amusement, like he already knows the answer.

“Twenty-three,” you say, and you don’t flinch when he presses it for you. When he shifts to face you, you keep your gaze fixed ahead, pretending not to notice when he murmurs, almost contemplatively, "New."

The elevator dings and you slip out without a word, waiting until you're safely at your desk to finally exhale.

Your coworker Lisa leans in with concern. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"No," you reply softly. "Just... didn't sleep much."

Which isn’t a lie. You’ve been working late every night. Perfecting campaign research. Double-checking every deliverable. Your manager — cold and precise — has made it clear: your probation will not be extended. You either make it in three months, or you’re out. So you keep your head down. Say yes to everything. Go home with a sore back and swollen ankles, whispering apologies to your boyfriend when you miss your dinner dates, your calls, your chances to be soft.

You’ve made sacrifices. You can’t afford to make more. Which is why when he walks into the strategy meeting an hour later, that same man from the elevator — no tie, blazer sharp, the kind of presence that makes everyone shift in their chairs — you feel your spine stiffen like he just walked straight into your safe little plan and lit a match.

He doesn’t introduce himself. Just takes a seat at the end of the table, right where your line of sight lands if you dare look up from your screen.

Your gaze remains fixed on your laptop screen, scanning through notes and slides for the competitor branding strategy presentation you're about to deliver.

The meeting begins, and you make it halfway through your analysis before being interrupted by a voice.

“Why them?” he asks, casually, fingers tapping once on the table.

You blink. “Sorry?”

“Why that competitor for your benchmark?” he repeats. “Seems like a safe choice. Predictable. I want to hear what you’d do if you weren’t trying to be perfect.”

It’s not rude. It’s not even harsh. It’s just direct — like he’s daring you to drop the mask. You glance up. He’s already watching you. That same hint of amusement behind his eyes, dark and unreadable.

“I…” you begin, lips dry. “Chose them because their campaign’s ROI was comparable. It makes the analysis clean.”

“Clean’s not always compelling,” he says, leaning back.

Silence fills the room.

Your manager clears her throat. "Let's move on."

You nod stiffly and return to your notes, but as everyone filters out later, you sense him pause behind your chair. Without looking at you, he murmurs just loudly enough for you to hear:

Tighten your formatting. You're being watched.

He continues walking as you remain frozen in place, suddenly aware of an invisible thread wrapping itself, silk-tight, around your ankles.

You don’t turn around until the room is nearly empty, the low hum of conversation fading into silence as the last team lead tucks her chair in and leaves. Your fingers still hover over your trackpad. Half a thought. Half a breath. Half a girl, now that he’s walked out of the room with your composure in his pocket. You finally look up — and Lisa’s still there, scribbling something in her notebook, lips pursed.

“Who was that?” you ask, too casual, like you’re asking about the weather and not the man whose voice is still caught in the collar of your blouse.

She doesn’t look up. “You’re joking, right?”

“No. I mean, I saw him in the elevator this morning, but—”

Lisa blinks. “You really don’t know?”

You straighten slightly. “Should I?”

She laughs — not unkindly, just a little stunned. “That was Jeon Jungkook.”

The name hits you with sudden recognition - you've seen it before on press releases, company initiatives, and most notably in The Korea Economic Daily's headline: "Jeon Group Appoints Founder's Son as Executive Creative Director."

Lisa studies your face as she adds, "He's the CEO's son."

You manage a quiet "Oh," while the implications sink in.

"And technically your boss's boss's boss," she continues, lowering her voice. "Well, not officially. But you know how it works."

Indeed you do. Corporate hierarchy isn't merely about titles - it's about influence, power, and legacy. And in this world, legacy means having your name pre-engraved on the boardroom door.

As you stare at your laptop screen, watching the cursor pulse at the end of your abandoned slide, the gravity of the situation settles in. You'd just challenged Jeon Jungkook, treated him like any other consultant, even called your work "clean" while looking him straight in the eye.

He hadn't corrected you - he hadn't needed to. Men like him never announce their presence; the room does that for them. Instead, he watches, waits, and wears that knowing smirk, perfectly aware you'll eventually understand your place. And now you have, though the realization comes a moment too late.

✓

The week after the strategy meeting arrives with an avalanche of emails, a last-minute pitch request, and an ominous calendar update titled “Campaign Direction Realignment — Strategic Oversight Pending”. You don’t question it. You barely have time to breathe.

The department is shifting — again. A new cross-departmental campaign was approved at the executive level, and leadership wants it expedited. You’re still on probation, which means you’re volunteered for everything and credited for nothing. And this time, the stakes are even higher.

On Monday morning, Jungkook returns with an official title printed in the internal memo: Executive Creative Advisor, Special Campaign Division. Like a storm warning, his name stands alone without photo or introduction.

When he joins your team's kickoff meeting, he carries himself with practiced ease - sleeves rolled up, Montblanc pen spinning between his fingers, wearing an expression that suggests he's already seen how this presentation will unfold. The atmosphere shifts immediately; everyone grows jittery and over-earnest while your manager's smile betrays just how much rides on this moment.

Unlike last time, Jungkook remains silent throughout the meeting. He simply observes, his unblinking gaze lingering on you mid-presentation until your voice falters briefly under its weight.

That evening, your boyfriend's voice echoes through your apartment with a mixture of concern and exhaustion as he hands you takeout: "You're not even here when you're here."

You respond with a smile, a thank you, and a kiss on his cheek, but keep to yourself how Jungkook had passed your desk earlier without a glance - and how profoundly his indifference had affected you anyway.

—

Thursday evening, 7:19 PM. The office stands nearly empty, with the sky outside a pressed charcoal bleeding into the windows. You sit hunched in front of your laptop at one of the standing desks near the breakroom's vending machines, headphones on and blazer discarded, forehead cradled in your palm.

The proposal for tomorrow's executive review isn't wrong, but something feels off. You've revised the design layout six times and adjusted the forecast numbers three times, searching for that perfect balance between innovation and risk management.

Lost in your lo-fi playlist, you don't notice his approach until his shadow falls across your screen and his voice, low and amused, breaks through the music: "Wrong forecast."

Your heart snaps against your ribs as Jungkook appears behind you, one hand braced beside your arm, the other pointing to your spreadsheet's 2nd quarter projection. "You're calculating based on hope," he continues, "not market behavior."

"I—sorry. I didn't realize anyone was—"

"Still here?" he finishes. "I know."

You should move away, minimize your screen, say something professional and leave. Instead, you remain frozen as his presence looms behind you—not touching, not inappropriate, just... inevitable. When he leans forward, his voice warm near your ear, the proximity sends shivers down your spine.

"Competitor C pulled a similar stunt last fiscal year. Overestimated customer conversion by 8%. Stock dropped in three days. You really want to make the same mistake?"

Words fail you as his breath ghosts against your ear, his voice like silk against nerves you hadn't known existed. Then he withdraws, leaving you with parting advice over his shoulder, "I'd recalculate based on conservative churn. And switch your color palette. Executives hate muted tones. Makes them feel old."

The hallway door hisses closed behind him, but you remain still, staring at the numbers he'd identified. He was right, of course. You feel exposed, laid bare, and worse—seen. Yet instead of fleeing, you steady yourself with a deep breath and begin to revise the forecast.

✓

The apartment smells like steamed rice and detergent when you step inside, your heels clicking softly against the laminate as you drop your bag by the door. You’re late — again. Not dramatically, not enough for a fight, but just late enough that the soup is warm instead of hot, and the conversation thinner than it should be.

Seojin doesn’t look up from his tablet when you enter the kitchen.

“I reheated the jjigae,” he says, flipping a page on the screen. “Thought you’d be home by eight.”

“I was going to be. But there was—” You pause, trying to choose a word that doesn’t feel like a lie. “—a revision.”

He nods, still not looking at you. “You’ve been doing a lot of those lately.”

You open the fridge. Take the soup. Sit across from him at the small table you picked out together from a secondhand shop last fall. It wobbles at the corner. You’ve never fixed it.

The silence between you stretches thin, held together by the scrape of your spoon and the muted buzz of city traffic outside your balcony door. You glance at him. He’s still reading. Still in his hoodie from earlier. Still here. You should feel lucky. You do feel lucky. He’s patient. Steady. You’ve been together for nearly three years, since university — when everything felt simple and the future was just a hazy shape you planned for together over cheap beer and shared textbooks.

But tonight, with Jungkook’s voice still warm in your memory, Seojin’s steadiness feels more like stillness. The kind that doesn’t move forward.

“Did your boss like your slides?” he asks finally, voice mild.

You blink. “What?”

“You said you were redoing your slides for that new campaign. The branding one?”

“Oh.” You nod, taking a sip. “Yeah. She... didn’t say much. But I think it landed okay.”

“Good.” He says it like you just told him it was sunny tomorrow.

His response carries no curiosity, no pride - just a perfunctory acknowledgment, as if checking off another item on a list.

You consider telling him about your day - about discovering your numerical error, about someone noticing before it became embarrassing, about how it left you unsettled. But the words stay trapped behind your lips.

Instead, you ask, "How was your day?"

He shrugs. "The usual. My manager's still an ass."

The conversation dies there, withering in the space between you.

Later, while brushing your teeth as he watches reruns on the couch, you study your reflection and contemplate the person emerging in the mirror - someone whose voice might grow sharper, who might stop explaining herself, whose thoughts are slowly being reshaped by another's influence. You rinse, meet your own gaze in the mirror, and keep these musings to yourself.

✓

The day after the breakroom encounter begins like every other — a sterile loop of dark suits, blinking badge sensors, and recycled air — but something about the silence feels off-kilter.

Not loud. Not jarring. Just slightly out of place, the way a tilted painting disturbs a perfectly arranged wall. You notice it halfway through the morning meeting. He’s not there.

It takes you a few minutes to realize this fact matters. That somewhere between the late nights and campaign decks, you’ve come to anticipate Jeon Jungkook’s presence. Not because he speaks — he rarely does in team meetings — but because when he is in the room, everything seems to orbit differently. Like the temperature shifts. Like someone’s watching, even when no one is. But today, nothing moves. The room stays flat.

Your manager announces the new campaign direction — a fast-track initiative with a major overseas brand partner. It’s ambitious, high-pressure, the kind of opportunity the permanent employees elbow each other for in the halls. You try to focus on the details — target markets, deliverables, budget constraints — but you keep glancing at the empty chair near the window.

He doesn’t show up for the debrief either. Or the partner call in the afternoon.

When you pass the executive floor later, the door to his glass-walled office is shut, lights off. No coat slung over the leather chair. No Cartier pen abandoned on the table. No trace at all.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. That one man’s absence has no bearing on your workload, your goals, your worth. And yet — when you sit down to update the forecasting model he corrected the night before, your fingers hesitate.

It was arrogance, probably. A performance. Someone too rich to speak gently, too powerful to worry about boundaries. You don’t need to think about it again.

Still, your hands hover over the spreadsheet longer than they should. Still, you find yourself replaying the way his voice slipped behind you, that cool, calm certainty, as if your miscalculation had always been obvious — and he’d simply waited for the right moment to remind you who was watching.

That night, at home, you try to let it go.

The lights are low. The TV is on. The apartment smells like basil and something warming on the stove. Seojin leans against the kitchen counter in grey sweats, scrolling through his phone as he stirs the pot with one hand, his movements absentminded.

He doesn’t look up when you come in, only says, “You’re late again.”

You check the clock. It’s 8:14. Barely different from last night. “Sorry. There was another meeting.”

“Is there ever a day you leave before seven?”

You smile. Or try to. “Not during probation, no.”

He says nothing to that. Just turns down the burner and sets out two bowls. The usual rhythm. Familiar. Safe. You sit across from him at the table, fingers brushing the edge of your spoon, and listen to the quiet clink of ceramic and the muted voices from the drama playing behind him.

This is what you wanted. Stability. Someone who didn’t ask for much, who supported your work even if he didn’t understand it. You’ve been together for years. He knows your order at your favorite café. You’ve talked about moving in somewhere bigger if your contract gets extended. Getting a car. Maybe a cat.

He’s good to you. Always has been. And yet…

You eat in silence, nodding when he speaks, laughing softly at the right parts of his story about a difficult client. You tell him about the upcoming campaign, about the sleepless nights ahead, about how you think your manager might actually be warming up to you. You leave out the rest.

You don’t tell him about the way someone stood too close to you in a hallway and said your name like it was already his. You don’t mention the man who didn’t look at you at all today — and how somehow, that unsettled you more.

Later, as you move through your nightly routine - brushing teeth, folding laundry, setting alarms - your mind wanders not to spreadsheets or marketing formulas, but to that voice. Low and even, it lingers in your memory, closer than propriety should allow.

You drift off to sleep without putting a name to this feeling, but it stays with you nonetheless.

✓

The invitation doesn’t come with flowers or pleasantries. It arrives via calendar — cold, impersonal, and marked mandatory.

Event: Strategic Brand Dinner with LX International Partners Location: Le Méridien Seoul, 32nd Floor Executive Lounge Time: 6:30 PM, Formal Business Attire Attendees: C-Suite, Campaign Division Heads, External Brand Directors, Select Junior Staff

Your name appears at the bottom of the list - highlighted and confirmed. As you stare at the screen, uncertain if this could be a mistake, Lisa leans over from her desk to ask if you received the invitation too.

When you admit your confusion, she breaks into a knowing grin. "It means you're killing it. They only invite the golden children to those things - either you impressed someone high up, or you're being tested." The dual possibilities send an uneasy flutter through your stomach.

Your inbox offers no additional context - no encouraging message from your manager, no casual acknowledgment. Just that formal blue icon from HQ, like a seal of fate. You try to frame it as recognition, a sign that your late nights and careful work are finally translating into value.

That evening, you select your outfit with deliberate care - a black silk blouse paired with tailored slacks, threading the delicate balance between belonging and restraint. As you dress, you can't shake the feeling of stepping into a space where familiar rules begin to blur, where someone might be waiting.

The executive lounge greets you with pristine elegance - white orchids and floating candles adorning each table, the city skyline a perfect backdrop through floor-to-ceiling windows. You arrive early, armed with practiced introductions and campaign talking points. But nothing prepares you for him.

Jungkook makes his entrance alone, fashionably late and separate from the crowd of board members and brand partners. His black suit fits with devastating precision, his white shirt open just enough to feel intentional. No tie. His presence doesn't merely interrupt the room - it transforms it.

As conversations pause and heads turn, he bypasses the head table without acknowledgment, making his way directly to your corner. Without hesitation, he pulls out the empty chair beside you, where you sit with other junior staff and a mid-level manager, as if this spot had been his intention all along.

“Mind if I sit?” he asks, but he’s already lowering himself into the seat.

You manage a nod. Maybe a whisper of agreement. He doesn’t speak again for the first twenty minutes. Just sits there — still, poised, his fingers toying idly with the edge of his crystal water glass. You feel him even when he’s not moving. You feel the space between you shrink every time someone leans forward and you have to lean slightly toward him to see.

When the appetizer arrives, he finally speaks.

“You didn’t change your slide formatting,” he murmurs without looking at you.

You blink. “What?”

He turns his head slightly. Eyes narrowed, amused.

“You changed your forecast. But not the design.”

You’re suddenly very aware of the neckline of your blouse. Of the pulse just below your collarbone.

“You weren’t tagged in the update,” you say carefully.

“I didn’t need to be.”

His gaze lingers a moment too long - a subtle gesture that walks the line between professional and personal. When you reach for your wine, it's more reflex than necessity.

The perfectly prepared sea bass sits before you, its saffron cream reduction drawing enthusiastic praise from nearby diners. The wine is impeccable, the conversation flows smoothly as talk of Dubai's regional expansion fills the air, and you participate with practiced grace. Yet your attention remains firmly elsewhere.

Every nerve ending in your body is attuned to his presence beside you - the brush of his arm against your chair, his untouched entrée, the weighted silence he's maintained since your return from the restroom. You should welcome this reprieve from his attention, but instead, your skin tingles with an electric awareness beneath your blouse.

And then it happens. Not a jolt. Not a brush. Nothing dramatic enough to earn the room’s attention. Just a shift — the deliberate slide of his hand onto your thigh beneath the white linen tablecloth. His palm settles against the fabric of your slacks like it belongs there, warm and sure and intentional. Your heart lurches in your chest.

Every cell in your body reacts at once — the stillness of your limbs, the tightening of your grip on the napkin in your lap, the breath that sticks in your throat. You don’t dare look at him. You don’t move. And yet, he does. While answering a question from the external marketing director — something smooth, intelligent, deceptively casual about multi-channel asset deployment — his fingers begin to glide upward, just slightly, along the inner curve of your thigh.

Your fork nearly slips from trembling fingers as conversation continues around the table, the other diners blissfully unaware of what transpires beneath the pristine tablecloth. Only you and him share this charged moment of transgression.

His fingers stop just shy of the seam of your trousers — not bold enough to be obscene, not soft enough to ignore. The pressure is maddening in its restraint, and somehow, that makes it worse. Far worse. Your body aches to react, to shift, to respond, but the weight of the room around you holds you hostage in your seat.

He leans slightly toward the table, voice low as he offers some quip about Gen Z loyalty indexes. His thumb strokes once — slow, deliberate — along the inside of your thigh. You inhale sharply, too sharp, and his head turns minutely in your direction, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, just enough to be a warning.

“Still pretending you’re unaffected?” he murmurs beneath his breath, eyes still fixed on the wineglass in his hand.

It takes every ounce of strength you have to rise from your chair — not too fast, not rushed, but fast enough that your manager glances up from her conversation with a curious brow. You offer something vague — a quiet apology, a mention of needing to freshen up — and slip away, your heels hushed against the thick carpeting as you walk toward the corridor outside. You don’t head for the restroom. You don’t need to. You just need air — space — a moment alone to wrestle your heartbeat back into something that doesn’t sound like surrender.

The hallway is dim and cool, washed in soft recessed lighting and the occasional glimmer of crystal from a decorative chandelier. You lean against the wall, eyes closed, pulse thundering in your ears. You’re not sure if you’re more humiliated or aroused.

Your breath catches at the sound of approaching footsteps - even, unhurried, deliberate. You remain still as he stops just behind you, his presence radiating heat against your back.

“You didn’t say no,” he says, voice low, quiet, but certain. “You stood up. You walked away. But you didn’t stop me.”

“That wasn’t consent,” you say, breath trembling, though you don’t move away. “You touched me at a business dinner.”

“I touched you,” he repeats, stepping forward until your shoulder blades meet the firm line of his chest, “and you didn’t even flinch.”

You should push him away. You should walk back into that room and sit beside someone else. You should report him, maybe. Instead, your voice softens. “I can’t—”

“You can,” he murmurs, and then his mouth is at your jaw, brushing your skin with infuriating care. “But you won’t.”

His hand moves to your waist. Steady. Confident. The other slides lower, down the line of your hip, and then dips beneath the waistband of your trousers — no fumbling, no hesitation. He’s done this before. He’s thought about it.

You gasp when his fingers slip beneath your underwear. Not in protest — in shock. In heat.

“You’re soaked,” he says, so quietly it sounds like praise.

Your hand flies to his arm — not to pull him away, not really, but to hold on. He curls two fingers inside you, and your breath breaks, head falling back against his shoulder as his other hand finds the edge of your coat and presses you against the wall, pinning you there with ease.

“You want to pretend this is about power?” he whispers, lips brushing your neck. “That you don’t want this as much as I do?”

Your body is trembling. You hate that he’s right.

“Don’t do this,” you manage. “We’re at a—”

“Dinner. Yes,” he cuts in. “And yet here you are, letting me finger you in a hallway while your manager eats crème brûlée with a glass of Château d'Yquem.”

His voice darkens. “So say it. Say you want to come.”

You shake your head — not in refusal, not anymore — just in helpless disbelief.

“Say it,” he demands again, his fingers pushing deeper, slower, his palm angling upward so every stroke hits exactly where you’re weakest. “Say it, and I’ll give it to you.”

You pant, words slipping through grit teeth.

“I want to come.”

“Louder.”

“I—fuck—Jungkook—please—” Your hands are on his chest now, gripping his lapels like a lifeline. “I want to come—please—”

“Good girl,” he breathes.

And then he breaks you. His thumb finds your clit at the exact rhythm your body was begging for, the heel of his palm rocking against you as he curls his fingers one last time — and your entire body unravels. Not gently. Not slowly. You fall hard, silent but shaking, a moan trapped in your throat as you come against his hand, forehead pressed to his shoulder, nails digging into his jacket. He doesn’t speak. He just holds you upright as you tremble.

And when your breath finally steadies — when the world begins to return in flickers of scent and sound — he eases his hand from your trousers, adjusts your blouse where it slipped, and smooths the lapel of your coat with a strange sort of gentleness.

“You have five minutes,” he says, stepping back like nothing happened. “Fix your lipstick.”

And then he’s gone.

✓

The apartment is dark when you enter. The hallway light flickers softly on, motion-sensor timed, casting the space in its usual glow — clean, quiet, uneventful.

Your coat slides from your shoulders with practiced ease, your shoes joining the pair already lined up neatly near the door. You close the door softly. Out of habit. Or guilt.

Seojin’s on the couch, already half-asleep, blanket draped loosely over his torso and his phone still glowing in his hand. He startles slightly when you step in, blinking blearily toward you.

“Hey,” he says, voice thick with exhaustion. “You’re back late.”

“There was a dinner,” you say as you cross the room, dropping your bag by the table like you always do. “Client-facing. All hands on deck.”

He rubs his eyes. “You eat?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Good.” He yawns. “I left the rice cooker on if you’re still hungry.”

You couldn't imagine eating anything else right now. When he shifts upright on the couch, you pause to take in his drowsy state - hair slightly mussed, eyes heavy with sleep.

Leaning down, you press a gentle kiss to his lips. When he doesn't resist, your fingers find their way beneath his shirt, seeking the familiar warmth of his skin. You deepen the kiss, moving slower, more deliberately, until he gently pulls away.

“Babe,” he says, voice still tender. “I’m so tired.”

You don’t answer right away. Just hover there, inches from his mouth, heart pounding with something you don’t want to name.

“I just missed you,” you say.

He softens, gives you a small smile. Brushes a hand over your cheek.

“I missed you too,” he says. “But I’ve been up since five. I can barely keep my eyes open.”

You nod. Step back. “Of course. Go to bed.”

“You coming?”

“In a bit.”

He shuffles toward the bedroom, feet dragging slightly on the hardwood, and you stand in the middle of the living room in silence, staring at the spot where your coat now hangs like a ghost on the wall. Eventually, you follow him.

You slip into bed beside him without turning on the light, careful not to shift the mattress too much, careful not to let the scent of your blouse — still faintly stained with something that isn’t him — drift into the space between you.

He's already asleep while you lie awake, arms folded and eyes fixed on the blank ceiling above. Your mind drifts to Jungkook's words, echoing with dangerous clarity: Say it, and I'll let you fall. The memory of how easily you surrendered haunts you - not just the act itself, but the person who drew it from you.

Jeon Jungkook, the CEO's son and your superior, holds more than just professional power over you. He saw through your carefully constructed facade of ambition and perfection, dismantling it with frightening ease. In just one dinner, you let desire cloud your judgment, allowing it to seep into your veins like sweet poison.

As you close your eyes and try to steady your breathing, shame washes over you. The weakness you feel stems not from his touch, but from your willing participation - from the pleasure you found in it, and the certainty that this memory will linger, refusing to fade no matter how much you wish it would.

✓

The first thing you notice is that nothing has changed.

Not the walk from the elevator to your desk. Not the scent of too-strong coffee wafting through the corridor before 9 a.m. Not the way your coworkers hover nervously around the printer like it might explode if handled improperly. Everything looks the same. Sounds the same. Functions the same. And yet, you are not the same.

You move slower now. Not visibly — not enough for anyone to raise an eyebrow or ask if something’s wrong — but with a stiffness in your limbs, like your body is still locked in that marble hallway, breath caught behind your ribs, the memory of his fingers inside you humming low and persistent between your thighs. You should feel ashamed. You do. But more than that, you feel… displaced. Unmoored.

And then he walks in.

Just before the Monday strategy meeting begins at 9:30, he enters with his usual precision - immaculate in charcoal, silver cufflinks catching the light beneath his tailored jacket sleeves. His composed expression and measured steps betray nothing as he takes his place at the head of the table.

Throughout the meeting, he maintains a studied indifference, reviewing materials on his tablet without once acknowledging your presence, his gaze never wavering even when your name appears in the campaign outline.

You tell yourself that’s good. It’s a relief. You don’t want attention. You don’t want questions. You don’t want the weight of something unspoken pressing down between you in a room full of people who would devour the scent of scandal if they thought it belonged to someone young and unprotected.

But when he turns his head slightly to correct a minor budgeting note — sharp, efficient, disinterested — and his eyes pass clean over you like you are air... you feel the first crack form.

By Wednesday, it’s no longer a question. He is avoiding you. Meticulously. Intentionally. With a precision that stings more than any confrontation would have. You’ve become a blank spot in his vision, a silence in his speech, a neutral space carved out in meetings and emails and shared corridors. He doesn’t greet you. Doesn’t pause when you speak. Doesn’t offer even a glance when you enter a room he’s in.

And for some reason, that’s the part that hurts the most — the erasure. Because when he touched you, he did it like he knew you. Like he saw you. And now, you could stand in front of him in nothing but your shame and your carefully pressed ID badge, and he still wouldn’t blink.

You bury yourself in tasks. Stay late under the fluorescent buzz of the 23rd floor. Redo the same slide deck twice, not because it needs it, but because working on something you can fix gives you the illusion of control. You don’t check your phone. You barely go home.

When you finally do, it’s Thursday night, and Seojin is waiting with reheated curry and a look in his eyes that isn’t quite concern, but is dangerously close to it. He asks if something happened at work. You say no. He asks why you’ve been quiet. You say it’s the new project — the pressure. The late hours. You offer him everything except the truth. But he doesn’t buy it. Not entirely.

“You’re different lately,” he says softly, not accusing, not angry — just observant. “You don’t look at me the same.”

And you know he’s right. Because when you look at him — when you kiss him goodnight or lean against him on the couch — your mind slips sideways. You remember a hand that didn’t hesitate. A voice that demanded. A mouth that praised you in filth. You remember how easily you surrendered to someone you barely knew. Someone you had no right to want. And no matter how many times you tell yourself you regret it… your body still remembers it as a gift.

That night, when Seojin reaches for your hand beneath the sheets, you lace your fingers through his and smile. You press your cheek against his shoulder and close your eyes. You whisper that you’re just tired. That you’ll be okay after the campaign wraps. That this is just a rough patch. He believes you, or wants to.

You fall asleep wishing you believed yourself. But when morning comes and Jungkook walks past you in the hallway without a word, you feel your insides twist again — not because he ignores you.

But because part of you needs him to stop.

And the other part is starting to need him to look.

✓

It begins again in the elevator with a glance. The doors are closing when you rush in, breathless, clutching a folder of campaign briefs. After catching the door with your heel and murmuring apologies to the senior assistants and intern, you see him.

He stands in the back corner in his black suit, one hand in his pocket, the other holding coffee as dark as his watch. Though he remains still at first, the moment the doors seal shut and the floor number illuminates above, his gaze finds you - slow and deliberate, like sunlight across a wall.

You try to ignore it, but the heat of his stare burns against your cheek. When you finally look back, his dark eyes meet yours without expression - no smirk, no recognition, just a weighted patience that makes you flee at the next ding of the elevator. He remains behind, unmoving.

—

Two hours later, you’re standing in the briefing room, pressed between two product managers and a wall of glossy mock-ups, trying to follow the flow of the meeting. It’s warm. Too warm. The AC hasn’t been working right all week, and everyone’s packed in too tightly for comfort.

The subtle shift of movement behind you brings an unexpected touch - fingers ghosting between your shoulder blades and along your spine. The contact is light, almost tentative, as if meant to steady rather than demand. Yet there's an intentional weight to it that makes your breath catch and your pulse quicken.

You don't need to look back to recognize who it is. When someone asks a question moments later, you manage to answer with remarkable composure, even as the phantom sensation of his touch lingers after he withdraws.

As the room gradually empties, you remain rooted in place. He stands by the table, methodically scrolling through his tablet with practiced indifference. Something compels you to pause as you walk past him - an inexplicable force that holds you there, suspended in the charged silence between you.

“Is this your new thing?” you ask quietly, arms crossed. “Ignoring me in public and touching me in private?”

He doesn’t look up. “Good morning to you, too.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.” He swipes once. “That’s what makes it fun.”

You stare at him, stunned. “You think this is a game?”

At that, he does look up. The slightest curve at the corner of his mouth, not quite a smile — just enough to flash in his eyes.

“I think it’s amusing,” he says. “Watching you try to act like you don’t remember how good I made you feel. Like that hallway never happened.”

You bristle. “You ignored me for an entire week.”

“I was busy.”

“Bullshit.”

“Careful,” he says softly, stepping closer. “That kind of tone will make people think something happened.”

You hold your ground. “Something did.”

He tilts his head slightly, studying you — like a painting, or a puzzle. “I never denied it.”

“No, you just pretended it didn’t matter.”

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at you, long and steady, until your pulse starts climbing again.

“Would you rather I made a scene? Talked about how good you sounded with my fingers inside you? In front of your manager, maybe? The intern?” Then, casually, as if he's discussing a spreadsheet instead of your last breathless confession:

“You’re the one who said it couldn’t happen again.”

You swallow hard. “And you agreed.”

“Did I?” He steps around you, his voice brushing your neck as he passes. “I don’t recall.”

You remain still, holding your breath, feeling the phantom trace of his touch. Later, as the afternoon stretches endlessly in the stifling heat, your body can't help but remember the lingering sensation of his hand at your spine, as if it belonged there all along. Deep down, you know what your mind refuses to admit: this game has only just begun.

✓

The invitation arrives on a Tuesday — formal, sleek, printed in high-contrast type with subtle gold edging. Vēra Lux × Jeon Group: a sponsored industry event hosted by a European cosmetics conglomerate eager to break into the Asian luxury market. There’s talk of a brand merge. Of cross-cultural campaigns. Of a future collaboration that could define the next fiscal year.

Everyone who’s anyone is going.

Your department is required to attend. Attendance is expected. Enthusiasm is optional, but professionalism is not.

And so, you dress accordingly — a sleek black dress that’s just conservative enough to be safe, but structured enough to be remembered. Long sleeves, high neckline, slit just above the knee. You wear your hair up, your lipstick muted. You apply your perfume in three sharp sprays — one for your neck, one for your wrist, and one for your pulse point that hides just beneath the fabric at your hip. You arrive exactly on time.

The venue is all polished floors and mirrored chandeliers, the kind of place where the light feels filtered through wealth. Waiters pass with champagne coupes and pale canapés no one really eats. The air smells faintly of rose water, expensive cologne, and subtle ambition.

Jungkook arrives fashionably late, commanding attention with his effortless presence. His midnight black suit fits immaculately, the absence of a tie and two undone buttons revealing a glimpse of silk beneath the lapels. Clean-shaven with a sharp jaw and cold eyes, he moves through the room without acknowledging you – though he doesn't need to. He's well aware of your gaze following his every move.

The event itself blurs together — polite introductions, branded speeches, the occasional laughter as executives flatter each other with measured ease. You float through the evening as you’ve been trained to: poised, efficient, collected. You speak only when spoken to, smile when appropriate, and accept a second glass of champagne when your manager insists it will “help your networking face.”

By your third glass of champagne, his presence materializes behind you like a shadow. As you stand near the tall window, barely registering a senior strategist's monologue about mascara demographics, his voice cuts through the ambient chatter with dangerous precision.

"You clean up well."

The momentary freeze in your shoulders betrays you before you can turn to face him. Jungkook has positioned himself deliberately close, his dark gaze trailing your profile with an intensity that walks the line between professional assessment and something far more intimate.

"You weren't even looking at me," you manage.

"I didn't need to."

His attention drifts to your exposed neck, lingering at the hollow of your throat. "You always wear your hair up when you're trying to behave."

You create distance with a measured step. "I'm not doing this here."

The slow smile that crosses his face carries a promise. "Not yet."

You spend the next half-hour avoiding him — or trying to. You circle the room, swap meaningless phrases with visiting reps, let one of the Paris-based creatives compliment your accent while you sip something dry and French. You refuse to look toward the back corner where Jungkook now stands, deep in conversation with someone who owns three niche fragrance brands and is known for sleeping with all his interns.

His presence follows you like a shadow throughout the evening, a constant awareness prickling at the edges of your consciousness.

As the event draws to a close, you find yourself in the valet circle, the cool night air a relief against your flushed skin. He materializes beside you, quiet but commanding.

Without touching you, he simply says, "You don't need to Uber."

"I didn't ask."

"I know. I'm offering."

"I'm fine."

He tilts his head, studying you. "You've had three drinks. You didn't eat."

You exhale softly. "You've been counting?"

His mouth curves into a knowing smile. "Of course I have."

His car arrives - matte black, sleek, worth more than your college degree. "I'll take you home," he offers, moving toward the door. "No expectations."

You fold your arms. "That's a lie."

"No," he replies, his voice dropping lower. "That's a warning."

The weight of the moment settles between you. Getting into his car means surrendering something - not your safety or dignity, but the carefully constructed lies you've been telling yourself.

Exhaustion and wine have softened your resolve, and beneath it all lies a deeper truth: you want to be seen again. Touched. Cornered. Ruined.

"Just a ride," you murmur, moving past him.

His hand finds the small of your back, guiding you inside with gentlemanly precision, but his eyes betray darker intentions. The door closes behind you with a soft, definitive click.

✓

The car glides through the city with a soft hum, windows tinted against prying eyes. You maintain your distance, angled toward the window with arms and legs crossed - a carefully constructed barrier between you and the man beside you. Though your posture screams control, your quickening pulse betrays every pretense.

Jungkook remains silent, one arm draped across the center console as his fingers tap an idle rhythm against leather. His other hand rests on the wheel, steering with practiced ease through the amber-lit streets. The cabin envelops you both in notes of sandalwood and unspoken tension.

When he finally breaks the silence, his voice barely disturbs the air between you. "You're quiet."

"So are you."

Without taking his eyes from the road, he replies, "I thought you needed space."

"I do."

The smile that curves his lips is knowing, patient. "No, you don't."

You turn back to the window, but his low voice follows. "You didn't say no when I offered to drive you. Didn't say no during the briefing. And certainly not in the hallway."

Your breath catches as he continues, each word deliberate. "You want to be good, but you love being undone."

"You're wrong," you whisper.

"No," he says, voice darkening, "I'm not."

The car rolls to a stop, and you realize with a start that you've passed your apartment. Instead, you find yourself on a quiet side street, where towering trees and warm-lit windows create a pocket of perfect privacy. Before you can process this shift, he turns to face you fully, his presence suddenly overwhelming in the confined space.

“I won’t ask again,” he says softly, dangerously. “Do you want this or not?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Something inside you — reason, guilt, shame — tries to rise up, but it drowns under the way he’s looking at you, not like he owns you, but like he’s already memorized the way you taste.

“You won’t even have to move,” he says. “I’ll do everything.”

And somehow, your body leans before your mind agrees.

You shift toward him, breath shaky, thighs still clenched but no longer crossed. You whisper, “This is wrong.”

He answers by closing the space between you, his mouth capturing yours in a devastating kiss. It's consuming - his lips claiming yours with an ease that should be criminal as his hand curves around the back of your neck like muscle memory. You melt into him until your hands find his hair, until the leather seat catches your back and your knees part instinctively. When he finally breaks away, it's just enough to share your breath.

“You smell like guilt,” he says, voice low, rasping. “But you taste like surrender.”

And then he’s lowering himself — slowly, carefully — one knee pressing into the floorboard as he guides your hips forward, your thighs apart. His hand is steady beneath your skirt, and when he bunches the fabric around your waist, he does it without hesitation, revealing lace already damp against your skin.

You gasp as the air hits you. He watches the way you shift — the way your thighs tense, the way your chest rises. He doesn’t unzip his pants. Doesn’t undo a single button.

Instead, he places one hand on your stomach — not to hold you down, but to anchor you — and then leans in, breath warming the inside of your thigh until your hands fly to his hair like instinct.

The first brush of his mouth is featherlight — a ghost of a kiss against the lace, not even contact, not fully. But then he pushes your underwear aside, and when he finally tastes you — skin to skin — it’s with a moan so low and full you feel it vibrate through your spine.

You whimper. “Fuck—” you whisper, hips lifting.

But he’s already gone deeper — tongue parting you with devastating ease, licking slow, flat strokes up your slit like he’s savoring you, like he’s making art out of your undoing. Your back arches.

“Don’t—” you pant, hands fisting the leather. “We shouldn’t—this isn’t—”

But he only groans softly, tongue flicking hard over your clit until your words dissolve into sound.

“You taste better when you lie to yourself,” he says, lips grazing the tender skin between your folds.

And then he devours you. He eats you like a man who’s starving — mouth working you open, tongue dragging slow circles, then harder ones, then faster. You try to stay quiet. You fail. You try to close your legs. He pushes them apart with his shoulders.

Your lips part with his name despite your best efforts to stay silent.

“Jungkook—” it rips out of you, breathless, shattered, desperate.

He groans against you, tongue plunging deep, his fingers bruising your hips now as he holds you down, sucks your clit with the kind of focus that should come with a warning. Your hands claw at the seat, your heel digs into the floor, your stomach knots and unravels and knots again.

When you come, it’s not elegant.

It’s raw. Your entire body trembles. Your thighs shake. Your voice breaks in his mouth, and you ride his tongue like it’s the only thing tethering you to the world. And still — he doesn’t stop.

He keeps licking you through it, soft now, gentle now, like a promise. You pant, dizzy. Boneless. Skirt still bunched at your waist, blouse damp from the heat of your own breath. He finally pulls back, chin wet, eyes half-lidded. You meet his gaze.

He wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, then presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, slow and reverent. He climbs back into the seat beside you without a word.

For a moment, all you can do is stare straight ahead, dazed and pulsing, your body still fluttering with aftershocks that haven’t fully faded. Your breath is shaky, shallow, your thighs slick and your mind scattered in a thousand directions that all lead back to him. But then — slowly, impossibly — your gaze shifts. You turn your head. And you see it.

The tension in his jaw. The way his hand tightens around the gearshift. The bulge straining against the dark fabric of his tailored trousers, thick and pronounced, so hard it almost looks painful. You swallow. Hard. He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t speak. Just breathes — slow and shallow — as if he’s holding himself back from tearing the steering wheel in half. And suddenly, your need returns like a second wave — sharp, molten, clawing up your spine. You thought coming would be enough, that it would hush the want. But it hasn’t. It’s only sharpened it.

Desire coils through you like smoke, a yearning that transcends mere physical want - you need him, completely and without reservation.

Without thinking, you shift in your seat, your bare thigh brushing his. His breath stutters — the smallest hitch — but he doesn’t stop you when you move closer. Doesn’t flinch when your fingers trail down, soft and tentative, to trace over the bulge in his pants.

His knuckles go white on the console.

“You didn’t even touch yourself,” you whisper, voice hoarse and trembling. “You just… took care of me.”

“I wasn’t thinking about myself,” he replies, jaw tight. “I was too busy tasting you.”

You groan — quiet, wrecked — and then you move. You climb onto his lap slowly, knees bracketing his thighs, one hand on his chest, the other sliding up the back of his neck to bury in his hair. His breath punches out of him the moment your weight settles fully over his crotch.

“Fuck—” he hisses, finally looking at you.

His eyes are feral now, glazed with heat and restraint, the control he’s always carried like a weapon now trembling at the edges. You start to move — slow, deep, rolling your hips in a long grind that presses your soaked core directly against his clothed cock, dragging your swollen clit over the rough fabric. He chokes on a sound — part growl, part moan.

“Don’t,” he bites out, hands gripping your hips, fingers digging in. “You don’t know how sensitive I am—”

“I know,” you breathe, rocking against him again. “I can feel you.”

You lean forward, brushing your mouth along his jaw. “You’re so fucking hard it’s obscene.”

His hips jerk up into you, involuntary. You moan, louder now.

“I wish there wasn’t anything between us,” you whisper, grinding harder. “I want to feel you. All of you. No zipper. No excuses.”

He groans, low and guttural, one hand flying up to grip the back of your neck as he yanks you into a kiss — not soft, not even close. It’s messy, hungry, all tongue and teeth, lips crashing and parting and finding each other again like you’ve both already gone a little insane. You’re panting into his mouth, hips rolling with more pressure now, chasing friction, chasing heat. His cock strains between you, thick and leaking beneath the fabric, and your underwear is so soaked it feels like it isn’t even there anymore.

“You want me to fuck you in the back of my car,” he growls into your mouth, breath warm and filthy. “Tell me.”

You nod, moaning. “Yes. I want to ride you, skin to skin. Want to feel how deep you go.”

He snarls — honest to god snarls — and suddenly his hand is between you, yanking down your neckline so hard the fabric groans. He shoves your bra aside, mouth closing over your nipple in one desperate pull. You scream — high and broken — your hands flying to his shoulders for balance as he sucks hard, tongue rolling, teeth grazing just enough to make you shake.

“Jungkook—oh my god—”

“Say it again,” he demands, voice muffled against your chest. “Let them hear.”

You don't know who he means - the watching city, the endless night, some distant god - and in this moment of pure sensation, you couldn't care less.

You ride him harder now, pace faltering, movements jerky, breath shattering as your orgasm builds again, ten times sharper than the first. He thrusts up to meet you, every grind of his clothed cock against your pulsing heat dragging you closer to the edge. You’re incoherent now, whimpering, gasping.

“You’re going to make me—fuck—” he growls.

“I’m so close,” you sob. “Don’t stop. Don’t—please—”

He doesn’t. He pulls you tighter, faster, mouth still on your breast, his hips slamming up to meet yours again and again until—

Ecstasy shatters through you in waves, your body writhing as pleasure claims every nerve ending. A broken cry escapes your lips while your thighs clench and hips buck against him. He responds with one final, desperate grind - a guttural groan tearing from his throat as you feel him pulse and spill beneath the fabric of his slacks.

His face finds refuge in the crook of your neck, both of you frozen in the aftermath. The evidence of your shared release surrounds you - your ruined blouse, your soaked underwear, the fog-laden windows, and the heady scent of sex permeating the air. Through it all, his pants remain fastened, a final barrier neither of you dared to cross.

✓

The apartment is warm and dim and quiet, the kind of silence that wraps around you like a blanket — soft, familiar, still.

Your boyfriend is in the shower. You can hear the water running through the wall, steady and casual, the same way it’s always sounded. The bathroom door is cracked slightly, steam curling through the gap in lazy coils. His phone buzzes once on the nightstand. Yours sits beside you, face down.

You lie on your back, staring at the ceiling. Your body is clean. Your skin smells like lavender and lotion. Your blouse is hanging in the laundry basket, still crumpled from where his mouth was on you. Your underwear is in the trash — soaked through, impossible to explain.

Silence fills the space between you since arriving home. The excuse of fatigue and a headache let you retreat to bed, lights off and facade intact, while turmoil churns beneath your composed exterior.

Through the cracked bathroom door, steam curls into the bedroom as the shower runs endlessly. You lie there listening to the water, using it to mark time until your phone suddenly vibrates.

[Jeon Jungkook]

You're not sleeping.

You stare at the screen, offering no response. Another message follows quickly.

[Jeon Jungkook]

You keep clenching your thighs when you're thinking about me. Do they ache now, baby?

Your breath catches as heat floods your throat. A slight shift confirms what you already know - the lingering ache, the persistent pressure, the way two orgasms somehow weren't enough.

[You]

Stop.

Behave properly.

[Jeon Jungkook]

I was behaving.

You're the one who climbed on top of me like you were going to cry if I didn't let you come again.

Your eyes fall shut as your fingers twist into the blanket, heart pounding an urgent rhythm against your ribs.

[Jeon Jungkook]

I haven't stopped thinking about how wet you were.

How hot you felt through those panties.

I almost came the second you started moving.

It hurt. It still does.

Your thighs press together instinctively as your breath wavers.

[You]

You're going to ruin me.

[Jeon Jungkook]

You're already ruined.

The shower continues its steady rhythm as your gaze darts to the bathroom door. Without thinking, your fingers move across the screen.

[You]

I can still taste you on my tongue.

I hate that I liked it.

I hate that I'm still horny.

The pause stretches before your screen illuminates once more.

[Jeon Jungkook]

I wish there were no clothes between us in that car.

I wish I could've felt how tight you are while you're dripping down my cock.

You were grinding so hard, baby. If I'd let you keep going, you would've soaked my pants.

Another futile squeeze of your thighs does nothing to ease the mounting tension.

[You]

We're not doing this.

[Jeon Jungkook]

We already did.

[Jeon Jungkook]

But next time… I'm not stopping at your underwear.

The phone slips from your grasp as you curl onto your side, pulse racing. When the shower finally stops, you lie there in the darkness - flushed and breathless - as water drips in the silence, your mind fixed on the inevitable question of when "next time" will arrive.

✓

The meeting is scheduled for 10:00 a.m. sharp.

You sit near the back of the executive briefing room, spine straight, notes prepared, smile polite — everything about you composed to the point of perfection. This is what you’ve been working toward for months. The pitch campaign of the quarter. An internal competition so sharp it’s been whispered through office floors for weeks. The chance to lead a brand identity presentation that might stretch far beyond the company’s own legacy — new reach, new budgets, and possibly, your name in lights under the quarterly report.

Pride wells inside you - or at least it should. The feeling evaporates the moment his name appears on the slide: CREATIVE LEAD — JEON JUNGKOOK.

Your throat constricts as you stare at those professional, innocuous words. They seem to mock you, belonging to the same man who had you desperate in his car three nights ago, who floods your phone with midnight messages that leave you aching, whose taste and voice haunt you while your boyfriend sleeps unaware beside you.

Drawing in a steadying breath, you straighten your posture and focus on maintaining composure. The division head moves through the presentation, outlining the brand refresh and campaign strategy before announcing your role as analytical lead with a warm smile. You acknowledge it with practiced politeness, though your lungs seem to have forgotten how to function.

When you finally dare to look across the room, Jungkook is already watching. He reclines at the far end, one elbow propped on the leather armrest, fingers thoughtfully pressed beneath his chin. His expression remains carefully neutral, but his gaze holds yours a beat too long before sliding away - as if this was all according to plan, as if he knew exactly how this would unfold.

✓

The building empties early on Thursdays. You don’t know why. You only know that by seven thirty, the only sounds echoing through the halls are the quiet hum of computers still running and the faint mechanical sweep of the cleaning crew on the lower floors. Most teams are gone. Most lights are off. But you’re still here — tucked in a corner conference room with your laptop open, slides half-polished, fingers stiff from typing, heart beating too loudly in your chest for someone just working on a pitch deck.

You could’ve done this from home. You should’ve. But ever since the assignment was announced — ever since you saw his name beside yours — you’ve started staying later. At first, you told yourself it was just strategy. Focus. Fewer distractions. A quiet space to think. But by now, you know better.

You know it’s because this is the only time he stops pretending. The glass door clicks open behind you. You don’t turn around. Not right away. You just lower your screen slightly, forcing your breath to steady. Forcing your expression into something composed.

“I figured you’d already gone,” you say, keeping your voice level.

“No,” comes the answer — smooth, steady, low. “I was waiting for you to stop pretending you could avoid me.”

You glance up. Jungkook stands in the doorway, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, the top two buttons of his shirt undone in a way that should be casual — but nothing about him is casual anymore. Not the weight of his stare. Not the tension coiled in his arms. Not the way he looks at you like he knows exactly how wet you are under that professional pencil skirt and the excuse of your silence.

He steps inside. The door closes behind him with a muted sigh. You rise from your chair — not to run. You’re not sure why, really. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s that part of you that still thinks you can bluff your way out of the gravity you’ve both been circling. But he only watches you. And then, finally, you break the silence. Not with something soft. With something angry.

“Is this a game to you?”

His eyes narrow. “No.”

You cross your arms, trying to hold onto something. “Then what is it?”

He steps forward — not fast, not aggressive, just sure.

“You,” he says quietly, “make it hard to play fair.”

“I see the way you look at me,” he continues, voice smooth, deliberate, like every word has been sitting on his tongue for days. “The way your lips part when I walk into a room. The way you hold your breath when I pass behind your chair. You want to be good. But you’re not.”

You should walk away. You should push past him, leave the room, erase this moment with professionalism and pride.

But instead, you whisper, “You’re not either.”

His mouth twitches — not into a smile, not quite. “No,” he says. “I’m not.”

And then he moves. His hands find your waist, fingers digging into the fabric of your skirt as he pushes you — not hard, but fast — until the back of your thighs meet the edge of the glass conference table. His mouth finds your throat before you can speak, tongue dragging up the line of your jaw as your hands fly to his chest, not to stop him, just to hold.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he murmurs against your skin. “To fuck you where anyone could see. To hear you moan when you know you shouldn’t.”

You gasp as he lifts you — easily, like you weigh nothing — and sets you onto the table, pushing your knees apart as he steps between them.

“I think about you when I’m on calls,” he growls. “I can’t look at you in meetings without imagining you under me, legs shaking, begging me to make you come.”

“Jungkook—”

He silences you with a kiss — deep, wet, devastating — and then his hand slides under your skirt, pulling your underwear aside with one sharp tug. You’re soaked already, and when he drags his fingers through your folds, he groans against your mouth.

“Still so fucking wet for me.”

He doesn’t wait. He unbuckles his belt with one hand, the other still buried between your thighs, thumb rolling over your clit until your hips lift off the glass in a broken, desperate rhythm. You don’t even hear the sound you make when he frees himself from his pants — thick, flushed, already leaking — because all you can feel is want.

And then he’s there and he doesn’t tease. He thrusts in one smooth stroke, hips snapping forward as your body takes him all at once — stretch and heat and fullness that makes you cry out, nails clawing into his shoulders, eyes wide and unseeing.

“Fuck,” he hisses, jaw clenched. “You feel—fuck, you’re so tight—”

Your head falls back, fingers trembling. “You’re big—too big—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growls, pulling out halfway only to slam back in. “You take it so fucking well.”

The table shakes beneath you. His rhythm builds — deep, unrelenting, hard enough to echo in the room. His hands grip your thighs, then your hips, then your ass, pulling you closer, holding you still as he ruins you one thrust at a time.

You cling to him like you’re drowning. And then — just when you think you can’t take more — his hand slides up, yanks the neckline of your blouse down, pulls your bra aside. He mouths at your nipple like he owns it, sucks hard, tongue flicking over the peak until your scream breaks the silence.

“Jungkook—oh my god—”

“You like that?” he pants. “You like being fucked like this? On a table? At work?”

You’re nodding, breathless, boneless, thighs quivering. “Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”

And he doesn’t stop. Not when your nails scrape down his back, not when your head lolls back against the smooth glass with a sound that doesn’t sound like you at all. He finds the rhythm that undoes you — deep and measured, every thrust angled just right to drag across that spot inside you that makes your thighs jerk around his hips and your mouth fall open with a helpless cry. He grinds into you on every downstroke, not rushed, not frantic — just devastatingly precise, like he’s memorized the way your body coils before it breaks.

Your fingers tremble where they grip the edge of the table. You cling to the glass like it might anchor you, but it doesn't. Nothing can. Not when his hand slides up to your throat, not tightening, just holding — grounding you as your walls start to flutter around him, clenching harder with every slick, obscene snap of his hips.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he growls into your neck, voice hot and ruined. “That’s it, baby—come on. Come for me.”

And you do — with a sound so high and strangled you don’t even recognize it as yours, thighs locking around his waist as you shudder through it, everything going white-hot and wet and wild, your body seizing on his cock as he fucks you through the tremors, relentless, groaning at the way you clench.

He kisses you hard — messy, teeth dragging your lower lip, tongue claiming your mouth like it’s a promise — and fucks you deeper, harder, until your second orgasm is building too fast, too sharp, making your legs shake and your moans rise into whimpers.

“Again,” he hisses, pulling back to look at you, flushed and panting. “You’re not done.”

Your head shakes, but your hips chase his anyway.

“Jungkook—fuck—I can’t—”

“You can,” he pants, sweat beading at his temple as he slams into you again, the slap of skin on skin echoing against the glass walls. “You’re gonna give it to me again. Just like that. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

And when his hand slips between your bodies, fingers rubbing fast over your swollen clit while he pounds into you, your body gives in again — your muscles locking, stomach contracting, lips parted in a silent cry as the second wave crashes down, louder, messier, wetter than the first.

Your body writhes against him, blouse hanging open, skirt pushed so high it’s barely on you anymore. Your legs shake around him, your vision blurs, your voice breaks.

You sob his name. Not once. Not softly. But over and over — “Jungkook, Jungkook—fuck—” — as he fucks you through it, until your body trembles so hard he has to grip your waist to keep you from sliding off the table.

You're completely undone — face flushed, chest rising in jagged gasps, breasts slick with sweat and spit, fingers twitching against the glass. Not a single part of you is untouched. Not a single part of you is safe. And still, he doesn’t stop until he’s spilling inside you with a low, strangled growl, hips jerking against yours, forehead pressed to your collarbone as he groans your name like a secret he shouldn’t have ever learned.

You stay like that — tangled, panting, broken open in every way that matters — before you finally move, legs still trembling as he slips out of you, your body flinching from the sudden emptiness.

You slide down from the table with shaking legs, adjusting your blouse, pushing your hair back, not meeting his eyes. You whisper, “We can’t do this again.”

You leave without a word, your heels clicking against marble in a steady rhythm that echoes through the empty corridor. Behind you, Jungkook remains motionless - shirt open, belt undone, lips parted - as he watches the door swing shut. Though he doesn't follow, a knowing smile plays at the corners of his mouth, he’s already planning how you will break that promise.

✓

You ghost him.

Not all at once, but methodically — first by refusing to look at him during meetings, then by ignoring the messages that come after dark, still arriving on schedule even when you pretend to be asleep, your phone lighting up on your nightstand like a warning you no longer feel brave enough to read.

You delete his number, but not before copying it somewhere hidden, buried in a place you hope you’ll forget, though you already know you won’t. You archive the message thread, stare at the space where his name used to sit between your alarms and your reminders, then delete it too — and for a second, you feel something close to power. But it doesn’t last.

You go to work like nothing’s changed. You sit in the same seat during team calls, speak in the same calm voice, wear the same pressed clothes and polished shoes. You keep your face neutral when his name appears in the group chat, when your inbox holds notes tagged “for approval” with his initials beneath, when he speaks during creative syncs like nothing has passed between you but timelines and metrics. And you match it.

You match his silence with silence, his professionalism with poise, until every moment that ever existed between you becomes something weightless and false — like a fever dream you were never sick enough to die from.

Except the truth is, it's already consumed you - a fever that never broke, still burning through your veins with every heartbeat.

Because your body doesn’t forget. Not when you cross the lobby and smell the cologne someone else wears that’s too close to his. Not when you sit through a meeting and feel a phantom pressure against the inside of your thigh, like your skin remembers where his hand once belonged. Not when you’re lying awake beside a man who doesn’t press against you anymore, who’s too polite to ask why your body flinches when he touches your hip in his sleep.

You try to be good. Again. The kind of good you used to believe in. You stop staying late. You make dinner even when you don’t feel like eating. You answer every text Seojin sends you with a smiley face or a photo of your desk, as if that can somehow make up for how far away you’ve already drifted.

But nothing changes. None of it is enough to fill the void he left behind.

That night in the kitchen, he stands there with damp hair and phone in hand, his words cutting through the silence: "I don't even know who you are anymore." The exhaustion in his voice makes it clear he's done waiting for answers you can't give. You keep your eyes down, unable to face him, knowing that if he asked you the same question, you'd be just as lost.

When he leaves, you remain frozen in place, wrapped in a sweater that carries his scent, wondering how you transformed into someone who could experience such intimacy with a stranger and dismiss it as a mistake.

The illusion of freedom you try to convince yourself of shatters the moment you lie down in your empty bed. Your first thought isn't of relief or independence - it's of Jungkook's number, still unblocked on your phone. You leave the device face-down, fingers twisted in your sheets, attempting to recall a time when desire didn't feel like destruction.

✓

You keep your head down for days — not because you’ve done something wrong, but because it feels like you have. Every morning you pass through security expecting your badge to blink red. Every unread email from HR makes your heart stutter. Every slack notification jolts like it’s about to summon you upstairs, into a boardroom where everything ends in glass and shame.

Your mind races with questions about his response - whether he reported it, covered it up, or simply remained silent. But nothing comes of it. Instead, on the following Monday — rain tapping soft against the windows, your hair still damp from walking too fast in a coat that never quite keeps you dry — your manager pulls you aside with a printed letter in hand and a smile that borders on triumphant.

“You’re being moved to permanent,” she says, tapping the corner of the offer letter against your desk like she already expects gratitude. “Full benefits. Salary bump. A higher bracket than standard for someone in your first year, but—” she smiles wider now, “you clearly impressed someone up high.”

The offer letter in your hands might as well be written in hieroglyphics. Your throat constricts as you accept it silently, maintaining a facade of composure. Your manager beams at you, clearly interpreting your silence as humble gratitude, but beneath your blouse, your skin prickles with an unspoken question you refuse to acknowledge.

Was it him?

You respond with nothing more than a professional nod before returning to your desk, though the data on your screen blurs as your thoughts drown out everything else. Days pass without a word from him - no messages, no meaningful glances, not even when your promotion appears in the company newsletter with its congratulatory star. No chance encounters by the coffee machine, no brushing of hands in hallways.

You try to convince yourself this is for the best, that your success stems purely from merit - not from heated moments against glass tables while the city witnessed your undoing. You repeat these assurances until they almost ring true.

But four days later, a knock echoes through your apartment. The hour is too late for anything innocent, and your heart already knows who stands on the other side. You don't bother with the peephole - your bare feet carry you to the door as your pulse slows to a heavy rhythm, your body preparing itself for what comes next.

When you open it, there he is. Jeon Jungkook, like an unfinished sentence waiting to be completed. His black coat hangs open, no tie, hair slightly disheveled as if he's been running his fingers through it. He brings no pretense - no phone, no flowers, no excuses. Just himself and a gaze that tells you he never learned how to stop wanting you.

Neither of you speaks. You stand frozen in this moment, uncertain whether you're about to fall again or finally find your footing.

✓

He remains in the doorway, rain-dampened shoulders and exposed collarbone forming a silhouette against the night. His gaze meets yours with quiet intention - not to begin something new, but to resolve what was left unfinished between you.

The hallway light flickers above, casting golden shadows across the deep navy darkness behind him. You wish you could dismiss this as another fevered fantasy born from lingering desire, but his presence is undeniably real.

When he finally speaks, his voice carries neither confession nor seduction. "You earned it," he says softly. "Everything in that offer. You did it." Your breath catches as he continues, his gaze unwavering. "I just made sure no one overlooked you."

There's no triumph in his words, no expectation - only raw honesty and the weight of knowing he sought your success even from the edges of your silence. But you can't accept this offering, even as his presence in your doorway - beautiful and controlled - makes every step you've taken feel like an inevitability leading back to him.

You press your palm against the door, forcing yourself to whisper, "You need to leave." The words emerge not as anger but as surrender, and when his gaze drops briefly to your mouth before meeting your eyes again - patient, undemanding - you already know what follows.

His kiss, when it comes, holds neither hunger nor heat, but something devastatingly gentle - as though he's committing every moment to memory. Your hand betrays you, curling into his coat as you return the kiss, falling back into the gravity between you.

Because maybe you’re tired of lying. Or maybe you're tired of pretending that anything in your life has felt this right and this wrong all at once.

Though you don't invite him in, the door remains open between you - a threshold neither of you crosses, yet he already knows what lies beyond words and walls.

The kiss deepens slowly — not because either of you is hesitant, but because it doesn’t feel like either of you has the heart to rush through it this time. He doesn’t push past your lips like he’s trying to win something, and you don’t open your mouth like surrender — it’s not about giving in anymore, not about being claimed or punished or ruined.

It’s about being felt. He presses closer. Not a step forward — just a lean, the weight of his chest brushing yours, his hands finding your waist like he’s afraid you might disappear again. And you don’t move. You just stand there, door still open behind him, arms curled into the fabric of his coat as the warmth of his mouth lingers against yours like a breath, a pulse, a truth.

You kiss him again — slower now, deeper — and when he follows, when his tongue slides softly past your lips and you moan, helpless, against the taste of him, that’s when you reach up and curl your fingers around the chain that rests against the hollow of his throat.

He groans and it’s quiet, low, barely audible, but it’s felt — like it comes from his spine, like the metal between your fingers is connected to something under his skin that was always meant to belong to you.

You pull him in gently by the chain, guiding him across the threshold as his coat falls open. When his mouth finds yours again, there's a new kind of hunger in his kiss - not dominance, but pure desperation. His touch isn't that of someone seeking conquest; instead, his hands move across your skin with the reverence of someone who's been aching for every inch he hasn't yet discovered.

His jacket drops to the floor with a soft thud, your fingers already working open the buttons of his shirt, slow and trembling, as he backs you toward the couch, hands slipping under your top like he needs to feel your skin now — all of it, warm and honest and bare beneath his palms.

Your shirt peels off. His pants drop low on his hips, exposing the trail of muscle that makes your breath catch. You step out of your underwear while never breaking eye contact, and when he pushes his boxers down, your eyes fall to his cock — thick and already leaking, not intimidating this time, just right, just him.

He lowers you onto the couch, his hands cradling your thighs as you lie back, and when he settles between them, you don’t gasp or beg — you exhale. Soft and full and steady. Because this time, you’re not falling. You’re choosing.

He slides into you slowly — achingly slow — and the stretch is so deep, so thick, so familiar that it burns in the most beautiful way. You moan, long and low, arching into him, your nails dragging lines across his back. And Jungkook groans — face buried in your neck, arms shaking slightly as he stills inside you, like he’s overwhelmed too.

“You feel like home,” he breathes.

You don’t answer. You just kiss his temple. And move.

The rhythm you find together is slow, grinding, intimate — a pace that isn't about how fast you can get off, but how long you can stay wrapped in each other. He kisses you between every thrust, forehead to yours, mouths brushing, your breath shared in tiny gasps and broken sighs.

And when he reaches down and strokes your clit — gentle, slow circles — your legs begin to tremble, the pleasure curling from your spine like a tide rising. You cling to him, closer, tighter, needing more of him, needing to anchor yourself somewhere inside this moment.

Your fingers wrap around his chain again, the cool metal a bridge between your bodies as you pull with gentle insistence - not to control or wound, but to forge a deeper connection in this moment.

His hips jerk at the sensation, his cock twitching deep inside you as he groans, mouth falling open at the feeling of you clenching tighter around him.

“You’re gonna make me—fuck,” he pants, voice hoarse. “Keep doing that.”

You tug again. The metal glints against his sweat-slicked chest. Your orgasm builds with every grind of your hips, every whisper of “don’t stop” falling from your lips, every stroke of his fingers between your thighs, until you’re gasping his name again — but softer now, like a secret.

When you come, it’s full-body — waves of heat rolling through you, your back arching, your eyes closing tight, the chain still twisted in your fingers like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

And even as you pulse around him, wet and aching and overwhelmed, he doesn’t let go.

He’s trembling above you now, his jaw slack and his chest rising in ragged waves as your bodies move together — not with the frenzy of earlier, not with urgency or teeth or bruises, but with something far more dangerous: something honest. His thrusts have slowed, deeper now, less rhythmic, like he’s no longer chasing climax but trying to hold it off, trying to stay in the moment just a little longer, trying to memorize what it feels like to be this far inside you — surrounded, wrapped, welcomed.

But it’s slipping. You can feel it in the way his control starts to crack, in the way his hands slide down your back with too much pressure, in the way his mouth grazes your jaw like a man whose words are caught behind his teeth, trembling and unfinished. His hips begin to stutter, no longer smooth but erratic, messy, desperate.

And when your fingers tighten around the chain at his throat — silver glinting faintly between your sweat-damp chests, cool to the touch even now — his head drops, a moan clawing from his throat, so raw it nearly breaks you to hear it.

“I’m not gonna last,” he whispers, not pleading, not asking, just admitting it with a vulnerability that feels heavier than any of the filth he’s ever murmured into your skin. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t hold it.”

He’s still inside you, so deep you can feel every twitch, every tremble of his body as he hovers at the edge, and when you press your lips to the corner of his mouth — soft and sure — and whisper, “Then don’t,” something inside him gives out.

His entire body seizes above you, his muscles tightening like drawn wires, his breath hitching hard in his chest as he buries himself in one last thrust so deep, so full, you swear you stop breathing altogether. His hands fly to your hips, gripping like anchors as he comes inside you — thick and hot and overwhelming — his groan curling out of his mouth in a low, strangled sound that vibrates against your collarbone.

It goes on longer than you expect — wave after wave pulsing from him, each twitch of his cock spilling more heat into your already-soaked core, every sound he makes a mixture of release and disbelief, like he can’t quite believe this is real, like the feeling of your body wrapped around him is too much to survive.

And through all of it, he doesn’t pull away. Not from your mouth. Not from your skin. Not from the chain still caught between your fingers, your knuckles pale from how tightly you’re holding it, as if the tension in that single piece of metal is the only thing keeping you from falling apart with him.

When he finally stills — his hips softening, breath stuttering out in a slow collapse — he doesn’t lift his head right away. He just breathes against your throat, his body trembling with the last aftershocks, arms tightening around your waist as if he’s trying to fuse your bodies together before the world can find a way to separate you again.

You lie there for a moment, in that impossible stillness, his cock still nestled deep inside you, both of you flushed and tangled and soaked in sweat, your limbs loose and aching and marked.

And when he finally lifts his head, eyes dark and glassy, mouth parted like he’s about to say something too fragile to hold, you can only stare up at him — chest to chest, heart to heart — with your breath caught halfway between exhaustion and wonder.

Without smiling, he leans in close, his voice a low and certain whisper meant only for your ears “This isn’t over.”

And the way he says it — not as a threat or warning, but as a simple truth — makes you realize he's speaking of something far deeper than this night. He's speaking of you, of this connection, of everything you've tried to escape but found yourself becoming within his embrace.

✓

The morning begins without rest.

You barely have time to blink yourself awake before the call comes in — not a question, not a suggestion, just a notification from your manager’s assistant letting you know that you’ve been assigned to assist with the company’s most significant investor gala of the season. No option to decline. No time to process. Just a simple line in bold: “Dress code: black tie. You’re on-site support.”

You move quickly, running on autopilot, still aching between your legs from the night before, every movement a silent echo of the way he held you, the way he moved inside you, the way his voice sounded when he promised — promised — that it wasn’t over. But now it’s morning, and there’s no message from him. No trace of last night but the marks on your hips and the silence in your phone.

By the time you arrive at the venue, your hair is slicked back into a low bun, your clipboard tucked tightly under your arm, your lips painted in a shade that says control and nothing else. The black dress they told you to wear is clean-lined and elegant, sleeveless, cinched at the waist, the hem brushing the floor just above your heels. It’s professional. Unassuming. Forgettable.

You are trying to fade into the background, and yet your body betrays you with every movement - haunted by memories of his touch, his gaze, the sound of his pleasure. Moving through the ballroom like a shadow in velvet, you focus on your tasks: aligning name cards, supervising wine service, centering elaborate floral arrangements on tables worth more than your monthly rent. You maintain strict professionalism - speaking only when necessary, avoiding eye contact, staying busy and useful while striving to remain unnoticed.

Just after seven, the atmosphere shifts. The lights dim imperceptibly, the music softens beneath murmured conversations, and a photographer raises their camera. The change ripples through the room like an invisible wave - not loud or obvious, but unmistakably present.

The entire room turns in unison as the CEO makes his entrance, commanding attention with the effortless confidence that comes from generational power. His presence fills the space - sleek, controlled, magnetic in his crisp suit. And beside him stands a woman whose name you don't yet know.

But there she stands - young and polished in an ivory silk gown that clings perfectly to her frame, one hand resting on Jeon Jungkook's arm. The CEO's son maintains perfect composure beside her, his expression carefully neutral, those same lips that traced your skin mere hours ago now curved into a practiced smile.

“That’s Jungkook’s fiancée,” says one of the senior managers beside you, a woman whose eyes haven’t left the couple at the entrance. Her tone isn’t cruel. Just matter-of-fact. “Her family owns half the company in London.”

When your eyes finally meet his across the crowded room, his gaze finds you with neither surprise nor alarm - just a steady, emotionless recognition. He remains motionless beside his companion, offering no gesture, no word, no explanation for this devastating revelation. His unbearable calm speaks volumes as he regards you with the detached interest one might show a stranger.

Your fingers close tighter around the stem of the wine glass in your hand — tighter, tighter — and before you can stop it, before you even feel it, the glass snaps in your palm, crystal shattering in your grip with a sound that doesn’t match the music, wine spilling in slow rivulets down your wrist and onto the floor. A soft gasp ripples through nearby guests, but you remain frozen - hand bleeding, vision blurring, heart constricting around a truth you should have anticipated.

And across the crowd, without a flicker of emotion, he simply turns away.

part 2 is here

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taekritimin123 · 4 months ago

Text

Repent (4)

There's only one night left of the retreat and Jungkook is way too far into his head for his own good.

Word Count: 6.847

Warning: smut, skinny dipping, dirty talking, kissing, unprotected sex, nipple play/sucking, shower scenes, fingering, oral sex, degradation, bible verses?? lmao, creampie,

Part One | Two | Three

Jungkook finds that he enjoys eating you out.

At first, after the night you and he shared, he was a bit nervous to bring up the request again. He didn’t want you to think that all he ever wanted to do with you was sexual activities. But he’d be a liar if he said that he didn’t enjoy suckling on your clit. He’s gathered that in such a short amount of time, he’s sinned far too many times to count, he didn’t want to add liar onto his list.

There was something about the way Jungkook grew more and more insatiable when it comes to you. Each night you’d come into his cabin and join him beneath his sheets. You’d always say how cute he was and Jungkook would always intend on proving you wrong by eating you out.

The once shy and reserved Jungkook had turned into the being you knew he could be, the confidence he had buried within coming out little by little.

Especially in the way his hands would force your thighs apart as his tongue ravished your clit greedily. He would bob his head back and forth, fully enthralled with the act of eating you out that he never came up for air.

Maybe it was your moans that gave Jungkook his will. He finds you entirely hot when you moan out his name, your hand tangled in his hair. You enjoyed what he was doing. Your thighs would shake and your face would be drawn with pleasure - it fueled his passion entirely.

However, all good things had to come to an end. It was the last day of the retreat and everyone had since packed to leave the following day.

“So let me get this straight,” Taehyung begins. “you haven’t fucked her yet?” Jungkook groans. He should know better by now then to call his friends for help as they almost never were any.

“You’ve eaten her out at least 50 times already.” Hoseok snorts. “Isn’t the retreat over tomorrow?”

“There isn’t any rush. If her grandmother goes to the same church, you’re bound to see her again.” Namjoon encourages. Jungkook can practically hear the smile in his tone.

“I say you fuck her raw dog and-”

Jungkook hangs up the phone entirely. His issue isn’t with having sex with you because, in all honesty, he’s positive that you’d say yes to him if he brought it up.

Jungkook had a problem now. In a short amount of time, you’ve come and captivated him entirely in ways that he’s embarrassed. Not because he’s embarrassed of you, but of himself and how fast it took for him to acknowledge that he liked you.

In ways that’s more than just hooking up.

Jungkook isn’t sure if after tonight, would you and him be…friends? Would you go back to your regular life and forget about him entirely? Would you ever visit the church in hopes of seeing him?

Jungkook’s mind races as he makes his way out of his cabin. He has his camera in his hands as it was his job to take pictures for the Church, specifically on the last day of the retreat.

The children are restless, all playing outside. Their youth and obliviousness is nice and he wishes he could be a kid again where everything was easier. There wasn’t sin constantly clouding his mind day by day and a girl who he couldn’t get out of his thoughts.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Jungkook had just entered the large dining hall when he heard a soft voice. It’s Meana, who he only saw in passing the last few days.

“What do you mean?” Jungkook asks, but he’s positive that he knows. He was so caught up in his head that he possibly looked ill, walking around moping at the thought of you leaving the retreat and never speaking to him again.

It was pathetic, truly.

“You look,” Meana tilts her head. “a wreck.” she concludes. She’s holding a bottle of water in her palms. “Is it about Y/N?”

Jungkook’s cheeks flush at the sound of your name and Meana could only smile.

“You like her.” Meana states in a teasing voice. “I think she likes you, too.”

Jungkook’s ears perk a bit. “H-Huh?” he stutters, doe-like eyes widening a bit and dare Meana say she can see them sparkle under the dining halls white lights. “What do you mean? DId she say that to you?”

Meana shakes her head and Jungkook’s shoulders falter.

“But, it’s obvious, right?” Meana shrugs her shoulders. “You and her have been inseparable the last few days.” she states matter-of-factly.

That wasn’t a lie. While you could ignore the stares, Jungkook couldn’t. But he didn’t let them bother him. Being seen with you wasn’t something he was ashamed of. You were seen as the rebelling type who wore too tight clothing just because you wanted to spite whoever was watching. People held their tongue because of their love and respect for your grandmother, not for you.

Meana, however, finds it endearing how close you and Jungkook are. While she hadn’t spoken to Jungkook often since the kiss in his bedroom, she and you had. You had come to apologize to her if you made her uncomfortable and Meana had told you that everything was alright. Sure, her heart did pound around you and her cheeks would warm, but it wasn’t anything that was your fault.

“I’ll even say that you two look like a couple.” Meana teases further, knowing that Jungkook’s face would turn a dark shade of red, and when it does she couldn’t help her laughter.

“I…I don’t even know if she wants to see me after the retreat.” Jungkook admits sullenly. “She doesn’t come to church-”

“Why don’t you just ask for her number?”

Jungkook is silent. He hadn’t thought about that. The more he thinks about it, maybe he has been quite dramatic.

“But what if-”

“You’re trapping yourself behind bars that are wide enough for you to walk through.” Meana deadpans.

Jungkook could laugh. Meana, after this retreat, has changed a bit, as well. She wasn’t as shy as she once was and he ponders if maybe you being around her has rubbed off like it did him.

“She hasn’t said anything to me about after the retreat.”

Meana shrugs her shoulders. She opens her water bottle. “Maybe she’s waiting for you to say something.” she says prior to taking a swig of it. “Do you ever think she’s tired of making the first move on you?”

Jungkook blinks.

“No, you haven’t.” Meana giggles. “Because you’re caging yourself behind those too wide bars and allowing your own insecurities-”

“When did you become a therapist?” Jungkook crosses his arms. He can’t help the smile that tugs on his lips. “I don’t remember you being this logical before.”

Jungkook knows that Meana is right, however. You had shown him time and time again that you were interested in him. Maybe not for something further than a friendship, but you were definitely interested in something.

Jungkook finds you sitting outside with a group of kids. They’re all talking at once, far too excited about something and you’re too nice to tell them to calm down and talk one at a time. Your eyes dance around the children as each of them talk and Jungkook finds it endearing.

Jungkook brings his camera up to take a picture of the sight. You only notice when the flash goes off, your attention turning to Jungkook. He lowers his camera and offers you a small smile that you return - one that causes his heart to jolt again.

Don’t be stupid, Jungkook thinks to himself. He thinks of what his friends told him. What Meana told him, but even now all he can focus on is how idiotic it is liking someone you met recently. There was no way in H E double hockey sticks that you liked him in the same way.

Maybe Jungkook would have more faith in himself if he would just think Hell instead of H E double hockey sticks.

“Is she your girlfriend?”

Jungkook blinks a few times to look down at a small child with folded arms. He raises his brows as the boy glares at him.

“Uh, what?” Jungkook nervously laughs, glancing up at you. You’re now standing.

“I already said I was going to marry her.” the little boy points his finger at Jungkook. “So you can’t have her!”

Jungkook blinks. “You’re like 6.”

“I’m 7 and a half!”

“You’re too young for marriage.” Jungkook wants to slap himself for entertaining a child anyways.

“And you’re getting too old!”

“I’m not even 30 yet!” Jungkook exclaims.

Jungkook is dragged out of his glaring match with the child when he hears you laugh. A hand is placed onto his bicep and his attention is immediately on you. His shoulders relax a bit.

“You can’t fight the children, Kookie.” you joke.

“I-I’m not!” Jungkook’s cheeks return to their warm reddened color.

After offering the young boy a pat on the head, you venture off with Jungkook. Since it was the last day, people decided on cleaning up, packing and eventually just hanging out until the following day.

“Did you enjoy your time on the retreat?” Jungkook asks after a long stretch of silence. You and him had gone for a walk not too far from the cabins.

“Of course I did.” you answer. “Dare I even say I had fun.”

Jungkook allows himself to smile. “I’m glad,” he murmurs.

Your eyes wander to him for a moment, lingering on his face. You believe he has more to say, though you don’t press him on the matter.

“What do you do, uh, outside of all of this?” Jungkook chuckles nervously. He’s sure that after tomorrow, he won’t be seeing you at Church.

You pretend to think long and hard about his question before answering. “I suppose what normal people our age do?” you shrug your shoulders. “I work often, but I have hobbies. What do you do?”

You stop walking to face Jungkook. He does the same.

“I have hobbies, too.” Jungkook murmurs, cheeks dusting pink. He isn’t sure what to say. He’s an open book. You know he attends the church just as often as your grandmother and he’s highly reserved with non-reserved friends encouraging him to, in words his parents would tell him, sin. “I, uh, enjoy drawing as you know. Painting. I go wherever my friends drag me.”

You hum, lips twitching upwards. “Where do they drag you?”

Jungkook blinks. Were you actually interested in what he was saying?

“Uh, depends. Museums for some, arcades for others.” Jungkook swallows. “I’ve been dragged to clubs a few times, too.”

“Church boy Kookie in a club?” you pretend to be shocked, placing a hand over your mouth. You laugh mere seconds afterwards. “That’s a sight I’d have to see.”

Jungkook and you were far too consumed with one another that neither of you noticed how side by side you two were. You returned back to the cabins for dinner, him listening to you talk to Meana about a TV show he hadn’t heard before, but seems highly entertaining in “girl world” he likes to put it.

The young boy returned, glaring eyes at Jungkook before staring at you with such heart eyes that Jungkook would be threatened if the child wasn’t exactly that, a child. You were convinced by him and more children to do s’mores - an activity that you dragged Jungkook to, much to the little boy's dismay.

Even as the moon shone high above the dark sky, clear of any stars or clouds, Jungkook and you find yourselves by the lake. It’s quiet out as everyone had retreated to bed while you and him went for yet another walk.

You find that Jungkook is talented in a lot of things. You already know how amazing he was at drawing. His photography skills, as well. He showed you the pictures on his camera that he’s taken - of the children all playing, Church goers. He even showed you some of his friends that appear high-quality and magazines like that you had to compliment him on how amazing it was.

“You’re not very spontaneous, are you?” you asked. You and Jungkook sit on the dock, your feet swinging back and forth at the edge right above the lake.

Jungkook shakes his head. “No.” he admits. “Everything we’ve done,” he begins, that cute blush on his cheeks as he recalls the moments he and you shared. “is all a first to me.”

Jungkook and you had two different ideas of spontaneity, he’s sure. You offering him a blow job out in the open had to be by far his favorite - he couldn’t remember the last time adrenaline flowed through him like that.

You lick your lips. “The fun shouldn’t stop now, right?”

“What do you mean?”

You don’t answer and instead proceed to lift your shirt over your head. You throw it aside. “You ever gone skinny dipping?”

Widening his eyes, Jungkook shakes his head. You lift yourself up to take off your pants next, your panties going right along with it.

“Y-You’re serious?” Jungkook murmurs, looking around as if anyone is watching. You’re not too far from the cabins, but no one ever comes down to the lake at night.

You’re naked and Jungkook, no matter how many times he was blessed by the heavens above to witness you in such a state, he finds his eyes wandering to your nude figure.

“You know I am, Kookie.” you offer him a wink. “It’s our last night here. We mind as well make the most of it.”

You don’t wait for Jungkook to respond. Instead, you jump into the lake. Water splashes his shirt a bit as he watches you emerge from the water.

Jungkook’s heart pumps as he looks at your smiling face.

Fuck it, Jungkook thinks. He can hear his friends in his mind clear as ever - to not pussy out (in their crude tone).

Jungkook does the same as you, though folding his clothes and placing them neatly beside your discarded ones before diving in right beside you. You laugh, clapping your hands when he comes up from beneath the water.

“10 points to you, church boy Kookie!”

The water is freezing, but Jungkook doesn’t want to look like a coward, so he holds the shivering to a minimum. That, and he does find this whole thing hot - the act of him and you being totally naked while everyone else is oblivious. Was this something spontaneous you did on the regular?

“You’re cold, aren’t you?” you giggle. His teeth slightly chattered. “I’m cold, too.”

“Just something to get used to.” Jungkook chuckles. He swims a bit closer to you. The edge of the doc wasn’t too far deep into the water and the ground was touchable if he truly wanted to stand.

You make the first move, but you know fully that Jungkook doesn’t mind. The little that you’ve known him, you know he was now going through an internal battle of if he should touch you or not.

You wrap your legs around Jungkook’s waist, your hands sitting on his broad shoulders. Jungkook’s hands place themselves onto your hips, feeling even more warmer now that you were so close to him.

“You must really find working out fun.” you state, remembering what he said a few days prior. “You ever thought about getting any tattoos?”

Jungkook nods his head. “Yeah…but my mother would have a heart attack.” he chuckles.

You hum. “I think you’d look hot.” you murmur, tightening your legs around him. “I was thinking about getting one.”

Jungkook swallows. Your chest sits directly against his and your hands now lightly rub the skin of his shoulders.

“W-What tattoo?” Damn him for stuttering like a school boy. To think that he’s eaten you out more times than he can count, but you still make him so nervous.

“Hm…dunno.” you shrug your shoulders. “I want a tramp stamp. That’d be hot, right?”

It would be, Jungkook thinks. He only manages to nod his head because he’s positive that if he continued to think about it, he’d moan this time instead of stutter and he was done with embarrassing himself.

“You’re so…” you blink droplets of water from your eyelashes before smirking. “…cute.” you murmur. “You still get so shy around me.”

“I’m not.” Jungkook lies. It was pointless because you knew he was. “I’m just…not used to being around someone like you.”

“Then why haven’t you kissed me yet?”

Jungkook inhales a breath. “I didn’t know you wanted me to.”

“Is that so?” you lean in a bit, your cold nose touching his own. “I told you I wanted to fuck you on our first day here.” you murmur.

Jungkook’s ears are red. You had a point, he thinks, but still. You could always change your mind at nay given moment - even if you haven’t already.

Instead of responding, Jungkook places his lips onto yours. The familiar bubble in his stomach, followed by the quickness of his heart beat, Jungkook slightly moans into your lips. His eyes flutter close, his hands bringing you closer against him.

Kissing you got easier over time, Jungkook thinks, but he cannot help how his body feels afterwards. Even in the cold water, Jungkook can feel his cock begin to throb.

Your teeth sinks gently onto his bottom lip, tugging it playfully.

“I intend on having you fuck me still.”

Jungkook’s eyes flutter open. His hold on you tightens a bit at your words - words that cause his heart to continue to jolt, as well as his cock to throb with need. Just the thought of actually being inside of you.

Without warning, your legs hold onto his tighter, and your arms wrap around his neck. With all your force, you bring your body backwards and underneath the water, bringing Jungkook along with you.

A rush of sensation flows through Jungkook as he and you are enveloped underneath the water. Your legs loosen and so do your arms. You’re pulling away from him, he thinks. He emerges from under the water to hear your bubbly laughter. He wipes his eyes, blinking them a few times to look at you.

“Was that a trick?”

Jungkook’s tone is playful, you note. You don’t have enough time to process before he’a coming for you. He dips underneath the water. It’s silent for a moment, your head dashing around in an attempt to find him underwater.

A loud screech comes from your lips when hands wrap around your frame and throws you underneath the cold water along with him. You don’t process the rushing of water before you’re being brought up above it once more.

Jungkook is behind you, your back against his chest. Your breathing is heavy when he wraps you in a hug.

“Church boy Kookie,” you begin, breathing with each passing word. “you’re coming out of your shell nicely.”

Jungkook doesn’t mean for you to feel his cock against your ass, it just happens. Maybe by the way you squirm in his embrace to further tease him.

“I still want to fuck you.”

Jungkook’s lips are at your ear, warm breath tickling it. You’re already cold, but the way he speaks to you causes the exposed skin to prickle with excited goosebumps.

“You have such a dirty mouth.”

Jungkook swallows. Dirty talk, he thinks - his friends' words flowing through his mind. He doesn’t want to ruin this moment right now, one that he admits is entirely hot.

Jungkook places his lips at the nape of your neck, pressing several kisses. His hands roam upwards until they’re at your breast. He grips them in his hands needily, inhaling sharply against your neck.

“You love my dirty mouth.” Jungkook murmurs against your neck, his kisses now pecking upwards until he’s at your ear. “It’s what brings you back to me time and time again.”

Jungkook’s own confidence in his voice surprised even himself.

“You’re right.” you murmur, eyes fluttering close.

It was a blur getting out of the water and dressing for the sake of returning back to the cabins. You and him had to be quiet as you entered the showers. You assure to lock the doors behind you as Jungkook makes his way to the nearest shower he finds.

You and him are naked once more, underneath hot steamy water. Jungkook’s arms are around you again, bringing you closer as you and his lips lock together.

Doing all of this has his heart pounding even faster with adrenaline.

“You okay?” you say against his lips, hands lightly tapping his shoulders as you make them down his wet arms. “I don’t want to overwhelm you with beginner level spontaneity.”

Jungkook chuckles. His hands are on the low of your back. “I’m fine.” he murmurs. “Just…wanna touch you.”

You hum. “I’m not holding you back.”

Jungkook, no matter how many times he’s managed to touch you, always feels as if it’s the first time. His hands grip your breast once more, inhaling a sharp breath when his palms feel the way your nipples are so hardened.

“You’re very beautiful, Y/N.” Jungkook murmurs, voice nearly inaudible due to the loud shower hitting against your bodies and the tiled floors. “Sometimes I think this is all a dream and I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone…”

Jungkook’s thumbs press against your perky nipples, rubbing slightly. His cock is throbbing against your thigh, wishing that he'll hurry up and do what you want him to do.

You find Jungkook’s words endearingly poetic - it’s as though he believes that after tonight, you’d disappear into thin air; like a figment of his imagination.

You didn’t laugh because you truly did find his words endearing. Your heart pumps once those words hit your ears, your already warm body heating up even more. His thumbs twirl your nipples, wet eyelashes blinking up to look at you.

“You’re acting like I’m going to disappear after all of this is over.” you lick your lip as Jungkook comes closer, pressing a kiss to your neck as his hands knead your breast.

“Are you?”

Jungkook told himself that he wouldn’t ask you this question. He doesn’t want to appear as if he’s too interested in you - even though he absolutely is. He’s positive that you know he is. But he understands that you and him are entirely different and for you, this is possibly just an act of spontaneity.

Jungkook isn’t expecting you to respond so before you could - and possibly break his heart when you told him that you indeed weren’t going to stick around - his tongue strokes along your neck. His right hand roams down from your breast and past your stomach and right between your legs.

Your lips part to release a light gasp when his fingers are on your clit. He rubs them gently, his tongue continuing to swirl on your neck. You were beginning to like the confident side of Jungkook when he didn’t allow his mind to race a mile a minute.

Jungkook’s lips dipped further as his fingers continued to rub along your clit. He still cannot fathom how he managed to be entangled with someone like you - how you even managed to want to be around him. You didn’t mind that he was a bit inexperienced and shy and you were always willing to go easy on him.

If you called the way you came onto him time and time again “easy” - but Jungkook never complained or told you to stop.

Jungkook captures your nipple into his mouth. His tongue swirls on the perky bud, droplets of shower water falling into his face. His finger inches closer to your hole, wanting to sink them into you. The last few days, he has managed to gain a bit of an idea of what it was like to pleasure you - and each moment he could, he would. If that meant eating you out until you were begging him to stop, then so be it. Fingering you until your legs were shaking and you were making a mess all over his bedsheets, it was completely alright.

Once it was all done, your favorite thing to (think, not say) was how cute Jungkook was at seemingly learning new things that excite him.

“You’re getting better at this.” you lean your head back a bit when Jungkook’s fingers begin to enter you. Your thighs part wider, fully willing to take him.

Jungkook pops your nipple from his mouth, boba-like eyes looking up at you. He doesn’t say anything, but your compliment gets to his head. He begins to pump his fingers and keeps a close eye on you for your reaction. He finds that he enjoys watching you - was that creepy? He enjoys witnessing your face be drawn with pleasure by something he was doing. Your words of encouragement were always welcomed, as well, and it actually made him feel good.

“Are you?” Jungkook repeats his question from earlier, picking up the speed of his thrusting fingers. He comes closer to your face now, shielding the water from yours as it now slides down the back of his head. “Are you going to disappear when it’s all over?”

You squeeze around his fingers, damp lashes blinking away. There isn’t a way Jungkook was going to allow you to not answer his question - or at least think about it. His free hand places on the low of your back, sliding you closer to him.

“You can always-” you begin but halt when you feel his lips on yours. It’s full of hot need that has you shuddering in them. You wanted to mount him right now more than ever. “-can…always call me.” you finish when his lips lift for air.

Jungkook’s heart jolts again - that meant that you were interested in being friends, right? That after tonight, you and he would keep in touch and he had a chance with you - whatever chance you were willing to give him.

Jungkook bites the inside of his cheek. In the words of his dear friend Hoseok told to him before, he had to lock in. He couldn’t scare you away like he had his ex-girlfriend. He would take you in whatever way you wanted him to if it meant that you’d come around again.

The shower didn’t last long. You couldn’t wait any longer and neither could he. After bathing the quickest either of you ever had - mainly because the once hot water that was burning your skin was now running cool - you and he had to sneak back to his room. You were thankful that it was nearly secluded from the rest.

You nustle underneath the covers along with Jungkook, immediately wrapping yourself onto him. You didn’t want to wait any longer - a week was long enough in your eyes. You wouldn't say you were the one to constantly sleep around, but if you saw something - or someone - you wanted, you were determined to have it.

“What’s your number?” Jungkook blurts out when you nestle on top of him. You only got dressed enough to walk from the showers to his bedroom and immediately stripped down upon entering.

You snicker. “Can’t we exchange numbers tomorrow?” you say, running your hands up his stomach, his damp shirt nearly sticking to his skin.

“What if you forget?”

You pressed yourself further against him. His growing bulge was evident, but his face was sternly cute.

“Fine,” you let out a short breath, a smile on your lips. “852-0085.” you speak.

Your roaming hands are able to lift the shirt from his shoulders and throw it aside. You then lean down to press your lips onto his collar bone.

“You’re s-still missing the first two numbers!” Jungkook protests, though his voice softens with how good your lips feel against his flushed skin.

“That makes it fun.” you say as you peck his chest. Your eyes flicker up to Jungkook to find that he’s already looking down at you.

Jungkook’s chest rumbles a bit, but he doesn’t fight. He can see the glint of mischief in your eyes - this was a game to you. A game he was willing to play; unbeknownst to you he was always the competitive type.

You’re going lower and lower, sliding off of his lap to nestle between his legs. Your fingers hook on his underwear, the hard bulge making it no secret how content he was.

“I feel bad that you’ve eaten me out so many times the last few days.” you say, eyes glancing down to his cock. It’s as if in slow motion does it spring from his underwear, veiny and pink with oozing pre-cum. You lick your lips before glancing up at Jungkook. “I’ve been neglecting you.”

Jungkook bites his lip, eyes unblinking. You wrap a hand around his cock and squeeze it. “N-No, it’s fine!” he assures quickly, swallowing a lump in his throat. The cum leaking out his tip was embarrassing - you hadn’t even done anything yet. “I like…I like eating you out.” he admits, his cheeks heating up as blood rushes to his cheeks. “I enjoy making you cum, too.”

You want to say it. The urge to call him cute is at the tip of his tongue, but you understand Jungkook doesn’t like to be called that during situations like these. Instead, you poke your tongue out and lick along his slit.

If it’s one thing you did enjoy was watching Jungkook when he was on the receiving end of pleasure. He was so handsome for his own good and you should thank his parents for raising him to be so humble and kind.

And completely deserving of your interest.

Your tongue continues to roll on his tip, the salty taste of cum hits your taste buds. Your eyes continue to watch his face - the way his eyes flutter close and rosy lips part. His chest rises and falls and in the corner of your eye you see his hands grip the sheets.

A low groan comes from Jungkook’s lips when you bring his cock deeper into your warm mouth. He nearly forgets how good you were at this. The first time it happened, it was hard to forget about it - so much so that he would have to force himself to think of something else so he wouldn’t get an erection while he was out in his room.

Jungkook proceeds to squeeze his eyes shut as your sucking increased. His knuckles had to be a pale white now with how hard he was gripping the cotton sheets. His breathing is ragged and he’s doing everything to not whimper aloud and appear like a loser - but it was hard.

You blink a few times to rid yourself of the glossiness. Your head rises and falls, each time his tip hitting the back of your throat. Your hands rest on his tone thighs, tapping on them ever so softly just to continue to play with him.

“You’re so g-good at this.” Jungkook’s cheeks are a bright red at how weak his voice sounds. He’s added points to his mental score with how well he was doing at not sounding or appearing like a complete loser the last few days, and now - after whimpering - his points were erased.

Your throat vibrates as to answer him. There’s a pounding between your legs. Jungkook is so vulnerable right now, you think, caught in his own bliss. The amount of times you’d thought of this very cock splitting you open in a way you know he can if he’d just let loose.

Maybe you just had to bring it out of him.

You pop Jungkook’s cock from your mouth. Messily, saliva coats his thigh and a bit of your chest, but sex isn’t always clean.

Before Jungkook has time to react, you’re in his lap, again.

“Y/N-”

Jungkook doesn’t manage to speak before you’re sinking down on him. His eyes widen at the feel of your warm cunt gripping around his cock. So wet and tight - Jungkook ponders if he’s somehow managed to die and has gone to heaven.

Jungkook snaps out of his hallucination to place his hands onto your hips. “I-I-” he begins, cheeks becoming warm as he glances down to where you and he are connected fully. “-are we not supposed to wear a condom?” he questions low.

Jungkook doesn’t even have a condom, he then remembers. This was a church retreat, after all. The more he remembered where he was at and what he was doing, the more he thought about how long he was going to have to pray for forgiveness.

“Don’t have any.” you murmur - uncaring - soft hands on his shoulders. You push him back a bit. “I’m on birth control.”

Jungkook’s chest continues to rise and fall rapidly as goosebumps form onto his skin.

“Is that okay?” your hips rise just to fall once more, knowing full and well that Jungkook wasn’t going to push you away.

Jungkook gasps. His fingernails dig into your skin. “Yes,” he says hastily. “it’s ok-kay.”

“Good.”

The smile you give Jungkook is so wholesome.

That’s until you begin to drop the sweet girl act and use Jungkook’s cock - the same cock you’ve wanted inside you since the very first day - to your advantage.

You buckle your hips, pouncing against him with little care. His cock is so deep, springing in and out of you heavenly.

Jungkook, on the other hand, has a hard time handling this. Your pussy is too tight for him to not moan beneath you. It’s too wet for him to not want to feel more and more of it as you bounce against him. But he understands that even though his room is further than everyone else's, that didn’t mean it was sound proof.

“Slow,” Jungkook begins, gripping your waist. He makes the mistake of opening his eyes to witness your bouncing breast right in his face. “-down,” Jungkook manages to let out.

“Your cock feels so good, Kookie.” you moan, leaning closer to him so that you and him are face to face and now chest to chest.

Jungkook shudders. His right hand slides up your back, wanting to hold you closer to him. “I don’t want us to get caught.” he moans. He wanted to savor this moment - and everything else after this. Getting caught wasn’t an option for him. “Your pussy feels good, too.”

Church boy Kookie and his dirty words had gotten better over the last few days - you had to give yourself a pat on the back for making him comfortable enough. His hushed tone added to the affect, your walls tightening around his cock more.

“Remember what you said the other day?” you ask, grinding your hips as your lips peck the corner of his mouth. “That you thought about the ways you wanted to fuck me?”

Jungkook nods his head. His hand has a mind of its own so while his right is on the low of your back, his left dips down to feel your ass in his palm.

“Tonight,” you begin, pecking his lips. “I’ll be mild. Next time I want you to fuck me in whatever way you want.”

You were going to be the death of him, Jungkook thinks. Something in his mind - so small and deep - tells him that this was wrong. He shouldn’t be doing this with you during a church retreat out of all places, but his desire for you outweighs whatever discernment he has.

“However I want?” Jungkook couldn’t help but ask. He’s prayed about it before, asking for forgiveness for thinking about you so disrespectfully as what he wanted to do to you was anything but holy.

You nod your head, picking up the pace. You lean away from him, both of your feet laying against his bed as you begin to pounce. Up and down, up and down - Jungkook couldn’t keep his eyes away from your body. Your wet cunt dripping with arousal all over him to the way your breast bounces in similar rhythm.

“Whatever dirty fantasies you keep hidden in your mind, I’d let you do to me.” you look right into his eyes as you speak, casting a spell upon him that Jungkook is fixed on you and you alone.

“Fuck.” Jungkook lets out, his stomach tightening at just the thought of being able to do whatever he wants with you - unholy acts that he was told were bad for the majority of his life. Adrenaline flows through him and without thinking, his hips begin to buckle to meet you halfway. “You’re…you’re such…”

You moan when Jungkook begins to thrust along with you, his cock hitting you even deeper. You were unlocking something in him you knew he possessed.

“...such a whore I’ve been told about all my life.”

Did you have a degradation kink, you think? The way your pussy tightens around his cock at being called a whore by Jungkook - the once soft spoken man who would apologize for even looking at you the wrong way. Now, his eyes are dark and unapologetic, his hips buckling to bury his cock deeper into you.

“Flee from sexual immorality,” Jungkook recants the verse he’s been told time and time again for years. “Every other sin a person commits is outside the body, but the seuxally immoral person sins against his own body.”

Maybe you were a whore. Why did that make you even hornier?

“Ever since you come into my life, all I can think about is fucking you.” Jungkook admits, his eyes glaring at you - but not because he hates that you brought a side out of him that he has buried deep within. “All I ever want to do is bury my face between your legs and taste your sweet pussy against my tongue.”

You’re left speechless - since when could he speak this dirty? You hadn’t noticed that you stopped bouncing and allowed Jungkook to take control until the room grew louder with skin slapping.

“You don’t know how hard it is to keep these thoughts about you out of my mind. Praying them away doesn’t work.”

Jungkook feels a shiver down his spine as he continues to thrust, nails digging into your skin.

“The best way to get rid of the thoughts is to speak of them aloud.” you murmur, managing to hold his gaze. His cock is drilling into you in a pace that only someone like him - who finds the gym and exercising fun - could do.

“I don’t think you want to hear them.” Jungkook murmurs, his own eyes unblinking. He swallows as there’s now a churn in abdomen. “I still respect you, Y/N.”

It’s amazing how Jungkook can switch entirely, from being the church boy you know to the hot, degrading man who he traps away.

“Get up,” Jungkook rasps. “I don’t want to cum-”

“Just cum in me.” you state, tightening your thighs to keep him trapped between you. You proceed to wrap your arms around his neck to keep him close. “I want to feel it.”

Jungkook shudders once more. His eyes squeeze shut as his cock ruts in and out of you, hitting a sweet spot that causes you to moan with each thrust. He wasn’t going to last long and by the way you’re whimpering, neither were you.

With a few more desperate thrusts, warm cum fills you entirely. Jungkook’s thighs shake as he covers your wet walls with sticky cum, the feeling entirely euphoric that there’s no way that he hasn’t died and gone to heaven already.

You hum softly, the feeling of being full of him causes warmth to fill your body. You lay limp against him, your chest against his.

“Are you okay?” Jungkook asks a few moments later as his cock begins to soften. “I don’t think you’re a whore.”

You laugh when you hear the hesitance in his voice. You roll off of him and lay beside him. “I know you don’t.” you murmur. “Are you okay?”

Jungkook blinks a few times before nodding his head.

“You sure?” you ask, turning to face him. “Doesn’t this, like, go against whatever you believe in?”

Jungkook closes his eyes. “Well,” he begins, a bit amused. “I’ve sinned since the first day I got here. I prayed after every time.”

You laugh aloud, wrapping an arm around him.

“I hope we weren’t too loud.” Jungkook does the same, holding you close. He isn’t sure he can handle the judgmental stares from everyone if they knew what was going on. “Are you going to give me the first two digits of your number now?”

You close your eyes and yawn. “Not a chance.”

Jungkook cracks a smile, he isn’t upset. He enjoyed a good game - even if it meant calling dozens of phone numbers if it meant that he would eventually find yours.

@investedreader @luvbug089 @azaood @smoljimjim @hoseokteardrop @sappy033 @renassaincesblog @myjungkookthighs @sweetlifeofjoy @iheeafkp @emmie2308

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taekritimin123 · 4 months ago

Text

OH GOD IM OBSSESEDDDDDDDDD

Blind Date to Forever

Pairing: Mafia!Kim Seokjin x f!Reader Genre: Romance, Smut, Angst, Fluff, Mafia AU Warnings: 18+ explicit smut, virgin reader, oral sex (f & m receiving), penetrative sex, rough sex, choking, spanking, hair pulling, breeding kink hints, possessive behavior, kidnapping, violence (minor blood mention), betrayal, unprotected sex (use protection irl), detailed sexual content, aftercare, fluff, swearing. Word Count: ~9k+ Summary: A blind date gone wrong leads Y/n, a sweet innocent librarian, into the dangerous arms of Kim Seokjin—a charming but deadly stranger. Their sweet romance quickly grows into intense passion and secret desires. But as secrets come to light and betrayals hit, their love must face a tough challenge that only their deep bond can survive.

The café smelled of roasted coffee beans and warm pastries, a cozy haven tucked in the heart of the city. You sat at a small table by the window, your floral dress brushing your knees, a cream cardigan draped over your shoulders. Your fingers fidgeted with the strap of your purse, knuckles white from nerves. Your parents, who resides in the countryside, had been relentless about this blind date with “Mr. Kim,” a supposedly perfect match from abroad. He’s successful, polite, and handsome, your mother had gushed over the phone. You weren’t thrilled, but you couldn’t say no—not when they’d already arranged everything.

You glanced at your watch. Five minutes late. Your stomach churned. What if he didn’t show? Or worse, what if he did, and you made a fool of yourself? You smoothed your dress, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, and tried to focus on the soft jazz playing in the background.

The bell above the door jingled, and your head snapped up, expecting “Mr. Kim.” Instead, a man in a sharp black suit strode in, his presence commanding the room. His broad shoulders filled the doorway, dark hair swept back, and his jawline could cut glass. He moved with purpose, scanning the café—until his eyes landed on you. For a split second, something flickered in his gaze, but you couldn’t place it. He walked straight to your table, his polished shoes clicking against the wooden floor.

“Is this seat taken?” His voice was smooth, deep, with a hint of amusement.

You blinked, confused. “I—I’m waiting for someone. Mr. Kim?”

He smirked, sliding into the chair across from you without hesitation. “That’s me. Mr. Kim... Kim Seokjin. You must be Y/n.” His eyes flicked to the "Reserved" sign on the table, catching your name.

Your heart stuttered. This was Mr. Kim? He didn’t match the vague description your parents had given—polite businessman, glasses, modest smile. This man was… intense. Dangerous, even. You noticed his knuckles, red and slightly bruised, peeking out from under his sleeve as he adjusted his coat. Your eyes darted to the window, where a man in a trench coat lingered outside, looked like a cop, watching the café too closely for comfort.

“Um, hi,” you stammered, forcing a smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Seokjin leaned back, his gaze never leaving your face. “You’re nervous,” he said, not a question. “Don’t be. I don’t bite… unless you ask me to.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you ducked your head, clutching your purse tighter. “I’m just… not used to this. Blind dates, I mean.”

“First time?” He tilted his head, and you nodded. “Well, you’re doing great so far. That dress is adorable. Makes you look like you walked out of a fairy tale.”

You laughed softly, the tension easing. “Thank you. You’re, um, not what I expected.”

His brow arched. “Oh? What were you expecting?”

“Someone… less…” You gestured vaguely at his suit, his aura. “Intimidating.”

Seokjin chuckled, the sound warm but edged with something darker. “Don’t worry, angel. I’ll be gentle.” He paused, glancing out the window. The man in the trench coat was still there. Seokjin’s jaw tightened, but his smile returned when he looked at you. “So, tell me about yourself.”

You nodded, relaxing into the conversation. You told him about your job, the small apartment you rented, your love for classic novels. He listened intently, his eyes softening as you rambled about Jane Austen. There was something disarming about him—despite the sharp suit and bruised knuckles, he seemed genuinely interested. Charmed, even.

The conversation flowed until the café started to empty. You hadn’t noticed the time slip by. Seokjin glanced at his watch, then at the window. The trench coat man was gone. “Let me walk you home,” he said, standing and offering his hand. “It’s getting late.”

“Oh, you don’t have to—”

“I want to.” His tone was firm, protective. You hesitated, then took his hand, his grip warm and steady.

The walk to your apartment was quiet but comfortable. The city lights cast shadows on his face, softening his sharp edges. At your doorstep, you turned to thank him, but he spoke first. “You’re… different, Y/n. Sweeter than I expected.” His voice was low, almost vulnerable. “I had a good time.”

“Me too,” you whispered, your heart racing. “Goodnight, Seokjin.”

He lingered, as if he wanted to say more, then stepped back. “Goodnight, little librarian.” He smirked, but his eyes were soft as he turned and disappeared into the night.

As Seokjin melted into the shadows of the city, the neon lights flickering above, his mind churned. He’d only slipped into the café to dodge the cop in the trench coat, a tail he’d spotted trailing him from his last deal. The plan was simple: blend in, play the part of some random date, and slip out before anyone noticed.

But you, in your delicate floral dress, fingers twisting nervously, eyes glowing as you spoke of old books—had unraveled him. He’d had his share of women, fleeting one-night stands and casual flings, all for fun, gone by morning without a second thought. But with you, it was different. He didn’t want a quick thrill; he wanted to know you slowly, to unravel the layers of your sweetness, your unguarded heart. You stirred a longing he’d never known, a pull that lingered like a quiet ache. He pulled out his burner phone, dialing his trusted ally, Jungkook. “Jungkook,” he said, voice low but firm, “dig up everything on a girl named Y/N. Librarian, lives in the city. Her routines, her people—every detail. Don’t miss a thing.” He hung up, a faint smile warming his face, his chest tight with something new. For the first time, Kim Seokjin wanted more than a night—he wanted you.

The library was your sanctuary, shelves of books a comforting embrace. But lately, it had a new visitor: Kim Seokjin. He started showing up the day after the blind date, claiming he “needed a good read.” You didn’t buy it—his expensive suits and sly smirks didn’t scream bookworm—but you didn’t mind. He was charming, and his presence made your heart flutter.

He’d linger by the counter, flipping through novels he clearly wasn’t reading, tossing you teasing comments. “Y/n, recommend me something romantic. I’m in a mood.” You’d blush, handing him Pride and Prejudice, only for him to return the next day with snacks—croissants, cookies, your favorite matcha latte.

“Thought you might be hungry,” he’d say, sliding the bag across the counter. When you protested, he’d lean close, whispering, “Let me spoil you, little librarian.”

He started helping with small tasks—carrying heavy book crates, reaching high shelves. His fingers would brush yours when he handed you a book, or he’d guide you through the stacks with a gentle hand on your lower back. Each touch sent sparks through you, and you caught yourself staring at his lips when he smirked.

Your “dates” were casual but deliberate. Bubble tea runs where he’d tease you for getting whipped cream on your nose. Bookstore trips where he’d buy you novels you’d mentioned in passing. Nighttime strolls in the park, his jacket draped over your shoulders when the air turned chilly. One night, under a canopy of fairy lights, he took your hand. His thumb traced circles on your skin, and you froze, heart pounding.

“You’re blushing,” he teased, stepping closer. “Do I make you nervous, Y/n?”

“A little,” you admitted, voice barely a whisper.

He grinned, lifting your joined hands to kiss your knuckles. “Good. Means I’m doing something right.” He didn’t let go of your hand the rest of the night, and you fell a little harder.

One evening, as you closed the library, he leaned against the counter, watching you. “You’re too cute, you know that? My little librarian, all shy and sweet.” He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I could get used to this.”

You laughed, swatting his hand. “Stop it. You’re embarrassing me.”

“Never,” he said, his voice soft. “I like seeing you flustered.”

The rain came out of nowhere, soaking you both on your way back from a bubble tea date. You yelped, tripping over a slick curb, but Seokjin caught you, his hands firm on your waist. The world slowed as you looked up, rain dripping down his face, his eyes locked on yours. His grip tightened, and for a moment, neither of you moved.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice low.

You nodded, breathless. His thumbs brushed your sides, and you felt the heat of his body through your wet clothes. He didn’t let go, his gaze dropping to your lips. The air crackled, and before you could think, he leaned in, his lips hovering an inch from yours.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

You didn’t. Instead, you closed the gap, kissing him softly. He groaned, deepening the kiss, one hand sliding to the back of your neck. The rain faded, and all you felt was him—his warmth, his taste, the way he pressed himself closer.

He pulled you toward his black car, parked nearby, and opened the door. You tumbled into the backseat, his lips never leaving yours. The windows fogged as he hovered over you, his suit jacket discarded, tie loosened. His kisses grew hungrier, hands roaming your waist, your hips. You gasped as he ground against you, the hard length of him pressing against your thigh through his pants.

“Fuck, Y/n,” he groaned into your mouth, his voice rough. “You’re driving me crazy.”

You whimpered, clutching his shirt, overwhelmed by the heat pooling between your legs. His hand slid under your dress, teasing the edge of your panties, but he stopped, pulling back with a shaky breath. “Not yet, pretty girl,” he said, kissing your forehead. “Not like this.”

You pouted, still dazed, and he chuckled, brushing his thumb over your swollen lips. “Patience, little librarian. I’ll take care of you soon. I had to make it perfect for you.”

It was a quiet night at your apartment, Seokjin sprawled on your couch as you made tea. You’d been dating for weeks, and the tension between you was a live wire. Every touch, every glance, made your skin burn. But tonight, you were nervous. You’d decided to tell him the truth.

“Jin,” you said, sitting beside him, hands twisting in your lap. “I need to tell you something.”

He turned, his playful smirk fading at your serious tone. “What’s wrong, angel?”

You took a deep breath. “I’m… a virgin.”

His eyes widened, then softened. He reached for your hand, squeezing gently. “Oh, Y/n. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I just… I’m scared I won’t be good enough,” you whispered.

He cupped your face, his thumb stroking your cheek. “You’re more than enough. You’re perfect. And I’ll take care of you, I promise.”

His words melted your fears. When he kissed you, it was slow, deliberate, his hands sliding to your waist. “Can I show you?” he murmured against your lips. “Let me make you feel good.”

You nodded, trembling as he led you to your bedroom. He undressed you slowly, his eyes reverent as he peeled away your cardigan, your dress, your bra. “You’re so beautiful, angel,” he whispered, kissing your collarbone. “Mine. Only mine.”

He laid you on the bed, his lips trailing down your body, worshipping every inch. When he reached your panties, he looked up, waiting for your nod. You gave it, and he slid them off, his breath hitching. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous.”

His mouth was on you before you could process, tongue circling your clit with agonizing precision. You gasped, hands fisting the sheets as he licked and sucked, coaxing you toward the edge. “Jin—oh my god—”

“Let go, baby,” he murmured, sliding a finger inside you, curling it just right. You shattered, crying out as your first orgasm ripped through you. He didn’t stop, lapping at you until you were trembling.

He kissed his way back up, shedding his clothes. His body was a work of art—broad shoulders, toned chest, and his cock, hard and thick, made your eyes widen. He chuckled at your expression, kissing you softly. “We’ll go slow, I promise.”

He positioned himself between your legs, rubbing his tip against your entrance. “Tell me if it hurts,” he said, his voice strained. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you. You winced, and he froze, kissing your tears away. “You’re doing so good, little one. Taking me so well.”

When he was fully inside, he stilled, letting you adjust. The pain faded, replaced by a desperate need. “Move,” you whispered, and he did, thrusting slowly, his eyes locked on yours. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned, his dirty talk soft but possessive. “My perfect girl, taking my cock like this.”

You clung to him, overwhelmed, your nails digging into his back as he brought you to the edge again. “Jin, I’m—” You came, crying his name, and he followed, spilling inside you with a low moan.

After, he ran a warm bath, carrying you to the tub despite your protests. “You’re sore, aren’t you?” he teased, shampooing your hair as you pouted.

“A little,” you admitted, and he chuckled, kissing your shoulder.

“My poor baby. I’ll take care of you.”

As Seokjin held you in the warm bath, your head resting against his chest, the steam curling around you both, his mind was a storm of emotions he wasn’t used to navigating. With other women, it had always been empty—quick fucks and one-night stands that left no trace, no lingering feelings, just a fleeting release he never thought twice about. But with you, it was different. Fucking you hadn’t just been physical; it had reached somewhere deep inside him, a place he didn’t know existed. He wanted you—not just your body, but your laughter, your shy smiles, the way you clung to him like he was your world. He wanted to wake up to you, to know every quiet thought in your head, to be the one you turned to.

But beneath the warmth of that longing, guilt gnawed at him. You didn’t know who he really was—not the charming “Mr. Kim” from your blind date, but Kim Seokjin, a man with blood on his hands, a criminal hiding behind a polished suit. As he kissed your damp shoulder, promising to care for you, his heart twisted with the weight of his secret, knowing he’d have to tell you the truth soon—and praying it wouldn’t break what you’d just begun.

The library was quiet, the afternoon sun filtering through the windows. You were shelving books when Seokjin slipped behind you, his hands on your hips. “Miss me, little librarian?” he whispered, kissing your neck.

“Jin, not here,” you hissed, but your body betrayed you, leaning into him.

He turned you, pinning you against the shelves. “I can’t wait,” he growled, his hand sliding under your skirt, tugging your panties aside. “Gonna fuck my little librarian messy right here.”

You gasped as he thrust into you, deep and rough, his hand around your throat, squeezing lightly. “Suck,” he ordered, pressing two fingers to your lips. You obeyed, moaning around them as he pounded into you, the shelves shaking. “Look at you, taking my cock so well,” he praised, his voice filthy. “Gonna make you cum so hard you cry.”

You did, tears spilling as he overstimulated you, his thrusts relentless. When he came, he pulled out, tucking your panties back in place with a smirk. “Keep that there,” he said, kissing your forehead. “My dirty girl.”

Later, as you complained about the soreness, he massaged your thighs, chuckling. “Worth it, right?”

You swatted him, but you couldn’t deny it.

The jealousy hit him like a storm. You’d been at a bookstore, laughing with some guy, an old classmate from your high school, who got too close. Seokjin’s eyes darkened, and by night, he’d booked a hotel suite. “You’re mine,” he growled, shoving you against the wall the moment the door closed.

He kissed you hard, biting your lip, marking your neck with bruises. “No one else gets to look at you like that,” he said, spanking your ass sharply. You yelped, and he soothed the sting, only to do it again. “On the bed. Now.”

You obeyed, and he fucked you senseless—hair pulling, deep kisses, his handprints blooming on your skin. “Look at me when I fuck you,” he demanded, his thrusts brutal. “Only me.” His breeding kink slipped out, his voice raw. “Gonna fuck you full, so no one dares touch what’s mine.”

You screamed his name, cumming so hard you saw stars. After, he fed you chocolate mousse from room service, kissing your swollen lips. “You’re sore again, aren’t you?” he teased, carrying you to the shower.

“Shut up,” you mumbled, but you let him pamper you, his hands gentle as he washed you clean.

The café was quieter than you remembered, its warm lights now casting harsh shadows. You sat across from Kim Taehyung—the real Mr. Kim—sipping chamomile tea that did little to calm your nerves. He contacted you after taking your number from your parents and asked to meet you. He was everything your parents had promised: charming, with a boxy smile that crinkled his eyes, polite as he asked about your job, your life. But when he casually mentioned the visa issue that delayed his arrival for the blind date, your heart stopped.

“I felt awful missing it, but only option I had to wait for few months.” Taehyung said, stirring his coffee. “But I’m glad we’re here now. Your parents spoke so highly of you.”

You forced a smile, your mind spiraling. If Taehyung was Mr. Kim, the man your parents had arranged for you to meet… then who was Seokjin? The man who’d sat across from you that night, with bruised knuckles and a dangerous aura, who’d walked you home, wooed you, touched you in ways that set your soul on fire—who was he?

The rest of the meeting blurred. You nodded at Taehyung’s words, but your thoughts were with Seokjin—his soft smirks, his gentle touches, the way he called you his little librarian. By the time you left the café, your chest ached with dread. You needed answers.

That night, you stood in your small apartment, the lamplight casting a soft glow over the books scattered on your coffee table. Seokjin arrived promptly when you texted him, his familiar black suit impeccable, but his eyes were wary as he stepped inside. He sensed something was wrong.

“Y/n?” he said, voice low, reaching for you. “What’s going on?”

You stepped back, your hands trembling. “Who are you, Jin?”

His face fell, the warmth in his eyes replaced by something raw, almost pained. “What do you mean?”

“I met someone today,” you said, your voice shaking. “The real Mr. Kim. He was the one I was supposed to meet that night at the café. So who the hell are you?”

Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Seokjin’s jaw tightened, and he ran a hand through his hair, the gesture uncharacteristically nervous. “Y/n, let me explain—”

“Tell me the truth,” you snapped, tears prickling your eyes. “No more lies.”

He exhaled, shoulders slumping as if the weight of the world had settled on them. “My name is Kim Seokjin. But I’m not… the man your parents set you up with. That night at the café, I was on the run. I’d gotten into a fight—mafia business. There was a cop tailing me, and I needed a cover. I saw you sitting there, waiting for someone, and I… I pretended to be your date.”

Your breath hitched, the words slicing through you. “You used me?”

“No,” he said quickly, stepping closer, his voice desperate. “It started that way, I admit it. But every moment after—every smile, every touch, every time I saw you—it was real. I fell for you, Y/n. I love you.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks, hot and unstoppable. “You lied to me. Everything we had… it’s built on a lie.”

“Y/n, please—” He reached for you, but you pushed his hand away, your heart shattering.

“Get out,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I can’t look at you right now.”

His eyes glistened, and for a moment, you thought he might cry too. But he nodded, respecting your space, and walked to the door. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice barely audible. “I’ll do anything to fix this. Anything.”

The door clicked shut behind him, and you sank to the floor, sobbing into your hands. The man you loved was a stranger, a criminal. And yet, the thought of losing him hurt more than the betrayal itself.

The days after Seokjin’s confession were a blur of pain. You went through the motions at the library, shelving books with mechanical precision, but your mind was elsewhere. Every quiet moment brought memories of him—his teasing smirks, the way he’d carried heavy crates for you, the warmth of his hand in yours. You hated how much you missed him, hated that your heart still ached for a man who’d lied to you.

Taehyung became your unexpected lifeline. He’d check in with texts, drop by the library with coffee, or invite you for walks. His easy charm and kind words felt like a balm, a way to distract yourself from the void Seokjin had left. “You deserve better, Y/n,” he’d say, his deep voice soothing. “Someone who’s honest with you.”

You wanted to believe him. So when he invited you to his apartment for dinner one night, you agreed, desperate for a change of scenery. The evening was pleasant—Taehyung cooked pasta, poured wine, and listened as you poured out your hurt. But as the night wore on, your head grew heavy, your vision blurry. You frowned, setting down your glass. “Taehyung, I don’t feel—”

The world went black.

When you woke, your wrists were bound with soft rope, and you were in a dimly lit warehouse, the air cold and damp. Panic surged through you as you tugged at the restraints, your heart pounding. Footsteps echoed, and Taehyung appeared, his usual warmth replaced by a detached calm.

“You’re awake,” he said, crouching in front of you. “I’m sorry, Y/n. This wasn’t personal.”

“What are you doing?” you whispered, voice trembling. “Let me go.”

He sighed, his expression almost regretful. “I can’t. You’re leverage. Seokjin’s weakness. My boss needs something from him, and you’re the key to getting it.”

Your blood ran cold. “You’re… with the mafia too?”

Taehyung’s lips quirked in a bitter smile. “We’re not all like Seokjin, running from our pasts. I play the game. But don’t worry—I won’t hurt you. You’ll be comfortable here.”

He wasn’t lying. Over the next three days, he brought you blankets, water, even books from the library to keep you occupied. He’d sit with you sometimes, apologizing softly, but his kindness couldn’t mask the truth: you were a prisoner. The warehouse was guarded, the windows barred. Escape was impossible.

Meanwhile, Seokjin was a man possessed. He hadn’t slept since you’d sent him away, his guilt a constant weight. When Taehyung’s men sent him a photo of you—bound, scared, but alive—his rage ignited. He tore through the city’s underbelly, interrogating anyone who might know Taehyung’s plans, his fists leaving a trail of blood. Every lead brought him closer, but every dead end fueled his desperation. He wouldn’t stop until you were safe.

On the third day, the warehouse doors exploded inward. Gunshots rang out, and you curled into a ball, heart racing. Taehyung grabbed you, pulling you behind a crate, but his grip was loose, almost resigned. “He’s here,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

Seokjin stormed in, his suit torn, blood staining his shirt. His eyes found you, and the fury in them softened to relief, then hardened again as he faced Taehyung. “Let her go,” he growled, his gun trained on Taehyung’s chest.

Taehyung raised his hands, stepping away from you. “Easy, Jin. I wasn’t going to hurt her. Just business.”

“Business?” Seokjin’s voice was lethal. “You touched what’s mine.”

Before Taehyung could respond, Seokjin lunged, disarming him with a brutal twist of his wrist. The fight was quick and vicious, Seokjin’s fists relentless until Taehyung slumped to the ground, groaning. Seokjin’s fists rained down with lethal precision, but somewhere deep down, he hated that it was Taehyung. Hated that once, they’d laughed together, fought alongside each other. That this was how it ended. Seokjin didn’t spare him another glance—he ran to you, cutting the ropes with a knife from his belt.

“Y/n,” he breathed, his hands trembling as he cupped your face. “Are you hurt?”

You shook your head, tears spilling. “Jin…”

He pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly you could barely breathe. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’ll never let this happen again.”

The safehouse was a small, nondescript apartment on the city’s edge, its windows covered with heavy curtains. Seokjin hadn’t let go of your hand since the warehouse, his grip possessive but gentle. You were still shaken, the memory of Taehyung’s betrayal and the cold warehouse lingering like a bad dream. But Seokjin’s presence—his warmth, his scent—grounded you.

He locked the door behind you, his eyes scanning your face. “You’re safe now,” he said, but his voice was strained, as if he didn’t quite believe it himself. “I swear, Y/n, I’ll kill anyone who tries to touch you again.”

You stepped closer, your hands trembling as you reached for him. Blood crusted his knuckles, a cut on his cheek still oozing. “You’re hurt,” you whispered, your fingers brushing his face.

He caught your wrist, his eyes dark with emotion. “I don’t care about me. I thought I’d lost you.”

The weight of his words broke you. Despite the lies, the betrayal, you couldn’t deny it—you loved him. You surged forward, kissing him with a desperation that matched his own. “I’m sorry,” you sobbed against his lips. “I was so angry, but I love you, Jin. I love you.”

His hands trembled against your skin. "Tell me you still want me," he whispered, almost broken. "Always," you breathed, pulling him closer.

He groaned, kissing you back with a hunger that stole your breath. His hands roamed your body, checking for injuries, claiming you as his. “You’re mine,” he murmured, his lips trailing to your jaw, your neck. “Always.”

You stumbled to the bedroom, tearing at each other’s clothes. Your shirt fell away, his jacket hit the floor, and soon you were bare before him, your skin flushed under his gaze. “Please, Jin, please,” you begged, your voice raw with need.

He laid you on the bed, his kisses slow and reverent at first, tracing every curve, every scar. “My beautiful girl,” he whispered, his lips closing around your nipple, sucking gently until you arched beneath him. His fingers found your core, slick and ready, and he groaned. “So wet for me. Always so perfect.”

He slid down, his tongue replacing his fingers, lapping at your clit with slow, deliberate strokes. You cried out, your hands fisting his hair as he brought you to the edge, then pulled back, teasing you until you were trembling. “Cum for me, angel,” he murmured, and you did, your orgasm crashing through you as you screamed his name.

He didn’t stop, kissing his way back up, his cock hard and heavy against your thigh. “Need you,” he said, his voice rough. “Need to feel you.”

You nodded, pulling him closer. He entered you slowly, his eyes locked on yours, watching for any sign of pain. The stretch was intense, but the soreness from your past encounters only heightened the pleasure. “You’re mine,” he growled, his thrusts deepening, possessive. “Always were.”

You clung to him, tears spilling as he fucked you harder, his hands gripping your hips, leaving marks you’d cherish. “Jin,” you gasped, your nails raking his back. “I’m—oh god—”

“Cum with me,” he ordered, his voice strained. You did, your walls clenching around him as he spilled inside you, his groan vibrating through you. You cried into his kisses, overwhelmed by the intensity, the love, the relief of being in his arms.

After, he held you close, his fingers stroking your hair. “No one will hurt you again,” he murmured, his voice a vow. “I swear it.”

You whined, shifting against him. “I’m so sore,” you mumbled, pouting.

He chuckled, kissing your nose. “My poor angel. Let’s get you cleaned up.” He carried you to the bathroom, running a warm bath and washing you gently, his hands soothing your aching muscles. “Better?” he asked, massaging your shoulders.

“Much,” you sighed, leaning into him. “I love you, Jin.”

“I love you too,” he said, his voice soft but fierce. “Forever.”

The shooting range was tucked in a remote corner of the city, its concrete walls echoing with the faint pop of distant gunfire. Seokjin stood behind you, his arms encircling your waist as he adjusted your grip on the pistol. “Keep your elbows steady,” he said, his breath warm against your ear. “Aim for the center.”

You tried, but the gun felt heavy, unnatural in your hands. You fired, the shot going wide, pinging off the wall. “Ugh, I’m terrible at this,” you huffed, pouting as you lowered the weapon.

Seokjin laughed, the sound rich and teasing. “You’re adorable when you’re frustrated.” He turned you to face him, his hands settling on your hips. “Guess what, baby? This just means I need to keep you with me 24/7. Only way to keep you safe.”

His tone was playful, but his eyes were dark, possessive. He backed you against the shooting table, his body pressing against yours. “Jin,” you giggled, swatting his chest, but the heat in his gaze made your breath catch.

“Shh,” he murmured, his hand sliding under your skirt, fingers brushing your clit through your panties. “Let me take care of my little librarian.” He slipped a finger inside you, slow and deliberate, his thumb circling your clit. “One more, angel,” he whispered, adding another finger, stretching you until you moaned. “You can take it. You were made for me.”

You came undone, your head falling back as you gasped his name, your body trembling against the table. He kissed you deeply, his tongue claiming your mouth, his possessiveness a warm, filthy promise. “Forever,” he murmured, pulling you close.

You melted into him, your heart full. Seokjin was your liar, your protector, your everything. And as his arms tightened around you, you knew you’d never let him go.

A/N: Yes guys, I am back with one more Jin ff. Sorry I can't help it. My brain is always filled with him. I can't get enough of him.

Taglist: @the-djarin-clan . @btsstraykidsateez . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @bebabido . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni

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taekritimin123 · 4 months ago

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taekritimin123 · 4 months ago

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Why cant i see our dms ???? Skksksksksks i swear im unable to comment and messagw

HAPPIEST HAPPIEST BIRTHDAY TO CUPCAKE AND INSANE PENGAMER AND NOW NOW NOW MOST GORGEOUS HUMAN BEING @writesvani YOU SLAYYYYYYYYYYY LOVES U LOADS EATINV TANGERINES

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taekritimin123 · 4 months ago

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HAPPIEST HAPPIEST BIRTHDAY TO CUPCAKE AND INSANE PENGAMER AND NOW NOW NOW MOST GORGEOUS HUMAN BEING @writesvani YOU SLAYYYYYYYYYYY LOVES U LOADS EATINV TANGERINES

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taekritimin123 · 4 months ago

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۶ৎ FLAVORS OF DESIRE —

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he says, his voice low, almost a growl, thick with emotion. “Every time you walk in here, all quiet and shy, I lose my fucking mind. I’ve been trying so hard to keep my distance, but you… you’re under my skin.”

pairing: boss dom!seokjin x employee sub!femreader

genre: workplace romance, restaurant owner!jin, chef!jin, shy!reader, waitress!reader, professinol setting, candlelit ambiance, storm setting, pining, forced proximity, romance, smut, fluff

warnings: 18+, explicit smut, angry!jin, desperate!jin, possessive!jin, tension and attraction, subtle touches, weather build up, power outrage, emotional vulnerability, confessions, seokjins revelations, intimate dialogue, storm induced isolation, slight mentions of blood, post storm calm, internal conflict, oral sex (f. receiving), eating out, tongue fucking, clit stimulation, face riding, face sitting, cum swallowing, hair fisting, making out, hickies/marking, praise kink, dirty talk, longing, desperation, semipublic sex, missionary sex on countertop, back shots, multiple orgasms, multiple positions, creampie, rough sex, tender sex, unprotected sex, partially clothed sex, breast play, nipple play, nipple sucking, fingering, power dynamics, desperate/passionate sex, emotional intimacy during sex, overstimulation, body worship, oral sex (m. receiving), cock palming, cock sucking, face fucking, cock worship, several physical and emotional reactions during sex, begging, crying, teasing, erotic vulnerability, post sex tenderness, emotional confessions and bonding, aftercare

wc: 10k

masterlist

۶ৎ

The restaurant, "Jin’s Table" throbs with a life of its own, a living organism fueled by the clatter of porcelain, the sizzle of pans, and the low hum of voices weaving through the air. The dining room is a tapestry of sensory overload: the sharp tang of roasted garlic mingles with the earthy richness of truffle oil, while the faint sweetness of caramelized onions curls like a whisper through the chaos. Candlelight flickers on polished tabletops, casting golden reflections that dance across wine glasses, their ruby and amber contents shimmering like liquid jewels. The walls, adorned with abstract art in muted golds and reds, seem to pulse with the rhythm of the evening rush, absorbing the laughter of diners and the clink of silverware into their very grain.

You stand at the edge of this orchestrated madness, a shy waitress in a crisp black uniform, your apron tied tightly around your waist as if it could anchor your fluttering nerves. Your name tag, a small silver rectangle pinned to your chest, reads “Y/N,” but you feel like a ghost, slipping through the vibrant chaos unnoticed—except by him. Your hands, clammy with anxiety, smooth the apron repeatedly, a nervous tic you can’t suppress. The fabric is slightly rough under your fingertips, grounding you as your heart races in the presence of the restaurant’s beating heart: Kim Seokjin.

Seokjin, the owner and head chef, is a force of nature, a storm contained in human form. He commands the kitchen with the precision of a general, his broad shoulders filling out his tailored chef’s coat, the white fabric stretched taut across his back. His dark hair, swept back under a black bandana, glistens faintly with sweat under the harsh kitchen lights, and his sharp jawline catches the glow as he moves. His voice, deep and authoritative, slices through the din of sizzling oil and clanging pots, barking orders with a clarity that demands obedience. “Faster on the garnish, Min! The risotto’s plating in two!” he calls, his tone brooking no argument. Yet, when he steps into the dining room to greet guests, his demeanor shifts like a chameleon. His smile is a weapon, disarming and warm, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners as he charms a table of regulars. You’ve seen women lean forward, their cheeks flushed, their laughter too bright, their gazes lingering on the way his lips curve or the confident tilt of his head.

You’ve been at "Jin’s Table" for six months, and every shift feels like walking a tightrope over a chasm of your own making. Seokjin—"Mr. Kim" to you—is both your anchor and your undoing. It’s not just his striking looks, though his high cheekbones, full lips, and the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw are enough to make your breath catch. It’s the way he sees you, his gaze lingering a heartbeat too long when you approach the pass to collect an order, his voice softening imperceptibly when he says your name. “Y/N, table six is ready for their mains,” he’ll say, and the way his eyes hold yours, dark and unreadable, makes your skin prickle with heat.

Tonight, the restaurant is at its peak, the dinner rush a whirlwind of motion. You’re balancing a tray of delicate wine glasses, their stems cool and fragile in your hands, when his voice cuts through the noise like a blade. “Y/N, I need you at the pass. Now.” The command is sharp, urgent, and your stomach lurches, a mix of dread and anticipation. You set the tray down on a sideboard, the glasses clinking softly, and wipe your sweaty palms on your apron, the coarse fabric catching on your skin. Your pulse hammers in your throat as you weave through the bustling dining room, dodging a server carrying a steaming plate of osso buco, its rich, marrow-laden aroma trailing in her wake.

The kitchen is a furnace, a wall of heat slamming into you as you cross the threshold. The air is heavy with the metallic tang of seared meat, the bright zest of lemon, and the faint smokiness of charred herbs. Stainless steel counters gleam under fluorescent lights, littered with mise en place: tiny bowls of chopped parsley, slivers of garlic, and vibrant pools of olive oil catching the light like liquid gold. The sous-chefs move in a frenetic ballet, their knives flashing as they dice vegetables, their faces slick with sweat. Seokjin stands at the heart of it all, leaning against the pass with a towel slung over one shoulder, its white fabric stained with faint streaks of sauce. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms dusted with flour, the muscles flexing as he adjusts his stance. His presence is magnetic, drawing your gaze despite your efforts to focus on the task.

“You’re moving too slow out there,” he says, his tone firm but laced with something softer, a thread of concern that makes your chest tighten. His eyes, dark and piercing, flick over you, taking in the flush in your cheeks, the way your hands fidget at your sides. “Table twelve’s been waiting ten minutes for their appetizers. Pick up the pace, Y/N.”

“I-I’m sorry, Mr. Kim,” you stammer, your voice barely audible over the hiss of a nearby sauté pan. Your cheeks burn, the heat of embarrassment mingling with the kitchen’s oppressive warmth. You step forward to collect the plates he’s prepared, your eyes darting to the food: a vibrant bruschetta, the tomatoes glistening with olive oil, their ruby hue vivid against the toasted bread; a seared scallop, its golden crust nestled in a pool of saffron cream, the aroma delicate yet intoxicating. Your fingers tremble as you reach for the plates, the porcelain warm from the kitchen’s heat, and his hand brushes yours as he steadies one before it tips.

The contact is fleeting but electric, a spark that shoots through your veins, making your breath catch. His skin is warm, slightly rough from hours of handling knives and pans, and the brief touch leaves your hand tingling. “Careful,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, intimate rumble that feels meant for you alone. “I don’t want my food hitting the floor.” His lips curve into a half-smile, not quite a smirk but close, and his eyes hold yours for a moment too long, their depths glinting with something unreadable—amusement, curiosity, or perhaps something hungrier.

You nod, your throat too tight to form words, and clutch the plates to your chest like a shield. As you turn to leave, you feel his gaze on your back, a tangible weight that follows you through the swinging doors into the dining room. Your heart pounds, a wild rhythm that drowns out the chatter of the guests as you deliver the appetizers to table twelve. Their compliments—“This bruschetta is divine!” “The scallop melts in your mouth!”—barely register, your mind consumed by the memory of his touch, the way his voice wrapped around your name like a caress.

Back at the server station, you pause, pressing a hand to your chest as if you could slow your racing pulse. The dining room buzzes around you, but all you can see is Seokjin’s face, the intensity of his stare, the way his presence lingers like the aftertaste of one of his dishes—complex, unforgettable, and dangerously addictive.

“Y/N, you okay?” another server, Mina, asks, her brow furrowed as she refills a water pitcher. Her voice is kind, but it feels distant, like it’s coming from underwater.

“Y-Yeah,” you lie, forcing a smile that feels brittle. “Just… busy.”

She nods, unconvinced, but doesn’t press. You turn back to your tasks, wiping down a table, the cloth gliding over the smooth wood, but your thoughts are in the kitchen, with him. You wonder if he’s watching you now, through the small window in the kitchen door, his eyes tracking your every move. The thought sends a shiver down your spine, a mix of fear and longing that you don’t dare name.

“Get it together, Y/N,” you whisper to yourself, your voice swallowed by the restaurant’s pulse. But as you move through the rest of your shift, the weight of Seokjin’s gaze, the echo of his voice, and the ghost of his touch cling to you, a promise of something yet to come, simmering just beneath the surface.

The air carries a constant hum of life, a blend of sizzling butter, fragrant herbs, and the faint tang of red wine reductions that cling to the walls like a second skin. The dining room buzzes with the clink of glasses, the murmur of conversation, and the occasional burst of laughter from a table of regulars. Your hands tremble slightly as you clear a table, stacking plates with meticulous care, the porcelain cool against your fingertips. Every movement feels scrutinized, not by the patrons, but by him, the man who commands this place like a king.

His presence is inescapable, his gaze a weight you feel even when you’re not looking. It’s in the way he watches you from the kitchen pass when you deliver an order, his eyes lingering on the curve of your wrist as you set down a plate. It’s in the way his voice softens when he says your name, a subtle shift that makes your pulse race. “Y/N, table six needs more water,” he’ll say, and the way his lips form the words feels like a secret meant only for you. You’re painfully aware of him, your body betraying you with every flushed cheek, every fumbled response.

Tonight, the restaurant is in full swing, the dinner rush a relentless tide. You’re wiping down a table, the rag damp and cool in your hand, when you feel it—that prickle at the back of your neck. You don’t need to turn to know he’s watching. Slowly, you glance over your shoulder, and there he is, leaning against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, his chef’s coat unbuttoned just enough to reveal a sliver of tanned skin at his collarbone. His eyes are dark, unreadable, but they pin you in place, a predator sizing up prey. Your breath catches, and you drop the rag, the soft thud loud in your ears. You bend to pick it up, your fingers brushing the polished wood floor, and when you straighten, he’s still watching, his gaze heavier now, tracing the line of your body as you rise.

Your cheeks burn, and you turn away, busying yourself with refilling a water pitcher. The glass is cold against your palms, the water sloshing softly, but it does nothing to cool the heat spreading through you. You’re shy, cripplingly so, and every interaction with him is a battle against your own nerves. Last week, he’d asked you to taste a new dish—a velvety butternut squash soup, the spoon warm from his hand as he held it out to you. The flavor had burst on your tongue, rich and earthy, but all you could manage was a stammered, “It’s… really good, Mr. Kim,” your eyes fixed on the floor. He’d chuckled, the sound low and warm, and said, “You’re too quiet, Y/N. I want to hear more from you.” The words had haunted you for days, replaying in your mind as you lay in bed, your heart racing at the memory of his voice.

Now, as you carry the pitcher to a table, you feel his eyes again, a caress that follows you across the room. You pour water for a couple, your hands steady despite the tremor in your chest, and when you turn, he’s closer, standing at the edge of the dining room, wiping his hands on a towel. The movement is casual, but there’s nothing casual about the way he looks at you, his gaze lingering on your lips before flicking back to your eyes. You freeze, the pitcher heavy in your hands, and he steps forward, closing the distance.

“You’re doing well tonight,” he says, his voice low, meant for you alone. The words are simple, but they land like a touch, sending a shiver down your spine. The dining room fades, the chatter and clatter dimming until it’s just him—his scent, a mix of cedar cologne and the faint smokiness of the kitchen; his warmth, radiating even from a foot away; his eyes, searching yours with an intensity that makes your throat dry.

“T-Thank you, Mr. Kim,” you mumble, your voice barely audible. You clutch the pitcher tighter, your knuckles whitening, and his lips twitch, not quite a smile but something sharper, hungrier.

“You don’t have to be so nervous,” he says, stepping closer still. The towel dangles from his hand, brushing your arm as he leans in, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “I’m not as intimidating as you think.” His breath grazes your ear, and you feel it in your core, a pulse of heat that makes your thighs press together instinctively.

You swallow, your mouth dry, and force yourself to meet his eyes. They’re molten, dark and deep, and for a moment, you’re drowning in them. “I… I just want to do a good job,” you say, the words shaky but honest. Your heart pounds, loud enough you’re sure he can hear it.

His gaze softens, but there’s an edge to it, a flicker of something raw. “You do,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost tender. “But I want more than that. I want to know you, Y/N. Not just the waitress who blushes every time I look at her.” His fingers brush your wrist, a fleeting touch that sears your skin, and you gasp softly, the sound swallowed by the noise of the restaurant.

“I’m… I’m not good at this,” you admit, your voice trembling with the weight of your confession. “Talking to you… it’s hard. You’re so…” You trail off, unable to find the words, but he doesn’t need them.

“Too much?” he asks, his tone laced with something like regret, but his eyes are still locked on you, unrelenting. “Or not enough?”

You shake your head, your cheeks flaming. “Too… everything,” you whisper, and it’s the most honest thing you’ve ever said to him. His expression shifts, a crack in his composure, and for a moment, you see it—the want, the frustration, the way he’s been holding himself back.

“Then let me make it easier,” he says, his voice rough with restraint. “You don’t have to say anything. Just… let me see you. Really see you.” His hand hovers near your face, as if he’s tempted to touch you again, but he pulls back, his jaw tightening. “Go back to your tables. But don’t think I’m done with you.”

The words are a promise, heavy with intent, and they linger as you nod, your legs unsteady as you turn away. The pitcher trembles in your hands, water sloshing over the rim, and you set it down before you drop it. The rest of your shift is a blur, your body moving on autopilot while your mind replays every word, every glance. You feel his eyes on you still, even when you’re not looking—when you’re serving dessert, when you’re clearing plates, when you’re wiping down the bar. It’s a tether, pulling you back to him, and the weight of it is both terrifying and thrilling.

Later, in the break room, you’re alone, sipping water from a plastic cup, the cool liquid doing little to soothe the fire in your chest. The room is small, the walls lined with lockers, the air smelling faintly of coffee and cleaning supplies. You’re leaning against the counter, your uniform slightly wrinkled, when the door swings open. Seokjin steps inside, and the space shrinks, the air thickening with his presence.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just stands there, his chef’s coat unbuttoned further now, revealing the taut lines of his chest. His hair is slightly mussed, the bandana gone, and he looks less like the untouchable chef and more like a man unraveling. “You’re hiding,” he says finally, his voice low, almost accusatory.

“I’m not,” you lie, your voice soft, your eyes fixed on the cup in your hands. The plastic crinkles as you grip it tighter.

He steps closer, and you feel the heat of him, the scent of him, wrapping around you. “You are,” he says, his tone softer now, but no less intense. “You’re always hiding. From me. From this.” He gestures vaguely, but you know what he means—the pull between you, the unspoken thing that’s been building for months.

“I don’t mean to,” you say, your voice breaking. You look up at him, and it’s a mistake—his eyes are too much, too raw, stripping you bare. “I just… I don’t know how to handle you.”

His laugh is low, bitter, and it cuts through you. “Handle me?” he echoes, stepping so close you can feel the warmth of his breath. “Y/N, I’m the one trying to handle you. Every time you walk by, every time you stammer my name, it takes everything in me not to—” He stops, his jaw clenching, his hands flexing at his sides.

“Not to what?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper, but there’s a challenge in it, a spark of courage you didn’t know you had.

His eyes darken, and for a moment, you think he won’t answer. But then he leans in, his voice a growl, his words dripping with need. “Not to pull you into my office and find out exactly how you taste. Not to make you say my name until you can’t stop.” His gaze drops to your lips, and you feel it like a touch, your body responding before your mind can catch up—your breath quickening, your nipples tightening against your bra, a pulse of heat between your thighs.

You’re trembling, your shyness warring with the want coursing through you. “Seokjin…” you breathe, and it’s the first time you’ve said his name like that, soft and desperate, and it breaks something in him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his hand raking through his hair. “You can’t say my name like that and expect me to stay calm.” He steps back, putting space between you, but the air is still charged, crackling with what neither of you will fully say.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, your default response, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t be,” he says, his voice softer now, laced with something like pain. “Just… don’t hide from me anymore. I can’t stand it.”

You nod, unable to speak, and he turns to leave, his shoulders tense. The door swings shut behind him, and you’re alone again, the cup still in your hands, now crumpled from your grip. Your heart pounds, your body alive with the memory of his words, his closeness. The break room feels too small, too quiet, and you know nothing will be the same after this—not your shifts, not your thoughts, not the way you look at him. He’s seen you, and now, you’re not sure you can ever hide again.

The night is heavy with the weight of an approaching storm, the air thick and charged as if the world itself is holding its breath. "Jin’s Table" is a ghost of its usual vibrancy, the dining room nearly deserted, its polished wooden tables gleaming faintly under the dim glow of the overhead lights. The last patrons, a couple sharing a bottle of merlot, hurry out into the night, their coats pulled tight against the first sharp gusts of wind. You watch them go, your hands nervously wiping a damp cloth over an already spotless table, the faint scent of lemon polish clinging to your fingers. Outside, the sky is a bruised purple, clouds roiling like a restless sea, and the distant rumble of thunder sends a shiver down your spine.

You’re alone in the dining room, the other staff dismissed early due to the slow night and the looming weather. The restaurant feels too big, too quiet, the only sounds the soft creak of the floorboards and the occasional clatter from the kitchen where Mr. Kim—is still at work. Your heart skitters at the thought of him, as it always does. He’s been a constant presence in your mind since you started working here, his commanding presence and piercing gaze unraveling you in ways you can’t articulate. You’re shy, painfully so, and every interaction with him leaves you flushed and fumbling, your words tripping over themselves under the weight of his attention.

“Y/N!” His voice cuts through the quiet, sharp and authoritative, yet laced with a warmth that makes your stomach flip. “Get in here. I need you to help close up.”

You drop the cloth, your hands trembling as you smooth your apron, the black fabric suddenly feeling too tight against your skin. The kitchen door looms like a threshold to another world, and you push through it, the heat hitting you like a physical force. The air is thick with the lingering scents of the night’s service—roasted garlic, seared herbs, the faint tang of reduced wine. The stoves are off, but the residual warmth clings to the stainless steel counters, and the space hums with the faint buzz of appliances. Seokjin stands at the center of it all, a towering figure in his chef’s coat, the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms dusted with flour. His dark hair is slightly disheveled, a few strands falling across his forehead, and his bandana is loosened, giving him a rugged, almost dangerous edge.

“Everyone’s gone,” he says, not looking up from the skillet he’s scrubbing, the muscles in his arms flexing with each vigorous motion. “It’s just us. Start stacking those plates.” His tone is clipped, professional, but there’s an undercurrent to it, something that makes your pulse race.

“Yes, Mr. Kim,” you murmur, your voice barely audible over the growing howl of the wind outside. You move to the stack of dirty plates, your fingers brushing against the smooth porcelain, still warm from the dishwasher’s heat. The kitchen feels smaller with just the two of you, the space shrinking under the weight of his presence. You’re hyper-aware of every sound—his steady breaths, the soft scrape of his sponge, the drip of water from the faucet. Your skin prickles, and you keep your eyes fixed on the plates, afraid to meet his gaze, afraid of what you might see there.

The storm outside grows louder, the wind rattling the windows, rain beginning to lash against the glass in sharp, staccato bursts. Thunder rolls, closer now, a deep growl that vibrates through the floor. You stack the plates carefully, your hands unsteady, your heart a wild thing in your chest. You can feel him watching you, his gaze a tangible weight, and it makes your movements clumsy, your fingers fumbling.

And then, with a sudden flicker, the lights stutter. A loud pop echoes through the kitchen, and the world plunges into darkness. You gasp, the plate in your hands slipping from your grip. It hits the floor with a shattering crash, the sound sharp and jarring in the suffocating silence. Your breath catches, your body freezing as the darkness swallows you whole. The air feels heavier now, charged with the electric hum of the storm and something else—something alive and pulsing between you and Seokjin.

“Oh no, I’m so sorry, Mr. Kim,” you stammer, your voice high and panicked, your hands fluttering uselessly in the air. The darkness is disorienting, the kitchen a maze of shadows, and you feel exposed, vulnerable, like the night has stripped away your defenses. “I-I didn’t mean to—”

“Easy,” Seokjin’s voice cuts through your panic, calm but closer than you expect, a low rumble that grounds you. You feel the heat of him before you see him, his presence looming as he steps nearer, his hand brushing your arm in the dark. The contact is brief but searing, a spark that ignites your nerves, sending a jolt through your body. “It’s just a plate. Stay still.”

His voice is steady, but there’s a roughness to it, an edge that makes your heart stutter. You hear the rustle of fabric, the soft scrape of his boots against the tile, and then a faint click. A tiny flame flares to life as he lights a match, the glow illuminating his face in sharp relief. His features are striking in the flickering light—his sharp jawline, the curve of his lips, the intensity in his eyes as they lock onto yours. He moves to a candle from the dining room’s stock, one of the heavy glass votives used for ambiance, and sets it on the counter. The flame steadies, casting a warm, golden glow that dances across the stainless steel surfaces, painting the kitchen in shifting shadows.

The candlelight softens the harsh lines of the room but does nothing to ease the tension coiling in your chest. Seokjin’s eyes are still on you, dark and unreadable, and you feel like prey caught in a predator’s gaze. Your cheeks burn, your breath shallow, and you kneel to pick up the broken pieces of the plate, desperate for something to do with your hands. The shards are sharp, glinting in the candlelight, and you wince as one pricks your finger, a tiny bead of blood welling up.

“Leave it,” Seokjin says, his voice low and commanding, almost a growl. He crouches beside you, his body close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, smell the faint musk of his sweat mixed with the clean scent of his cologne. His hand closes over yours, firm but gentle, stopping you from touching the shards. “You’ll cut yourself.”

You freeze, your hand trapped in his, the roughness of his calloused fingers a stark contrast to your soft skin. The candlelight flickers, casting shadows that dance across his face, highlighting the intensity in his eyes, the slight part of his lips. Your heart pounds, the sound loud in your ears, drowning out the storm. The air between you crackles, thick with unspoken words, unacknowledged desire. You meet his gaze, and for the first time, you don’t look away, drawn into the depths of his eyes like a moth to a flame.

“Mr. Kim…” you whisper, your voice trembling, barely audible over the rain’s relentless drumming. You don’t know what you’re trying to say, only that his name feels like a plea, a confession, a surrender.

“Seokjin,” he corrects, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a slow, deliberate caress that sends a shiver down your spine. “Call me Seokjin.”

You swallow, your throat dry, your lips parting as you try to form the word. “Seokjin,” you repeat, and it feels intimate, forbidden, like crossing a line you can’t uncross. His eyes darken, a storm of their own brewing in their depths, and his grip on your hand tightens, his breath hitching.

“You’re shaking,” he says, his voice softer now, laced with something tender yet possessive. He shifts closer, his knee brushing yours, the contact sending a spark through you. “Are you scared?”

You shake your head, your voice caught in your throat. “No,” you manage, your voice barely a whisper. “It’s… it’s not that.”

“Then what?” he presses, his face inches from yours, his breath warm against your cheek. The candlelight catches the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, the sharp angle of his cheekbone. “Tell me, Y/N. What’s got you trembling like this?”

Your heart lurches, the weight of his question pressing against the fragile walls you’ve built around your feelings. The storm outside mirrors the chaos inside you, the wind howling, the rain pounding, urging you to let go. “It’s you,” you admit, your voice breaking, raw with vulnerability. “You make me nervous. You… you make me feel things I don’t know how to handle.”

His eyes widen, a flicker of surprise breaking through the intensity. For a moment, he’s silent, the only sound the storm’s relentless assault and the soft crackle of the candle. Then he exhales, a shaky breath that betrays the control he’s been holding onto. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he says, his voice low, almost a growl, thick with emotion. “Every time you walk in here, all quiet and shy, I lose my fucking mind. I’ve been trying so hard to keep my distance, but you… you’re under my skin.”

Your breath catches, your body trembling not from the cold but from the raw honesty in his words, the hunger in his eyes. The candlelight flickers, casting fleeting shadows that make the moment feel surreal, like a dream you’re afraid to wake from. “I didn’t know,” you whisper, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and longing. “I thought… I thought you didn’t see me like that.”

He laughs, a low, bitter sound that cuts through the tension. “Not see you? Y/N, I can’t stop seeing you. Every time you smile, every time you blush, it’s like a punch to the gut. I’ve wanted you since the day you walked in here, and it’s been killing me to hold back.”

The confession hangs between you, heavy and electric, the air crackling with the weight of it. You’re still crouched together, the broken plate forgotten, the storm raging outside a distant echo compared to the storm within. His hand is still on yours, his touch an anchor, and you feel the pull of him, the inevitable gravity drawing you closer.

“Seokjin,” you say again, his name a prayer on your lips, and it’s like a dam breaking. His eyes flare with something wild, something desperate, and he leans closer, his forehead nearly touching yours, his breath mingling with yours in the candlelit dark.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, his voice a plea and a command, raw with need. “Say my name.”

“Seokjin,” you breathe, and it’s the last word you manage before the space between you collapses, the storm outside fading into nothingness as the real tempest begins.

The air crackles, the storm outside a mere echo of the tempest between you. You’re still crouched together, but the space feels smaller, the world narrowing to the heat of his body, the scent of his skin, the intensity of his gaze. Your hand is still in his, but now your fingers curl around his, a silent acceptance, a bridge crossed.

He moves first, a sudden, decisive shift, his hands releasing yours to cup your face, his palms warm and rough against your cheeks. His touch is firm, possessive, but there’s a tenderness in the way his thumbs brush your skin, like he’s memorizing you. His eyes search yours, a final question, and then his lips crash into yours, a kiss that’s all hunger and heat, a dam breaking after months of restraint.

The kiss is a revelation, a collision of need and desperation. His lips are soft but demanding, moving against yours with a rhythm that steals your breath. You taste salt, a hint of the wine he sipped earlier, and the raw edge of his desire. His tongue teases the seam of your lips, and you open for him, a soft whimper escaping as he deepens the kiss, claiming you with every stroke. Your hands clutch his chef’s coat, the fabric coarse under your fingers, anchoring you as the world tilts.

He pulls you to your feet, his hands sliding to your waist, pressing you against the counter. The edge digs into your lower back, a sharp contrast to the heat of his body, the way his chest presses against yours. His lips leave yours to trail along your jaw, down your neck, and you gasp as he nips the sensitive skin just below your ear, his teeth grazing, his breath hot and ragged. The sensation is electric, your body arching into him, your hands gripping his shoulders, feeling the hard muscle beneath.

“Tell me to stop,” he growls, his voice thick with need, vibrating against your skin. “Tell me, Y/N, and I’ll walk away right now. I’ll let you go, I swear.”

The words are a plea, a last thread of control, but you hear the strain in them, the way he’s fighting himself. His hands tighten on your waist, his fingers digging into your hips, and you feel the evidence of his arousal pressing against you, a hard promise that makes your core ache.

“Don’t,” you breathe, your voice a desperate thread, your hands pulling him closer, your nails scraping his scalp as you tangle your fingers in his hair. “Don’t stop, Seokjin. Please, I want this. I want you.”

His groan is raw, a sound of surrender, and he kisses you again, fiercer this time, his hands roaming with purpose. One slides up your side, brushing the curve of your breast, and you moan into his mouth, your body trembling with need. The candle flickers, its light a fragile witness to the storm breaking between you, and the kitchen fades, the world reduced to the heat of his touch, the taste of his lips, the sound of his voice whispering your name like a prayer.

The kitchen is a crucible of heat and shadow, the air heavy with the mingled scents of rain-soaked earth seeping through the windows and the sharp tang of arousal that clings to your skin. The single candle on the counter burns low, its flame a trembling pulse of gold that casts flickering shadows across the stainless steel surfaces, painting Seokjin’s face in stark contrasts of light and dark. His eyes, molten with hunger, hold you captive as he lifts you onto the counter, the cold steel biting into the backs of your thighs, a sharp counterpoint to the fire racing through your veins. Your uniform skirt rides up, the fabric bunching around your hips, exposing the soft expanse of your skin to his gaze. His hands, calloused from years of wielding knives and searing pans, find your thighs, his touch both possessive and reverent, as though he’s claiming you and worshiping you in the same breath.

Your blouse hangs open, the buttons undone by his deft fingers, and the lace of your bra is a fragile barrier against the heat of his stare. Your nipples, already hard, strain against the fabric, aching for his touch, and when his thumbs brush over them, the sensation is a lightning strike, a jolt that arches your back and draws a soft whimper from your lips. The sound seems to unravel something in him, his breath hitching as he leans closer, his lips hovering just above yours. “Fuck, Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl, thick with need and something deeper, something that feels like longing. “You’re so responsive. Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”

Your cheeks burn, your shyness warring with the desire that coils tight in your core. “I… I feel it too,” you whisper, your voice trembling but honest, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “I’ve always felt it, Seokjin.”

His eyes darken, a storm brewing behind them, and he cups your face, his thumbs tracing the curve of your jaw. “You’ve been hiding from me,” he says, his tone a mix of accusation and awe. “All this time, you’ve been right here, and I’ve been losing my mind trying to keep my hands off you.” His voice cracks on the last word, and the vulnerability in it pierces you, stripping away the last of your defenses.

“I was scared,” you admit, your hands clutching the front of his chef’s coat, the fabric rough under your fingers, grounding you in the moment. “You’re… you’re you. And I’m just—”

“Don’t,” he cuts you off, his voice sharp, almost commanding. “Don’t you dare say you’re just anything. You’re everything I’ve been wanting, Y/N. Every shy smile, every nervous glance—it’s been driving me fucking insane.” He kisses you then, his lips crashing into yours with a desperation that steals your breath, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, claiming every inch of you. The kiss is a storm, all heat and hunger, his teeth grazing your lower lip, drawing a moan that he swallows greedily.

His hands roam, sliding under your blouse to cup your breasts, his fingers teasing your nipples through the lace. The sensation is overwhelming, a sweet ache that radiates through you, making your pussy clench with need. He groans against your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, and when he pulls the bra down, exposing your breasts to the cool air, you gasp, your skin prickling with goosebumps. “Beautiful,” he breathes, his voice reverent, his eyes drinking in the sight of you like you’re a feast laid out just for him. He dips his head, his lips closing over one nipple, sucking gently, his tongue flicking over the sensitive peak. The wet heat of his mouth is a shock, your hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging into the muscle beneath his shirt as you arch into him, a cry spilling from your lips.

“Seokjin,” you gasp, your voice breaking, and he hums against your skin, the vibration sending sparks straight to your core. His other hand kneads your breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers, and the dual assault has you trembling, your thighs pressing together in a futile attempt to ease the ache between them. He notices, his lips curving into a smirk against your skin, and he pulls back, his eyes glinting with mischief and promise.

“Needy, aren’t you?” he teases, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine. His hands slide down your sides, leaving trails of heat, and grip your thighs, spreading them wider. Your skirt is a crumpled afterthought, your panties damp and clinging to your folds, and when his fingers brush over the fabric, you jolt, a whimper escaping you. “So fucking wet,” he growls, his voice thick with approval, and the sound alone makes your pussy pulse, slick with want. He slips a finger beneath the fabric, tracing the seam of your folds, and the slow, deliberate touch is torture, your hips bucking to chase his hand.

“Please,” you beg, your voice raw, your shyness burned away by the fire in your blood. “Seokjin, I need you.”

His eyes flash, and he yanks your panties down, the fabric tearing slightly as he tosses it aside. The cool air hits your heated core, and you moan, your pussy glistening in the candlelight, exposed and aching for him. He kneels between your legs, his broad shoulders filling the space, and the sight of him there, his face inches from your most intimate place, is almost too much. His breath is hot against your folds, and when his tongue flicks out, lapping at your clit, you cry out, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

He devours you, his tongue swirling over your clit, sucking gently, then dipping lower to taste your slick heat. The sensation is a tidal wave, pleasure crashing over you with every stroke, every curl of his tongue. His fingers join in, two sliding inside you, stretching you, curling against that sweet spot that makes your vision blur. The wet sounds of his mouth and fingers fill the kitchen, mingling with your moans and the distant rumble of thunder, a symphony of want and surrender. Your pussy clenches around his fingers, desperate for more, and he groans, the sound vibrating against your clit, pushing you closer to the edge.

“You taste so fucking good,” he murmurs against you, his voice muffled but fervent, and the words are a spark, igniting the coil of tension in your core. “I could eat you all night, Y/N. But I want you to come for me first.”

“Seokjin, I’m—” Your words dissolve into a moan as he sucks hard on your clit, his fingers thrusting faster, relentless. Your orgasm builds, a white-hot wave, and when it breaks, it’s shattering, your body convulsing, your pussy pulsing around his fingers, your cries echoing in the empty kitchen. He doesn’t stop, lapping at you through the aftershocks, drawing out every shudder, every gasp, until you’re boneless, trembling, your hands limp in his hair.

He stands, his lips glistening with your release, and kisses you, deep and possessive, letting you taste the tang of yourself on his tongue. The kiss is a promise, a claim, and you cling to him, your hands fumbling with his belt, desperate to feel him. “I need you inside me,” you whisper, your voice raw with need, and he groans, his hands helping you free his cock.

It’s thick, hard, the skin velvet-soft under your fingers as you stroke him, marveling at the weight, the heat. Pre-cum beads at the tip, and you swipe your thumb over it, making him hiss, his hips jerking. “Fuck, Y/N,” he gasps, his voice breaking, and the sound of his need fuels your own. You sink to your knees, the tile cold against your skin, and take him in your mouth, your tongue swirling over the tip, tasting the salt of him. His hands grip your hair, guiding you, his breaths ragged as you take him deeper, your lips stretching around him, your throat relaxing to accommodate his size.

“You’re so good,” he groans, his voice a mix of awe and desperation. “So fucking perfect.” You hum around him, the vibration making him curse, his hips thrusting gently, testing your limits. You take him as deep as you can, your hands stroking what your mouth can’t reach, and his control frays, his grip tightening, his voice a litany of praise and need.

He pulls you up before he loses it, kissing you fiercely, his hands lifting you back onto the counter. “I need to be inside you,” he says, his voice rough with emotion, his eyes searching yours. “I’ve waited too fucking long for this.”

“Then don’t wait anymore,” you say, your voice steady despite the tremble.

The storm outside rages, rain lashing the windows in a relentless tattoo, but inside, the world narrows to the space between you and Seokjin. The flickering candlelight bathes the stainless-steel counters in a warm, amber glow, casting shadows that dance across your skin like whispered secrets. Your body hums with anticipation, every nerve alight as Seokjin stands between your thighs, his cock brushing your entrance, a teasing promise of what’s to come.

His eyes, dark and molten, lock onto yours, searching, questioning. The intensity in his gaze is almost too much, a raw hunger tempered by something softer, something that makes your heart ache. His hands grip your hips, fingers digging into your flesh, grounding you in the moment. The counter beneath you is cold, a stark contrast to the heat of his body, the roughness of his chef’s coat brushing against your bare thighs where your skirt has ridden up.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice low and rough, laced with a vulnerability that catches you off guard. His breath is warm against your lips, carrying the faint taste of the wine he sipped earlier. “I need to hear it, Y/N. I need to know you want this as much as I do.”

Your chest tightens, emotions swirling—desire, fear, and a desperate need to be seen by him. “Yes,” you whisper, your voice trembling but resolute. Your hands slide up his arms, feeling the taut muscle beneath the fabric, and you pull him closer, your fingers curling into his shoulders. “I want you, Seokjin. I’ve wanted you for so long.”

His breath hitches, a low groan escaping his throat, and the sound sends a shiver through you, your pussy clenching with need. He leans in, his forehead resting against yours for a fleeting moment, his breath mingling with yours. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “Every fucking day, watching you, wanting you… it’s been torture.”

Before you can respond, he pushes inside you, slow and deliberate, stretching you with a delicious burn that makes you gasp. The sensation is overwhelming, his cock thick and heavy, filling you completely. Your walls flutter around him, slick with your arousal, and you clutch at his shirt, your nails scraping the fabric. The fullness is exquisite, a perfect blend of pleasure and pressure, and you tilt your hips, urging him deeper.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice a ragged growl as he bottoms out, his hips flush against yours. “You feel so good, Y/N. So tight, so fucking perfect.” His words are a litany, each one stoking the fire in your core. He stays still for a moment, letting you adjust, his hands sliding up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing your cheeks. The tenderness in his touch contrasts with the raw need in his eyes, and it makes your heart stutter.

Then he moves, his thrusts deep and measured, each one driving him deeper, claiming you in a way that feels both primal and sacred. The counter creaks beneath you, the sound mingling with the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin. Your pussy is soaked, the slickness easing his movements, and every thrust sends a jolt of pleasure through you, your clit throbbing with need. The candlelight catches the sheen of sweat on his brow, the sharp line of his jaw as he grits his teeth, fighting to maintain control.

“Seokjin,” you moan, your voice breaking, your head falling back as the pleasure builds. The air is heavy with the scent of your arousal, the faint spice of his cologne, the lingering aroma of roasted herbs from the kitchen. Your nipples are hard, straining against the lace of your bra, and he notices, his hand slipping beneath your blouse to pinch one gently, rolling it between his fingers. The sensation is electric, a direct line to your core, and you arch into him, your breaths coming in short, desperate gasps.

“Look at me,” he commands, his voice a low rumble, laced with a dominance that makes your toes curl. You obey, meeting his gaze, and the intensity in his eyes nearly undoes you. “I want to see you when you come. I want to see every fucking thing.”

You nod, unable to speak, your body trembling as he picks up the pace, his thrusts harder now, more urgent. Each one hits that sweet spot inside you, the pressure building, coiling tight in your belly. His hand slides between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing in tight, precise circles that make you cry out. The pleasure is blinding, a white-hot wave that threatens to consume you, and you grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin, leaving crescent marks.

“Seokjin, I’m so close,” you gasp, your voice raw, your body shaking with the effort to hold on. “Please, I need—”

“Come for me,” he growls, his voice thick with need, his fingers relentless on your clit. “Let go, Y/N. Let me feel you.”

The command tips you over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave. Your pussy clenches around him, pulsing wildly, and you scream his name, the sound echoing in the empty kitchen. Your vision blurs, stars bursting behind your eyelids, and your body shakes, every muscle taut as the pleasure wracks you. The sensation is overwhelming, your slick walls gripping him, pulling him deeper, and he groans, his control fraying.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he rasps, his thrusts erratic now, his cock throbbing inside you. “You’re so tight, I can’t—” His words break off as he comes, his release hot and fierce, spilling inside you in thick, pulsing waves. His groan is primal, a raw sound of surrender, and his hips jerk, driving himself as deep as he can go. You feel every pulse, every shudder, your pussy milking him, drawing out his pleasure as your own lingers, a soft, tingling aftershock.

But he’s not done. Before you can catch your breath, he pulls out, his cock still hard, glistening with your combined release. He flips you over with a swift, commanding motion, bending you over the counter. The steel is cold against your breasts, your nipples scraping the surface through your bra, and you moan, your body still buzzing. Your hands grip the edge, knuckles white, as he spreads your legs, his hands rough on your thighs.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice a low, reverent growl as he runs a hand over your ass, squeezing gently. “So fucking beautiful, dripping for me.” His fingers brush your pussy, teasing your oversensitive folds, and you whimper, your hips bucking involuntarily. You’re soaked, your arousal coating your thighs, and he groans at the sight, his cock twitching against you.

He enters you again, this time from behind, and the angle is devastating, his cock hitting deeper, stretching you in a way that makes you see stars. The sensation is almost too much, your pussy clenching around him, still sensitive from your orgasm. He thrusts hard, fast, his hands gripping your hips with bruising force, and the sound of his skin slapping yours fills the room, raw and unfiltered.

“Seokjin,” you moan, your voice trembling, your body surrendering completely. “It’s so much, I—”

“You can take it,” he growls, his voice thick with possession, his hand sliding up your spine to grip your hair, pulling gently. The tug sends a jolt through you, your pussy tightening around him, and he curses, his thrusts faltering. “You’re mine, Y/N. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp, the words spilling out, raw and desperate. “Only yours, Seokjin.” The confession feels like a release, a truth you’ve been holding back for months, and it sends a fresh wave of arousal through you, your pussy dripping, coating his cock.

He groans, the sound almost pained, and his hand slips between you again, finding your clit. His fingers are relentless, rubbing in tight, frantic circles, and the pleasure is blinding, building too fast, too intense. “One more,” he commands, his voice rough with need. “Give me one more, baby.”

You can’t hold back, your body obeying before your mind catches up. Your second orgasm hits like a storm, your pussy spasming around him, your vision going white. You scream, your body collapsing against the counter, your legs shaking as the pleasure tears through you. The sensation is overwhelming, every nerve alight, your slick walls pulsing, gripping him so tightly he can barely move.

He follows, his release a hot, shuddering wave, his cock pulsing as he spills inside you again. His groan is raw, his body trembling against yours, his hands clutching your hips like a lifeline. “Y/N,” he gasps, his voice breaking, and the sound of your name on his lips, so raw and vulnerable, makes your heart ache.

You stay like that, breathless and entwined, the storm outside fading to a distant hum. The kitchen is warm, the air heavy with the scent of sex and sweat, the candlelight flickering weakly. Seokjin’s hands soften, sliding up your sides, and he pulls you upright, turning you to face him. His eyes are softer now, the hunger tempered by something deeper, something that makes your chest tighten.

“I’m not letting you go,” he says, his voice low but firm, his thumb brushing your cheek. “Not after this.”

You nod, your throat tight with emotion, and lean into his touch, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. “I don’t want you to,” you whisper, and the words feel like a vow, sealing the night in the heat of the kitchen.

The storm has softened to a gentle murmur, the rain now a delicate patter against the restaurant’s windows, like a lullaby soothing the raw edges of the night. The kitchen, once a battleground of desire, is now a sanctuary, steeped in the lingering scents of melted candle wax, the faint musk of sex, and the earthy warmth of Seokjin’s skin. The single candle has flickered out, leaving only the dim glow of emergency lights casting long, soft shadows across the steel counters and tiled floor. The air feels heavy, not with tension but with something deeper—something unspoken yet profoundly felt.

You’re cradled in Seokjin’s arms, your body pressed against his, the heat of him grounding you in the aftermath of your shared surrender. His chef’s coat is unbuttoned, the fabric hanging loosely to reveal the smooth expanse of his chest, still glistening with a faint sheen of sweat. Your blouse is barely buttoned, your skirt still hiked up, but there’s no urgency to fix it. Your legs are tangled with his, your bare thighs brushing the rough denim of his jeans. The counter beneath you is cold, a stark contrast to the warmth of his hands, one resting possessively on your hip, the other tracing slow, absent circles along your spine. Every touch sends a shiver through you, not of arousal but of intimacy, raw and unguarded.

Your breaths are still uneven, your chest rising and falling as you try to anchor yourself in the moment. Seokjin’s heartbeat is steady under your cheek, a rhythmic thud that feels like a promise. His scent envelops you—salt and spice, the faint tang of his cologne mingling with the kitchen’s lingering aromas of garlic and thyme. It’s intoxicating, grounding, and you press closer, needing the reassurance of his solidity.

He shifts, his lips brushing your forehead, soft and reverent. The gesture is so tender it aches, a stark contrast to the fierce hunger of moments ago. His breath is warm against your skin, and when he speaks, his voice is low, rough with emotion, like he’s peeling back layers he’s kept hidden for too long. “I meant it, Y/N,” he says, each word deliberate, heavy with conviction. “I want you. Not just tonight. Not just like this. I want you—all of you.”

The words hit you like a wave, stirring something deep in your chest. You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. In the dim light, they’re endless, dark pools of sincerity, flecked with vulnerability you’ve never seen before. His jaw is set, but there’s a softness in his gaze, a quiet plea that makes your heart stutter. You swallow, your throat tight, the weight of his confession sinking in. “Seokjin…” you start, your voice trembling, not from fear but from the overwhelming truth of your own feelings. “I want you too. I’ve wanted you for so long, I just… I was scared. Scared you didn’t feel the same.”

His eyes widen, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before it softens into something achingly tender. “Scared?” he repeats, his voice breaking on the word. He cups your face, his thumbs brushing your cheeks, wiping away a tear you didn’t realize had fallen. His touch is warm, calloused from years in the kitchen, but so gentle it feels like a vow. “Y/N, you’ve been under my skin since the day you walked in here. All those times I watched you, teased you, tried to get you to look at me… it was because I couldn’t stand the thought of you not seeing me the way I see you.”

Your breath catches, the raw honesty in his words unraveling you. “I saw you,” you whisper, your hands gripping his shirt, the fabric creasing under your fingers. “I always saw you. But you’re… you’re you. Mr. Kim, the chef, the owner, this larger-than-life man who makes everyone fall for him. I didn’t think I could ever be enough.”

He shakes his head, a low, frustrated sound escaping him. “Don’t say that,” he says, his voice firm but laced with pain. “You’re more than enough. You’re everything. You’re the one who makes this place feel alive, not just for the customers but for me. Every time you smile, every time you blush when I catch you staring, it’s like… fuck, it’s like the world makes sense again.”

His words are a lifeline, pulling you from the doubts that have held you back for months. You lean into him, your forehead resting against his, your breaths mingling in the small space between you. The warmth of his skin, the faint stubble on his jaw, the steady rhythm of his breathing—it’s all so real, so overwhelming. “I’m yours,” you say, the words spilling out like a confession, raw and unguarded. “I’ve been yours for longer than I knew how to admit.”

Seokjin’s breath hitches, and for a moment, he’s still, like he’s savoring the weight of your words. Then he’s kissing you, slow and deep, not with the desperate hunger of before but with a tenderness that feels like worship. His lips are soft, tasting faintly of salt and you, and the way he moves against you is like he’s trying to memorize every second of this moment. His hands slide up your back, pulling you closer, and you melt into him, your arms wrapping around his neck, your fingers threading through his hair.

When he pulls back, his eyes are bright, a smile breaking across his face—not the cocky smirk you’re used to, but something genuine, unguarded, like he’s letting you see all of him. “Good,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “Because I’m not letting you go. Not now, not ever.”

You laugh, the sound light and free, bubbling up from a place you didn’t know existed. It’s a release, a shedding of the shyness that’s defined you for so long. “You’d better not,” you tease, your voice soft but steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He chuckles, the sound warm and rich, vibrating through you where your bodies touch. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek. “Stay with me tonight,” he says, not a question but a quiet hope. “Not here, not like this. Come home with me. Let me hold you, wake up with you.”

Your heart swells, the invitation carrying more weight than the physical act. It’s a promise, a future. You nod, your smile soft but certain. “Okay,” you whisper. “I’d like that.”

He kisses you again, a brief, sweet press of lips, before helping you down from the counter. His hands are steady, guiding you as you adjust your clothes, your movements slow and languid in the afterglow. The kitchen feels different now, not just a place of work but a witness to something new, something sacred. The rain outside continues its soft song, and as Seokjin takes your hand, his fingers lacing with yours, you feel like you’re stepping into a new world—one where you’re no longer just the shy waitress, but the woman who holds his heart.

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