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cloudtransprncy · 5 months ago

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Dumb/Problem

Kim Chaewon x Male Reader | 4k words Tags: cheating, light bratty elements, backshots, reckless decisions, tension, guilty pleasure Next Pt 2.

Cutting class to get a break? Nah. Cutting class to fuck your girlfriends best friend? Yesssssir

Is this dumb?

Skipping class just to fuck your girlfriend's best friend?

Absolutely.

But with her soft bed under your knees and your hands gripping her hips—who gives a shit about being smart right now?

Chaewon's room is exactly like her—carefully curated chaos that feels effortless.

All-white sheets that tangle around your legs, a fuzzy cream blanket kicked to the side. Squishmallows stacked against her headboard, now knocked over from how hard the bed's shaking. BTS watching from a poster on the wall, vinyls of SZA and Keshi mounted near her mirror like trophies. Polaroids scattered across her wall—blurry concert nights, drunken smiles, memories you're not part of.

Her dresser is a mess of half-open products—lip masks, serums in glass bottles, perfumes that cost more than you make in a week. The scent of her hangs in the air—sweet vanilla with something darker underneath, something that gets under your skin and stays there.

A Bath & Body Works candle sits for show, not for burning. Makeup scattered like she got ready in a hurry—an open tube of lip gloss, an eyelash curler abandoned.

Nike slides kicked off by the bed, a Starbucks cup still half-full on the nightstand. Your hoodie thrown over her chair—she took it last week and never gave it back.

Chaewon's face is pressed into the mattress, her messy bun barely hanging on, blonde strands sticking to her neck as she gasps. She's arching her back for you, pressing her ass against you as you sink your cock into her, her pussy gripping you so tight it makes your vision blur. The wet sounds of her taking you fill the room—slick, obscene, mixed with the slap of skin on skin and those breathy little moans she tries to muffle in her pillow.

Her skin is hot beneath your hands, a thin layer of sweat making her glow in the dim light coming through her curtains. That sweet vanilla scent gets stronger as her body heats up, mixing with the unmistakable smell of sex.

Her white tank top is riding up her back, bunched around her ribs. You keep pushing it higher, needing to see more of her, to feel more of her skin under your hands. Your eyes can't get enough of her—the curve where her waist dips before flaring to her hips, the way her body trembles when you hit just right.

Rough. Desperate.

She shudders when you dig your fingers harder into her waist, leaving marks that will still be there tomorrow. Her nails claw at the sheets, hips rocking back, trying to take control, but you don't let her. You decide the pace. You decide how deep. She just has to take it.

Her breath catches on a moan when you thrust harder. She feels too fucking good, squeezing around your cock like she was made to take you, like she's trying to break your self-control.

Then—light cuts through the moment.

Your phone, half-buried in the rumpled sheets, screen glowing bright. You don't need to check it.

Eunbi.

Your actual girlfriend.

Chaewon's supposed best friend.

She has no clue. No idea you're not in calculus right now. No idea you've got her best friend's ass pressed against you, your cock buried inside her.

Probably just asking about hanging out later, or sending you some stupid TikTok that made her think of you. Something sweet and normal because that's who Eunbi is.

You flip the phone over, face down against the bed. You shouldn't be here. You should be in class. Or with Eunbi. But Chaewon pushes back against you, and those thoughts disappear real fucking quick.

Chaewon turns her head, looking back over her shoulder, breathless but still fucking smirking. "Going to ignore her like that?"

Instead of answering, you press your hand between her shoulder blades, shoving her face back into the mattress.

She moans, the sound muffled by sheets, but you can hear the smile in it. Even with your cock inside her, she's still playing games.

"Bet she'd cry if she saw you like this."

Something dark twists inside you at her words. Your grip turns bruising, thrusts harder, deeper, and whatever smugness she had vanishes in an instant.

Chaewon whimpers, nails digging into the sheets hard enough to tear them, thighs trembling. She can't keep up anymore, can't match your rhythm as you fuck her harder than anyone has before.

She gasps out something—your name, "fuck," maybe both—but it breaks into a high, desperate sound that lets you know you've won.

Eunbi is good. Beautiful. Sweet. She gives head like she read about it in a magazine. She's the kind of girl people expect you to stay loyal to.

But Chaewon? Chaewon is filthy, tight, and knows exactly how to crawl under your skin and live there.

Eunbi texts you good morning with heart emojis. Chaewon sends you pictures of her tits when she knows her best friend is sitting right beside her.

Eunbi kisses you like she's making promises. Chaewon bites your lip until you taste blood and laughs when you wince.

Eunbi's the girl you bring to prom. The girl your mom loves. The girl who makes you lunch and saves you a seat in the cafeteria. But Chaewon's the girl you ruin your life for.

She's still testing you, still pushing back against you even as she falls apart. "You're holding back," she accuses between gasps, her voice shaky but challenging.

Your jaw tightens. She always does this shit. Always wants to see how far she can push before you break.

You answer with a thrust so hard it knocks her flat against the mattress, her blonde hair spilling across the white sheets. She gasps, a shocked sound that's almost a yelp, but when she looks back at you, that fucking smirk is still there, daring you for more.

"Fuck—slow down—" she starts, but you both know she doesn't mean it.

Your fingers dig into her hips, dragging her back onto your cock as you set a pace that finally wipes that smug look off her face. Whatever game she was playing dissolves into gasping breaths and desperate moans she can't hold back anymore.

She's squeezing you so tight it's hard to think, too good to remember why this is such a fucking bad idea, too perfect to care about who keeps blowing up your phone from the other side of the bed.

Your phone vibrates against the sheets. Again. And again.

Chaewon notices, of course she does. She lets out this breathless little laugh that makes your stomach flip, barely turning her head, voice syrupy and taunting like the cherry slushies she's always drinking between classes. "Does she even make you feel this good?"

You don't answer. You push her face into the mattress instead, feeling a rush that's better than any post-game high you've ever chased.

She moans, muffled against floral sheets, but you can hear the fucking amusement in it, the way she's still enjoying this too much, like she's winning some bet with herself.

If she wants it rough, she's going to get it. And God, every bone in your stupid teenage body is screaming to give it to her.

Your hand slides up her back, fingers wrapping lightly around her throat as you lean down, your varsity track team t-shirt sticking to your chest with sweat, voice low in her ear. "Take it, take that dick."

She instantly becomes a whimpering, moaning mess beneath you, her whole body quivering. You can feel her pussy clench tight around you, gripping your cock like she's desperate to keep you inside. She licks her lips—you can feel the sticky gloss against your palm—her breath hitching in that way that makes you dizzy, and pushes her hips back against you again. A deliberate roll that makes you forget there's a calc test tomorrow you should be studying for.

That's all you need.

Your grip tightens, forcing her still, making sure she takes it. She chokes out a gasp, her whole body shuddering against yours, her thighs—always toned from cheer practice—trembling as you fuck her deeper, harder, until her teasing completely breaks apart.

At this angle, with your weight pressing her down, you can feel everything—every slick, desperate clench around your length, the obscene wetness that spreads between you each time you push back in. It's suffocating, consuming, a vice of heat wrapped around you, pulling you deeper into something you shouldn't want this badly but fuck, you'd fail every class for this feeling.

Her hand reaches back, grabbing blindly for anything to hold onto—your wrist, your thigh—until she finds your arm. She grips it hard, nails dragging over your skin, feeling the way your muscles flex under her fingers. Feeling you as she feels you inside, the same fingers that wave to Eunbi across the cafeteria now digging into your skin.

Your phone vibrates again, the buzz muffled against the rumpled sheets where you flipped it face down earlier. Neither of you look at it. Neither of you dare.

Chaewon's breathless now, moaning into the sheets, a mess beneath you, every ounce of her earlier cockiness gone, replaced by something desperate and hungry that makes you feel ten feet tall. The most popular girl in school, falling apart for you.

If you were a better person, you wouldn't be here.

But you're not. You're the kind of person who thinks about this—about her—even during fourth period when Eunbi is passing you notes with little hearts drawn in the margins.

A noise outside the room—soft, but distinct. A car door? Her mom home early? Your body tenses, every muscle tight, your breath catching mid-thrust, the reality of where you are crashing in.

Chaewon hears it too. Feels you hesitate.

And then she laughs. Breathless, airy, like this is the funniest thing that's happened all day, like the thought of getting caught is just another cheap thrill.

"Aww, scared someone's gonna catch you balls deep in me?" Her voice is teasing, dripping with amusement, even as her legs tremble beneath you, her Victoria's Secret Pink thong still dangling from one ankle.

Your fingers flex around her throat in retaliation, squeezing just enough to make her gasp. She barely has a second to process it before you slam her down, your grip unrelenting, then flip her onto her back so fast she barely has time to catch her breath, her blonde hair—perfectly highlighted last weekend at a salon that costs more than your car payment—slipping free from its messy bun, wild against the sheets.

Your cock slips free in the motion, and you grab it tight, feeling the obscene slickness coating your length, dripping from her. It's wet—wet as fuck—before you slap it against her swollen folds. The sound is loud, filthy, obscene—wet as hell. Your cock slides against her, dragging through the mess between them before you shove it back in. She shudders, her breath hitching, her thighs twitching as you tease her with the weight of it before pressing forward, sinking back inside.

Chaewon's eyes flutter, her breath catching as you force her legs up, pressing her thighs flush to her chest, pinning her in place, giving her no room to squirm away. The new angle has her gasping, hands flying up to your arms, gripping tight, her nails—freshly done in that pale pink Eunbi helped her pick out yesterday—dig into your arms, clinging tight like she's bracing for impact, like she needs something to hold onto before she breaks completely.

The bed shifts beneath you, and your phone vibrates once more, the buzz reverberating through the mattress, felt through every grinding thrust. You both feel it. Neither of you care. Not when you should be in Mr. Kim's class right now, not when Eunbi thinks you're taking notes instead of taking her best friend.

Your only focus is on the way she clenches around you, the way she gasps your name between ragged moans, the way she completely melts beneath you, nothing like the ice queen who rules the hallways.

Chaewon's hands fly to your shoulders, nails digging into your skin as she pulls you down to her. There's nothing delicate about it—her kiss is messy, frantic, her lips parted, her breath hot and ragged against yours. She kisses like she's starving for it, like she wants to taste herself on your tongue, like she doesn't care how sloppy it gets.

Your tongues tangle, wet and uncoordinated, her mouth opening wider, drool slicking your chin, mixing with the sweat beading along your skin. She moans into it, needy, desperate, hips shifting beneath you, trying to keep up with the way you fuck her, so different from the composed way she presents herself in class.

You pull back just enough to catch her dazed expression, lips swollen, spit-glossed. A strand of saliva still connects you, snapping when she licks her lips, pupils blown wide with something dangerously close to obsession.

"You don't kiss her like that," she breathes, and it's not a question. It's a victory lap.

No, you don't.

Eunbi kisses soft, slow, careful—under the bleachers after school, sweet and innocent. Chaewon kisses like she wants to ruin you for anyone else. And you let her.

Your response is a sharp thrust, making her yelp, making her arms tighten around your shoulders. Her back arches off the bed, the tiny gold cross necklace her parents gave her for her birthday sliding against her collarbone, and you take the moment to move, dragging yourself out until just the tip remains before shoving back in, hard. Her breath hitches, body tightening, legs shaking.

Then you stop moving.

She whines immediately, brows furrowing, her legs squeezing around you, trying to force you to keep going. But you don't. You let the frustration build, watching her squirm, watching her writhe beneath you—wet, glistening, flushed deep with arousal. She's a fucking mess, and you're not done making her one.

You let the moment hang, let the desperation settle before tilting your head down and spitting—right on her clit. The thick glob lands exactly where you want it, shining against her swollen bud. Before she can even process it, your thumb is there, pressing in, rubbing it in slow, deliberate circles as you start moving again.

She chokes on her breath, body jolting like she just got caught cheating on a test.

"Fuck," she whimpers, fingers clawing at your forearms, legs shaking with every tight, controlled rub.

You're still hovering above her, watching her squirm, watching her fall apart beneath you, burning this image into your brain to replay during the classes you actually attend.

"Eunbi wouldn't let you do that," she gasps, voice breaking, teasing even as she crumbles, the same mouth that gives morning announcements over the school intercom now whimpering your name.

No, she wouldn't.

Eunbi wouldn't moan like this, wouldn't beg like this, wouldn't be dripping like this. Eunbi wouldn't take you like this, wouldn't even dream of skipping AP Lit to fuck in an empty house. Eunbi is SAT prep courses and college applications and volunteer hours.

Chaewon is this.

And that's why you fuck her harder.

Your thrusts grow rougher, deeper, driven by something reckless and insatiable, something you're too young to name but old enough to crave. Chaewon's body rocks beneath you, her moans turning sharper, breathless, spilling into the thick heat of the room. You press down, pinning her fully against the mattress, making sure she takes every inch, making sure she feels all of it.

Her nails scrape against your back, leaving marks that'll sting in the shower after practice, her legs tightening around your waist, pulling you closer, needing you deeper. Her breath stutters between gasps, each one catching higher as you fuck her harder, hungrier, as if there's no tomorrow—no girlfriend still calling, no consequence waiting outside this room, no college future that could evaporate if this gets out.

Risk of getting caught? Forgotten.

Guilt of cheating on your girlfriend? Forgotten.

Eunbi? Forgotten.

The only thing that matters is the way your cock fits so snug against Chaewon's walls, the way she clenches down, tight and desperate, squeezing you with every frantic, high-pitched moan as she completely loses all composure. The Queen Bee of your high school reduced to a whimpering mess beneath you.

She's right there, on the edge, her nails dragging, her hips bucking up, desperate to finish. But you don't let her have it. Not yet. Not when seeing her like this—completely undone, completely yours—is better than any high you've ever chased on the field.

You slow—not in pace, but in control. Shift your weight, dragging her with you, rolling her onto her side without ever slipping out. One of her legs hitches over yours, your grip securing it in place as you push in again, deeper, the angle hitting something inside her that makes her whimper, makes her entire body tense up like she's been shocked.

Her fingers claw at your arm, nails pressing into taut muscle built from varsity workouts, her breath breaking apart into sharp little gasps that fill the bedroom. She's trying to speak, trying to say something, but it keeps getting swallowed between ragged moans.

"I'm—" she tries, voice cracking, "I—fuck—"

The way she stumbles over it, how she can barely get the words out—the girl who always has a comeback, who never shuts up in class—makes something snap inside you. Your cock throbs, swelling even harder, stretching her more as her walls squeeze around you in desperation. Your grip tightens—on her thighs, her ass, her waist. You need to feel her, need to hold every part of her as she comes undone.

Your hands roam—palming the curve of her back, gripping her tits, feeling the way they bounce with every thrust. Then up, fingers tangling into her blonde hair, tugging her head back against the pillows, making sure she feels all of it, all of you.

She pulls a pillow close, biting into it, eyes squeezed shut, drowning in the way you fuck her. The room is thick with the sound of skin against skin, her breathless whimpers breaking into something higher, needier. The air is heavy, thick with sweat, with the intoxicating scent of her—her Victoria's Secret body spray mixing with the raw, musky heat of sex, the sheets carrying the evidence of it. It's overwhelming, suffocating, consuming, every breath filled with her.

You're barely holding on yourself, tension winding tight in your spine, in your stomach, but seeing her like this—seeing her break beneath you, seeing her fall apart in your hands—that's what pushes you closer to the edge.

You grit your teeth, feel your cock twitch inside her, aching, swollen, so fucking close you can taste it. "I'm close," you manage, voice rough, strained, barely holding on.

Chaewon doesn't answer—not with words. Just a moan, high-pitched and wrecked, a breathless whimper spilling past her swollen lips. She turns her head, eyes hazy, half-lidded, looking at you through the blur of sweat and pleasure. Her gaze drops, trailing down your body, watching the way you're fucking into her, the way you stretch her open, the way you own her—this girl who has everything, who everyone wants to be.

Then her hand moves—sliding between her legs, fingers brushing over her swollen, messy clit. She gasps at the contact, whines as she rubs tight, fast circles, her entire body tensing, back arching into you.

The slick, obscene sounds of it mix with her gasps, her slurred curses, her whimpers breaking into desperate, breathless pleas. "Fuck—fuck, fuck, fuck—"

You're right there. So fucking close. This moment of perfect, terrible clarity where nothing exists outside this room—not school, not your future, not even tomorrow.

Chaewon gets there first. Her entire body seizes up, legs trembling, thighs squeezing tight around your waist as she crashes into her orgasm. Her grip turns bruising, hands clawing at you—your back, your arms, your shoulders—grasping for anything, everything as she spirals.

"Oh my fuck!" she screams, head thrown back, voice breaking into something raw and desperate, loud enough that you're suddenly grateful her parents won't be home for hours.

That's it. That's what fucking wrecks you.

Your body locks up, heat pooling at the base of your spine, surging through you like a live wire, so intense it knocks the breath from your lungs. Your cock twitches violently inside her, pulsing, aching, your entire body seizing up—legs tensing, toes curling, muscles locking in place as the pleasure crashes through you. You bury yourself deep one last time before instinct kicks in, before you yank yourself out, your hands shoving her onto her back.

You stroke yourself fast, frantic, desperate, your abs clenching, hips jerking on instinct, chasing that last pulse of pleasure. The sight of her wrecked beneath you, her skin still flushed, her thighs twitching, sends you over the fucking edge. "Shit—" you groan, voice wrecked, guttural, as your cock throbs violently in your grip. The first thick spurt shoots out, streaking across her stomach, hot and filthy, splashing across the curve of her waist, her navel. The rest follows in messy ropes, dribbling down her skin, pooling between her ribs. It's everywhere—sticky, raw, a fucking mess. Chaewon shudders at the sensation, her breath hitching, her thighs still twitching from the aftershocks of her own release.

She exhales, still trembling, thighs twitching, completely spent. A fucked-out smile tugs lazily at her lips as she drags a slow, shaky breath in, her chest rising, coated in the evidence of what you just did to her.

You sit back, gasping, running a hand through your sweat-damp hair, trying to catch your breath. The room smells like sex and sweat and her perfume—a combination that's going to haunt your dreams for weeks.

Chaewon stirs, reaching down without hesitation. Her fingers trail over her stomach, gathering the mess you left on her, scooping up a streak from her skin and bringing it to her mouth. Her tongue flicks out, tasting it, humming low in her throat. Then she does it again—this time from her chest, then her waist, dragging her fingers through the sticky warmth, licking it up like it's second nature.

"Fuck," you breathe, voice wrecked, hand finding her thigh and squeezing it tight.

She moans softly at the contact, smirking as she stretches out beneath you, shameless. "You fucked the shit out of me," she purrs, voice thick, teasing. "Now you gonna think about it the next time you fuck Eunbi, huh?"

Your jaw tightens. The mention of her—your girlfriend—after everything you just did, after the way Chaewon looks right now, smug and satisfied and so fucking filthy, makes something snap.

Your hand flies to her throat, gripping, pinning her back into the sheets. She gasps, but it's not in protest—it's in pleasure. Her lips part, her breath hitches, eyes darkening as she tilts her chin up, inviting more, daring you.

And then your phone rings.

Not just a vibration this time. A full-blown call.

Loud. Shrill. Eunbi.

A cold weight sinks into your chest, heavy, suffocating. The real world crashing back in like a bucket of ice water.

Post-nut clarity slams into you, cutting through the heat still clinging to your skin. Everything crashes in at once—who you are, what you've done, what this means.

You let go of Chaewon's neck like she burns you, scrambling off of her, off the bed, reaching blindly for your phone. Your hands are still shaky as you grab it, answering as fast as you can, voice rough, breath unsteady.

"Hey."

Eunbi's voice is light, sweet, unaware. "Hey, why weren't you replying? It's class change."

Fuck. You swallow hard, running a hand through your damp hair. Your skin is still hot, sticky, the air thick with the lingering heat and smell of musk.

"Uh—I had to walk home to grab something."

A lie. A weak one. But it makes sense. You live close enough to the school that it's not impossible. You just hope she buys it, hope she doesn't hear how your heart is still hammering against your ribs.

"Oh," Eunbi hums. "I got worried."

As she talks, you don't notice Chaewon moving. Not until she's right there, sliding down the bed, her bare body pressing into your side, her face hovering way too close to your cock.

Your breath hitches. Your grip on the phone tightens.

She's smirking. Watching you. Waiting. The same look she gives when she knows the answer to a question no one else can solve.

"You weren't answering," Eunbi says. "I thought something happened."

"Sorry, babe. Didn't mean to worry you."

And that's when Chaewon makes her move.

She doesn't touch your cock. Not yet. Instead, her mouth goes lower, latching onto your balls, sucking wet and slow, tongue swirling over sensitive skin.

A bolt of heat spikes down your spine. Your muscles go tight, your breath cuts short, your fingers dig into the sheets.

"Shit," you almost say out loud—but bite your tongue last second.

Eunbi's still talking. You don't even register what she's saying. Something about meeting at lunch, something about the chem test next period.

Chaewon's fucking grinning, lips stretched around you, her eyes locked onto yours, waiting for you to slip up, to lose control, to moan or gasp or fucking break. The thrill of it clear in her eyes—the risk, the power she has over you right now.

You shove her back, her shoulders hitting the mattress, but all it does is make her giggle—low and sultry, like she's savoring your panic, like she enjoys watching you squirm. Too loudly. Dangerously loud.

Panic seizes your whole body. Your eyes go wide. You press a finger to your lips, mouthing, "Shhh."

Eunbi pauses on the other end. "You okay?"

You force yourself to act normal. To breathe. You push Chaewon away—physically shove her back. She pouts, but she listens, sitting back on her heels, smug and satisfied, before stretching her arms over her head, languid and unbothered. Then, just as easily, she steps off the bed, stretching like a cat, unbothered, like this was nothing more than a game to her.

"Yeah," you say, somehow steady. "I'm fine."

Through the phone, you hear Eunbi giggling, the sound of footsteps, her friends chattering in the background. She's walking to her next class. Completely unaware. The girlfriend who trusts you, who saves you a seat at lunch, who helps you study for tests you're barely passing.

"Okay," she says. "I'll see you at lunch then, babe. Love you."

Silence lingers. A pause that stretches too long.

You should say it back. You need to. But then, you look up.

Chaewon's standing at her closet, slipping on fresh clothes. Her ass is in clear view, the length of her body stretching as she moves, her legs lean and smooth. Her messy tank top clings to her body, damp with sweat, a streak of dried cum still visible on the fabric.

Your mouth feels dry. Your brain short-circuits, caught between what you should feel and what you do feel.

"I love you too," you manage to say, through everything weighing on you, and the call ends with a soft beep.

Chaewon turns to face you.

And she gives you a look.

Not smug. Not teasing.

Just dirty. Unreadable. Something dark and lingering in her eyes.

She doesn't say a word. Just grabs her shorts, turns, and walks out to the bathroom.

The door shuts.

You sit there, still gripping your phone, staring at the space she left behind. Your pulse won't slow down. Not from the panic. Not from the guilt. Not from the fact that even now, even after all of it—you still want her.

Your skin burns, your body tense, still stuck in it. Still feeling it. What you shouldn't have done. But you did. And the worst part? Some fucked-up part of you knows that if she pulled you back into that bed, you wouldn't stop her.

You should feel worse. You should hate yourself.

But Chaewon's still hot as fuck, and that's the problem.

AN: This was originally going to be a longer fic, but I ended up with a newer Chaewon idea, and she’s my ult bias so i cut this down to just the sex.

Sorry to all the Eunbi fans, dw she’ll get her own

#malereader #kpop smut #chaewon #chaewon x reader #cloudtsmut

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saebs-index · 10 days ago

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⚡︎ astrology observations dos

⟡ neptune in the 1st house is like the ultimate worldwide fame placement. especially for singers though. these people tend to have lots of artistic talents - ex: almost all of bts has it in either their western or sidereal chart

⟡ i’ve become a firm believer that certain placements really just weren’t meant for marriage or finding a soulmate in this lifetime. some people naturally just function better when they’re alone and thrive more that way. most commonly uranian dominant people. however i still do think they have platonic soulmates

⟡ a lot of celebrities who have similar placements to another celebrity get accused of copying them but i think it’s simply that they just have similar energies in their chart. like i used to always see people compare madison beer to ariana grande when they’re both libra moons so they could just have a similar sound or similar interests when it comes to aesthetics (even though i think they’re pretty diff for the most part but whatever)

⟡ eighth house venus’/pluto in the 7th house people i’ve met actually like people to obsess over them but not always in an obvious way if that makes sense. like they’re the type that would be flattered by finding out their crush had a secret box with their underwear and perfume in it

⟡ the stereotype of leos being loyal is so untrue for western astrology. that definitely only applies to sidereal astrology. idc. every western leo i’ve met (especially the men) never care about being loyal. western virgos/sidereal leos are usually super loyal though

⟡ pluto in the 1st house in solar return can indicate a major transformation with your appearance occurring that year. the specific change would vary based on the rest of your solar return chart for the year but most often it’s either weight loss or weight gain

⟡ not having success/wealth/fame placements doesn’t mean you can’t gain these things in life. it just means it may not be as easy for you as it is with someone that has one of the main fame/success placements like jupiter in the 10th house or their sun in the 10th house. you will have to work harder for it

i’m a realist and extremely honest, sorry not sorry.

#astrology observations #saebs-index

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lovelyspring7 · 5 months ago

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Black Pearl (Pt. 3) | Yandere JJK x Reader

Preview: Jungkook always got what he wanted. And he wanted you. Dangerous. Obsessive. You ran, but he was never going to let you stay gone. Because pearls aren’t born from perfection. They’re born from pain. A wound, buried deep, pressed and shaped until it becomes something rare. Precious. And you? You were his pearl. And this time, he won’t let you slip away so easily.

Word count: 17k

Genre: Yandere

Pairing: CEO Billionaire Jungkook x reader.

Warnings: Yandere, smut (praise kink, soft dominance, oral, edging, overstimulation, creampie, mild breath play), stalking, obsessive behaviour, kidnapping, manipulation, controlling & emotionally abusive behaviour, self starvation, self inflicted injury.

Disclaimer: This type of content is not suitable for all audiences and I do not condone any of the presented behaviour. This is purely for entertainment and fictional purposes and I don’t think any BTS member would act like this.

Author's note: The final chapter of the Pearl series is here! It’s truly been a journey, what started as a simple one-shot has now transformed into a full three-part series lol. Can’t wait to know what you guys think of this long awaited chapter! Don’t be a silent reader, show some support and feedback!💜

Read Part 1 Here | Read Part 2 Here

Jungkook couldn’t sleep.

For the third night in a row, the bed felt too cold. Too empty.

The penthouse, with its towering windows and sprawling view of the city, offered no comfort. The soft hum of traffic below only amplified the silence pressing in, the void you’d left behind. The space where you used to sleep, beside him, against him, was untouched. Undisturbed.

The scent of you was already fading. That delicate trace of vanilla, once clinging to his pillows, was now nothing but a phantom he couldn't chase. And still, it haunted him.

His hand drifted across the sheets, fingers searching for a warmth that wasn’t there. How many nights had he held you close, pressing his lips to your hair as you slept, the steady rise and fall of your breath easing something sharp inside him?

Now, there was nothing.

All he had was silence.

He missed your laugh, that soft, breathless sound when he held you too long while watching late-night movies. The way you’d roll your eyes, teasing him for being too clingy.

You were his. Safe. Perfect. Until you weren’t.

And now, the pain in his chest twisted deeper with every hour you were gone.

He had been patient. He had given you space. Three days. Three days too long.

And all it had done was prove what he already knew.

You weren’t safe out there. Not without him.

And if you wouldn’t come back willingly? He’d bring you home himself.

Jungkook’s jaw tightened as he sat up. His black hair strands over his forehead, messy from restless tossing, the ends curling slightly against his temples. He dragged a hand through it, pushing it back in a slow, frustrated motion.

The pain of your absence wasn’t just a wound.

It was a void.

And he was done waiting.

The rain pounded against the thin windows of the dingy motel room, a relentless rhythm that matched the frantic beat of your heart. The air smelled of damp carpet and stale cigarettes, the kind of place no one asked questions, a perfect hiding spot, for now.

You sat on the edge of the unmade bed, arms wrapped around your knees, your body trembling despite the layers of clothing you’d borrowed from Bora. The oversized hoodie swallowed your frame, the scent of her perfume lingering faintly as if it could somehow protect you from the icy grip of fear pressing against your chest.

The cash Bora had given you was already running low, the stack of bills feeling smaller each time you counted it. You hadn’t slept. Not really. Every creak of the floorboards, every shadow shifting outside the window made your pulse race.

He could be out there. He was out there. But you couldn’t think about that. Not yet. You have made it this far. You had escaped him, for now.

The cheap motel phone sat untouched on the nightstand. No messages. No calls. No way to reach out. You couldn't risk it. He had made you disappear once already, who's to say he couldn't erase you completely this time? But even as you tried to calm yourself, your mind whispered cruel truths.

He’s looking for you.

He never stopped.

And deep down, you knew that this wasn’t freedom.

The shower sputtered weakly, lukewarm water cascading over your shoulders as you stood under the spray, hands tangled in your wet hair. The tension in your muscles hadn’t eased, it felt as though it were pressing into your bones. You had been running on fear for days. The motel’s water pressure barely did anything to wash the grime from your skin, but it was the first moment of quiet you’d allowed yourself. Alone. Hidden. At least, for now.

You tilted your head back, fingers massaging your scalp, when-

There.

A small bump.

You froze, fingertips brushing over the back of your neck again, right at the base of your hairline. It was subtle, barely noticeable, but unmistakable now that you’d felt it. Your pulse roared in your ears, the water no longer soothing but deafening.

No. No, no, no.

It couldn’t be.

A tracker.

The nausea hit fast, your stomach twisting as panic set in. You pressed both palms against the cool tiles, breaths shallow, the water blurring your vision as it ran down your face.

That son of a bitch.

He had tagged you.

A shaky, horrified breath escaped your lips. You needed to get it out. Now.

Ripping the towel from the rack, you wrapped it around yourself and stumbled out of the bathroom, dripping water onto the worn motel carpet. The tiny blade you’d swiped from the first-aid kit sat on the nightstand.

Your hands shook as you dialed the front desk.

“Front desk. How can I help you?”

“I-" your voice cracked, but you forced it calm. "I need a first aid kit delivered to my room. Please, it’s urgent.”

“Of course, ma’am. Someone will be up shortly.”

You hung up, staring at your reflection in the dim motel mirror.

It’s fine. You could do this.

The first slice was brutal, the sharp sting making you wince as the blade nicked the sensitive skin at the base of your neck. Blood beaded instantly, but you pressed on, teeth gritted as you dug deeper, forcing yourself not to stop.

And then, there.

A hard bump.

It shifted beneath your fingers, foreign and wrong.

You had to get it out.

Pinching it, nails slick with blood, you yanked the tiny object free with a wet snap. The pain was instant, sharp, but the chip, barely the size of a grain of rice, sat trembling in your palm.

You stared at it, chest heaving. He had tracked every move you took.

Rage burned hotter than fear. Without hesitating, you slammed the metal edge down on the chip, grinding it into the nightstand with all the force you could muster. The delicate material cracked under the pressure, shattering completely beneath the blade.

Gone.

You won.

A knock echoed through the room. The first aid kit. Relief flooded you so hard your knees almost buckled. Finally.

Without hesitation, you unlocked the door, the towel still clutched loosely around your chest, hair dripping down your back.

You swung the door open wide.

And there he was.

Jungkook.

Dripping from the rain, black hair clinging to his forehead in damp strands. Soaked, but unmoving. Water streamed down his pale skin, tracing the lines of his jaw.

The first aid kit you had asked for was clutched loosely in his hand.

His eyes, darker than you’d ever seen, seemed to pierce through the dim light, stormy and unreadable, yet fixed unrelentingly on yours.

For a heartbeat, the world stilled. You couldn’t breathe. The towel slipped an inch lower on your shoulder, the sting at the back of your neck flaring as the open wound met cold air.

His gaze dropped.

Saw the blood.

You didn’t even get a chance to speak before his hand shot out.

Fingers wrapping around your throat.

Not choking. Not yet. Just holding. Firm enough to pin you against the doorframe as his other hand slid up the side of your neck- brushing over the cut, making you wince. Then he saw it. The torn skin. His thumb grazed the blood on your skin, his breathing ragged, his soaked shirt clinging to every tense muscle.

When he spoke, it wasn’t loud. It was soft. Deceptively calm.

“What. Did. You. Do?”

You swallowed harshly, pulse hammering beneath his touch. His cold fingertips against your raw skin sent a shiver through you, but it wasn’t from the pain. It was the look in his eyes, dark, calculating, unreadable.

“I asked you,” he repeated, softer this time, more dangerous, “what did you do?”

Your eyes flicked toward the crushed remains of the tracker, the fragments of it scattered across the nightstand. His eyes followed. And then something shifted behind those dark eyes. Understanding. Realization.

His fingers curled tighter around your neck, but it wasn’t the pressure that scared you most. It was the heartbreak you saw cracking through his rage. You swallowed hard, voice trapped somewhere between a sob and a whimper.

He studied the wound at the back of your neck. For a moment, his lips parted like he was about to speak, but instead, his hand dropped to your wrist, holding it firmly but without the earlier desperation.

You winced as he turned you slightly, his eyes narrowing at the crimson streaks staining your skin. The cut, still raw, an angry slash where you’d torn the tracker from your flesh. His jaw flexed, the tension visible in his shoulders as if the sight of you hurt was somehow a personal attack.

“You could have seriously hurt yourself,” he muttered under his breath, voice lower now, controlled. But his hand trembled slightly as he released your wrist, his fingers ghosting over the wound again, almost hesitant. Almost gentle.

You stayed frozen, heart hammering, the sharp pain pulsing with every beat. Without another word, Jungkook turned, reaching instead for the small first-aid kit you’d called down for.

He unzipped it with a single sharp motion, tossing the contents onto the bed with practiced efficiency. Alcohol wipes, gauze, antiseptic, a small roll of medical tape. His hand hovered briefly over the disinfectant before grabbing it, his knuckles pale with restraint as he returned to you.

“Sit,” he ordered softly, nodding toward the bed.

You didn’t move. Not right away.

The flare in his eyes returned, but he didn’t force you. Not this time. He just stared, voice tight. “Please.”

Slowly, cautiously, you sank onto the edge of the bed, the towel still damp around your body as you watched him kneel before you, his damp hair curling over his forehead. His soaked clothes clung to him, but he didn’t seem to notice, or care. All his focus was on you.

“This is going to sting,” he warned, peeling the cap off some bootle with a soft pop.

You flinched when he gently tilted your head to the side, exposing the wound fully. The cold air made the cut throb, but it was nothing compared to the sharp sting of whatever he was using. You gasped, body jerking slightly as the pain flared.

“Easy,” he murmured, his free hand bracing your shoulder, thumb tracing soothing circles against your collarbone. “It’s almost done.” His voice was softer now, less like the man who had just cornered you and more like... something else. Something frighteningly tender.

He was quiet as he worked. His fingers were precise, methodical, but the way they lingered, soft brushes against your skin. When he secured the gauze with medical tape, he finally exhaled, his hands lingering at the sides of your neck for a heartbeat too long. His head dropped forward, his damp hair brushing your shoulder as he stayed there, breathing deeply, as though he was grounding himself in your presence, trying to steady the storm beneath his surface.

You could feel the tension in his body, as though he might shatter if you moved. But you didn’t. Couldn’t. Because despite everything, despite the anger, the fear, this closeness felt dangerous in an entirely different way. His warmth, his tenderness, it whispered of something terrifying. And yet, when he spoke, the tenderness cracked.

His fingers ghosted over your jaw, so light you barely felt them. But the way his voice broke sent a chill through your veins. “You never stopped running. You never even looked back.”

“You thought you could just leave me,” he whispered, voice trembling with restrained fury. “That you could run, disappear, like I wouldn’t burn the whole world down looking for you?”

Tears burned behind your eyes, but you blinked them back, chest heaving. “You... you chipped me Jungkook. You didn’t give me a choice.”

His lips twisted, something bitter curling the edges of his mouth. “I gave you everything. I made sure you were safe, well taken care of. Protected, loved…”

You shook your head, struggling to speak as his grip lingered. “That’s not love, Jungkook. That’s control.”

For a moment, the storm in his eyes faltered. “You don’t understand,” he whispered, voice breaking, “I can’t lose you. Not again.”

The vulnerability was so brief, so fleeting, it almost felt like a trick. But you saw it, the cracks in his armor, the fracture behind his anger. And then, just as quickly, it was gone. His jaw clenched.

“You’re coming home,” he said, voice resolute, as if there had never been another choice.

You shook your head, “No. You can’t-”

“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” his breath warm against your face. “I told you before. I would never hurt you. But this? This? You’re hurting yourself. You’re lost without me.”

“I’m not-”

“You are.” His voice was a low snarl now, but there was an ache beneath it. “You think this is freedom? Hiding out in a place like this? Looking over your shoulder every second, terrified? That’s not living, baby. That’s suffering.”

You tried to push against his chest, but he didn’t budge. He was a wall, an immovable force caging you in.

“I was fine before you,” you whispered, voice cracking.

His lips curled into a bitter smile, shaking his head. “No, you weren’t. You were lonely. You were scared. You let men watch you every night because you thought you had no other choice. But I” His hand brushing over your waist. “I gave you one. I took care of you. And you ran.”

Your entire body trembling as the weight of it crashed down. He was everything you feared. Who did he think he was? Twisting your choices, your pain, into something he could control.

“Let me go,” you demanded.

His eyes darkened, “no.”

And just like that, the storm returned. His grip shifted, rougher now as he cupped your face, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You’ve had your freedom,” he hissed, the pain in his voice undeniable. “Three days. Three days without me, and look at you. Bleeding. Shaking. Scared.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he wasn’t listening.

“I’ve been generous, haven’t I? But I can’t do this anymore. I won’t.” He whispered, pressing his forehead against yours.

“Stay with me. Love me. Try to love me back.”

Your voice was barely a whisper. “And if I say no?”

The answer was already there in his eyes. The anger. The twisted devotion.

“Then I’ll give you what you want,” he said softly. “You want to be alone?”

His hand fell away from your face, his expression hardening, voice chilling.

“Then be alone.”

Your stomach twisted as the meaning sank in, but before you could process it fully, Jungkook moved, so quick, so controlled. His hand clamped around your wrist as he pulled you forward with terrifying ease.

“No!” you gasped, struggling, twisting against his grip, but it was like fighting against iron. “You don’t get to- Jungkook, let me go!”

He didn’t speak, didn’t react. His face was void of emotion now. When you twisted harder, thrashing, his grip only tightened, dragging you toward the door.

“Please,” your voice cracked, desperate. “You can’t do this!”

“I can,” he said darkly, yanking the door open. “And I will.”

The storm outside raged as he hauled you into the rain. You fought, kicking, clawing, nails digging into his wrist as the cold downpour soaked you both. But it didn’t matter. He barely faltered.

You caught glimpses of him through the rain, the sharp lines of his jaw, the muscles in his forearm flexing as he held you fast. His soaked shirt clung to him, but his expression remained blank. Detached.

Like he wasn’t even there.

“Stop! Jungkook, stop! You can’t make me stay with you!” you screamed, voice raw, trying to dig your heels into the wet pavement.

He said nothing.

The sleek black car waited just outside the motel. The door opened with a mechanical click as Jungkook shoved it open, dragging you inside despite your thrashing.

“Get off me!”

But the door slammed shut, trapping you.

The rain blurred against the glass, muted as the lock clicked softly into place. Jungkook climbed into the driver’s seat, soaked to the bone, silent. His chest heaved, hair plastered to his forehead, but he refused to meet your eyes. The quiet inside the car was deafening.

“Jungkook,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Please.”

Still, nothing. Just the sound of the rain and the steady hum of the engine as he pulled onto the street. The city lights bled past in streaks of white and orange, distorted through the water clinging to the windows.

The fight in you was waning, your body exhausted from struggling. Still, you refused to give up. Not yet.

You pressed yourself against the door, heart hammering. “Where are you taking me?”

A beat passed.

Then, finally, his voice broke through the quiet.

“Home.”

----------

The rain pounded harder against the windows as the black car sped through the city, the rhythmic drumming a sharp contrast to the suffocating silence inside. The leather seats were cool beneath your bare legs, the damp towel clinging to your skin, and every bump in the road made you acutely aware of how exposed you were.

Jungkook hadn't said a word since he said where he was taking you. His steady grip on the steering wheel was far too calm for someone who had just dragged you from a motel against your will.

You shifted uncomfortably, clutching the towel tighter around your chest, heart still racing. The streetlights flickered past, blurry through the rain, but your mind kept circling back to the same desperate thought. Someone could see you.

A girl in a towel, dripping wet, visibly distressed, someone might notice. Someone might help. The tension only thickened when Jungkook’s voice finally cut through the quiet, low and steady.

“Change into these.”

Your head snapped toward him just in time to see him reach toward the backseat, one hand still on the wheel. He tossed a bundle of clothing onto your lap, his sweatpants, a black hoodie, and a pair of flip-flops. The fabric was warm, soft, and smelled unmistakably like him. You stared down at the clothes like they might burn you.

“No.”

His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. "Put them on."

You shook your head, pulse hammering harder now. “No.”

His gaze flicked toward you, dangerously calm. “You’re soaked. You're freezing. Put them on.”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady despite the panic rising in your chest. “I’m not changing.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

You gripped the towel tighter, not saying anything. The brake lights ahead glowed red, painting his face in shadows as he slowed for the stoplight. And then, he turned to you. His voice dropped to a whisper.

“You think someone will save you?”

You stayed silent, too afraid to answer.

He didn’t blink. “Listen very carefully.” His voice was soft, “You will put those clothes on. Now. Or I will pull this car over and dress you myself.”

Your breath caught. You could feel the weight of his control in the way he said it, the promise behind those words leaving no room for argument. A car passed by in the opposite direction, headlights flashing across his face. The shadows in his eyes deepened, unrelenting.

“I’m being generous,” he whispered. “Don’t make me remind you what happens when you push me.”

The stoplight turned green. The car surged forward. And you knew, deep down, he wasn’t bluffing. With trembling hands, you reached for the hoodie.

The hoodie felt heavier than it should have, the fabric warm but stifling as you unfolded it with shaky fingers. Your heart pounded as you clutched the material, hesitating, half-expecting him to reach over and force it onto you himself. He didn’t. But his silence was far worse.

The only sound was the steady rhythm of rain against the windshield, the soft hum of the tires on wet pavement. Jungkook’s knuckles stayed pale against the steering wheel, his profile carved from stone, unreadable and cold.

You bit your lip, turning slightly in the seat, as much as the seatbelt allowed, and slowly, so slowly, peeled the towel away just enough to slip the hoodie over your head. The fabric swallowed you whole, the sleeves hanging past your hands, but at least it covered you.

The scent of him hit you instantly, familiar, overwhelming, like the last three days had never even happened. Your stomach twisted violently, teeth sinking deeper into your lip as you fought the sting behind your eyes.

You weren’t free. You’d never been free.

The sweatpants were next. The damp towel fell away entirely as you wiggled into them, struggling with the heavy fabric. They were far too big, bunching awkwardly at your ankles, the waistband nearly slipping down despite the drawstring tied tight. The flip-flops came last, the rubber cold against your still-damp feet.

You felt ridiculous. Humiliated. But most of all, trapped.

Jungkook hadn’t said a word. Just a few glances your way as you finish dressing.

The city lights blurred outside the rain-streaked window, neon reflections rippling across the glass. The tension was unbearable, pressing in on all sides.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

“Why are you doing this?” Your voice was hoarse, barely louder than a whisper.

Jungkook didn’t respond. Not at first. Then, with agonizing slowness, his fingers flexed on the steering wheel. His gaze remained fixed on the road, but his voice, when it came, was devastatingly calm.

“Because you belong to me.”

Your breath caught. “No, I-”

“You do.” The words lashed through the air, sharp enough to cut. His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking just beneath the surface. “And you’ve already proven you can’t be trusted on your own.”

You shook your head. “I was fine.”

“You were bleeding in a motel room. Alone.” His voice dropped lower. “That’s not fine. That’s you falling apart without me.”

You stared at him, heart pounding so loud you could barely hear the rain anymore. The car slowed. The entrance to his penthouse garage loomed ahead, the metal gate rising automatically as he approached.

Panic gripped you in full force, your hands curling into fists against the hoodie. “Jungkook, please, just- just let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I won’t.”

His head turned, his eyes met yours fully. The look in them shattered your words completely. Deadly. Devastating. And worst of all, aching.

“I already let you go,” he whispered. “Three days. I gave you three days. And all you did was run yourself into the ground.”

The car pulled into the garage with a soft hum, the doors locking the second it came to a stop. The rain had slowed, a dull patter echoing in the silence.

You were trapped. Completely.

And you could feel it in the air, the shift. The way his control tightened like an invisible leash. Jungkook exhaled, his hands finally leaving the wheel. For a long moment, he just stared ahead. Silent. Tense.

Then, without warning, he turned to you. His voice was quiet. Too quiet.

“Come inside.”

You shook your head violently.

“Fine.”

The sound of the driver’s door opening made your stomach twist. He walked over and opened your door.

“Jungkook.”

His hands were gentle when they closed around your wrist. But firm. You fought, thrashing in the seat, but his grip only tightened, dragging you forward until your feet hit the garage floor. The damp flip-flops slapped weakly against the concrete, barely making a sound.

“Don��t,” you gasped, twisting. “Please!”

He didn’t respond. He just scooped you into his arms, your body going weightless as he carried you toward the elevator, holding you close like you were fragile, like he cared. But you knew the truth.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and your heart nearly stopped.

No.

Not here. Not again.

You fought harder, hands pushing at his chest, but he didn’t budge. His grip stayed, his face betraying nothing but calm control as he stepped inside. The doors slid shut.

And you knew.

You were back in his world. And no one was coming to save you.

----------

The penthouse loomed, all glass and cold marble, the rain blurring the city skyline beyond its massive windows. The space was as you remembered, pristine, expensive. But there was a weight now. A darkness you couldn’t shake.

The elevator doors slid shut behind you both with a soft chime, the sound barely audible over the pounding of your heart. Jungkook’s arms remained locked around you, holding you securely against his chest as he carried you through the silent halls.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t look at you.

The only sound was the faint hum of the rain against the windows and the measured rhythm of his breathing, calm, controlled. But you could feel it, the tension tight beneath his skin, the restraint in every step he took.

“Jungkook, put me down” your voice cracked. He didn’t. Not until he stopped. In front of a door you didn’t recognize.

You stiffened, stomach twisting. “What is this?”

He didn’t answer. Not with words. The door swung open with a quiet click. The room inside stole the breath from your lungs. It wasn’t like the rest of the penthouse. No sharp, black marble. No cold steel fixtures. This was... warm.

The walls are painted in a soft colour, the exact shade you’d once offhandedly mentioned loving. Shelves filled with your favorite books and ones you've wanted to read. The bed, covered in rose-scented sheets you recognized instantly, and a cozy reading nook, complete with a folded blanket draped carefully over the cushion.

It smelled like you. It felt like... you.

Jungkook’s arms finally loosened. Gently, he lowered you onto the bed. The plush mattress sank beneath your weight, but the moment your feet touched the floor, you recoiled, heart slamming against your ribs.

“This, this isn’t…”

“Yours,” he finished, voice soft. He crouched before you, at the edges as he met your gaze. “This is yours. I made it for you.”

Your breath hitched, horror crawling up your spine. He had built this. Every detail. Every scent. This wasn’t care. It was a cage disguised as a gift.

You shook your head, throat tightening. “You can’t, you planned this. You can’t just lock me in here and expect me to follow though.”

His hands caught your face, cupping it so gently it almost felt like a lie. “I’m giving you a choice.” His voice trembled, his thumbs brushing along your cheekbones as his gaze bored into yours. “I’ve been patient. I let you run. I gave you time. And all you did was tear yourself apart. You were hurting.”

His voice broke. “And I can’t lose you. I won’t.”

You shook your head violently, but his grip only softened, his forehead pressing to yours, damp hair sticking to your skin. “You’re mine,” he whispered, “Stay with me. Love me. Try to love me back.”

Tears welled in your eyes. “You can’t force love, Jungkook.”

His face twisted, pained, but still, he didn’t let go. “I’m not forcing you,” he whispered, voice barely audible. “I’m saving you.”

You tried to pull back. His grip didn’t budge.

“So what?” your voice shook. “You’re going to keep me locked here? Make me stay until I say the words you want to hear?”

The answer was already there. Written in his eyes. The ache. The obsession. The broken devotion. His hands dropped. And the softness was gone.

“Then be alone,” he said, voice hollow.

Before you could react, he stepped back.

The door clicked shut.

You lunged for it.

Too late.

The lock engaged with a soft, damning click.

“Jungkook!” Your fists slammed against the door, voice breaking. “Don’t do this! Let me out!”

Silence.

No footsteps. No threats. Just you. Alone. In a room made for you.

It wasn’t love. It was a prison.

And Jungkook wasn’t going to let you go.

----------

Day 1

You screamed at the door. Pounded your fists until they ached, your throat hurting from calling his name over and over. No response. No one came. A small, square opening at the bottom of the door, just large enough for a tray, slid open on silent hinges. A meal. Gourmet. Expensive. The kind of meal you used to love. You didn’t touch it.

Day 2

You stayed curled on the floor, refusing the bed. Refusing comfort. The room, so carefully crafted to mimic everything you loved, only made it worse. His presence clung to the sheets, to the perfectly chosen vanilla-scented candles on the nightstand. You couldn’t escape him here. But it wasn’t the comfort he wanted you to feel.It was control. And the silence pressed heavier with each passing hour.

Day 3

Your stomach ached. The small panel slid open again. Another tray appeared. Steaming food, carefully arranged, as if he had personally chosen every dish. The scent lingered in the air longer this time, making your stomach twist painfully. But you stayed on the floor, glaring at the tray like it was poison. Until the hunger gnawed so deep it felt like your ribs might cave in. You gave in, just a little. Two bites. A few sips of water. It was enough to take the edge off. Barely. But you hated the way it felt like you had given up.

Day 4

You spoke aloud, just to hear something. Your voice cracked, hoarse from dehydration. A whisper.

The silence mocked you.

Day 5

You ate half the meal. Not because you wanted to. But because you had to. You were trembling. Dizzy. And the tray slid open like clockwork. Silent. Unchanging.

Day 6

You were counting the ticks of the clock.

Waiting.

Day 7

You were trembling. Dizzy. Your stomach had dulled into something hollow, no longer sharp but lingering, a constant reminder of how weak you’d become. The tray slid open. Silent. Unchanging. A fresh meal. Water. Neatly arranged, as if this wasn’t a prison but a carefully curated illusion of care.

You stared at it for a long time. You didn’t touch it. Not yet.

The silence felt heavier today, pressing in on all sides. The ticking of the clock had become unbearable, a steady, relentless rhythm mocking the pulse hammering beneath your skin. The books on the shelf blurred together when you stared at them too long. The soft sheets felt like a trap rather than comfort. And the loneliness, the loneliness was suffocating.

You sat on the floor, back pressed against the wall, knees drawn to your chest. The hunger gnawed, but it wasn’t the worst part anymore. It was the quiet. No voices. No sound beyond the clock and the faint hum of the ventilation system. You hadn’t heard him. Not once. Not his voice. Not his footsteps. Nothing. And somehow, that was worse than his presence. Because deep down, you knew he was watching.

You could feel it. That unbearable tension in the air, the invisible weight pressing down on your chest. You imagined him behind a screen somewhere, waiting. Studying. Calculating how long it would take for you to break completely.

And the most infuriating part was...

It was working.

You hadn’t eaten everything on the tray the last few days. But you’d eaten enough. And with every bite, shame curdled in your stomach, the bitter truth settling in. You were already losing.

And Jungkook knew it.

----------

Day 8

The door slot slid open at the same time it always did, another tray. But this time, something was different. Beside the untouched plate of food sat a cup of tea. Your favorite. Steaming. Fresh.

Your stomach twisted as you stared at it, the familiar scent filling the room, so gentle yet overwhelming. It wasn’t just tea. It was a message. A whisper through the silence.

I’m still watching you.

You clenched your jaw and shoved the tray back toward the door without taking a sip.

Day 9

The hunger was unbearable now. You hated the way your body trembled when you stood, knees buckling. The pounding in your skull made everything blurry, the edges of the room tilting.

When the tray arrived this time, you didn’t shove it back. Not right away. Your stomach had gnawed too deep, wearing down your defiance. You forced yourself to eat. Just a little. Enough to stop the dizziness. The tea was gone this time. The blanket you had ignored for days? You dragged it onto the bed that night, curling beneath it despite yourself. Pressing your face into the pillow, trying to block out the smell of him lingering faintly in the fabric.

You hated how much you missed the sound of his voice.

Day 10

It was quiet.

You found yourself standing in front of the bookshelf, fingers trailing over the spines. The books were yours. The same worn covers, the same creases where you had folded pages. You pulled one down, a comfort read. Something you knew by heart. And a piece of paper fluttered from between the pages. A note.

Four words, written in the same sharp, elegant script you knew far too well: “Reading this again baby?”

You crushed the note in your fist, heart pounding so violently it hurt. You hated him. Hated the way he was always in your head. But hours later, you still found yourself reading the book. Turning the pages like they might somehow drown out the loneliness.

Day 11

You woke suddenly that night. Not because of a nightmare, but because of a sound. Footsteps. Soft, deliberate, right outside the door.

Him

You froze, breath caught in your chest, listening as the steps paused. He's here. He's right there. Your heart pounded louder. Waiting. He’s going to come in. He has to. But the door never opened.

The footsteps faded. You stared at the door for a long, long time after that.

Day 12

You didn’t even realize you were doing it at first. The words just spilled out, a broken whisper into the empty room. “Why are you doing this?” Silence. “Why won’t you face me? Say something! Anything. If you’re watching, just- just talk to me!” The only answer was the steady ticking of the clock. And somehow, it was worse than hearing his voice.

Day 13

The tray arrived. This time, along with the untouched food, there was something else. A small music box. You hesitated, fingers trembling as you lifted it. Delicate. Fragile. When you twisted the key, a soft, haunting melody filled the room. The same song you’d hum when showering. He remembered. He always remembered. With a broken sob, you hurled the music box across the room. The melody cut off with a sharp, metallic crack. Shattered. Just like you. But later that night, as you sat curled in the corner, you found yourself picking up the broken pieces.

Day 14

The silence was unbearable now. You were curled beneath the blanket, barely able to focus, when the static crackled softly through the ceiling. You jolted upright. His voice, smooth, calm, filled the room.

"You're not eating enough."

Your breath caught. Hands clenching into fists. “Stop it! Just leave me alone!”

The speaker remained quiet for a moment before his voice returned, quieter. Steadier.

"You can keep fighting me... but I won't let you waste away."

Rage flared hot. “You’re trying to break me! You don’t care. You never cared.”

Silence.

You screamed, hurling the empty tea cup across the room. It shattered against the wall, pieces scattering across the floor.

But he didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. Because deep down, you could feel it. The cracks forming in your defiance. And Jungkook knew you were breaking.

Day 15

It was the middle of the night when the speaker crackled again. You were half-asleep, curled on the bed with the blanket wrapped tightly around you. When his voice cut through the quiet, your eyes snapped open.

"Did you sleep better tonight?"

You swallowed hard, heart pounding. Your throat felt tight, sore from days of yelling that had long since stopped. “I’m fine,” you whispered, though no part of you felt fine.

There was a pause, a soft static hum lingering before he spoke again.

"I miss you."

You shut your eyes, fighting the tears burning at the corners.

Day 16

The next time the speaker turned on, his voice was softer.

"I only want to keep you safe. Look at you now... You're just hurting yourself. This isn't what I wanted."

You stayed silent, curled on the floor, facing away from the door. Your chest ached as you pressed your hands against your ears. But even then, you could still hear him. Gentle. Soothing. "You don’t have to be alone." You hated how badly you wanted to believe him.

Day 17

The next food tray wasn’t like the others. There was food, yes. But also, a single white rose. Beautiful. Your stomach twisted as you stared at it. The same flower he had given you when you first started to meet. A symbol. A reminder. You wanted to throw it away. Smash it. Instead, you set it carefully on the nightstand.

Day 18

You woke up shaking. A nightmare, dark and suffocating. The room felt smaller today, colder. Lonelier.

You sat by the door, knees drawn to your chest, speaking to the silence like it might answer back.

“Jungkook... please. Just talk to me.”

Silence.

You pressed your forehead against the wood, voice breaking. “Please...” But he didn’t answer. And somehow, that hurt more.

Day 19

The tea returned. This time, it wasn’t just tea. A slice of strawberry cake sat neatly beside it. The kind you used to share with him, back when he’d seemed... softer. Safer. You stared at the tray for hours. The sweetness felt too much like a trick. But eventually, you caved. The tea was warm, the cake sweet and rich on your tongue. Comforting in a way you hadn't felt in weeks. You hated that it made you feel better.

Day 20

You were pacing. The walls felt closer. The silence is heavier. The loneliness clawed deeper with every passing hour. You found yourself lingering at the door. Waiting. Listening for footsteps. For him. But no one came. You whispered into the empty air. “I hate you.” But it sounded so much weaker than before.

Day 21

The speaker crackled back to life just after you had finished eating. You didn’t even flinch this time. "I’m proud of you." His voice was low, soothing, so calm it made your chest ache. "You’re taking care of yourself again. That’s good. I told you I wouldn’t let you hurt yourself."

You stared at the untouched rose, wilting slightly in its glass. "I’ll be with you soon." And you didn’t know whether the fear twisting inside you... was still just fear. Or something worse.

Day 22

The speaker remained silent all day. No soft reassurances. No sweet words drifting through the room. Just silence. And it was louder than anything else. You found yourself pressing your ear against the door, straining for the sound of footsteps. Waiting. Hoping.

But there was nothing.

Day 23

You couldn’t take it anymore.

The weight of the quiet pressed too hard, suffocating every thought in your mind. So when the speaker finally crackled to life that evening, you spoke first.

"Jungkook?" Your voice was fragile, breaking with every syllable.

The silence lingered. Then, softly "Yes?" You closed your eyes, hating how much relief bloomed in your chest just from the sound of him.

"...Why won’t you come in?"

The pause that followed stretched too long. Then, his voice returned, softer. "You’re not ready yet."

You clenched your fists, trembling. "You don’t get to decide that!"

"I do."

And then the speaker cut off.

Day 24

The next tray arrived with something new.

Resting beside the plate was the pearl necklace.

Untouched. Perfectly intact.

You stared at it, pulse rising, throat tightening as you remembered the weight of it against your skin, the way he’d fastened it himself the night he gave it to you.

There was no note. No message. Just the necklace. A silent reminder. You left it on the tray. But you didn’t push it away.

Day 25

The room felt utterly unbearable now.

No matter how you shifted, how you paced, there was no comfort. The books blurred together. The food was tasteless. The scent of the room.

You wanted out.

Just... anything but this silence.

You whispered, voice broken, “Please... I’m sorry.”

But there was no answer.

Day 26

The tears came unexpectedly.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until the sobs shook your chest, your body trembling as you curled into the bed.

It wasn’t just the loneliness anymore.

It was the pain of being ignored.

You had screamed his name a hundred times before.

But tonight, you whispered it like a prayer. "Jungkook... please."

And he still didn’t come.

Day 27

You heard it.

A soft click. The sound of the lock shifting.

You sat up so fast the room spun, heart racing as you stumbled toward the door, pressing both hands against it.

It didn’t open.

But it was unlocked.

For the first time.

Your pulse pounded louder than ever before. Was it a trick? A test?

You stood there for hours. Waiting. Listening.

But nothing else came.

Day 28

You didn’t move.

The isolation had settled deep in your bones by now, making you feel weightless and heavy all at once. You had stopped marking the days, though you knew it had been weeks. Your loneliness had shifted into something quieter, emptier. You had forgotten the sound of your own voice, the rhythm of real conversation.

So when the door creaked open and his figure appeared, the sight of him knocked the breath from your lungs.

Jungkook.

He stood in the doorway, dressed in black, as calm and unreadable as ever. But something was different. His eyes. They lingered longer, tracing over the fragile state he had left you in. The trembling of your hands as they rested limply in your lap. The way you curled in on yourself at the edge of the bed, too exhausted to even flinch.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t step closer.

But he didn’t leave either.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. He was there. Watching.

“Why…” Your voice cracked, hoarse from disuse. “Why are you here?”

No answer.

His gaze dropped, just briefly, to the half-eaten tray of food from that morning.

The silence stretched. He was giving you nothing, no hint of emotion. And somehow, it hurt.

You hated him.

You missed him.

“Say something,” you whispered, voice breaking as you gripped the sheets beneath you.

His lips parted. Just barely. Then he exhaled slowly, like he was gathering himself.

“You’ve proven you can live alone.”

Your breath hitched, a bitter laugh escaping you, though there was no humor in it. “You call this living?”

Jungkook’s face didn’t change. But there was a softness. “No,” he said quietly. “This isn’t living. But you made your choice. You didn’t want me.”

Your pulse pounded so loud it drowned out the rest of the room. He was turning this on you. Making it your fault. And the worst part? It was working. The walls felt smaller. The air colder.

“I never wanted this. I wanted to be left alone, not be lonely” Your voice cracked, rising slightly. “You’re the one keeping me here. You.”

He stepped closer.

Not threatening.

Not towering.

But calm.

Dangerously calm.

“I gave you everything,” he murmured, gaze locked onto yours. “And you ran. So I gave you what you wanted. Isolation. Freedom from me. And look what it’s done to you.”

You hated the way your body reacted to his presence. The way the sound of his voice filled the void you hadn’t even realized was so loud.

A tear slipped down your cheek, unbidden. Weak. And when it fell, Jungkook’s expression shifted, just for a heartbeat. Regret.

“I won’t keep you in here forever,” he continued, quieter now, crouching slightly so you were eye level. “I just need you to understand. I can make it better for you.”

The words hung heavy between you, poisoned with manipulation you were too tired to fight.

You shook your head, tears streaking faster. “You’re lying.”

His head tilted slightly, dark eyes searching yours with unnerving patience. “Am I? Look around you. Have I hurt you?”

No.

But the absence of pain didn’t make it right.

“I don’t want to feel like a prisoner,” you whispered.

“You’re not my prisoner. You’re here because I care. I want you safe. And you can have more than this. But you have to stop fighting me.”

He reached for you then. Not harsh. Not demanding. Just a careful, gentle touch, fingertips brushing the damp tear from your cheek. You flinched but didn’t pull away. Not completely.

The weight of his hand was warm. Familiar. And for the first time, it didn’t feel like a threat.

It felt like relief.

His voice was a whisper, coaxing. “Let me take care of you. Let me make this better.”

You hated him for it.

You hated how much you wanted to believe him.

And when his hand lingered, waiting for your answer, the worst part was how quiet the room felt when he finally stood, turned, and left.

The door locked behind him.

And you felt colder than ever.

----------

The lock clicked open.

This time, when the door swung open, he didn’t stand in the doorway like before.

The hall beyond was empty.

You blinked, heart pounding as you stared into the open space, pulse thrumming in your ears. He hadn’t spoken through the speaker today. No roses. No food tray.

Just the silence, and this.

You should have run. Should have bolted straight for the exit. But your legs didn’t move. Not out of fear. Out of something worse.

The endless days of nothing. The quiet that pressed so hard against your ribs you thought you might break under it.

And that was the moment you realized, this was intentional.

This was another test.

A crackling whisper brushed through the speakers, making you jump.

“You can come out now.” His voice. So calm. So controlled. “I’m not keeping you in there anymore.”

You hesitated, arms wrapping tighter around yourself.

Your steps were slow as you crossed the threshold, the numbness in your legs reminding you just how long it had been since you’d moved beyond those four walls.

The penthouse was silent.

Spacious. Beautiful. The floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the cloudy city below, so far away it felt like another world entirely.

You barely had time to process it before you saw him.

Jungkook sat in the oversized armchair near the windows, legs spread, forearms braced on his knees as he watched you. No threat. No chains.

But the weight of his presence was more suffocating than any lock.

“Come here.”

You didn’t move.

His lips pressed together. But he didn’t get up. Didn’t chase you. His voice softened, low and coaxing.

“You’ve been through a lot. I just want to talk.”

And then you noticed it.

The couch. A folded blanket. A steaming cup of tea on the coffee table, the scent wafting faintly.

No.

He wasn’t trying to trap you.

He was making it look like comfort.

You shook your head. “I don’t want this.”

He exhaled slowly, leaning back in the chair. “I know. But you need it.”

A pause. His dark eyes swept over you, scanning every tremble, every sign of weakness you couldn’t hide. “You need to rest. To heal. You’re… you’re hurting yourself more than you realize.”

You hated how calm he sounded. How convincing.

And you hated yourself more for wanting to believe it.

But you stayed frozen.

That was when he stood.

Slow. Unthreatening. His hair hung over his forehead, sleeves rolled up to reveal the tattoos along his forearm.

And when he approached, he didn’t grab you.

He just… reached.

Fingers brushing your wrist, barely a touch. Just enough to let you feel the heat of him.

“I’m not going to hurt you. You know that?”

Your throat closed.

You didn’t fight when he guided you gently toward the couch. The blanket was warm as he tucked it around your shoulders, the tea, hot, fragrant, pressed into your trembling hands.

And then he knelt in front of you.

Not towering. Not intimidating.

Just watching.

You stared at the cup, trying to steady your breath.

It was too much. The silence. The quiet care.

This wasn’t control. This was… kindness.

Wasn’t it?

Jungkook’s voice broke the quiet. Softer now.

“You’re safe, baby. You don’t have to be scared.”

And for the first time since he took you

You felt like you were breaking.

Jungkook exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly when you didn’t resist. His gaze stayed on you, lingering on the faint tremble in your hands.

He stayed silent, letting the tension breathe. Letting the quiet speak louder than words.

Until he reached out again.

Slow. Deliberate. His fingers brushed your cheek, so gentle it felt like a question.

You flinched but didn’t pull away. Not fully.

His eyes darkened. Something flashed behind the calm exterior, but he didn’t press. He just held his hand there, warm against your skin.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

The words made you freeze.

Sorry?

His touch lingered, and for the first time, there was no trace of that quiet control. Only something vulnerable.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he continued, voice breaking just slightly. “I just…” His thumb pressed a fraction deeper, tilting your face to meet his eyes. “I couldn’t lose you. I won’t lose you.”

The worst part was, you could hear it. The sincerity beneath his words.

And you felt yourself softening.

No.

You clenched the cup tighter, forcing your voice to steady. “You didn’t really have me in the first place, Jungkook.”

His expression shifted.

Not anger.

Worse.

Disappointment.

He lowered his hand but didn’t move back. “I kept you safe. I made sure you were taken care of. And I gave you time. To think. To understand.”

You shook your head, pulse spiking. “You locked me away. That’s not care.”

“You were hurting yourself.” His voice sharpened. “Running around, starving yourself. Bleeding in some filthy motel room.” His jaw flexed, the calm mask cracking just slightly. “Tell me what part of that was freedom.”

You didn’t have an answer. Not one you could say out loud.

Because deep down, you knew.

You had been falling apart.

But that didn’t make this right.

Jungkook’s hand closed over yours where you still gripped the cup, his warmth sinking into your skin. His voice softened again, calmer. Dangerous.

“You’re not a prisoner.”

You swallowed hard.

The door was still locked. You both knew it.

And yet…

You didn’t fight when his thumb brushed over your knuckles.

“You’re here because you belong with me,” he whispered. “And I know you can feel it. Even now.”

The worst part was, he wasn’t wrong.

Because after weeks of isolation, weeks of silence and aching loneliness…

You weren’t sure what scared you more.

The way he made you feel.

Or the fact that, for the first time,

You didn’t want him to leave.

And he knew it.

Jungkook didn’t speak again. He didn’t have to. The quiet filled the space between you, heavier than before but softer too. Less suffocating. His presence lingered like the scent of him, clean, warm, familiar in a way you wanted so badly to resist.

But when he finally stood to leave.

“Wait,” your voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

He paused, fingers curling into his palm at his side.

But he didn’t turn around.

“I…” Your throat tightened painfully. “I don’t want to be alone.”

Betrayed, by yourself.

Jungkook turned back, his face unreadable, you hated how desperately you searched for softness in his eyes.

But it was there.

Beneath the control.

Beneath the satisfaction.

He stepped closer, moving so carefully, as if not to startle you. His hand rose, fingertips brushing along your jaw in a touch so delicate it sent a shiver through you.

“You don’t have to be,” he whispered.

His thumb stroked gently over your cheek, and you hated how your body melted into the contact, how your eyelids fluttered shut despite every part of your mind screaming at you to stop.

“But you have to let me take care of you,” he continued, voice lower now. “No more fighting. No more running.”

You nodded.

Barely.

And his breath caught like you’d just given him the one thing he’d been waiting for all along.

Jungkook’s thumb traced over your cheek, lingering just a moment longer before he finally spoke again, voice hushed, coaxing.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Just let me in.”

The words felt like velvet, soothing you, wrapping around the emptiness he had left behind for so long. You hated how desperately you clung to the warmth of his hand against your skin.

You should have felt disgusted. Angry. But all you felt was… relief.

Jungkook’s hand fell away, just for a moment, and you nearly leaned into it, craving the contact you had sworn to resist. But instead of pulling back completely, he reached for you again, his fingers curling gently under your chin, guiding your face to meet his eyes.

No anger. No coldness.

Just patience.

“You don’t have to be alone anymore,” he murmured, searching your face like he was memorizing every fragile piece of you. “You don’t have to hurt like this. I can make it better. But you have to trust me.”

You blinked, heart pounding.

“I… I don’t…”

The words wouldn’t come. Your mind felt too foggy, too heavy with exhaustion.

He didn’t push.

Instead, he shifted closer, slowly lowering himself to sit beside you. His presence was overwhelming, but not in the suffocating way you had feared.

Not yet.

You hated the warmth his nearness brought.

Hated that it felt good.

When he spoke again, his voice was softer. Vulnerable.

“I missed you.”

Your breath caught, throat tightening painfully.

“I shouldn’t feel like this.” The confession escaped you before you could stop it, trembling and broken.

His head tilted, eyes narrowing just slightly, but not in anger. He looked almost… wounded.

“Like what?” he pressed gently.

You shook your head, biting your lip hard to hold back the tears threatening to spill.

“Like I need you.”

The words felt like betrayal. A surrender you hadn’t meant to give him.

But instead of pouncing on it, instead of twisting it into something cruel, Jungkook exhaled a slow, steady breath. His hand moved, not to restrain you, but to cup your face again, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw.

His voice was barely a whisper.

“You do.”

You felt your pulse stutter.

“But that’s not weakness,” he added, his lips parting as his gaze softened further. “It means you’re finally being honest with yourself.”

You wanted to fight him. To tell him he was wrong.

But your body had stopped listening.

His touch felt too steady. Too comforting after so much silence.

“You’re tired, aren’t you?”

You nodded, barely.

Jungkook didn’t speak immediately. He stayed close, his hand lingering on your face, thumb brushing gently over your cheek as if grounding himself in your presence.

“Let me help you, just for tonight.”

You hated how those words sank into your chest, how warm his touch felt after so many cold, empty days. But you were too weak to fight. Too lonely to push him away.

Jungkook guided you carefully to your feet, the weight of his hands steady but never harsh. He didn’t rush. Didn’t force. But you knew, somehow, that there was no choice. Not really.

The bed was as you remembered, too soft, too perfect, like it had been crafted to comfort you in ways he never should have known. He helped you sit, kneeling briefly to smooth the blanket over your lap. Every movement was precise. Practiced.

You should have felt caged.

Instead, you felt seen.

And you hated it.

He stayed by the edge of the bed, watching you carefully. His dark eyes traced the curve of your face, the trembling rise and fall of your chest, like he was memorizing every vulnerable piece of you all over again.

Then he shifted.

Slowly, he reached for your wrist, fingers brushing your pulse. Not restraining. Just… there.

His hand lingered, when the warmth of his palm closed gently over yours, anchoring you in that quiet, unbearable moment.

You didn’t pull away.

You didn’t want to.

“I missed you.”

You closed your eyes.

A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it.

And that was all it took.

Jungkook shifted, closing the space between you so carefully it felt inevitable. His hand cupped your face, his thumb catching the tear, wiping it away like it physically pained him to see it fall.

You flinched, but not from fear. It was the tenderness that hurt more.

"Don't cry," he whispered, so gentle it made you want to break apart completely. "Not because of me. Not anymore."

Your lips parted, breath shallow, and for a moment, it felt like he was waiting. Not for permission, but for the final thread of resistance to snap completely.

You leaned into his touch. Barely. But it was enough.

Jungkook's eyes darkened, something unspoken lingering behind his gaze. His thumb traced your cheek one last time before his hand fell away, leaving your skin cold in its absence.

But he didn’t leave.

Instead, he spoke quietly, carefully, as if testing the fragility of the moment.

"No more silence, not when you’re with me."

You should have said no. Should have pushed him away and demanded your space back.

But you didn’t.

You nodded.

And when he shifted onto the bed beside you, when he wrapped his arm around you, tucking your head against his chest as the warmth of his body bled into yours...

You let him.

----------

The next morning came softly.

Sunlight filtered in through the sheer curtains, casting pale gold patterns across the walls. You blinked awake, the unfamiliar warmth pressing against your back making you still for a heartbeat before you remembered.

Jungkook.

His arm was still wrapped around you. Loose but present, his palm resting over your hip, his chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep. He was close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath against the back of your neck, the steady weight of him on you in ways that felt both comforting and terrifying.

You should move.

But you didn’t.

And as much as you wanted to hate it, there was a part of you that had craved this, the safety of being held. The feeling of not being so completely... alone.

Your breath hitched as you shifted slightly, the tension breaking as Jungkook stirred behind you. His grip tightened, not harsh but possessive, and you felt him exhale slowly, his lips brushing just above your shoulder as he murmured, half-asleep.

“You’re still here.”

His voice was deeper, softer in the haze of waking. But there was something heavier beneath it. Relief.

“I... didn’t want to wake you.”

He stilled, fingers flexing slightly where they rested against your waist. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. Then, he drew back just enough to press his forehead lightly against the curve of your neck, voice barely a whisper.

“You never have to wake up alone again.”

The words sank into you like a promise. One you weren’t sure how to feel about.

You nodded once, throat tight. But you didn’t pull away.

Not yet.

When you finally shifted, pushing yourself upright, Jungkook let you go without protest. His eyes followed your movements, dark but calm as he sat up as well, the sheets pooling around his waist.

You expected him to say something. Maybe a demand. Maybe a reminder that you were still his.

But instead, he only offered a quiet, “Are you hungry?”

It caught you off guard. The simple, human question. You blinked, unsure how to answer, until your stomach twisted uncomfortably.

You nodded.

Jungkook didn’t move right away. He just watched you, gaze softening, lingering on your face as if he were committing this moment to memory. Then, without another word, he stood up and disappeared into the kitchen.

You stayed there, frozen, the sheets warm where he’d been. And for the first time, you felt something you couldn’t quite name.

Not freedom.

But not fear either.

The scent of coffee drifted from the kitchen, warm and rich, grounding you in the present. You sat there, fingers curled loosely in the sheets, listening to the soft sounds of Jungkook moving, the quiet clink of plates.

Everything felt so... normal.

And that was the most dangerous part.

You should have felt restless. On edge. But instead, the tension had dulled, replaced by something you couldn’t explain. Your chest felt heavy, like something you had been bracing against was finally slipping. And it left you hollow.

When he returned, a tray balanced effortlessly in his hands, the sight struck you harder than it should have.

Two plates. A cup of tea. A cup of coffee.

Like you were just any other couple sharing a quiet morning together.

He placed the tray on the bed, careful, measured. The food was simple. Toast, eggs, a bowl of cut fruit.

You hesitated, waiting for the catch. Waiting for the control.

But it didn’t come.

Jungkook sat at the edge of the bed, close but not touching, and for the first time, there was no expectation in his expression. No pressure. Just quiet observation, his gaze tracing the delicate way you curled your fingers around the teacup.

You took a sip, letting the warmth settle your nerves.

“Thank you,” you murmured, barely audible.

Jungkook’s eyes softened, a flicker of something almost... hopeful.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he replied, voice low, but so achingly tender it made your throat tighten again.

You lowered the cup, unsure why his words felt so heavy. So final.

The silence stretched as you picked at the food, the tension shifting into something unfamiliar. Not fear. Not anger. Just... quiet. Comforting. His presence filled the space without suffocating it, his gaze never leaving yours but no longer pressing in the way it once had.

And you hated how easy it felt. How his care felt so real.

You should have been angry. You should have resisted.

But all you could feel was the warmth lingering in your chest.

Jungkook finally broke the silence, “Are you... feeling better?”

You knew he wasn’t just asking about your physical state. You hesitated, the words catching in your throat. But then, with quiet honesty you couldn’t explain.

“Yes.”

His breath hitched, so subtle you barely noticed. But you saw it. The way his fingers curled slightly against his thigh, like he was restraining himself from reaching for you.

The thought of him doing so didn’t feel bad? It felt... safe.

That moment lingered between you, the silence stretching just long enough to feel fragile. Like if either of you spoke, it would shatter whatever fragile peace this was.

Jungkook didn’t move, his gaze still soft but searching, as if he were waiting for something he wasn’t ready to name. His hand, so close on the bed beside you, flexed as though he was fighting the urge to touch you again.

You should say something. Set a boundary. Remind him that this, whatever this was, was not real.

But you didn’t.

Because for the first time in weeks, there was no fear twisting in your chest. No loneliness gnawing at the edges of your mind. Only warmth. Only him.

You felt it when his gaze dropped, lingering on your lips for just a heartbeat too long. The tension shifted, heavier but not threatening, intimate in a way that made your pulse race.

You were the first to look away, blinking down at your hands curled around the tea cup. The heat of it seeped into your palms, grounding you as you struggled to steady your breath.

And still, he said nothing.

Until.

“Can I hold you?” His voice quietly asked.

You swallowed, heart hammering, the vulnerability in his words cracking something deeper inside you. He wasn’t demanding. He wasn’t forcing. He was asking.

And you hated that you didn’t know how to say no.

You nodded.

Barely.

But it was all he needed.

Jungkook moved carefully, cautiously, as though afraid you might vanish if he moved too fast. His hand lifted first, brushing your wrist, fingertips tracing the inside with a softness that made your breath hitch. And then, slowly, he shifted closer, drawing you into him.

The heat of his body pressed against yours, his arm curling around your waist as he tucked you into his chest. His heartbeat was steady. Calming. And when his chin rested lightly against the top of your head, a broken breath escaped you.

You should pull away.

You should hate him for making you feel this, this way.

But all you felt was your chest easing as you sank against him, as the tension melted away and left only the steady rhythm of his breathing.

And when he whispered, “I missed you,” voice so low it barely reached your ears, you didn’t stop the way your fingers curled into his shirt.

You didn’t stop yourself from believing him.

Because, in that moment, you missed him too.

----------

The minutes passed in quiet, the kind of silence that felt heavier with each heartbeat. His arms stayed wrapped around you, steady but never tightening, the warmth of his body seeping into yours as you both stayed like that, eating your breakfast.

And you hated how much you didn’t want it to end.

You felt the steady rise and fall of his chest. He smelled the same as always, clean, warm, familiar. The scent that had once felt suffocating now felt like a strange kind of comfort.

It made you wonder when you’d stopped fearing his touch.

You shifted slightly, just enough that your head rested more fully against his back. His fingers brushed your waist, light but grounding, and you felt the subtle way he reacted to your closeness, his breath catching, his hold instinctively tightening just the slightest bit.

You should speak. You should break whatever spell this was.

But instead, your voice betrayed you.

“I missed you too.”

The words barely left your lips, so soft you thought he might not hear. But he did.

Jungkook stilled beneath you. Completely. As if those words had stolen the breath from his lungs.

You felt it when he exhaled, shaky but measured, his face pressing closer, lips just above your hair. His hand shifted from your waist, fingertips tracing along your spine in slow, careful circles, like he was trying to soothe you but couldn't quite stop himself from savoring the moment.

“Say it again,” he whispered. His voice was not demanding. Just... desperate.

You hesitated, teeth sinking into your lower lip. The walls you’d tried so hard to build felt paper-thin now. Crumbling. You couldn't let yourself lie.

“I missed you,” you repeated, voice quieter but steadier this time.

Jungkook made a sound, low, pained, almost like a sigh of relief, and then his lips pressed softly against your temple. Not forceful. Not possessive. Just... there. The kind of touch meant to soothe. To comfort.

But it left your skin burning.

His voice, rougher now, broke the quiet again. “You don’t have to be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you. I never wanted to hurt you.”

You should have argued. You should have reminded him that taking you, locking you away, controlling every piece of your life, was hurting you.

But in this moment, with his warmth around you, with your body pressed against his, the words caught in your throat.

But because his voice sounded too real. Too genuine.

And you were so, so tired of fighting.

So instead of speaking, you let your fingers curl just slightly tighter against his chest.

And when he pressed another kiss, so soft, so reverent, to your forehead, you didn’t stop him.

You let it happen. You didn’t want him to stop.

His lips lingered against your forehead, warm and gentle. His breath fanned softly against your skin, but he stayed still, holding you in that delicate silence where neither of you spoke, both too caught in the weight of the moment.

You felt the tension low in your stomach, the heat of his body so close, too close. And yet you didn’t move. Didn’t stop the way his fingertips brushed along your waist, tracing lazy circles like he was memorizing the shape of you.

You hated how badly you wanted more.

The way he made you feel so seen, so painfully aware of every inch of your body pressed against his. The steady strength of his arms. The soft way he held you, careful but possessive, like you were something he couldn’t bear to lose again.

You exhaled shakily, your fingers curling tighter into his shirt as your heart pounded louder than the thoughts screaming in your mind.

Stop. Don’t do this.

But then his lips grazed your temple, slower this time, lingering longer. And when he whispered your name, just your name, like it meant everything, you felt your resolve slip further.

“I missed you, so fucking much,” he whispered again, voice rougher now, closer. “More than you could ever understand.”

You swallowed hard, your body betraying you as you tilted your head just slightly, just enough for his lips to go lower, brushing the curve of your cheek. His breath caught, so did yours.

His hand flexed at your waist, fingertips pressing a fraction deeper, grounding you both in that unbearable closeness. You could feel his pulse beneath his skin, the steady rhythm matching your own, too fast, too desperate.

“I’m right here,” you whispered back, the words slipping free before you could stop them.

Jungkook’s breath deppend. And then his lips were closer, brushing the corner of your mouth, lingering in that unbearable space just shy of a kiss.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked softly.

The question shattered something inside you. The gentleness. After everything, after all the ways he had broken you down, he was asking.

You hated how much you wanted to say yes.

Your lips parted, trembling as you nodded once, the faintest movement. But it was enough.

Jungkook closed the space between you, his lips pressing against yours, soft but deliberate. The kiss wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t rough. It was slow, careful, his mouth moving against yours like he was memorizing every second, savoring the way you let him in.

You melted against him, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. Your hand slipped from his chest, fingers curling into his hair as the kiss deepened. His other hand slid up your back, pressing you closer, as if he needed to feel every inch of you. You hated how much you didn’t want it to end.

Jungkook’s lips hovered just above yours, his breath warm, shallow, as he searched your face. The tension was unbearable, the heat crackling in the air between you, electric and undeniable. His hand, still cradling your jaw, shifted, thumb pressing lightly at your chin, tilting your face just enough to keep you open for him.

This wasn’t soft anymore. It wasn’t gentle. It was desperate, he barely contained as he fought not to lose himself in you.

“You don’t hate me,” he whispered, voice rough now, his lips brushing yours as he spoke. “Say it."

Your pulse pounded, your chest twisting, heat spreading low in your belly despite every voice in your mind telling you to stop. But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

“I don’t hate you,” you whispered back.

And then he kissed you.

Harder this time. Deeper. His hand curled tighter around your waist, pulling you flush against him until there was no space left between you. The kiss was consuming, dizzying, his tongue parting your lips in a slow, deliberate slide that left you breathless.

You hated how much you wanted it.

The warmth of his body, the way his hand slipped under the hem of your shirt, spreading heat along your bare skin, it felt too good, too real. His other hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back, deepening the kiss until your body melted against his completely.

“Look at you,” he whispered against your lips, voice thick with satisfaction. “You’re finally letting me in.”

You whimpered, torn between defiance and submission, but the way his body pressed into yours was relentless. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, tugging just enough to make your stomach twist with want. And you hated yourself for how badly you wanted for more.

“This is what you needed, wasn’t it?” His lips brushed along your jaw, “You needed me. You were always mine. And now... you're finally ready to admit it.”

“Jungkook,” you gasped, but it wasn’t a protest. Not anymore.

It was a plea.

He felt it. Heard it. And the darkness in his eyes only deepened.

“Say it.” His fingers trailed lower, dipping beneath the waistband of your shorts, teasing, barely touching, but enough to have your breath catching. “Say you want this. Say you want me.”

Your body betrayed you completely, hips arching into his touch, heart slamming in your chest. Every trace of resistance felt like it was slipping through your fingers, lost in the haze of him.

You whispered it.

“I want you.”

The words broke something in him.

His mouth crashed against yours again, hungrier this time, his grip bruising as he pulled you closer, pressing you back into the sheets. His body covered yours, the heat of his skin searing against you as he moved, lips tracing your neck, hands exploring every inch of you like he had finally won.

Because he had.

Jungkook’s breath shuddered against your skin, his forehead pressed to yours, the heat between your bodies smoldering, thick with tension. His grip stayed gentle, but you could feel the way he trembled, the way he fought every instinct pressing him to lose control. His hand brushed along your waist, fingertips tracing so lightly you barely felt it, but it was enough to make you shiver.

The darkness in his eyes wasn’t anger. It wasn’t dominance. It was hunger, desperate, consuming, and yet so carefully restrained.

He was holding himself back.

You could see it in the way his jaw flexed, the way his breathing stuttered when your lips parted, so close to his, yet not quite touching. His thumb along your cheek, as if memorizing the shape of you, as if this wasn’t enough, could never be enough.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, voice rough, thick with need.

You didn’t answer with words. Your body spoke for you, arching just slightly, leaning into him instead of away. Your skin burning beneath the whisper of his touch. And he saw it. He felt it.

He kissed you again. His hand slid up, cupping your jaw, tilting your head just enough to deepen the kiss, to taste you the way he’d been holding back from for far too long.

A soft, helpless sound escaped you, muffled against his mouth. And that sound undid him.

“You’re perfect,” he rasped, voice breaking as his lips grazed the sensitive spot below your ear. “You feel perfect.”

You gasped as his teeth caught gently, nipping just enough to make your pulse spike. And still, he was holding back. You could feel the tension radiating from him, the way his hands trembled as they mapped the curve of your waist, the dip of your stomach.

But then his hand brushed lower.

And you froze.

He felt it instantly, the way your body tensed, the way your breath hitched, not in pleasure, but fear.

Jungkook pulled back, his face hovering inches from yours, brows furrowed with concern as his gaze searched yours. His voice was softer now, careful. “Baby... what’s wrong? Did I-?”

You shook your head quickly, shame burning your cheeks. “I...” The words caught, and you swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper. “It's just been a while since….”

Silence.

The tension shifted. But it wasn’t the kind you expected. Jungkook didn’t pull away. He didn’t look frustrated or disappointed. If anything, his gaze darkened, softer, but more intense, his thumb stroked along your cheek, reverent.

For a heartbeat, he was silent. Then he exhaled slowly, like he was grounding himself, pressing his forehead against yours. His lips brushed yours, gentle this time, coaxing. “I’ll be gentle. I’ll take care of you. Just... let me.”

You nodded, but your pulse hammered so hard you thought he could feel it where his chest pressed against yours.

Jungkook’s touch shifted, his lips returning to your throat, his hands sliding lower, exploring. Slow. Unhurried. He kissed his way down your collarbone, lingering, tasting, savoring every inch of skin he could reach. His hands explored your sides, your waist, the curve of your hips, never pushing, never rushing, just admiring.

When his fingers brushed between your thighs, you gasped, body arching instinctively, and he froze again, watching your reaction with careful, deliberate patience.

“Is this okay?” he whispered, pressing a kiss just below your navel, waiting for your answer.

You nodded, breathless, the heat blooming under his touch so consuming you could barely think.

“Words, baby,” he murmured, his lips trailing lower, his voice huskier now.

You swallowed, voice trembling. “Yes. Please... don’t stop.”

His eyes darkened with a mix of desire and restraint. His grip on your waist tightened slightly, grounding himself as he fought to maintain control.

His grip trembled slightly as his hand brushed beneath the hem of your shirt.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. His fingertips grazed the fabric, waiting. Giving you a chance to pull away. “Let me see you... please.”

You swallowed hard, heat blooming low in your stomach. The feeling was unbearable, spreading through you in a way that felt both terrifying and... so painfully good. Your hands curling into the sheets beneath you, heart pounding as he slowly began to lift your shirt.

Your body tensed. The vulnerability of it all, the way his dark eyes stayed fixed on yours, not even glancing lower yet, made your throat tighten.

“Jungkook...” your voice was barely a whisper, shaky and unsure.

A groan rumbled low in his chest. The shirt slipped higher. Over your ribs. Up to your collarbone. His gaze never faltered, never dropped, holding yours like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Breathe, baby,” he whispered.

You exhaled shakily, nodding, and with careful patience, he peeled the fabric over your head, letting it fall forgotten beside you. His eyes finally dipped lower, trailing over your bare skin, his lips parting just slightly like the sight had stolen the breath from his lungs.

“God, you're perfect.”

A flush burned beneath your skin, heat creeping all the way to your ears. Your hands instinctively moved to cover yourself, but Jungkook caught your wrists gently, stopping you before you could hide.

“Don’t,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Please, don’t hide from me.”

His lips returned to your neck, pressing soft kisses along the delicate line of your throat, trailing lower as he shifted down the bed, his mouth exploring every inch of skin he bared. Slow. Reverent. His touch ignited something deeper.

When his hands found the waistband of your shorts, you stiffened again. His thumbs traced slow circles at your hips, and when he finally met your eyes again, his expression wasn’t demanding. It was patient. Tender.

“I want to make you feel good,” he murmured, voice raspier now. “Will you let me?”

You nodded, chest heaving as his fingers slipped beneath the fabric, inching it lower, pressing soft kisses to your stomach as he guided them off your legs. Your underwear followed, and you barely had time to process the sheer vulnerability of being so bare before he spread your thighs gently, pressing his palm to the inside of your knee, urging you open.

You tensed instinctively, thighs trying to close, but his grip was steady.

“Shhh,” he soothed, voice soft. “Let me take care of you, baby. Just relax.”

Your pulse hammered, the vulnerability making you feel lightheaded, dizzy, but the way his eyes darkened as he stared at you, like you were the most precious thing he’d ever touched, made it impossible to pull away.

He pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh first, lingering there, lips soft and patient, before trailing higher. Your breath caught, your body trembling beneath his touch as his mouth moved closer.

“You’re so sensitive,” he whispered, voice thick, his breath fanning against your bare skin, making you shiver. “So perfect.”

And when his tongue finally pressed against your core, soft but deliberate, you shattered.

A gasp broke from your lips, your back arching as the sensation flooded through you, overwhelming and unbearable all at once. Your hands flew to his hair, unsure whether you wanted to pull him closer or push him away, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t hesitate.

He held you steady, his hands gripping your thighs gently, keeping you open for him as he worked you apart with slow, torturous strokes of his tongue, learning your body, savoring every reaction.

“That’s it,” he murmured between kisses. “Let me hear you, baby.”

You didn’t. You couldn’t. The pleasure was too much, too consuming, and when his fingers joined, circling you in perfect rhythm, your entire body jolted beneath him, your thighs trembling against his shoulders.

“Jungkook” Your voice broke.

His response was a groan, the vibration against you making your stomach tighter, the pressure building unbearably fast. His hand slid higher, pressing gently against your stomach as if to hold you still, to keep you grounded as he brought you closer and closer to the edge.

“Princess,” he whispered against you, his tongue circling that sensitive spot again, sending you spiraling. “Let me feel you come for me.”

And when you did, when your body finally gave in with a cry, shattering completely beneath him, he didn’t stop. He kept pressing soft kisses along your trembling thighs, easing you through the waves of pleasure until you were boneless beneath him, breathless.

Only then did he rise, his lips brushing yours, tasting you as he whispered softly.

“That’s my girl. You’re so beautiful when you fall apart for me.”

He hovered above you, his body warm, solid, grounding you as you shook beneath him. His lips brushed along your jaw, slow and tender, whispering soft reassurances against your skin. “Shh I've got you, I’ve got you, baby.” he murmured, his voice a gentle hum, low and comforting.

“Breathe, baby,” he coaxed, lips brushing your ear as he trailed his thumb along your trembling thigh.

His hand slid lower, caressing the curve of your waist, your hips, his touch gentle. You felt the heat of him pressing against your entrance, the slow, insistent nudge that made you tense instinctively

He moved with infinite care, easing just the tip of himself inside you. Your body resisted, stretching around him in a way that made you gasp, your grip tightening on his arms.

“I know,” he whispered, his voice thick with restraint, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I know, you’re doing so well for me.”

His hand dipped between your thighs then, circling that aching bundle of nerves with slow, deliberate motions, coaxing your body to relax, to surrender to the pleasure he was giving you. The tension ebbed, replaced by a deeper warmth, a slow ache that wasn’t pain but something else entirely.

“That’s it,” he praised softly, pressing just a little deeper, the fullness making you whimper. “You’re taking me so perfectly.”

His lips finding yours again in a kiss both sweet and desperate. “You feel so perfect,” he groaned, pressing deeper, stretching you inch by inch, the sensation so overwhelming yet so right.

“Almost there, baby,” he whispered, voice thick with praise, his fingers still working you in time with his slow thrusts.

And when he was finally fully inside you, when your body clenched around him in a way that made his breath catch, he stilled, his forehead pressed to yours, whispering, “You did it. You’re mine now, baby. All mine. So perfect… so beautiful.”

“That’s it,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your cheek, his hips barely rocking forward, just enough for you to feel the movement, the way he filled you completely. “Tell me how it feels,” he coaxed.

“It… feels good,” you whispered, breath hitching as he pressed just a little deeper, his body moving in perfect rhythm with his hand.

A soft, trembling moan spilled from your lips, shaky and unrestrained.

“I know, baby,” he cooed, his breath warm against your ear. “I know it’s big, baby. But you can take it, can't you?”

The pleasure swelled higher, overtaking everything else as his hips moved more fluidly, his thumb pressing just a little harder, matching the steady rhythm of his thrusts. The tension inside you coiled tighter, unbearable, and the way he watched you, like he was unraveling right along with you, was enough to send you spiraling.

“Jungkook” Your voice broke on a whimper, your body arching into his touch, trembling as the heat burst inside you, shattering everything.

“That’s my girl,” he whispered, his voice thick as he followed you over the edge, his body shuddering as he buried himself deeper, holding you so close, so completely his.

He felt you tighten around him, your muscles clenching instinctively. You whimpered, your fingers digging into his shoulders, and he kissed your neck, his lips trailing down to your collarbone, soft and coaxing. “Such a good girl, taking me so well.”whispered, his tone laced with that condescending pout.

His grip on your hips tightened just enough to hold you steady, his chest pressing flush against yours as he filled you completely, stretching you inch by inch. The burn of it was sharp, overwhelming, but he didn’t let you retreat. He kissed the corner of your mouth, his voice a low, soothing whisper against your lips.

“Shh, baby. It’s okay… I know it’s a lot,” he cooed, his breath warm as his lips trailed down your neck.

You whimpered, your nails digging into his shoulders as your body clenched around him, the ache mingling with unbearable pleasure. He paused, barely moving, giving you time to adjust, but not without teasing.

“Feel that, princess?” His voice was dark against your ear, praise dripping from every word. “Feel how deep I am? Stretching you open, taking me so perfectly. My good girl.”

Your walls fluttered around him at the praise, the fullness making you pulse with unbearable need. His hips shifted, deeper, faster, and the pressure made your breath stutter, a broken gasp leaving your lips.

“That’s it,” he groaned, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “So tight- so fucking perfect for me..”

His fingers traced down your trembling body, circling lower. Teasing. Testing. Then pressing exactly where you needed him, a firm, slow stroke against your swollen clit. Your body jolted, hips bucking into his hand.

“Just like that,” he praised. “I want you to fall apart for me, princess.” His pace fast as he thrust deeper, harder, but still painfully controlled.

A strangled moan slipped from your lips, head tipping back against the pillows. Every inch, every pulse of his body against yours sent you spiraling closer.

"Say my name," he growled, voice thick with need, the demand pressing into your skin as his hips rolled deeper, dragging a gasp from your lips.

“J-Jungkook-”

And with one final, punishing thrust, he pushed you over the edge. Your body clenched tight around him as the pleasure hit.

His body stayed flush against yours, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths as he buried himself completely inside you, holding you there, so deep, so full it made you whimper softly. His lips brushed along your temple, soothing yet possessive as he whispered, "Shh, baby... just stay like this for me."

His hand slid up your waist, fingers splayed wide, anchoring you beneath him as he kissed the corner of your mouth, slow and lingering. You clenched involuntarily around him.

He stayed buried inside you, stretching, filling, refusing to move. He stayed there, buried deep inside you, keeping you close

“You okay, baby?” He asked softly, a tenderness lingering in the words, but there was something deeper, almost hesitant, like he was holding something back.

You nodded, though your body felt heavy, boneless beneath him. He saw it, the tension behind your eyes, the worry you couldn’t quite voice.

He lingered inside you a beat longer, his hands cradling your waist, before he slowly, carefully eased out. You whimpered at the loss, body clenching around the emptiness, and he kissed your forehead as if to soothe the throb he’d left behind.

“Shhh, I’ve got you,” he whispered, slipping from the bed. His absence felt colder than it should have, and when he returned, the damp cloth in his hand, his expression was quiet, too quiet.

He cleaned you with such care, pressing soft kisses to your thighs, but his eyes lingered longer than usual, his lips parting as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

After he finished cleaning you up, he helped you into a fresh pair of clothes, carefully smoothing the fabric over your skin as if tending to something fragile. His own shirt hung loosely on his frame, his hair falling into his eyes as he pulled you close. His warmth surrounded you, steady, grounding. His hand traced those soothing circles along your back, lips grazing your hairline.

“I’ll take care of you… always,” he whispered, the words a vow more than reassurance.

Minutes passed, the quiet stretching comfortably between you, until your voice broke it, hesitant but firm.

“Jungkook… I need the morning-after pill.”

His breath hitched, barely noticeable, but you felt it. His hand paused, resting lightly against your hip as he exhaled, steadying himself.

“Of course, baby,” he murmured, voice soft but tighter than before, laced with something heavier. He kissed the crown of your head, holding you so close it almost hurt. “We’ll take care of it first thing, I promise.”

But when his lips pressed to your forehead again, lingering this time, you felt it. You knew he wanted something different. Something he knew you weren’t ready for yet.

----------

Late afternoon. Outside, the city moved on without you, cars honking, people living, oblivious to the silence pressing against your chest.

In here, the world was still. Controlled.

Jungkook sat across the room, seated on the edge of the grand sectional, reading through paperwork like it was any other day. Like you weren’t trapped here, your life rewritten by his hands.

But the pressure was unbearable now, pressing so tightly against your ribs it hurt.

He had stolen your freedom, hidden you from the world, branded you as his. You were supposed to despise him. Fear him. And yet... you couldn’t untangle the warmth from the pain anymore.

The sweater wrapped around your body, the one keeping you warm, smelled like him. The meals he cooked, the gifts he brought you, the way he was always there, hovering silently as if his presence alone could make up for the control, it made everything so confusing.

You hated him? You couldn’t stop craving him.

“Jungkook.”

His head snapped up instantly, the dark, unreadable gaze locking onto yours as if the mere sound of his name was all it took to demand his attention.

“Yes, Princess?”

The endearment made your throat tighten. It felt real when he said it. Like you were his world. But you weren’t his world, you were his prisoner.

And yet...

You swallowed hard, pulse pounding in your ears.

“I need to talk to you. Please.”

The papers fell forgotten. He was up instantly, crossing the space between you with that silent, predatory grace. Close but not touching. His presence was too much. Always too much.

“I’m listening.”

You shook your head, forcing yourself to look him in the eyes. He couldn’t intimidate you into silence this time.

“I don’t want to live like this.”

Silence.

The tension in his face shifted just slightly, the smallest crack in that perfect, controlled mask. His lips parted, but no words came.

You continued.

“I know you care about me. I know you love me too much to let me go freely. But, Jungkook, I feel trapped. You control everything. My clothes. My food. My freedom. I miss some parts of my life. My classes. My friends. My family.”

His brows furrowed. His lips pressed into a thin line, as if forcing back words.

You took a breath.

“I can’t be yours if it means losing everything else. I can’t be your precious pearl if I’m just something you keep hidden away.”

His jaw clenched, hands flexing at his sides as he turned away, pacing toward the window.

The reflection in the glass made him look even colder. Detached.

But you saw through it.

“You think I’ve taken your life away from you,” he said, voice tight.

“No- well yes,” you whispered, throat closing. “You have.”

The quiet was deafening. His back remained to you, shoulders tense, head bowed slightly as if weighing every word.

Then, so quietly you almost missed it.

“I had to protect you.”

The words sliced through the tension, rough, pained.

He exhaled, voice lower now.

“You were putting yourself in danger every night. Dancing for strangers. Letting men stare at you. Touch you. They didn’t deserve to see you like that.”

You stiffened. “It wasn’t like that-”

“Yes. It was.”

He turned then, eyes darker, filled with something too complicated to name.

“I watched. I saw the way they looked at you. They were never satisfied just watching. They wanted to consume you. Tear you apart. You would’ve let them if it wasn't for me!”

You flinched.

His voice dropped. “I couldn’t stand it. Seeing you let yourself be treated like you were nothing when you-” His voice broke, the rawness seeping through his control. “You’re everything. And you didn’t even see it.”

The anger drained from his face, replaced by something worse.

Vulnerability.

“Jungkook,” you whispered, chest tight.

He shook his head, turning back toward the window, his reflection fractured in the glass.

“I couldn’t lose you,” he rasped, voice broken now. “Because no one else ever stayed.”

The truth in his voice left you breathless.

You thought of the wealth he came from. The cold, distant parents. The hollow loneliness that shaped him long before you.

You finally understood.

Your hand brushed his sleeve.

“You don’t have to keep me like this,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I’m not leaving you. But you have to let me have some part of myself back. Let me go back to school. Let me see my family.”

His head shook instantly, jaw tightening. “No. I made sure of it. The world... they think you’re gone.”

“But you can undo it.”

He froze.

You forced yourself to keep speaking. “You have power. You could make this disappear. Make them stop looking for me. I can live again, and I’ll...”

You hesitated, voice shaking.

“I’ll stay. Willingly.”

His eyes snapped to yours, searching, desperate.

“Willingly?”

You held his gaze, pulse unsteady, then gave a slow nod.

“I won’t leave you. I just... I can’t stay if you keep me like this. I need to feel like myself again.”

For a long, painful heartbeat, he said nothing.

And then his hand cupped your cheek. Tender. Devastating.

His thumb brushed your cheek. His lips parted like he wanted to speak but couldn’t.

And then, brokenly,

“I can give you that. If it means you’ll stay with me... love me. I’ll undo some things. School. Your family. The reports. I can... I can make it all disappear.”

His forehead rested against yours. His voice barely a whisper.

“Just don’t leave me.”

And the worst part?

You whispered back.

“I won’t. I promise.”

But the tightness in your chest whispered the truth you weren’t ready to admit.

You were falling for him.

----------

A year had passed.

The world outside shifted, seasons blending into each other. The penthouse no longer felt like a cage. Not when you stayed every night by choice.

You stood now in front of the floor-length mirror, adjusting the delicate pearl necklace Jungkook had fastened around your neck just an hour earlier. His pearl. His perfect, untouchable treasure. But it didn’t feel like possession anymore. Not in the way it once had.

Not after everything you’d both endured.

Your gaze lifted, meeting his reflection across the room. He stood near the windows, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored black suit, the city a blur of lights behind him. The sharp cut of his suit only emphasized the strength he carried so effortlessly, but his face was different now, softer, less guarded.

Yet even with that quiet vulnerability, the way he looked at you, like you were something delicate, precious, hadn’t changed. His gaze followed every detail of you, lingering where the fabric of your dress hugged your waist, heat in his eyes, reverence in his stillness.

You still felt it. That ache. Not the old ache, the pain of being trapped. This was something deeper, heavier. An ache you couldn’t explain, except it felt like trust.

Like love.

"You look beautiful," he murmured, closing the space between you, his breath warm against your neck as he pressed a kiss just beneath your ear. His hands slid to your waist, steady, grounding you against his chest. "You're going to make me lose my mind tonight."

A smile tugged at your lips despite the flutter in your chest. "You say that every time we go out."

"And every time, it’s true."

The feeling inside dulled, replaced by something warmer. Something you hadn't fought in a long time.

Jungkook had changed. Slowly. Carefully. The control was still there, woven into the very fabric of who he was, but not like before. No more locked doors. No more isolation disguised as protection.

You were finishing your final year of university now. Just weeks away from graduation. And he had kept his promise, your name cleared, your life restored, the whispers of your disappearance carefully erased like they had never existed.

And tonight, you were late for dinner with his mother.

The thought made your stomach twist. He felt it immediately, he always did.

“Hey.” His hands shifted to cup your face, thumbs brushing lightly over your cheekbones. “You’re overthinking again.”

You swallowed hard. “She hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you.”

“She thinks I’m... I don’t know. A distraction. Or a gold digger or something.” You exhaled shakily.

Something flickered in his eyes at that, pain, just barely contained. His fingers tightened, but when he spoke, his voice was gentle.

“She doesn’t know us. Of you.”

Your heart pounded as you nodded, leaning into his touch. His lips found yours, slow and deliberate, a kiss meant to soothe, to reassure. When he pulled back, it wasn’t enough. You were too close. You needed him close.

But he smiled, a hint of mischief softening the intensity in his eyes. “We’re already late. But first.” His hand slipped into his pocket, retrieving a sleek black envelope with a silver wax seal. “I have something for you.”

Confused, you blinked. “What is this?”

“Open it.”

You carefully broke the seal, heart thudding as you unfolded the thick paper. The header was instantly familiar. Jeon Industries. But lower, Co-Chief Executive Officer. Official Offer of Partnership.

Your breath caught.

“Kook...”

His lips twitched, almost shy, a rare sight. “You’re graduating soon. You’ve worked so hard. And I…” His voice dropped, softer, vulnerable. “I want you with me. Not just here. But at my side. As my equal.”

You stared at the offer, words blurring as the weight of what he was offering sank in. Co-Chief Executive Officer. Power. Trust.

It wasn’t control.

It was faith.

“I- I don’t know what to say.” Your voice trembled, the words too small for what this meant. For how far you’d come together.

“Say you’ll think about it.” His thumb brushed your lower lip, gentle but possessive in that way he still couldn’t quite shake. “Say you’ll stay. With me. Always.”

Emotion swelled in your chest, and this time, you didn’t fight it. You reached for him, pressing your lips to his with a fierceness that startled even you, hands curling into the lapels of his jacket, needing him closer.

When you finally broke apart, his breath was ragged, his forehead resting against yours.

“Forever,” you whispered.

His lips curved, but it wasn’t playful this time. It was raw. Honest.

“Good. Because I was planning to keep you anyway.”

A laugh bubbled up, light, genuine, effortless. This is us now. Complicated. Imperfect. But whole.

He kissed your forehead once more before straightening, smoothing his tie as he murmured, “Now, let’s go. We’re already late, and my mom... she’s terrifying when she’s waiting.”

You rolled your eyes but let him lead you toward the door, his hand laced with yours, grounding. Reassuring.

This was your life now. A life you had chosen. A life where both of you were still healing, still learning, but together.

And neither of you was going anywhere.

----------

The pearl rested against your collarbone, cool, delicate.

A perfect thing. Untouched. Just like he wanted you to be.

But pearls weren’t born perfect. They were born from wounds.

A grain of sand, sharp, intrusive, buried so deep in the flesh it festered, twisted, until the ache became something beautiful.

"Love me. Stay with me. Try to love me."

You had said yes.

Not because he held you too tightly. Not because he asked.

But because, somehow, the ache had become him. Embedded too deep. Impossible to remove without breaking you open entirely.

Not trapped.

Not broken.

Shaped into.

His pearl.

1K notes · View notes

absentcaryatid · 2 years ago

Text

Already spooked and hugging a stuffed animal reading buddy, but I want to do this, so let's go! The continual sense of unease builds so well despite the daylight and usually pleasant setting of a carnival. Seeing how the results of polls are worked into the story is a fun aspect too. I'm hooked and it is not too scary, so far.

Carnival of Terror 🎪 1: Right place at the right time

The carnival is in town, and it is unlike anything you have ever experienced. Will you make it out alive?

INDEX | NEXT

🎪 Yoongi x female reader

🎪 word count: 6.1k

🎪 choose your own adventure, lovers and friends to ???, carnival and circus au, dead dove, horror, possible minor & major character injury & death, supernatural elements & magic realism, nsfw, 21+

🎪 warnings: dramarama within the friend group; general sense of the vibes being off; description of clowns, jesters & acrobats; hypnosis without consent.

🎪 note: all of the above details and warnings are subject to change as the story progresses & the readers vote. check the master post for an updated version of the details.

🎪 beta read by @neoneunnajimin & @sailoryooons. additional shout out to @sweetestofchaos & @echotoyou & @here4kpopfics for being brainstorm pals!

🎪 posted sept. 2023 | read on ao3

As you peer out across the massive gravel lot and take in just how isolated this place is, you feel deeply unsettled down to your bones. So when two large hands crash onto your shoulders and squeeze, you jump, unable to hold in a squeal. Dulcet, amused laughter dances in the air, and you turn to watch your friends Jimin, Taehyung, and Jeongguk step off the shuttle to the gravel and dirt road.

“Not funny,” you grumble, doing your best to look back and glare at Yoongi, whose palms continue to linger on your shoulders, gently rubbing small circles over your back.

“Come on,” Yoongi mutters playfully. “It was a little funny.”

Off in the distance, in the dead center of the enormous, otherwise empty lot, are large red and white circus tents surrounded by what appear to be various carnival rides and attractions, fenced in by a sprawling, winding metal gate. A plume of fire shoots out of what appears to be the center of the tents, followed by distant screams and cheers, and you instinctively pull your shoulders to your ears.

“This place creeps me the fuck out,” you grumble under your breath.

“Well, if you hate it, you can blame Jeongguk,” Yoongi unhelpfully supplies, to which Jeongguk quickly snaps, “Oh, fuck off, hyung.”

Since the moment you got onto the shuttle this morning, Yoongi and Jeongguk have been at odds. And although it seems playful on Yoongi's end, there appears to be a genuine animosity coming from Jeongguk that you do not have the context for. You are also not attempting to mediate between bickering friends on a day like today, and you hope that once you are within the carnival grounds and distracted by fun, games, fried food, and beer, everyone will get along.

As your group congregates on the gravel path, you feel a little silly for deciding to come dressed similarly, all wearing various shades of blue. It seemed like a fun idea this morning, but as you glance at all your friends, you realize that the five of you look like a pack of blueberries left to sit out in the sun. At least it is a stunning color on all of you.

Both Yoongi and Jeongguk have shorter dark brown hair with their bangs parted delicately on their foreheads, and they are outfitted in deeper shades of blue, both long-sleeve button-ups. Yoongi's shirt has pale blue horizontal stripes on the front with solid sleeves, tucked into skinny black jeans. He wears long silver earrings that make his already soft, pretty face – his pouty doll lips and button nose – seem more delicate.

Jeongguk's shirt is solid greenish-blue and loose-fitting, untucked over skinny black jeans, and he wears a black, emerald, and white striped satin scarf loosely tied beneath his lapels. Despite his sour attitude toward Yoongi, he still has a youthful glow behind his round, curious eyes, and his sharp, but pouty lips are almost always upturned into a hint of a smile.

Jimin and Taehyung – the two who are so close everyone refers to them as the soulmates of the group – are in brighter tones. Jimin wears a loose, long-sleeve, flowy blue button-up tucked into tight black slacks. His hair is short and dark brown, unstyled over his forehead, and his features are an astounding blend of pillow soft and razor-sharp, with dark eyes that alternate between piercing your soul and warming your heart.

Taehyung – always a bit of an oddball – wears an unbuttoned, long-sleeve baby blue jacket over a white long-sleeve button-up shirt with a blue windowpane pattern and matching loose-fitting slacks. He is equally stunning with deep brown eyes and rectangular lips that always seem to frown ever so slightly. His dark brown hair is beginning to grow into a soft mullet that hangs just above his eyes in the front, and below his ears in the back.

Your deep blue satin long-sleeve button-up is tucked into tight, stretchy black slacks. Unlike all the men, who wear a variation of black leather boots – aside from Taehyung, whose boots are white – you have on a pair of solid black sneakers. The only jewelry you wear is a tiny silver chain with a silver sunflower pendant – a gift Yoongi gave you for your recent birthday – and your makeup is minimal, just a little to bring out your eyes. The top two buttons of your shirt are undone with a mesh bra underneath that gives absolutely no support but makes your tits look amazing.

Yoongi's hand brushes over the small of your back, and you take a fortifying breath. With the shuttle pulling away and everyone who rode out to the carnival grounds meandering toward the entrance, you concede that your group may as well head in that direction, as well.

"What time does the shuttle return?" you ask, pulling your phone from your pocket to glance at the time. Your gaze flits to the to top of the screen, where it is clear you will likely have no service out here, causing you to sigh. It is currently 12:13 PM.

"Midnight," Taehyung responds softly, walking a few paces ahead.

Midnight. Just great. You knew, going into this, that it was going to be a long day, but now you are unsure whether there will be enough for the five of you to do during the next nearly-twelve-hours.

"No service, no way home, in the middle of nowhere," you grumble, shoving your phone back into your pocket. "Lovely."

To your right, past Yoongi and a few paces ahead, you notice Jeongguk frowning. He opens his mouth to respond, but must decide not to, because he has nothing to say. This whole thing was his idea, and at the time it seemed fun, and you know that you should probably lay off a little before you hurt the poor guy's feelings.

"Ah, cheer up!" Yoongi says, squeezing your hip. "We'll find some alcohol in there and loosen up. You'll have a good time, I promise. Besides, the more you complain, the more it will make our little Ggukie sad."

Jeongguk scoffs and rolls his eyes.

"But he's so cute when he pouts," Jimin teases over his right shoulder, voice deep and playful.

"Shut up," Jeongguk mutters, though there is a hint of a smile.

Taehyung looks over his right shoulder, past Jimin, and grins, voice even deeper and cotton-soft as he says, "It's true."

Your laughter is quiet and fleeting, but it works its way through your chest, making you feel lighter. Perhaps it is the nature of carnivals and circuses that always fill you with anxious trepidation, and that is why you feel unshakably unsettled – as if something foreboding looms thick and oppressive around you. After all, there is a theme of illusion and trickery in these types of events, and the possibility leaves you more nervous than excited.

Gravel crunches underfoot, and the closer you get to the carnival grounds, the more it seems to grow into something gargantuan. Along the outside of the metal gate are large posters of two men – the brothers who run the show. You have seen their handsome faces plastered all over the advertisements, but seeing them in larger-than-life-sized posters is somewhat intimidating.

They both wear deep red ringleader suits with white undershirts and matching red slacks, and across the tops of each poster are the words The Kim Brothers' Carnival Bizarre. One man – the leader of the show, Kim Namjoon – stands with his arms crossed over his chest, while the other – Kim Seokjin – has open arms and a wide, welcoming smile on his handsome face.

"Do you really think those two run this show?" Jimin asks. He has stopped in front of Namjoon and stares up at his poster with his hands on his hips. "How is someone this sexy in charge of a traveling circus? Aren't these things, like…I don't know…dirty?"

"They probably stay in hotels," Taehyung mutters under his breath. "But the rest of the workers might sleep in tents or something. I don't know."

"It's one night only," Jeongguk adds. "So it's possible that they all pack up and go somewhere with clean water to sleep for the night."

You begin to grumble, "Isn't that expensive," under your breath, but trail off as you take in the sights all around you.

Sure, there seems to be a lot to maintain for something like this, and there must be a great number of employees to feed, but events like this always cost an exorbitant amount to attend. The ticket alone was expensive enough that you had to budget for a couple weeks leading up to today. Factor in the large crowds of people and all the concessions, games, and rides, and you can understand how these two brothers could be walking away with a nice stack of money.

"You'd be surprised," Yoongi responds, but does not explain himself; probably he knows that he has no need to – that you are likely to sort out the details as you stare past the metal gates and into the sprawling space.

There is a tall man dressed in all black who stands beside the entrance, and Jeongguk approaches with a pep in his step, taking out his cell phone. You wonder whether Jeongguk has service or if he had the foresight to screencap the barcode that gains the five of you entrance. Either way, the man uses a device to scan his screen, and a loud beep is followed by a buzzing sound, as a hip-high metal gate swings open, and the five of you walk inside.

Jeongguk leads, followed by Jimin, Taehyung, you, and Yoongi. Once the metal gate creaks shut behind you, Yoongi's arms drape over your shoulders. He mutters, "We are trapped inside," then groans a deep, "oooohhhhhh," right behind your ear that gives you chills, both because the atmosphere of this place – even in the hot, afternoon sun – is fucking creepy, and because Yoongi's deep voice and warm breath on your neck always spark something carnal and needy inside you.

"What should we do first?" Jeongguk asks, turning to you with wide eager eyes before his gaze falls to Yoongi's arms dangling over your shoulders, causing him to turn to the others.

"Beer," Yoongi grumbles at the same time Jimin shouts, "Food!" and Taehyung offers, "Find a ticket booth?"

You chuckle and wiggle away from Yoongi's hold – a task which he does not make easy. "Food and drinks?" you recommend, while glancing around. "Maybe we'll spot a ticket booth along the way?"

Now that you are inside the carnival grounds, the layout of the place is clearer, but also much more intimidating. Three massive circus tents are in the center, and surrounding them are various game booths and rides. There seem to be funhouse attractions and larger game booths under tent awnings along the edge of the grounds, near the tall metal fences, and smaller concession stands in the center of the wide gravel path. One building nearby says Tunnel of Love, and another says Hall of Mirrors, and you cannot help but roll your eyes over how trite it all feels.

There also seems to be a sort of fog clouding your mind, making it difficult for you to focus on any one thing for too long before wanting to turn your attention elsewhere, and you blame it on nerves.

"I think I see a food truck this way," Taehyung offers, pointing off to the left, near the hall of mirrors.

As soon as food is mentioned, you swear the smell of deep-fried batter hits your nose, and you find yourself instinctively turning in that direction. It has been hours since you have eaten, and suddenly, you feel ravenous.

Taehyung and Jimin take the lead, and you begin to walk forward, out of the carnival entrance and into the space that this event occupies. Music plays – horns blaring and keys chiming at a quick, exciting tempo. You pause as you step forward, body and mind suddenly confused. Was there music playing before? Had you not noticed it?

This particular event is marketed as not being safe for children, and as you look around, all you see are adults. But the concessions, games, and rides are all those that you would expect to find at a circus or county fair swarming with kids, and you are surprised to walk past booths and find adults excitedly pointing to which large stuffed animals they would like to cash in their winnings for.

"Checking out the prizes?" Yoongi asks close enough to your ear to make you flinch.

"No," you mutter, turning your gaze away.

You had been looking at the rows of plushies, but playing fair games is not your style, and you do not want to be burdened with carrying something around for the duration of the day. A laugh follows a hand rubbing over your lower back, and you let your eyes flutter closed for just a moment as you take a fortifying breath.

"Why are you so jumpy?" Yoongi asks.

"I don't know," you respond, allowing your gaze to dance over shooting games and feats of strength. Each individual booth has its own raucous sounds and music, with someone dressed as an old-timey hobo shouting to their customers. "I just feel overwhelmed."

"You seemed keen on the idea of a carnival all week."

Yoongi is best when he is like this: soft-spoken and concerned. No quips meant to jab at his friends, nor undertones to make the little hairs on your neck stand tall. You lean toward his body heat and allow him to squeeze you in a side hug before you continue to walk forward with the group.

"I was," you say as your gaze falls to the gravel and dirt path under your feet. The smell of food is much stronger, and you take a deep inhale through your nose, letting the heavy, semi-sweet aroma fill your lungs. "There's just something so foreboding about going to the absolute middle of nowhere, with no way home. I understand not wanting to deal with having a lot full of cars, but it just seems strange to force everyone here by shuttle. What if something happens, and we're all trapped here?"

You know that you sound paranoid, and you are actually a bit shocked when Yoongi does not tease you for it.

"I'm sure nothing will happen," he responds calmly. "I'm sure these traveling shows are prepared for the worst. There were medical tents advertised on a map near the entrance, so if we need any kind of first aid, they have us covered."

You do not recall seeing a map by the entrance, but you are also not at your most observant. Thankfully, there is always someone in your group who is on top of things, and that someone is usually Yoongi, and often Taehyung.

As you look up, you see a large food truck smack dab in the center of the wide gravel path, surrounded by people standing in line and waiting for their orders. You feel an instant sense of disappointment and impatience, which you blame partially on your need to eat something.

Jimin is first to begin skipping over to the end of the line, and you follow behind, lacking his enthusiasm. The truck is massive compared to ones you are used to, and you hope that with all the extra space, there are plenty of employees inside to make orders come out quickly.

Your antsiness must show, because Jeongguk – who had also skipped excitedly to the line – leans toward you to say, "We can grab you guys something if you would rather walk around. We don't all have to wait in this line."

"It's fine," you respond, but the tone of your voice suggests that it is anything but fine.

"Come on," Yoongi says, yanking you away from the line, toward a booth several feet away. "We can play this little rubber ducky game in the shade while they wait for food in the hot sun.”

A smile creeps over your face, and you nod, allowing Yoongi to drag you off to the shade, under a large tent awning with a small game booth inside. As soon as you are out of the sun, your shoulders relax, and you feel a lot better.

"It doesn't take five of us to order, anyway," Yoongi says softly. "And I finally get a chance to have you all to myself."

Again, with the inviting tone, which you struggle to ignore now that the others are no longer within earshot. You turn your head but keep your eyes on the kiddie pool of multicolored rubber duckies floating in a slow circle as you say, "You had me all to yourself last night," in a low, teasing tone.

"And this morning," Yoongi responds, leaning close, causing your heart to flutter and your thighs to briefly clench.

Your cheeks warm, and you nibble on your lip, watching as the rubber ducks move round and round, determined not to look at Yoongi and allow him to see the effect he is having on you. There is a pastel pink one that catches your eye, and you reach for it as soon as Yoongi hands over some notes of money.

Written on the bottom of the duck is the number seven, and you turn it to face the person standing behind the counter, who takes it from your hand to inspect. The attendee is a tall, thin man dressed head to toe in black, with a piercing on the bridge of his nose. He wears smudged black eyeliner, and when he smiles at you, his long, sharp features turn soft and pretty.

"Seven, hmm…" the attendee says as he tilts his head and widens his eyes. "Not many know to reach for a seven. Those prizes are special, so you have to choose wisely."

"Special, huh?" you ask, feeling excitement build, unable to fathom what could possibly be special about a cheap carnival trinket.

The man turns to his left and walks over to a shelf to your right that you walk around to see into. As soon as you round the corner, you feel the urge to laugh; the trinkets are the same as those in the front shelf, and there hardly seems to be anything special about them.

"These are different from those?" you ask, pointing between the shelves with a playful tone.

The attendee hums, "Mmhmm," watching you with a curious, excited expression.

Sitting in little plastic bins are paper finger traps, plastic kazoos, large jawbreaker candies, little metal whistles, mirrors with paintings of tigers and dragons on them, and little yellow bird keychain plushies. Nothing particularly grabs your attention, yet you find yourself struggling to make a choice.

Jawbreakers were a favorite of yours growing up, but they get sticky too fast. And although you like the novelty of the painted mirrors, you do not want to carry one around all day. So, you point to the keychain plushies from above, and say, "I'll take one of these."

The man slides open a glass door and reaches into the case. He retrieves the exact plushie below where you point, and places it gently in front of you.

"I hope this trinket brings you luck," he says with a grin, and you find your gaze flitting nervously between the man and the toy before grabbing it and giving it a gentle squeeze. The yellow fur of the bird is soft in your hold, and it reminds you of a tiny duckling.

"Sick!" Yoongi exclaims from your left, making you chuckle. He reaches for the toy, and you hand it over, turning to watch him inspect the small yellow bird between his long fingers. "You should wear it on your belt loop," he says, and before you have a chance to agree or not, he opens the little metal fastener that it dangles from and clips it onto your left hip.

"Perfect," you say with a smile as you inspect your new toy. Warmth spreads, and you feel a little more relaxed about this whole thing; maybe the carnival is not so bad, and happiness can be collected and appreciated, one adorable plushie at a time.

"Thank you for playing," the man behind the counter says, and you glance up as he winks and walks off, leaving a different attendant to watch over the game.

"Thank you," you mutter under your breath because it feels like the polite thing to do, then you turn to exit the stall and return to your friends, who are much further in line.

Yoongi slings an arm over your shoulder, causing you to blaze hot in the afternoon sun, but you enjoy his warmth as he steers you near the front of the line.

"We're thinking about getting a pizza to share and some corn dogs," Jimin says without greeting you, and you nod, approving of their choices.

"They have beer, wine, and fruity seltzers," Taehyung adds. "Personally, I think we should get two pitchers of beer."

Yoongi squeezes your shoulder and slides his hand away to reach for his wallet. "Sounds good to me," he says, pulling out some cash.

Jeongguk stands behind the soulmates with his eyes on your bird plushie. Then his gaze snaps to yours, and he roves his eyes around as if feeling awkward about being caught staring. "It's cute," he mutters, eyes falling to your trinket once more.

"Apparently, it will bring her good luck," Yoongi teases, giving your arm a nudge with his elbow, which annoys you enough to shove him away with an elbow of your own.

Past the food truck line, there is a large open space with picnic tables, and you nod to it with your chin, leaning to Yoongi as you ask, "Should we go find a spot to sit?"

"Preferably with shade!" Jimin chimes in, and you nod; shade is a must.

"We'll be right over here," you say as you point, and the others mutter their approval and approach the counter to give their order.

To get to the open area, you have to pass through the food line, which is rather crowded, and you mutter, "Excuse me," and "Sorry," as you squeeze past people. And although most tables in the shade are taken, there is one at the far end, below a large tree, and you move a little faster in its direction to secure it before anyone else has a chance to.

As you approach the table, you find your attention stolen by the tree. Up close, it is massive, looming high with twisted branches that appear sharp, like talons upon which large green leaves dangle.

"Creepy," Yoongi grumbles, and you nod, uttering a quiet, "Uh-huh."

"I'm impressed there's a tree like this out here," he continues as he rounds the table to sit with his back to it. You opt to take the seat across from him. "This place is pretty barren."

As you look past the metal gate to your left, you see what Yoongi means. There are grassy areas here and there, and in the far distance, there are shrubs and eventually trees. But, as far as you can tell, this giant one stands on its own. A chill runs down your spine; creepy, indeed.

The rest of the group joins, with Jeongguk gripping the handles of two pitchers of beer in one hand and carrying a stack of clear plastic cups in the other, followed by Taehyung holding a pizza box, and Jimin holding a cardboard tray of corn dogs. Taehyung and Jimin sit on Yoongi's side of the table, and Jeongguk sits to your right.

"What's up with the tree?" Jeongguk asks as he begins to pour beer into each plastic cup.

Taehyung looks over his shoulder, then grumbles, "It's kind of scary," sporting a disapproving frown.

With a sigh, Jimin looks over his shoulder, then he straightens out, rolling his eyes. "It's just a tree. Thanks for finding us a spot in the shade!"

Although the food is definitely not peak quality, it hits the spot. That, plus the beer, has you feeling full and a bit dizzy, and you anchor your palm to the wooden seat and lean slightly to your right, toward Jeongguk. The wind carries hints of his floral, musky scent, which you have always found to be pleasant.

"What should we do first?" Yoongi asks, and you turn to your right to look around, catching Jeongguk's eye, instead.

"I like the hall of mirrors," Jeongguk says, looking down at your hand that rests inches from him, then up at the others.

"Tunnel of love," Jimin sing-songs playfully.

Taehyung looks at his phone, then says, "There's an illusion show at 1:30 that we should see."

"That sounds cool," Yoongi says as he tilts his head, looking at you, then at Jeongguk, and back. "What about you?"

You shrug, unsure what you would like to do.

"I suppose we should try to see the scheduled shows," you reason. "Then we can decide what to do in between."

It is close enough to 1:30 that the five of you down the rest of the beer and stand from the table with tandem groans. Stretching feels good, and you lift your arms over your head and yawn. Taehyung gathers the trash on top of the pizza box, and Jeongguk picks up the pitchers, following Taehyung toward a large waste receptacle, on top of which is a space for the pitchers.

"I think the show is under the largest tent," Taehyung says as your group exits the space and walks toward the red and white striped tents.

"This place is huge," Yoongi says as his fingers find yours, tickling enough to make you jerk your hand away before allowing him to grab and hold it.

"Good thing we coordinated," Jimin chirps happily, looking down at his blue shirt, then at Taehyung's light blue jacket. "Don't need any of us getting lost."

The carnival space truly is massive, and as you approach the large tents, you feel somewhat overwhelmed. The two smaller ones are about as tall as a small house, and the large one is at least twice its size. Just walking in a circle around the carnival grounds must take quite a while, and you begin to wonder if you will even get to see everything there is to see before midnight.

Beside the entrance of the tent is the man who ran the rubber duck game, only this time, he is head to toe in white. His long-sleeved shirt crosses over his torso and tucks into loose-fitting pants, and he wears chunky white boots and a hat with long white ears that hang to his hips. Although he does not appear to recognize you, you smile widely anyway.

"Here for the illusions show?" the man asks, and you nod, saying, "There's five of us."

The man lifts his hands and holds out a stack of black cards adorned with a gold leaf design of a skull pierced through with a dagger. "You must pick a card," he says, eyes drifting over your group.

You swallow thickly and reach for one of the center cards, taking it by the corner between your thumb and index finger and gently tugging, then you flip it over to reveal the image of a skeleton dressed in a black robe. It holds a sword in one hand and a gold cup in the other, and around it are various symbols, including a glowing infinity sign above its head. The Magician is written along the bottom in gold, and you rub your thumb over the slightly raised text.

One by one, your friends all pick cards. Yoongi laughs as he reads, "The Fool," aloud, and you lean in to see a similar robed skeleton figure on his, depicted carrying a basket.

Taehyung frowns as he reads, "Death," showing the same cloaked skeleton with its hands crossed over its chest, and Jimin's eyes light up as he says, "The Hanged Person," revealing the familiar skeleton hanging by its ankles from a rope. The only card that differs in theme is Jeongguk's, which depicts a crumbling tower being struck by lightning.

The man in white reaches out, taking Jeongguk's card first. "The Tower," he says, "upheaval, sudden change, and chaos. Very good – embrace that. And yours," he takes Jimin's card. "Ah, The Hanged Person. Surrender, letting go, and new perspectives. A fine card; full of promise. Let's see, here," he says, reaching for Taehyung's card, glancing up at your frowning friend with a sympathetic smile. "Don't let Death scare you. They symbolize endings, transition, and transformation, which can seem intimidating, but these things are vital for the human experience."

Taehyung hums under his breath and shoves his hands into his pockets as the man in white steps closer, reaching for Yoongi's card. "The Fool," he says, glancing up with a grin. "Innocence, new beginnings, and spontaneity. Is this true?"

Yoongi blinks, then shrugs, and says, "I suppose so."

The man hums and says, "Jumping into new things may be fun, but try not to dive head-first too often. You never know what could be lurking in the depths."

With an amused scoff, Yoongi responds, "Alright."

"And you, my dear, what have we here?" the man asks, reaching toward your hands.

"The magician," you mutter, handing the card over.

"The magician," the man responds with a wide smile, studying your face. His eyes fall to your hands, then past them to the bird plushie on your side. "Cute," he says, cocking his head to the side, and you watch him, feeling puzzled; how could he have already forgotten about you winning the trinket less than an hour ago? Have so many people played the rubber duck game?

"Power, manipulation, and action," the man says, lifting his wide, coal-smudged eyes to yours. "How does it make you feel?"

"Uh, w-well, I suppose—" you stammer, attempting to find the words. Then you mutter, "I don't know. I guess I don't feel anything."

The man hums, says, "You will," and winks before turning toward the entrance to the tent.

As the man lifts the tent flap, he looks over your shoulder and shouts, "Last call for the illusions show! Line starts here!"

"Jack!" a voice calls from within the tent, and the man in white turns to look over his shoulder, into the darkness. He converses with whoever caught his attention, but you cannot see who that person is.

When the man in white – presumably named Jack – turns back, he catches your eye and says, "We have five remaining VIP spots. Come this way and follow Seokjin hyung."

You hesitate to step forward when a man in a blood-red suit comes stepping into view, who you recognize instantly as Kim Seokjin, one of the two brothers who run the event. Seokjin is somehow more stunning in person, with his dark hair swept off his forehead, revealing a piercing gaze and welcoming smile. And when he stands tall and gestures with his hand, saying, "Come this way!" his presence is commanding.

You follow, stepping into the dimly lit tent as Seokjin leads you around to the right, past tall wooden bleachers atop which people are chattering and finding their seats. "Just a little further," he says over his shoulder, leading you deeper into the space.

Coming out from between bleachers ahead is a glowing gold light, and Seokjin leads you toward it, then takes a left, into it. You squint as soon as you turn, hit by bright spotlights that are bursting from the center of the ring, and then Seokjin stops and holds his hand out to the right, to the first wooden row, which is empty.

"Here you are!" Seokjin calls. "Enjoy the show!"

"Why were we given VIP?" Yoongi calls over your shoulder, to which Seokjin grins.

"Right place at the right time…" He responds, drawing out the last word while studying your group. "And a good combination of cards."

"Oh," you respond as Taehyung and Jimin pass you to take their seats. Jeongguk is next, and you step forward to sit beside him, assuming he may not want to be stuck next to Yoongi.

"Thank you!" you call just as Seokjin turns away, waving his hand in the air behind himself.

From somewhere inside the ring, there is a large burst of music – horns and keys – that makes you startle, and you laugh to yourself, feeling silly for being so jumpy. Clowns and acrobats come flipping and twirling through the gap in between bleachers beside you as the loud music builds, becoming a quick, chaotic symphony.

The performers line the ring, dancing and twisting, jumping and cartwheeling, cheering and singing. It is so loud and so frenzied, you have a hard time trying to find a spot to focus on, watching them move in small individual circles while traversing around the ring in greater circles, making you dizzy and somewhat disoriented.

"Come one, come all!" a loud, deep, welcoming voice booms over the noise. "Welcome to Carnival Bizarre! The greatest show in the world!"

When the other Kim brother you recognize from the posters – Namjoon – suddenly appears in the center of the ring in a burst of smoke, you feel surprised and a bit confused. The performers circle around him, and he holds his arms high, blood-red suit bright under the shine of the many spotlights.

Although you cannot perfectly see him from this distance, you imagine that he is not only smiling, but that he is staring directly at you. A chill shimmies down your spine, and you want to look away, but you find that you cannot; your eyes are fixed on the magnanimous man in the swelling center of the encircling chaos.

Held in Namjoon's hand is a cane, the top end of which is glowing bright like fire, and you watch as he twirls and points with it, following its path at the music crescendos, feeling a heavy weight in your chest that threatens to overwhelm, if only you could tear your eyes away and allow yourself to think clearly.

And then the music stops, and the lights shift off, save for a bright white spotlight that glows on Namjoon. He opens his empty hand, and something that looks like a burst of orange, glittering fire rises from his palms, shimmering in the air as it lifts up, up, up, to the top of the tent, so high above that you lose sight of it.

Vaguely, it feels as if tears are running from your eyes, staining your cheeks in warm streaks, but you cannot lift your hands to check, nor can you blink. You sit stunned and stiff as a board, staring up into the dark tent, waiting to be told where to look next.

Jack, the man in white, appears before you. His fingertips touching your chin shakes you from your reverie, and you gasp as you meet his eyes. Something is happening on the floor of the ring – slow, sultry music you don't remember hearing a moment ago seems to be accompanying several performers, but it is hard to make out much past Jack standing in the way.

"Heads or tails," Jack says with a smile, and before you can respond, he flips a coin, sending it high into the air. "Heads, you see all; tails, you only remember what feels good."

You tilt your head back to watch the coin, barely aware of the fact that nobody else seems to be seeing it. It is almost as if Yoongi and Jeongguk are sitting with their heads slumped forward, but you cannot tear your eyes away from the ascending coin to check.

"Heads or tails?" Jack asks, and you open your mouth to respond, barely registering the word that comes from between your quivering lips.

With a quick snap of his arm, Jack reaches high and snatches the coin from the air, then he crouches low before you, taps his fingers to your chin, and says, "Very good, ducky; you may sink, now. See you soon."

You mutter a soft, "Very good," as your head slumps forward, the music quietly swells to a stop, and everything fades to black.

Tell me what you've come for What is it you adore Won't you tell me? What would you cry for Swallow your pride for? What would you, oh, go wild for?

heyyyyyy, how are we feeling??? i am so excited to have chapter 1 out, and i have many things in store for you (including the conclusion of the illusions show and what the crew does next.) there are two polls going up some time in 8-12 hours from posting, so be sure to keep an eye out for those!

reblogs and comments make all the difference on this site, and likes are appreciated so much, as well! thank you for reading! 💜 see you next time!!!

🤹‍♀️ tag list: @agustdsciggy @eoieopda @idkjustlovingbts @mamidescarada @melancholy-of-nadia @mgthecat @secfir @sweetestofchaos 🎪 visit the master post to read the disclaimer & request to be tagged!

INDEX | NEXT

#fic rec #bts #yoongi #theharrowing #the theme is making me want to pull out my Carnival themed BPAL perfume oils especially the funnel cake one

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astroellies · 2 months ago

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˚༄࿔ more singer ellie (ft. actor reader) headcanons

warnings! happiness and fun.

⭐︎ you know that one video of oscar isaac and jessica chastain? yeah ellie likes doing that when you two are on red carpets together. she’s shameless and lovessss to show you off, especially when you’re feeling hot.

⭐︎ likes to take 0.5s or other unflattering photos of you during commerical breaks at award shows. she likes to post them for your birthday or anniversary (to keep you humble of course).

⭐︎ she likes you to star in her music videos. especially if they’re short films or otherwise telling a story. if you’re fem(me) she loves when you have a hyper-feminine vibe or if you’re more masc she thinks it’s so hot to butch out with you. her videos are essentially thirst traps but she’d never admit it.

⭐︎ AND the fans absolutely eat up the bts of the music videos. you like to bring a camera to set to film her. cute videos of her getting her makeup touched up and smirking at the camera saying hi baby. or silly ones of her talking in a thick southern accent dressed as a cowboy saying something like howdy, partner.

⭐︎ pre-eras tour ellie says that she isn’t a swiftie but you drag her along to the concert and catch her doing a frat-flick during we are never ever getting back together. (also she heard champagne problems live she became evermore’s #1 fan!)

fans see her too and definitely give her friendship bracelets and post videos of her dancing to tiktok. the masses are saying that ellie and taylor need to collab (no matter how different their music styles are).

⭐︎ speaking of ellie liking taylor swift she loves to hype up the other music girls. she was definitely spotted at chappell’s gov ball set wearing heart sunglasses and screaming after midnight. i feel like she’d dream of collabing with sabrina carpenter and being freaks together. ALSO megan the stallion is her biggest celebrity crush like watch out if she ever meets her it’s over for you two. specifically loves big ole freak.

⭐︎ sings with joel all the time. whether he’s famous or not (nepo ellie?) he’s featured on at least one of her songs. they’d definitely do a cover of like country roads, take me home or something.

⭐︎ you two would somehow end up doing like a wired autocomplete interview together and they have to cut the footage because you two are flirting or just being silly together. like pedro pascal and oscar isaac’s but romantic.

⭐︎ there are definitely some paparazzi photos out there of her looking just straight up silly lol. i’m talking one of those i’m not a gynecologist but i’ll take a look shirts, huge ass adam sandler shorts, mismatched socks, and crocs. and she’s like on a grocery run or walking a dog or something.

⭐︎ has done calvin klein or perfume ads that have people going crazy. close ups of her eyes and her tattoo. in a sports bra. hair slightly slicked back.

⭐︎ your biggest fan ever when you win awards. full standing ovation, kissing you all over before you can actually go on stage and collect the award. will post a picture of you two at like dennys or some 24/7 diner post-oscars. your hair and makeup messy. you’re wearing her blazer. the trophy sat next to you on the table. and the caption is like so proud of my girl.

⭐︎ if you kept your relationship private before getting married the internet would lose their shit. like you post a singular picture of her, tattoo peaking out from under her suit, ring on full display and hand wrapped around your waist. saying something like best day of my life with the best wife(!!).

⭐︎ i think she’d love sending edits of you, herself, or both of you to you. she’d be like babe we’re so hot. (if you have opposite aesthetics people definitely edit you to style by taylor swift!)

⭐︎ she’d probably get her instagram password taken away after posting like it was her spam account. like maybe she unintentionally spoils a new movie you’re in by posting a bts photo of you in her photo dump.

⭐︎ no matter how famous she gets, black converses will always be her go-to performance shoe. and she wears them to the DEATH. it doesn’t matter if you buy her a new pair she will wear the old ones until the sole is falling off and then she will wear the new pair. her fanbase definitely jokes about this similarly to how the tlou fandom does. like tiktoks of the most fucked up shoes and they’re like this is so ellie williams core.

⭐︎ she goes on like jimmy fallon or some late night show and they show a clip of her after getting her wisdom teeth removed (or some other procedure that makes you loopy)…

and she’s crying because she called you really pretty but she has a girlfriend and she feels so bad about it. but you’re behind the camera telling her you’re her wife. which makes her cry harder because you’re so so beautiful and perfect. and joel’s in the front seat, driving, and laughing his ass off.

⭐︎ you two get to go on snl together, you’re hosting and she’s the musical guest and you two fuck up every skit you’re in. like as soon as you make eye contact with her you’re bursting out laughing (how could you not when she’s dressed like an 80’s rockstar or a stereotypical nerd).

#ellie williams #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams x female reader #ellie williams fluff #ellie fluff #ellie williams the last of us #ellie tlou #ellie the last of us #the last of us game #ellie williams tlou #˚༄࿔astroellies headcanons

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dreamersparacosm · 3 months ago

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jeon jungkook - the price of desire (part four)

warnings ; where do i start. public sex kinda (they’re in an office), choking, degradation lowkey, fingering, unprotected sex, reader gets forced to say thank you??? idk bruh

prompt ; in which you learn that your dignity has a price, and unfortunately, it looks a lot like Jeon Jungkook in Calvin Klein boxers.

note ; let’s get one thing straight here — this is porn. porn to the highest degree. however, this is porn with plot, i swear. also, just so everyone’s aware, this is tpod!jk core. like this is how i imagine him when i write him (with this song. and that hair. especially this song and you SHOULD listen to it while reading.) anyways my point here is that this smut has meaning and it is not just some crack of the tension whip (although that, it is too. whatever. say thank you Ang!) <33

playlist here *and you should listen to meddle about while reading this*

series masterlist here

The headlines had hit before you’d even left the gala.

And by the time you wake up the next morning — bare-faced, half-blind, head pounding from one too many champagne flutes — it’s already a media typhoon.

At first, it’s quiet. A low simmer of speculation: grainy fan-captured footage, a couple throwaway tweets, Reddit sleuths dissecting every inch of fabric between Jungkook’s sleeve and Jennie’s waist like it’s a forensic crime scene. You squint at the screen, sip your espresso, and think Okay. Annoying, but containable.

Then it detonates.

Somewhere between your second cup of coffee and your third panicked email to the PR team, the entire internet decides: they’re in love. Secretly married. Expecting twins. Maybe launching a couple’s perfume line.

Your phone has been possessed ever since, buzzing, ringing, lighting up like a slot machine from hell. Sunrise to sunset, it doesn’t stop. Calvin Klein executives, press liaisons, Jungkook’s management.

Everywhere you look, there’s another headline screaming at you in all-caps bold Helvetica.

“JENNIE & JUNGKOOK: CALVIN KLEIN’S POWER COUPLE?”

“WHAT REALLY HAPPENED AT THE GALA? BLACKPINK AND BTS HOTTEST COUPLE”

No confirmation. No Dispatch exposé. No official anything.

None of it matters though, because the internet doesn’t wait for facts. It builds empires out of crumbs. And right now, it’s building one out of Jungkook’s smirk and the angle of Jennie’s clavicle.

“This is a disaster,” you mutter, hunched over your desk like a shell-shocked war general, fingers pressing into your temples hard enough to leave dents.

Across from you, Daniel doesn’t even look up. “No shit.”

He’s typing at Mach speed, probably trying to get ahead of the narrative. Your assistant is juggling five calls at once. The PR team is in full red-alert mode, assembling a strategy board like they’re planning a military coup.

You’ve been on back-to-back calls with Jungkook’s manager for the past day, trying to glue this mess back together with nothing but rage and anxiety.

“Can we at least get his company to release a statement?” you ask, flipping through the latest crisis reports.

Daniel snorts. “They aren’t touching this with a ten-foot pole.”

You glare. “Why?”

He glances up, deadpan. “Because it’s free publicity.”

You exhale so sharply it feels like your soul exits your body. Of course. Of fucking course.

Jungkook’s name is trending worldwide along with Jennie’s. Calvin Klein’s engagement metrics have gone full meteoric. This is the kind of viral attention marketing teams dream about minus the spontaneous combustion of your sanity. So, all that to say, no one actually cares that you’re bleeding out behind the scenes. That you haven’t slept in 24 hours. That your screen time is officially criminal. That every time you close your eyes, you see fan edits of his hand on her waist set to some dramatic TikTok audio and captioned “soulmates.”

The worst part of it all is you haven’t seen him. Not in meetings, in hallways and not even a fucking text.

While you’re spiraling into madness trying to do damage control, Jungkook is out there existing, probably blissfully unaware, shirtless in his hotel room, eating ramen and ignoring 400 missed calls.

Professionally — you’re furious. This was supposed to be your campaign, your legacy. Not some romantic scandal rebranded into clickbait. The optics are a nightmare. The timing couldn’t be worse. And now, instead of launching a clean global message, you’re managing a tabloid firestorm.

Personally — you want to launch him into the sun.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The tension in the Los Angeles office conference room is unbearable. You sit at the head of the table, posture perfect but jaw clenched, while Jungkook lounges across from you like he didn’t just derail your entire campaign with his fucking face.

His expression is unreadable but you can feel it, the heat rolling off him. He’s pissed too. Good. Let him stew.

His manager is talking fast, voice tight, while Calvin Klein’s PR lead cycles through stats like this is a TED Talk. “There’s no actual damage… if anything, the buzz is working in our favor. Global engagement is up 36% in the past three days.”

You grip your pen so tightly it might become a weapon.

They’re treating it like a miracle, like this whole thing was orchestrated. Like you haven’t been putting out fires for 72 straight hours while Jungkook goes radio silent and lets the rumor mill chew you alive.

No one’s asking how you’re doing. No one’s wondering why your hands are shaking beneath the table or your voice has gone hoarse from repeating the same line in every call: There is no confirmed relationship between our brand ambassadors.

You don’t even look at Jungkook. You don’t need to. You can feel his crossed arms and the stubborn, infuriating silence a mile away. He hasn’t said a word this whole meeting, just simmering annoyance.

It’s mutual.

By the time the meeting wraps, you’re seconds away from snapping your pen in half and hurling it across the room.

“We’ll keep monitoring the situation,” Jungkook’s manager says, closing a notebook with a satisfied little snap. “No statements for now. Let’s see how it plays out.”

You smile politely. You are going to kill him. And you’re going to do it in a very calm, very professional, very brand-safe way.

Make no mistake, Jungkook is not getting out of this untouched. Especially not after you haven’t slept in three days, after you touched yourself like some hypnotized virgin because he told you to.

Everyone nods. There’s the rustle of papers, the scrape of chairs on polished floors, the low murmur of corporate farewells. One by one, people file out of the conference room, clutching tablets and crisis decks pretending they weren’t just gleefully discussing how to milk this for record-breaking engagement.

The door clicks shut behind the last person.

Thick, cloying, suffocating silence. It swallows the room whole.

For some reason you can’t explain, Jungkook does not file out of the room with the rest of the team. No, he sits there. You don’t move or have the energy to question his motives.

You sit frozen in your chair, every muscle pulled taut, fingers tapping slow against the glass table, almost like a warning and a countdown. Your other hand is curled into a fist in your lap, nails digging crescent moons into your palm as you do the mental math on whether murder voids your employment contract.

Your eyes flick to Jungkook, who’s sprawled back in his chair, legs spread slightly apart, one ringed finger lazily dragging along the curve of his jaw like he’s bored. Or amused. Or both. His expression is neutral, completely detached. Like the headlines weren’t about him and he’s never even heard the word scandal.

He’s got that infuriating look again from the other night — that what chaos? look—and your jaw ticks.

Tap. Tap. Tap. One last, sharp crack of nail to glass.

“Tell me you’ve seen the fucking headlines.” You don’t yell. You don’t need to. Your voice slices through the air like it’s powered by three sleepless nights and a steady diet of cold espresso and escalating fury.

Jungkook’s eyes finally lift slowly like he’s gracing you with his attention.

You glare. “Tell me you’re not actually this stupid.”

The barest twitch of his brow. Something flashes behind his eyes — humor? guilt? boredom? — but it’s gone before you can grab hold of it.

Then he shrugs like your career isn’t currently dangling off a PR cliff. “What do you want me to do?” His tone is even, the exact pitch of someone who’s never once had to clean up after himself. “Call Dispatch and tell them I was just being friendly?”

You blink casually, pulse thudding in your ears.

You’re too well-trained to explode on him. Too experienced, too poised. But, something inside you combusts. A small, silent implosion of patience and all the fake calm you’ve been wearing.

He has no idea what it’s like to sit through back-to-back damage control meetings while your brand is turning into tabloid fodder. No clue how many favors you’ve had to call in, how many emails you’ve had to rewrite until your fingers went numb. How many headlines you’ve seen this week that made your stomach twist.

Somehow, he’s still looking at you like you’re the one overreacting.

Your voice drops, quieter now. “Friendly doesn’t involve your hand on her waist.”

Jungkook tilts his head lazily, like he’s trying to remember. “Didn’t realize I wasn’t allowed to talk to people anymore.”

“Oh my god,” you exhale. “You are insufferable.”

The fact that he’s still calm, still sprawled out in that chair like this is just another workday, is only making everything worse.

You shove back from your chair so hard it scrapes across the floor with a screech that would make your assistant wince. Heels clicking, spine ramrod straight, you round the table like a storm in four-inch heels, not stopping until you’re toe-to-toe with his chair.

He doesn’t flinch, not even a blink. Just watches you approach like he’s a monument to indifference. His legs are splayed slightly apart, both arms calmly resting in his lap.

Your blood boils so hot it’s a miracle the fire alarms haven’t gone off.

“You think this is funny?” Your voice pierces through the air. “You think this is some harmless little flirtation?”

Still, no reaction. Just a slow exhale through his nose, like he’s being so patient with you.

“This isn’t about your personal life, Jungkook. This is about your goddamn responsibility to this brand,” You tower over him, and there’s a sense of joy that ripples through you as he stares up at you.

So, you keep going. “Do you even get how hard I’ve worked to make this campaign seamless? Flawless? Executives don’t throw global platform rollouts at just anyone, Jungkook. I fought tooth and nail for this and for you and now the only thing people are talking about is Jennie like it’s some soft launch.”

You see it the moment it lands; the flicker in his eyes, the slight drop of his shoulders, a shadow passing across his expression before it hardens again. Yet he has the nerve to lean back even farther like you’re just a minor inconvenience standing between him and his afternoon protein shake.

Then, finally, he speaks. It’s exactly as smug as you feared it would be. “Oh,” he says, “So that’s what’s really bothering you.”

Your jaw tightens so fast it might shatter.

Jungkook’s eyes glint, lips twitching, “You don’t like that people are talking about me with someone else.”

He says it like it’s a fact, like it’s already been decided, as if he’s not just poking the bear. He’s setting the entire forest on fire to see how you’ll react.

You laugh bitterly. It’s the kind of sharp, completely unhinged sound that spills out when you’ve officially crossed the border between frustration and rage. Your vision tunnels and your fists clench. You wonder if any judge would convict you for knocking out one of his perfectly white teeth.

“You’re fucking impossible,” you spit, nearly breathless.

“No,” he says slowly, coming to some realization. “You just hate when things don’t go your way.”

You take a step forward, dangerously close to falling on top of him in that chair. Close enough to count the flecks in his eyes, close enough to rip that chain off his neck if you wanted to.

“You are a reckless, immature, insufferable little shit who doesn’t know when to stop,” you snap, every word a direct shot to his ego.

Jungkook’s jaw clenches. “And you’re a fucking control freak who thinks the world will crumble if you’re not there to hold it up.”

Your breath hitches. That one sentence goes deeper than it should. That wasn’t a throwaway insult. That wasn’t just something to piss you off. That was a direct fucking hit, and Jungkook knows it.

“You know what the worst part is?” you whisper, each word soaked in absolute disgust. “You actually think you’re special.”

Jungkook’s expression shifts, and not in a dramatic, storming-off, throw-the-chair kind of way; he’s too practiced for that. But it’s there beneath the surface.

You see it, and you double down.

“Of course you think the world revolves around you,” You say, voice curling with disbelief. “You walk around like consequences don’t apply. Like you can do whatever the fuck you want and someone will be there to fix it. You’re not brilliant. You’re not clever. You’re just an overgrown man-child with too much power and zero idea what to do with it.”

His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek deliberately like he’s trying to decide whether to bite back or bite harder.

“Oh, and you?” he says, voice dropping into that venom-laced register he saves for moments like this. “You’re just another girl in heels, pretending your job makes you interesting.”

Your blood is boiling, sure. Your hands are clenched so tightly you’re pretty sure your nails have left permanent dents in your skin. But you’ve had enough. “You’re exhausting.”

“You’re unbearable,” He grits out, standing up to loom over you. You don’t back down, though.

“You’re the most insufferable man I’ve ever met.” You spit the sentence like you’re trying to scrape the taste of him off your tongue.

Jungkook lets out a short laugh that’s dry and humorless. You realize now you might be in serious trouble, with him being so close to you that you can smell his scent, can see every curve in his pink lips. It’s also not helping that when he’s standing like this in front of you, he practically towers over you and you can look right up into his darkened eyes. But you’ve done worse to more important men.

“You should be fucking thanking me,” Jungkook glares.

That’s the moment where your patience fractures like glass. A laugh explodes from your chest, the kind of sound that only comes when you’re so far past your limit that your body doesn’t know what else to do. You throw your hands in the air, exasperated, stunned, teetering on the edge of hysterical.

“Thanking you?” you repeat, incredulous. “Oh, yeah. Sure. Let me just clear my schedule so I can fall to my knees in eternal gratitude.”

He doesn’t blink. He watches you with that calmness, like he’s the victim here. You keep going, the rage pouring out unchecked now. “Thank you for what, Jungkook? For being a walking liability? For dragging the campaign into a scandal before we even hit global release? For making my job a nightmare?”

And then he says the sentence that knocks the wind out of you. The one that makes everything go suddenly, dangerously quiet. “This campaign is nothing without me.”

The words land like a slap. Your mouth parts, stunned at first. A full second passes before the heat rises to your face, before the fury starts buzzing in your limbs like electricity, before you really register what the fuck he just said.

Beneath all of it — the rage, the resentment, the sheer disbelief — it’s there. That horrible, humiliating ache lodged deep in your chest. Because god, you hate him. You hate the way he talks, the way he breathes, the way he stares at you like he’s not afraid of you. But what you hate more is the way you still want him, even now and even when he’s infuriating and reckless and dragging your hard work through the dirt, your body still betrays you. It aches in places you swore he couldn’t reach. It’s disgusting. It’s pathetic. And you’d rather die than let him see it.

You step in closer, close enough to smell the cologne on his collar. Close enough that if either of you moved an inch, this wouldn’t be an argument; it’d be something else entirely. Something much worse.

“Is that what you think?” you whisper, voice cutting and low, trembling with rage you can’t contain.

His eyes flicker, uncertain for the first time.

“Fine,” you continue, sweetly now. Your voice dips into something syrupy, bitter enough to rot your teeth. “You want a thank you?”

“Thank you, Jungkook. Thank you for being the absolute worst celebrity I’ve ever had the misfortune of working with. Thank you for the emotional whiplash, for reminding me every single day that talent doesn’t equal professionalism. Thank you for making my life a fucking nightmare. Really… thank you. “

Jungkook’s lips twitch, not in a smirk, not exactly, but not a smile either. It’s a little wicked. The kind of expression that says I know what I’m about to do, and I know you’re going to let me.

Then he leans in slightly, enough to make your breath pause and your spine lock straight. His voice drops into that low, dangerous place that always sets your nerves alight. “You are so fucking welcome.”

That’s really all it takes.

It’s like a match to gasoline. Like every insult and eye-roll and pointed glare was just foreplay for this exact moment.

And then he’s on you.

There’s no grace to it. No warm-up. No time to second-guess what the hell is happening. His mouth crashes into yours like it’s been building since the first time he pissed you off. His kiss isn’t sweet. It’s not poetic. It’s not some delicate, well-choreographed thing you’d find in a film scored by violins.

It’s a breaking point: his lips bruising yours, his tongue sliding in like he owns the right and claiming victory, like he’s waited too long to keep pretending he doesn’t want this as badly as you do.

And you do. God, you do.

Your back hits the edge of the table. His hands are already everywhere, one wrapped tight around your waist, the other gripping your jaw with just enough pressure to make your head spin. There’s a very real chance he’ll leave marks and an even more real part of you that wants him to.

This is so incredibly, epically stupid.

Anyone could walk by. Anyone could glance through the conference room glass and see you kissing Jeon Jungkook like he’s the only thing keeping your heart from flatlining. This is career suicide. This is the real scandal.

For a moment, you don’t care. You don’t care about the job or the risk or the headlines this could spark by morning.

Right now, you need this. You need him. You need the way his mouth drags against yours, hungry and punishing. You need the little sound he makes when you fist your hands into the collar of his shirt and yank him closer like you’re daring him to ruin you.

You need the way he tastes, like it’s the final word in every fight you’ve lost to him.

Your heart is hammering. Your skin’s on fire. And all you can think between the biting kisses, the ragged breaths, the way his teeth graze your bottom lip like he wants to keep a piece of you, is how badly you want more.

He knows, because the grip on your waist tightens like he’s trying to anchor you. His breathing’s uneven now, ragged against your cheek. His lips are red, swollen. He pulls back just a fraction to look at you.

The worst part — the part that makes you want to scream into the nearest cushion and maybe also sue him for emotional damages — is that this is his fault. All of it. Three nights ago, he told you to get off. Just like that.“Maybe you just need to get off.” So you did. Not with him, because you still had a shred of pride at the time, but alone, practically shaking. With one hand between your thighs and the other gripping your pillow. The whole time, you imagined him, his mouth, the way he’d sound telling you to let go, like it was an order, not a favor. You’d never cum so fast in your life.

Now your body’s not even pretending to be neutral. You want him. And honestly, you can’t even blame yourself anymore. What choice did you ever have?

His mouth is back on yours in an instant, hotter, rougher, like he’s trying to erase every sharp word you’ve ever thrown at him and replace it with this. Tongue, teeth, hands. It’s all-consuming.

His lips drop lower, dragging along the edge of your jaw. He bites once, hard enough to make your pulse stutter, then soothes it with the flat of his tongue, mouth trailing down your neck like he’s tasting a victory

The heat of his breath hits the column of your throat, and you shudder. Your hands scramble for something to hold onto, fingers gripping the edge of the table like that might ground you, like the cool surface might offset the fire currently crawling beneath your skin. But then his mouth finds the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, and he sucks lightly, enough pressure to make your knees go soft and a gasp slip from your lips before you can bite it back.

And that’s when reality sucker punches you.

This is a conference room.

A Calvin Klein conference room with glass walls and a brand reputation you’re quite literally paid to protect. These walls are not built for discretion. You could throw a stapler against them and still hear the gossip echo through the elevators.

You moan again and it’s the sound that yanks you back into yourself.

You break away from his mouth, breath ragged, pulse sprinting, trying to pull oxygen back into your brain and remember things like logic, boundaries, laws.

Your fists are knotted in the collar of his shirt as you breathe out, “Lock the fucking door. Close the blinds before someone sees.”

Jungkook freezes for a second. And then that smirk creeps back in like it never left, like you didn’t just try to be the voice of reason and immediately lose to your own body chemistry.

He leans in again, and his mouth grazes your ear, his tone low “What?” he whispers, a chuckle riding the syllable. “You don’t want anyone to see how desperate you are for me?”

Your breath hitches at that. You should be angry. You should throw him across the room and write him up for misconduct and file a strongly worded HR complaint with yourself.

But instead, your stomach flips. And his hand slides down your side, fingers digging in just tight enough to make you feel pinned in place.

“You don’t want anyone to see you thank me properly?” he murmurs, his mouth grazing the side of your neck again.

You hate that it lands. You hate the way heat immediately pools deep in your stomach, sharp and unrelenting, like your body has fully abandoned ship and left your brain behind with a middle finger and a “good luck.”

With every brain cell you have left, you know you should push him away. You should shut this whole thing down before it crosses a line so thick it might as well be in neon.

Instead, you let go of his shirt and he grins like he knows exactly what that means.

With a breathy exhale, he turns and strolls toward the door with that godforsaken confidence, the kind that makes you want to rip off his shirt and punch him in the face, preferably in that order. His movements are infuriatingly casual. You hear the click of the lock, sharp in the quiet room.

One by one, he draws the blinds closed, shielding the floor-to-ceiling windows from view. Not that there’s anyone left to see; It’s late and way past working hours. The only people left in this building are you and him.

By the time he turns back to you, the air feels different. It’s the kind that screams no take-backs.

When Jungkook starts walking toward you, you swear your lungs forget how to function. He’s looking at you like he already knows what’s about to happen and he’s already halfway through imagining exactly how you’ll fall apart for him.

Which, for all intents and purposes, is so annoying.

You hate how good he looks under fluorescent lighting. Hate the way he moves like a storm rolling in. Hate the way your stomach flips when his hands find your hips, fingers curling tight, tugging you in like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

His lips press against yours again. His mouth is all heat and pressure, tongue pushing past your lips.You don’t stand a chance. Your hands find his hair, fingers tangling, gripping as he groans into your mouth. His fingers drift lower, trailing down your waist with infuriating patience.

He smirks against your lips, no less. “That’s more like it,” he murmurs with the kind of voice that says I knew you’d break eventually, like this is some victory lap and not the exact thing he’s been secretly begging for just as much as you have.

His hands slide up your thighs now, slow and teasing, thumbs grazing the hem of your pencil skirt. He pushes the fabric inch by inch, taking his sweet time, fingers skimming bare skin like he’s trying to savor the reveal.

Your breath stutters. Jungkook, the ever observant bastard, notices.

He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath warm as he says, “Still waiting for that thank you, sweetheart.”

Your pulse jumps and he takes that as an invitation to move his fingers even higher. Your head tilts back against instinct as his mouth drags along your jaw.

“Come on,” he hums, voice silky. “Be polite.”

You’re already dizzy. Your body’s betraying you by the second, caving faster than you’d like to admit. Every part of you is screaming more, while your brain is just quietly short-circuiting in the background, waving a white flag.

But there’s still a sliver of fight left in you. You grit your teeth. “Fuck off.”

His hands shove your skirt the rest of the way up, no hesitation, fabric sliding around your waist like gravity’s no longer relevant. He steps back half a beat to look and the second his eyes drop, you see it.

His resolve flickers long enough for his jaw to tense, for his breath to catch ever so slightly at the sight of your black lace panties stretched against skin. It’s the tiniest shift but it’s there.

He clicks his tongue, a single, dismissive tsk like this is an error. A styling choice to be corrected. Like your underwear is somehow offensive to his sense of dominance and he’s going to rectify it immediately.

His fingers trace the curve of your hip, dragging over the band of lace like he’s thinking about doing something with it but not yet. He stays right there, just beneath the threshold of satisfaction, basking in the power of your suspended breath.

He leans in, “Only polite girls get what they want.”

Your pulse spikes so fast it makes you dizzy. His lips ghost along your jaw barely there, and then a sudden squeeze at your thigh

“That dirty mouth?” he murmurs, dragging his lips back to your ear, “It’s not getting you anywhere.”

His presence is overwhelming. He’s not just standing in front of you, he’s all over you. In your space, in your breath, in your bloodstream.

He’s not even doing that much and you’re still putty in his hands.

His fingers skim lower, brushing dangerously close, hovering over the heat between your thighs like he’s got nothing but time. He doesn’t dare touch you fully though.

“You feel that?” he whispers, his knuckles grazing across your clothed clit.

You hate the way your head tips back slightly. The way your lashes flutter without permission. The way your hips tilt forward subtly enough to betray you completely.

You hear the smile in his voice before you see it. “Oh, baby…”

His voice is smug as his thumb drags along the soaked strip of lace between your legs. His lips curl as he feels it, the proof of what he’s doing to you.

“Fuck,” he breathes. He’s just confirmed his own suspicions.

“Still telling me to fuck off, when you’re this wet for me?” His words go straight to your core.

You dig your nails into the glass table like it might keep you grounded, like maybe furniture will save your dignity when your body is this far gone. Every muscle is wound tight, clenching around nothing.

“Shut up,” you snap.

Or at least, you try to. Your voice cracks and it’s more of a gasp than a threat.

Jungkook laughs so sure of himself. The sound rolls over your skin. “That’s not how you thank me, sweetheart.”

His thumb slides down again, agonizingly slow, pressing right where you’re aching, but lightly to make you whimper.

Your hips jerk forward instinctively. He watches the way your body reacts, eyes locked on your every movement, cataloging every breath, every flinch, every subtle giveaway.

“C’mon,” he breathes, low and taunting as his fingers drag along the damp lace again. “Be polite. Say thank you.”

You want to kill him. You want to slap the look off his face, shove him into the wall, storm out of the room with your head high and your dignity intact.

Instead, you bite down on your bottom lip so hard you’re surprised it doesn’t split.

Your chest rises, sharp and fast, trying to hold yourself together while his fingers keep up their rhythm, the barely-there pressure that amount to nothing and everything all at once.

Every motion is deliberate, cruel in the way only Jungkook can manage. He drags his fingers over the soaked fabric with precision, keeping you right on the edge without ever tipping you over.

His dark eyes flick up to your face, full of wicked amusement. Your whole body trembles, thighs twitching with every gentle, useless stroke that doesn’t give you what you need.

It’s humiliating, honestly, how badly you want this. How badly you want him to just pull your panties aside and do something about it. You hate how soaked you are.

Jungkook chuckles. “Getting desperate, baby?”

His fingers press down slightly harder, dragging slow and steady over your clit, still over the lace, still refusing to give you the friction you’re dying for. It makes your breath sink into your chest, your thighs squeeze together, your pride snap a little further.

“No,” you force out, barely above a whisper. It’s pathetic. You know it, he knows it. You hate how weak it sounds, how shaky your voice is like your body’s begging even when your mouth is trying to hold the line.

And then — god help you — his thumb swipes over your clit, the lightest brush, and it shoots lightning straight up your spine.

Your head tilts back with a gasp, eyes fluttering shut. His lips brush your jaw, deceptively soft.

“Then why are you shaking?” he whispers. He already knows the answer and just wants to hear you admit it.

Your pride is threadbare. Your breathing’s a mess. Your thighs are trembling. Your self-control has officially packed a suitcase and left the building.

“P-please, Jungkook—” you gasp, voice shaking.

His cock twitches against the front of his jeans at the sound. Before you can even protest or say some other snarky remark, his fingers vanish.

You blink, stunned as he pulls back. He shakes his head slowly, like he’s the one let down here. “That’s not a thank you, sweetheart.”

You don’t even have time to react. One second you’re trying to remember how to breathe, and the next, he moves. Hands firm on your waist, grip unyielding, and then he lifts you like you weigh absolutely nothing. As if you’re just another object he’s decided he wants to rearrange, only this one’s got a mouth and an attitude and a skirt that’s now hiked halfway up her thighs. He places you right on top of the conference table and your breath catches.

Your heels skid against his jeans, scraping uselessly as you scramble to steady yourself. It’s humiliating how easily he manhandles you, how your pride takes a nosedive the second he steps between your legs and palms your knees wide like it’s the most obvious place they should be.

You’re caged in now. The position, however, seems to be a problem. A very large, very solid, very painful-to-ignore problem currently pressed against your cunt.

You grit your teeth, already seething, already spiraling, already half out of your mind with the unfairness of how badly you want this.

His head drops slightly as his tattooed fingers trail down again, grazing your inner thigh, slow and dangerous, until they find the damp lace between your legs. “Try again,” he whispers.

His thumb presses against your clit again but it’s still not enough. It’s slow, careful circles that make your hips twitch, make your legs shake.

His expression is ripped straight from your nightmares, or your fantasies. You can’t tell the difference anymore.

“That’s more like it,” he says like you’ve just proven a point for him. Like your shaking thighs are a confession and he’s been waiting all week to drag them out of you.

His thumb keeps moving, slow and taunting. The pressure is maddening. It’s fire with no release, torture with rhythm.

He tuts softly, shaking his head like he’s disappointed in both of you.

“Such a fucking mess,” he mutters, voice thick like molasses. His fingers slip under the waistband of your panties, hooking in, finally doing what you’ve been silently begging him to do for what feels like years.

He pushes the fabric aside, and the air hits you immediately. You suck in a breath like this whole thing has suddenly crossed from fantasy into something far too real.

Jungkook’s fingers slide through your slick folds, unhurried, gathering every bit of your arousal on those infuriatingly elegant hands. He groans at the feeling, the sound being punched out of him.

And when he lifts his hand to the light, fingers coated, glistening, spreading them slightly to watch your wetness stretch between them, you want to die. You want to combust.

His eyes flick back to yours, “Look at this. Dripping all over my hands. You really are pathetic, huh?”

You whimper. It’s not a choice. It’s not even voluntary. It’s just your body breaking, and he feels it. Feels the way your thighs twitch again, the way you clench around absolutely nothing, the way you respond to every filthy word he feeds you like it’s gospel.

His thumb swipes the slick across your bottom lip, but he’s already following it with two fingers, pressing gently, not forcing.

“Here,” he says, “Be a good girl. Taste yourself.”

And maybe in another life, you’d slap his hand away. Maybe you’d laugh. Maybe you’d remind him who the fuck you are and who works for who in this brand partnership. But, right now? Right now, your body is burning. Your pride is unraveling. Your brain is static.

You part your lips slowly and his fingers slip inside. Your eyes flutter shut while your tongue swirls over them. You taste yourself, sweet and sharp. You suck, gentle at first, then harder, and Jungkook curses under his breath.

You feel him, thick and straining through his jeans, twitching with every movement of your mouth, every drag of your tongue.

“Fuck,” he whispers, watching you like you’re the most perfect thing he’s ever seen.

Jungkook’s grin spreads like wildfire as he slips his fingers from your mouth, glistening with your taste. Under the soft conference room lighting, they shimmer like proof. Evidence. The loss of your ego documented in high definition.

Those same fingers trail back down, dragging across your skin like he’s etching his name into you. He dips between your thighs again, gathering the mess you’ve already made for him and then he inserts one finger… then two.

“F-fuck—” the word stumbles out of your mouth, sharp and fractured.

Your entire body jolts, instinct tightening your grip on his shoulders like he’s the only thing tethering you to the present. His tattooed knuckles vanish inside you, filling you with such ease, the stretch making your eyes flutter.

“Messy little thing, aren’t you,” he murmurs, so clearly pleased with himself it makes you want to scream.

His gaze stays locked on yours as he starts to pump them, dragging along every nerve-ending like he’s studied the terrain. His fingers seek until they find that one devastating spot.

Your head falls back, a moan slipping past your lips before you can catch it. It’s the kind of sound that has no place in a room like this, in a room where you’ve scolded interns and charmed executives.

Now you’re perched on a table in your own damn conference room, gasping around his hand, writhing against his touch like some desperate cliché. Your skirt bunched at your waist and your voice a breathy mess. Every sound that leaves you is proof of just how far you’ve fallen.

“There it is,” he exhales, palm grinding against your clit just enough to make your hips shake.

The contact is almost too much. His other hand grips your waist to steady you. His eyes never leave your face.

“So damn needy,” he teases, leaning in until his mouth brushes yours, until you can feel every syllable fan across your lips. “What do you think they’d say if they saw you like this?”

Your whole body locks up. Your breath snags, your legs clamp tighter around his hand, thighs trembling at the very idea of someone walking in, of someone catching you sitting across a boardroom table with Jungkook’s fingers deep inside you.

“Oh,” he tuts, smug and molten, “you like that.”

His pace picks up, thrusts deeper now, fingers slick and unforgiving, dragging another desperate moan out of you. His rhythm is ruthless, his tone even more so.

“You like the thought of being caught,” he says, “You like knowing you’d just keep taking it. Letting me fuck you open while anyone could walk through that door.”

Your body is giving you away. Clenching, shaking, grinding down against his hand like you’re chasing something you swore you’d never need from him.

He can feel how close you are, how every muscle in your body has gone taut, trembling, ready to break.

And before you can protest, he stops, pulls back just slightly, fingers dragging out. You let out a sound you don’t even recognize — part whimper, part curse, all frustration. You chase what he keeps pulling away, and it’s humiliating how little shame your body has left. You’re supposed to be better than this. You’re supposed to have dignity.

“So fucking greedy,” he mutters, voice all lazy cruelty, thumb circling over your clit in the most obnoxiously light touch imaginable. “But not a single thank you? That’s rude, baby.”

Your eyes snap open, burning holes into his stupidly infuriating face. He’s enjoying this, no, thriving on it like every second you squirm just proves a point he’s been waiting to make.

“Go to hell,” you spit, nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. “Just shut up and do it.”

He laughs. Actually laughs, like you didn’t just give him exactly what he wants. The sound is sharp and sends heat rolling through your spine in the worst way.

“There she is,” he says, and then his fingers enter you again and push deeper. He resumes the same slow, devastating rhythm that makes you want to scream and sob and slap him in the face all at once.

“That attitude’s going to be the death of you,” he shakes his head his other hand pins your thigh wide open. “Can’t follow the simplest instruction, can you?”

You glare, breath stuttering, thighs trembling around his wrist. You’re soaked. You’re twitchy. You’re seconds away from exploding and he’s still talking like this is some kind of training exercise.

“I don’t need to thank you for shit,” you grit out but your voice cracks halfway through.

“Sure you don’t,” he rolls his eyes, his fingers dragging out so painfully slow you swear your lungs stop working. He leaves you empty, throbbing, desperate.

He leans in, lips brushing your open mouth, barely there, like he’s daring you to beg. “Say it.”

The command lands like a slap. Your jaw tightens. Your pride hangs on by a thread. But his fingers curl again and your whole body clenches, bucking against him. His thumb presses harder now, rubbing tight, perfect circles. It’s torture. It’s heaven. It’s both.

“Say it,” he repeats, quieter this time, almost gentle. Which somehow makes it worse.

He doesn’t stop moving. He keeps pushing you closer, keeps working you with his long fingers like it’s some lesson in obedience and you’re failing miserably.

You crumble.

“T-thank you,” you gasp, barely audible, voice catching like it physically hurts to say it.

“There’s my girl,” Jungkook whispers, lips brushing yours. Fingers slam into you, hard and fast. Thumb relentless against your clit. His pace turns brutal in an instant, wringing every last shred of resistance from your body as he drags you straight to the edge.

He fucks you open with his fingers like he has a point to prove, and maybe he does. Maybe this whole thing is some twisted power play.

You’re clutching at his shoulders, his biceps, the table, anything that might ground you while your mouth flies open and your vision swims.

“Look at you,” he scoffs, voice ragged, fingers still thrusting deep and fast. “God, never seen you this out of control. “

You try to speak, try to say something sharp. Anything. But all that comes out is a gasp. Your head drops back and a string of breathless moans tumble from your mouth and you can’t stop them. You don’t even try.

“What?” Jungkook bites, fingers curling again, “No smartass comment now?”

His free hand grabs your jaw, forces your eyes to meet his. You look and feel like someone who’s been thoroughly, completely ruined.

“You were so mouthy earlier,” he taunts, lips brushing yours again, heat radiating between your bodies like static. “What the hell happened to that sharp little tongue?”

You really wish you had an answer.

A helpless sob punches out of your throat, your hips rolling into his palm like you’ve lost all motor control. It’s embarrassing. You should be embarrassed.

You’re too far gone to care, too high on the way he’s touching you to feel anything but that slippery, white-hot desperation boiling under your skin.

“Th-thank you,” you nearly scream, the words barely forming a shape. They’re not even yours. They feel stolen, ripped from someone else’s body and handed to him like a white flag.

Jungkook laughs, fingers slamming harder. His wrist is soaked with you, slick dripping down his knuckles as he fucks you with a pace that borders on brutal.

“That’s right, baby,” he groans, teeth clenched. His breath fans across your lips, hot and ragged. “Keep fucking thanking me.”

Your thighs start shaking. Like, really shaking. Not sexy trembling — it’s full-on, legs-aren’t-working, earthquake-mode collapse. His smirk is practically audible when he leans in closer, pressing his palm down just enough to keep you locked in place.

“Gonna cum for me?” he taunts cruelly. “Gonna soak my fucking hand like a good girl?”

“Y-yes,” you choke out, already unraveling. “Yes—please—fuck—”

It’s not graceful. It’s not pretty. It’s the kind of orgasm that folds you in half, that knocks the air from your lungs, that crashes into you like a freight train with zero brakes.

You cry out as your entire body convulses. Your juices gush out of you, coating his fingers, dripping onto his wrist, soaking the polished conference table beneath you.

“Holy fuck,” Jungkook breathes, eyes wide, jaw slack as he watches you fall apart in real time. His fingers finally slow, dragging out your high but your chest is still heaving, mind blank, vision fuzzy.

Your hands move on autopilot, grabbing his jaw, dragging him down like you can’t bear another second without his mouth. Your lips crash into his, your breath still stuttering as you kiss him like he’s oxygen.

Jungkook groans into your mouth, his grip on your thighs tightening as his hands, still slick with you, glide up your sides. He doesn’t wipe them clean. He smears you into your own skin, marking you like a trophy.

You reach down between your bodies, fingers fumbling for his jeans like you’re possessed. Your breath mixes with his, frantic and desperate.

“Take them off,” you pant, yanking at the waistband. “Fucking take them off, Jungkook.”

“Bossy now, huh?” he teases, brushing his lips over yours as he bats your hands away with infuriating ease, long enough to shove his jeans down himself.

The zipper splits the silence like a gunshot.

Your panties? Gone. He doesn’t ease them off, doesn’t bother with delicacy. He hooks his fingers under the lace, yanks hard, and the fabric tears clean in half before sailing somewhere behind you like a flag of surrender. You’re too stunned to even flinch.

His jeans hit the floor and boxers follow. Towering over you, cock flushed and straining, a bead of precum already glistening at the tip. He’s hard and you’re suddenly aware of just how empty you are without him.

You should stop. You know you should. This is a disaster. A mistake. An HR nightmare.

And then Jungkook smirks like the devil just handed him a keycard to your soul and those thoughts vanish.

His hands grip your thighs as he pushes them wider, spreading you open on the cold, polished surface of the Calvin Klein conference table like this is his personal altar.

“Better say thank you again,” he mutters condescendingly, as he lines himself up with the mess between your legs. “Might be your last chance to be polite.”

And like… objectively? You hate him. Right now… you hate yourself more.

The table is ice-cold against your bare skin, a jarring contrast to the way his body radiates heat between your thighs. His cock drags through your slick, hot and heavy and completely disrespectful, teasing your entrance and tapping against your clit like he’s knocking just to be rude.

A high-pitched moan escapes before you can clamp it down, and suddenly your hands are flying to his shoulders, gripping tight, nails digging in, like he might float away if you don’t anchor yourself to something solid.

“So fucking desperate,” he notes against your jaw, lips dragging across your skin like he’s trying to mark a trail. “You always get this needy when you’re about to beg?”

You want to tell him to shut up. You do. But then he nudges forward again, his cock just barely breaching your entrance, not even halfway in, and your thighs are already trembling like he’s got you wired to a detonator.

“You’re lucky I’m even giving you this,” he says, and… okay. You should slap him. Or yourself. Or whoever failed you in your formative years because what the fuck is happening right now.

Maybe your parents didn’t hug you enough. Maybe this is some long-buried trauma expressing itself through your complete inability to say no to a cocky k-pop idol who’s holding you open like a wishbone and acting like he’s doing you a favor.

But also… it’s been months. Months since you’ve been touched. Months since someone made you feel like this. Maybe ever since someone made you feel like this.

It doesn’t help that he’s so good at this. Infuriatingly, obscenely, life-ruiningly good.

He drags his cock along your folds again, spreading your arousal over his length, dragging it torturously slow over your clit just to feel your hips buck, just to hear that gasp fall from your lips.

“What’s missing?” he asks, fake innocence dripping from every syllable. “Hmm?”

His thumb brushes your bottom lip like he’s testing the weight of your silence. Like he knows your pride is the last thing standing between you and complete humiliation.

You know what he wants. You know what he’s waiting for yet your lips stay sealed. Your nails dig deeper into his skin. You hold on to your last shred of dignity like it’s going to save you from drowning even though you’re already in over your head.

“Fine,” he breathes, feigning disappointment as he presses forward, just the tip. “Guess you don’t want it that bad after all.”

That’s the moment your sanity packs a suitcase and bolts for the nearest emergency exit.

You grab his face and crash your mouth into his like you’re trying to shut him up with teeth. The kiss is messy, all heat and spit and pure, frantic need.

“Thank you,” you breathe into his mouth, unhinged, panting, kissing him again before he can gloat.

“Thank you,” again, more wrecked now, your body grinding up against him like your life depends on it. You’re trying to make him cave, to make him snap. Trying to ruin him the way he’s been systematically dismantling you.

Your hand slides between your bodies like muscle memory, wrapping around his cock for the first time, and…

“Oh my fucking god.”

The words fall out before you even process them.

He’s massive. Thick too. Your fingers don’t even fully meet around him. You blink, stunned, palm moving in slow strokes as you feel the weight of him, already leaking against your skin.

“Jesus Christ,” you say under your breath, more to yourself than anything.

Jungkook grins, so satisfied with himself and for one brief, fleeting second, you almost come to your senses.

His smirk returns with full force, his dark eyes blown wide, borderline unhinged as he watches you really see him. Watches the way your fingers tremble around his cock, the way your mouth goes slack like your brain is buffering under the weight of the moment.

“Yeah?” he breathes, tilting his head just slightly,“That mouth finally quieted down.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Not when he’s twitching in your grip, thick and flushed and hot against your palm.

“Scared, sweetheart?”

Here’s the thing: you know he’s talking about his dick. You’ve gotten that much. Beyond that, though, you really should be scared. This is a terrible idea. Catastrophically bad. You could lose your job. Your reputation. Your sanity.

And yet here you are, stroking him faster like it’s a religious calling.

Your legs fall open wider and Jungkook kisses you like he’s claiming his prize, mouth slanted over yours, tongue dragging.

The second he slides in, your soul flatlines.

There’s no warning. No buildup. Just the full, devastating stretch of him splitting you open like you’ve never been touched before. He sinks in with ease, your slick dragging down his length like your body knew him. Like it had been waiting.

And holy shit, he’s huge. Your head drops back, mouth open in a silent gasp as your nails dig into his shoulders, trying to anchor yourself against the full-body shock of being filled to the hilt. It’s overwhelming. It’s incredible. It’s so good it feels wrong.

Jungkook moans as he watches himself disappear inside you. His jaw clenches, inked fingers bruising your waist as your walls flutter around him, squeezing tight enough to knock the wind out of both of you.

��Fucking hell,” he hisses, forehead dropping against yours as his cock throbs inside you, helpless against the heat of your body.

His eyes snap up to yours, and without a word, his hand shoots up, wraps around your throat, and squeezes. “You look so fucking pretty like this,” he whispers, “All full of my cock.”

Your nails scrape down his back, thighs trembling as he pulls back slightly, enough to make you beg.

Then, without another word, as if he’s decided he’s done holding back too, he slams into you.

And the sound that tears from your throat? It’s not human.

He pounds into you, deep and unrelenting, each thrust angled to wreck you a little more than the last. You cry out, your whole body rocking with the force of it, your breath cutting out as your walls clamp around him, fluttering like you can’t decide if you’re ready to take this or not.

Spoiler: you’re not.

His grip on your throat tightens, not enough to hurt, but to hold, to remind you who’s in charge here.

The slick, wet sounds of your bodies meeting echo through the room, mixing your breathy moans, with his low, guttural groans. Filthy. Loud. Absolutely not workplace appropriate.

Your cream coats his cock, slicking down to the base, messy and hot and humiliating.

“Where’s that fucking mouth now?” Jungkook snarls, breath ragged as he watches your head tip back in surrender. “What happened to all that attitude, huh?”

You try. You really do.

But all that comes out is a shattered moan, your lips parting around a gasp as your eyes flutter open, dazed and glassy.

“Nothing to say now?” he pants, his hold flexing around your throat, his hips snapping forward like punishment. “So fucking mouthy before… so bitchy.”

Your nails dig into his arm now, clutching anything to survive the relentless drag of his cock inside you. You’re soaking the table. You’re making a mess of yourself.

His other hand grips your thigh, pinning it wide, forcing you to take every inch of him, again and again and again.

You let out something between a gasp and a sob, a high, broken sound that is dragged from your throat as your muscles twitch with every devastating thrust. It’s too much. It’s all too much.

The drag of his cock inside you.

The pressure of his hand tightening around your throat.

The voice in your head screaming what the fuck are you doing while your body clings to him like it would rather die than let this end.

“You fucking love this, don’t you?” he taunts, eyes gleaming, lips cut in a grin so sharp it could slice you clean in half.

Your hands clutch at his wrist like you’re trying to stop him but the truth is more humiliating than that. You want more.

“Say it,” he growls, voice hoarse, wild, like he’s half a second away from breaking himself. “Say how bad you needed to get fucked like this.”

You literally can’t speak — and you wish he would understand this before asking you to say more things — but you try, lips parting, throat working around the words.

“Fucking thank me for this cock,” he snarls, each word a vicious command, each syllable punctuated by a brutal snap of his hips that knocks the breath from your lungs.

You’re gasping, moaning, barely holding onto coherence as he drives into you, stretching you so full it feels like your body is being taken apart from the inside.

“Th-thank you,” you whimper, the words stuttering out of you, barely a whisper. You hate how easily you say it, how naturally it slips from your tongue. At this point, you do mean it though. Because this isn’t just sex. It’s obliteration. It’s ego-shattering, soul-rearranging ruin, and you’re giving in with open arms.

Jungkook groans, his eyes squeezing shut for a second as your walls clench around him, squeezing so tight his rhythm falters, hips stuttering as a curse slips from his lips.

Then he’s moving again, faster, rougher, desperate in a way that makes your stomach flip. One hand drags down your stomach, the other grabs the collar of your blouse and rips. Buttons go flying. Fabric splits.

And suddenly you’re bare beneath him, chest heaving, breasts spilling out like a reward he’s been waiting to collect.

“Fucking hell,” he bites his lip ring, eyes darkening.

His palms are rough, fingers greedy. He grabs your breasts like he’s starved, squeezing, rolling your nipples between his thumbs until your back arches, your body chasing his touch.

He slams you flat onto your back, the cool glass of the conference table slapping against your skin like a punishment. The temperature sends a jolt through you, makes you arch up into him, makes your breath catch in your throat.

He doesn’t stop or give you a second to process. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you open wide, and before you can regain your breathing patterns, he’s already hiking one leg up, hooking it over the thick band of muscle in his tattooed forearm. The shift tilts your hips and the second he thrusts back in, your entire nervous system stops working.

You scream. Not a cute sound. Not a porn sound. It’s raw.. It’s the kind of noise that rips out of you when someone hits a part of you you didn’t even know could feel.

“Holy fuck,” you sob, fingers clawing at the glass beneath you, nails skittering uselessly against the smooth surface. There’s nothing to hold onto. No leverage. Just the dizzying rhythm of his cock dragging in and out, in and out, too deep, too good, too much.

Jungkook groans low in his throat, head dropping, dark hair falling into his eyes as he watches himself disappear into you, thick and soaked in everything you’ve already given him. Your cream is everywhere.

“That’s it,” he grits out, his voice wrecked and strained, every muscle in his body flexed, straining with restraint. “That’s my girl.”

And all you can do is say the only thing left in your vocabulary.

“Thank you… thank you, Jungkook—” the words tumble out in gasping fragments, broken between moans, between thrusts, between the feeling of him absolutely ruining what little control you thought you had left.

“Yeah?” he pants, reaching up to grab your jaw, fingers pressing into your cheeks, forcing you to look at him even though your eyes are already half-rolled and glassy. “That’s all you can say now, huh?”

You nod, barely, because clearly speaking is no longer a skill you possess. And it makes him laugh as he pushes your leg higher, spreading you wider.

His rhythm snaps into something faster now, his hips slamming into yours with a pace that feels like it should knock the table off its legs. He’s so deep. So deep you can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but feel.

God, he looks so good like this. Face flushed. Veins in his neck standing out. Tattoos flexing. Sweat dripping down his chest as his abs tighten with every brutal thrust. You want to kiss him. You want to claw at him. You want to cry.

“You were such a bitch to me,” he grits out, eyes locked on yours, voice pure venomous lust. “Thought you were untouchable.”

You would’ve snapped back. Any other time. Any other moment. But then he slams into you again, sharp and sudden, and the breath is knocked right out of your lungs, your hands flailing for anything.

“And now look at you,” he spits, voice dropping, almost fond in how cruel it is. “Just a pathetic little slut for my cock.”

This is exactly how you imagined it three nights ago. When you were alone in that hotel bed, hand between your thighs, chasing the memory of his voice, the feel of his breath on your skin. You pictured this exact stretch, this rhythm, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, or, well, into the conference table. Somehow, it’s better. It’s so much fucking better than anything your desperate, horny little brain had managed to conjure. Because of course he’s good at this. Of course he’s the kind of infuriating, smug fucker who can read your body like it’s his native language. Every thrust, every snap of his hips, every filthy word slipping past his lips feels custom-built to ruin you.

You whimper pathetically, your nails carving down the ridges of his forearms as your whole body trembles beneath him, too far gone to pretend you’re still in control. Your hips jerk up to meet every punishing thrust, desperate for more even as your brain screams that this is a bad idea, a terrible idea, that you should still have a shred of self-respect left.

You don’t, and it gets worse every time he opens his mouth.

Because of course his filthy, cruel little comments only make the fire in your gut burn hotter. Every time he mocks you, your core clenches like your body’s trying to wring the arrogance out of him.

“F-fuck you—” you manage to get out, voice wrecked and thin, but even you can hear the edge of a moan tangled in the syllables.

“Already doing that, sweetheart,” he pants, his grin stretched.

His thumb finds your clit, pressing hard, rubbing little circles that send lightning up your spine, and your back arches clean off the table like he’s shocked you straight out of your body.

“What’s wrong?” he taunts, like he’s not the one actively rearranging your internal organs. “Thought you were tough. Thought you could take it.”

His thrusts pick up speed, slamming into you with relentless force, his cock dragging over every hypersensitive spot inside you like he knows exactly where you’re about to break.

“You were so fucking loud earlier,” he grits out, eyes burning, “What happened to that mouth, baby?”

He leans closer, lips brushing your ear, hips slamming into yours like he’s trying to knock the voice back into you. “Use it,” he snarls. “Come on. Say something.”

But you can’t. You literally cannot form a single syllable. Your body is locking up, every muscle coiling tight as your release barrels toward you like a goddamn freight train. All that comes out is a high, ragged keening sound, your mouth hanging open, your nails scraping down his arms, your thighs quaking around his waist as he fucks you toward the edge.

He feels the way you start to squeeze him as if your body’s trying to pull him deeper, hold him in place, never let him go.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, voice cracking, eyes slamming shut as your body milks him. “F-fuck, you’re squeezing me so fucking tight.”

Your moans dissolve into pure nonsense, half-sobs, half-praise, all desperation, as the pressure builds unbearably.

And somewhere, in the scrambled static of your brain, one final thought surfaces: He’s going to ruin you for everyone else and you’re going to let him.

“Jungkook, fuck, please,” you gasp, voice so raw you barely recognize it as your own.

“That’s it,” he pants, voice gravel-rough, “This is what you fucking wanted, huh?”

Yes. Yes. This is exactly what you wanted, what you fantasized about with your fingers buried between your legs three nights ago while your rational brain screamed at you to stop.

His thumb drops to your clit again, pressing down hard, dragging tight, vicious circles that send electric shocks shooting up your spine. You cry out loudly, the sound ricocheting off glass walls that have seen way too much.

“You wanted me to fuck you like this,” he growls, teeth gritted as he watches the way your breasts bounce with every punishing thrust. “Wanted me to ruin you, didn’t you? Wanted to act like — fuck — a fucking brat just so I’d fuck you stupid.”

You’d deny it if you could, really. But he slams into you again and all that comes out is another broken moan as your nails carve into his arms, your brain gone static.

“Say it,” he snarls, hand gripping your face now, forcing your glassy eyes to meet his. “Fucking say it.”

“I—” you gasp, lips trembling. “I wanted it. Fuck, I wanted your cock so fucking bad.”

That’s what breaks him. Jungkook lets out the filthiest groan you’ve ever heard from a man as his whole body locks up for a moment, abs tightening, hips faltering like he’s trying not to lose it right then and there.

“F-fuck, baby,” he grits out, every muscle straining, “Be a good girl, come on. Cum for me.”

God, you do.

Your body shatters, legs locking around his waist, your release crashing over you so hard you forget your own name. You sob as your walls tighten around him, trying to drag him under with you.

“Oh my fucking god,” you cry, because there’s no other vernacular for what this is. Every nerve-ending is on fire, your skin tingling, your mind white-noise and wreckage.

Jungkook groans like it’s being torn from somewhere inside his chest and you feel his cock twitch, his rhythm faltering.

“F-fuck, fuck, baby,” Jungkook pants, his whole body jerking with the effort of holding back. You feel the twitch of him inside you and then suddenly he’s pulling out, just in time, hand flying to his cock as his other arm braces above you.

“Shit, oh, god [Y/N],” he groans. His brows knit together, eyes slamming shut as his release hits him hard, stroking himself feverishly as hot, slick ropes of cum spill across your stomach.

His thighs tremble, jaw clenched so tight it looks like it hurts, strokes growing slower as he rides it out.

He’s so fucking pretty while he does it, like offensively pretty.

Like who the hell gave him permission to look like that while literally unraveling over you? Chest flushed, skin glowing, lips parted just enough to show his teeth as he groans your name like it’s the only word left in his vocabulary. His sweat-slick hair falls into his eyes and you hate him for being this hot, for wrecking you and somehow looking like that while doing it.

You don’t know if it’s the orgasm or the emotional damage but your brain stops working a little.

Jesus Christ. You need therapy. Or an exorcism. Both at the same time probably.

For a second, the room is just breathing. Yours and his, probably fogging up the glass.

Jungkook finally exhales and when he looks down and sees the wreckage — you, splayed out and trembling, his cum smeared across your stomach like a signature — he grins.

“Such a fucking mess,” he notes, tone hoarse as his fingers swipe through the creamy trail across your stomach and smears it like an artist admiring his work.

Your body twitches again, a soft aftershock rippling through you, and he notices. His eyes drop to your still-quivering thighs, the way your breath catches, the way you’re still coming down like he’s rewired you from the inside out.

His tongue swipes over his lip ring. He tilts his head like he’s deciding whether to keep going or let you recover. Either way, you’re doomed.

Instead, he settles on, “You really should thank me for this one too, baby.”

And all you can do is lie there, half-naked on a conference table, covered in cum, dignity somewhere on the floor next to your ripped panties, and wonder how the fuck this became your life.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

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