the-iconic-euijoo

[the-iconic-euijoo]

Chapter 4: When Queens Draw Blood

Part 2

A kingdom learns quickly what happens to traitors.

Your brother’s death was not quiet.

By morning, his body lay at the steps of the ancestral pyre, a symbol to the court: Blood is not immunity. Betrayal is not forgiven.

And you?

You didn’t weep.

You stood beside your King—his wife, his weapon, his equal—face still stained with dried crimson, spine straight as an executioner’s sword.

The High Council didn’t speak for a long time. Not until the High Seer stepped forward, robes rustling.

“She’s not the girl she was,” he muttered.

“No,” the King agreed, voice low, proud, dangerous. “She’s a Queen now.”

They held your coronation the next night.

A second one. The real one.

Not because tradition required it.

But because you earned it now.

You didn’t wear the soft silks of your marriage day. You wore obsidian armor lined with fire opals. A gown forged from night and flame. The crown placed on your head wasn’t delicate—it was sharp enough to slice palms.

And when your King kissed you before the crowd, he didn’t kiss you like a husband.

He kissed you like a man offering his throat.

Later, in your chamber, you stood before the mirror, still in your battle-gown, expression unreadable.

He came up behind you, silent.

Hands resting at your hips.

“You scared them,” he murmured into your ear.

“Good.”

He turned you to face him, fingers slow on your jaw.

“But you scared me too.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

He leaned in, brushing his lips over your throat.

“Because I didn’t know I could want you more.”

You froze. “You want me?”

“Not as something to protect. Not anymore.” His eyes burned as they met yours.

“I want you as the blade I swing. The rage I breathe. The Queen I kneel to.”

And then he sank.

To. His. Knees.

He kissed up your leg, robes falling open, breath reverent.

No words.

Just the weight of worship.

Your hands threaded into his dark hair. His mouth found your inner thigh and lingered.

You could feel it now.

Not just heat.

But power.

His reverence wasn’t weakness—it was surrender. He knew what you were capable of now. What you’d already done.

And he wanted that.

When he finally rose again, you pulled him into a slow kiss.

And said, “I don’t want to be soft tonight.”

He grinned darkly.

“You never are.”

That night, he didn’t take you in bed.

He took you on the throne.

Yours. Not his.

Because the court needed to know who ruled now. And your moans didn’t echo in shame. They rang like a war bell.

But even in victory… the shadows don’t sleep.

Because power doesn’t come without consequence.

And word of your brother’s death… reached more ears than just the court.

A whisper had begun to spread—soft as spider’s silk.

"She killed her own blood.” "What else would she kill for the crown?” "And if the King dies next?"

You were sitting in the war room when the note arrived.

No seal. Just folded black parchment.

You opened it with steady fingers.

And read a single line:

"You won’t survive the hunt, little Queen.”

Your heart didn’t stutter.

But your smile?

It sharpened.

Because let them come. Let the snakes rise from their dens. Let the wolves bare teeth.

You’d feed them all to the fire.

END.

[the-iconic-euijoo]

Bloodlines & Betrayals

Chapter 4: When Queens Draw Blood

You used to believe blood meant loyalty.

Now, you know better.

Because the man who once lifted you on his shoulders when you couldn’t reach the top shelf… The one who taught you to wield a dagger before you ever wore a crown...

That same man—your brother—had looked into your death like it was a line on a war report.

No grief. No hesitation. Just strategy.

And if he thought you would go quietly?

He’d forgotten who raised him.

You sat before your husband—your King—in a private chamber cloaked in silence.

A blade sat on the table between you. The same one he’d handed you the night of the masquerade.

The sharpest of his collection. The one meant for traitors.

“Let me handle it,” he said again. “I’ll make it clean.”

But you shook your head, calm and certain. “No. I want him to see me when it happens.”

His brows pulled low.

“He’s your blood.”

“Not anymore.”

He studied you for a long moment, silence taut between you.

Then he said, “If you do this… there’s no going back.”

You smiled bitterly. “There never was.”

That night, you dressed in mourning black.

No jewelry. No crown. Just shadow.

You sent a message through the palace channels—a single line your brother would recognize.

Meet me where mother died.

It was cruel.

But so was he.

The old garden was abandoned now.

Overgrown vines clawed at crumbling statues. Moonlight spilled across cracked stone. The scent of wilted roses still hung in the air like ghosts.

You stood at the center.

Waiting.

And he came.

Of course he came.

He wore no armor. No weapon.

Just an old cloak. His face unreadable.

But when he saw you?

He stopped.

“You remember this place?” you asked, voice hollow.

His lips twitched. “How could I forget? You cried for hours. You wouldn’t let go of her hand.”

You nodded once. “I was seven.”

He stepped closer. “Why now?”

You held your ground.

“I wanted to see the face of the man planning my murder.”

Silence.

Then:

“It’s not personal.”

You flinched.

He said it like you were a stranger. Like you were one of many.

Like it really wasn’t personal to him.

“You should’ve been Queen of your own kingdom,” he added. “Not some monster’s trophy.”

“I’m not a trophy,” you said flatly. “And he’s not the monster.”

He tilted his head. “No? What does that make you then?”

You took a step closer.

Let your robe fall slightly open, exposing the edge of the blade at your thigh.

“I’m the reason your heart’s about to stop.”

He barely blinked.

“You won’t do it,” he said softly. “Not you.”

And that’s when he realized.

You were already crying.

But not for him.

For the girl he betrayed.

The sister who believed he’d never raise a hand against her.

That girl was gone.

So you drove the dagger forward.

Fast.

Precise.

Right between the ribs—where you knew the armor never reached.

He gasped, staggered, crumpled to the earth like a fallen knight.

You didn’t say a word.

You just knelt beside him as he bled, brushing a hand over his hair the way he used to when you were small.

“I loved you,” you whispered.

And then he died.

You walked back to the palace barefoot, robes blood-soaked, dagger still warm in your hand.

The guards didn’t stop you.

Not when they saw your eyes.

Not when your King met you at the gates and said nothing.

He just took your hand, kissed your knuckles, and said, “They’ll know now.”

“Good,” you whispered.

Because this wasn’t a story about a queen who softened the heart of a monster.

This was about a queen who became one. END.

[the-iconic-euijoo]

Bloodlines & Betrayal

Chapter 3: The Queen with the Hidden Blade

Part 2

The next morning, you woke in a cold bed.

Alone.

The scent of him still lingered—smoke and sandalwood, danger and sin��but the space beside you was empty. As always.

He always vanished before dawn.

And yet, the fire he lit beneath your skin remained. So did the ache between your thighs. So did the warning in your heart.

You were falling.

And you couldn’t decide if it was into love—or war.

You dressed in ivory silk with sapphire embroidery—like royalty from a painting—and pinned a knife to your inner thigh.

Just in case.

Tonight was the royal masquerade. An ancient tradition. A night of indulgence and illusion. Nobles, foreign emissaries, and black-market rulers would gather in one room, cloaked in masks and sin.

You would be there.

Not as his wife.

As his weapon.

The ballroom dripped in gold. Chandelier light kissed every polished corner. Perfume hung heavy in the air—floral, musky, intoxicating.

And when he walked in?

The room froze.

Tall. Masked in black and silver. Robes embroidered with dragons and blood. Every step screamed royalty and ruin.

He didn’t look at you.

Didn’t even glance.

But you knew he felt your eyes burning across the crowd. You were in red. Unapologetically bare-backed. A queen in crimson. Unmissable.

Let them watch, you thought. Let them wonder. Let them fear the woman he didn’t touch.

Because tonight, you were untouchable.

The dance began. You moved like a flame between partners, collecting whispers and smiles, brushing against secrets with every spin.

And then— He came to you.

Took your hand without a word.

Drew you into him.

One arm at your waist. One gloved hand cradling your fingers.

And the second you met his gaze through his mask…

You knew something was wrong.

His jaw was too tight. His movements, too controlled. His eyes didn’t burn—they boiled.

"You look like war tonight," he murmured into your hair.

"And you," you said sweetly, "look like you're hiding something."

He didn’t answer.

Just spun you, faster and faster—until the world blurred, until you lost your breath— —and then he kissed you.

In the middle of the ballroom. In front of everyone.

The room gasped.

Because kings didn’t kiss their queens.

Not like that.

It wasn’t love.

It was a warning.

Possession, raw and unmasked.

And when he pulled away, he whispered against your lips:

“They want to kill you tonight.”

Your blood turned to ice.

"What?"

He didn’t answer. Just took your wrist and led you through the crowd—through silken curtains, shadowed halls, deeper into the palace.

His grip was tight. Too tight.

"Tell me what’s going on," you demanded.

But he shoved you into a hidden chamber and slammed the door shut behind you.

And that’s when you saw—

The blade.

He unsheathed it slowly. Reverently. The metal gleamed like moonlight soaked in blood.

He stepped toward you.

You didn’t flinch.

He reached up—and slid the blade’s edge beneath your mask.

"I don’t have time to explain," he said, cutting the ribbon holding it in place. "But someone close to me betrayed us. Tonight, you’re the target."

"And you?" you whispered.

He didn’t answer. His hand cupped your face.

"I’ll protect you. Even if it means killing everyone in that room."

You blinked.

"You trust me?"

"No," he said darkly. "I need you."

Then he kissed you again.

Slower, this time.

Almost… desperate.

And the way his lips trembled—

It wasn’t just lust.

It was fear.

But you didn’t want protection.

You wanted revenge.

"I need to know who they are," you said, breathless. "Let me help you."

He hesitated.

Then, reluctantly, he handed you the mask of one of his spies. "This is what you’ll wear. Stay hidden. Listen. There’s a meeting in the east wing. Midnight. One of my council. Maybe two. Possibly the commander."

You didn’t blink.

"Then I’ll find them."

And with that, you vanished into shadow.

Midnight struck.

You were already waiting.

You crouched in the rafters above the eastern war room, hidden behind a curtain of carved stone. Below, the traitors arrived—one by one.

And when the commander entered?

Your heart cracked.

Because it wasn’t just anyone.

It was your brother.

Your blood. Your last family.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be at the border, leading a peace envoy.

But he stood beside the war table, unmasked. Clear-eyed.

And said:

“We strike in two nights. She dies first. Then the King.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t cry.

You just memorized everything.

The names. The faces. The words.

And when the meeting ended, and your brother lingered behind—alone, troubled, rubbing his face with a shaking hand—

You almost called his name.

Almost.

But you didn’t.

Because the girl he knew?

She died the day she was married.

You were Queen now.

And the crown came with blood.

You returned to him just before dawn.

He was shirtless. Waiting. Hands folded behind his back, eyes unreadable.

"You saw?" he asked.

You nodded.

"I’ll kill them," he said coldly. "All of them."

You shook your head.

"No."

He narrowed his gaze.

"I will," you said.

He stepped closer.

"You’re serious."

"As death."

He stared at you. Something fierce, something forbidden flashing in his eyes.

And then—

He smiled.

Wicked. Proud. Yours.

"My Queen," he murmured, brushing his lips over your knuckles, "we were made for war."

END

[the-iconic-euijoo]

Bloodlines & Betrayals

The Queen with the Hidden Blade

Chapter 3 - Part 1

Three days.

That’s how long it had been since you snuck into his underground sanctum. Since you clawed fire into his back and moaned into his mouth and let him worship you like a heathen starved of salvation.

Three days since he touched you like a man possessed—then left like nothing happened.

And in those three days?

Not. A. Word.

No summons.

No glances.

No power-hungry husband sneaking into your chambers like a demon needing another fix.

And you? You weren’t going to chase him.

But you were going to break his kingdom.

You spent those days watching. Listening.

And what you learned?

This palace ran on whispers and poison.

Ladies with venom in their lipstick. Servants who sold secrets for coin. Ministers who smiled at the crown but worshipped the man beneath it—the one who ran both a kingdom of gold and a kingdom of blood.

And none of them expected anything from you.

Perfect.

They thought you were a trophy. A body. A mouth stitched shut by a royal veil.

But behind every smile you gave, you were cutting strings. Following trails. Digging into every locked drawer, every loose stone, every corridor no one dared walk after dark.

And last night?

You found the first crack.

A ledger—hidden in the royal library, inside a hollowed-out history book. On the surface? It looked like trade logs.

But you recognized the cipher.

Each “shipment” was code.

Weapons. Smuggling routes. Names of towns not on any map.

And at the bottom of the list?

A name. A target.

Yours.

Your blood ran cold.

You weren’t just bait for a treaty.

You were a trap.

A decoy.

And there was something planned—something massive, something hidden even from the palace—set in motion the moment your signature stained that marriage scroll.

He knew.

He always knew.

You stood before the mirror that evening dressed like a blade:

Black silk, slit high. Crimson embroidery across your chest like blood on armor. Anklets that jingled softly—like warning bells. Hair pinned up, exposing the soft curve of your throat. A queen’s look.

But not a gentle one.

He wouldn’t see submission.

He’d see a threat.

And tonight—you’d make sure of it.

You found him in the war room.

Candles flickered across maps and documents and ancient steel. His cloak was off, sleeves rolled, hands ink-stained from writing commands no one dared question.

He didn’t look up.

"Queen," he said low, like a warning.

You walked in without waiting for permission. Without bowing.

"I found your little book," you said.

His pen paused mid-line.

"And I hope," you added with a slow, venom-laced smile, "you’re not planning to kill me just yet."

That got his attention.

He raised his eyes. And gods—they burned.

Not in anger.

In something worse.

Amusement.

"You went digging," he said.

"Did you expect anything else?"

He stood.

“You don’t understand what you’ve walked into.”

“No,” you replied coolly. “You don’t understand what you married.”

He moved toward you with slow, controlled steps—like a beast testing the limits of its chain.

"You’re playing with fire, wife."

"I am the fire."

He was in front of you now. So close. His breath ghosted over your lips. His hands hovered at your waist but didn’t touch.

“You want to know the truth?” he asked, voice low and dangerous.

“Yes,” you breathed. “All of it.”

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

"Then kiss me like you mean it."

You did.

You pulled him to you like hunger. Bit his bottom lip. Let your fingers curl into his shirt and drag him close until your bodies met and your kiss turned wild—twisted with frustration, lust, rage, need.

He growled into your mouth. Gripped your thighs. Lifted you onto the war table and spread your legs with a knee between them.

“Still spying, little queen?” he murmured against your throat.

"Still lying, my King?"

He slid your dress up. “Then let’s both be very, very bad.”

He didn’t undress you gently.

He tore the fabric.

Threw maps to the floor.

Lifted you onto the table like an offering and buried himself between your thighs like you were his last taste of heaven before hell swallowed him whole.

You moaned his name—over and over—until it no longer sounded like a title.

It sounded like a confession.

He didn’t speak as he took you.

Didn’t promise anything.

But the way he held your face after… the way his forehead pressed to yours like a silent vow…

It felt like one.

And for the first time, the lines between king and killer… wife and enemy… burned into something you couldn’t name.

Something real.

Later, as you lay across his chest, you whispered:

“Why was I on that list?”

He went still.

Then, without looking at you, he said:

“Because the war hasn’t started yet. And when it does… they’ll try to take you from me.”

You tilted your head up.

“And what will you do?”

He looked down at you.

Dark. Lethal.

“Burn the world.”

[the-iconic-euijoo]

~Blood & Honey~

Disclaimer: This story contains mature content, including themes of dark romance, violence, and adult situations. The portrayal of characters and events may involve intense emotions, explicit language, and explicit physical content. Reader discretion is advised. The characters and settings in this story are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

Genre: Mafia Dark Romance Pairing: Jungkook x Reader (Y/N)

Extras: Baby Jeonsan (4-6 monts)

Word count: 4.5k words

The house was too quiet.

You’d gotten used to the sounds of life in the mansion—the hum of the staff moving, Jeonsan’s gurgles, Jungkook’s heavy steps as he prowled through the halls like a predator, eyes sharp, always on guard.

But today? Today, there was only a stillness that filled the air, a tension you could almost taste.

You stood by the window in the master bedroom, watching the lush gardens below, but your mind was elsewhere. It was the way Jungkook had looked at you this morning, that slight flicker of something dangerous in his eyes. He was always so composed, but you knew him better than anyone. And you knew when something was off.

As if summoned by your thoughts, you felt a presence behind you, tall and heavy—Jungkook’s scent, the faint trace of his cologne, mixing with the scent of leather and musk.

He stepped into your line of sight, and you immediately turned to face him. His jaw was tense, eyes dark, but when they met yours, there was that flicker of warmth. For you. For Jeonsan.

And for a moment, it felt like everything else faded.

“Everything alright?” you asked, voice soft, though you already knew the answer.

Jungkook didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he moved closer, his large hands brushing against your arms. His fingers slid over your bare skin like a brand, making your breath catch.

“We have a situation,” he said, voice low, controlled.

You nodded slowly, stepping back as he walked toward the bed, his eyes flicking over to the baby crib where Jeonsan was peacefully sleeping. But even as his gaze softened on the baby, it was the underlying storm that you could feel brewing beneath the surface.

“Who?” you asked, crossing your arms.

Jungkook didn’t answer right away, but his eyes darkened again, a flicker of something vicious crossing his face.

“It’s them,” he said, almost like he was testing the words on his tongue. “People who think they can take what’s mine.” His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Your heart dropped, instinctively knowing what was coming.

You stepped closer to him, reaching for his arm, feeling the tension coil beneath his skin. “You’re going to go after them, aren’t you?”

He didn’t say a word. Instead, he turned to face you fully, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your pulse quicken.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you both safe.”

You swallowed thickly, the weight of his words settling deep into your chest. You knew what that meant.

Jungkook wasn’t just a husband. He was a mafia king—a man who would protect his family at any cost, even if it meant bloodying his hands. You’d seen it before, heard the stories. His reputation alone made people tremble, but his love for you and Jeonsan? That was a different kind of power.

You wanted to argue—to beg him to be careful. But you knew better. You knew there was no stopping him when that dangerous glint flashed in his eyes. The only thing you could do was love him, hold him down in the moments he came back to you, broken, bruised… and still yours.

He leaned forward, his lips brushing against your temple in a fleeting kiss, tender but full of intent. “Stay here with Jeonsan. I’ll handle this.”

Your heart raced as he pulled away, his fingers lightly trailing over your cheek. “And if they come after us?”

He didn’t hesitate. His voice was ice-cold as he spoke, the edge of warning so sharp it could cut through steel.

“Then they’ll regret it.”

Hours passed in a blur.

The silence grew thicker, and you found yourself pacing the halls, glancing at the clock every few minutes, the baby asleep in his crib, unaware of the tension building just outside.

The staff had been sent away for the day—Jungkook’s orders.

Just as you were about to step out of the room, a figure appeared in the doorway. You froze.

Jungkook stood there, his body stiff, eyes dark with a coldness you rarely saw. His clothes were disheveled, a bit of blood on his shirt, but he seemed unaffected by the state he was in.

His eyes immediately sought yours, and despite the chaos, there was a flicker of something softer there—a silent apology.

“You should’ve stayed inside,” he said, his voice low, but the edge was still there.

You could see the exhaustion in his face, the way his body had begun to slump from the weight of the fight he’d just fought. But the moment his eyes met yours, everything else seemed to blur.

“I couldn’t just sit here,” you replied, your voice shaking. “Jungkook… are you okay?”

He nodded slowly, wiping a streak of blood from his lip, but he was already walking toward you.

In an instant, he was there, pulling you into his arms like it was the only thing that mattered. His touch was so rough, desperate, as if he needed to feel you, needed to know that you were safe, that you were still here. He held you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to sanity.

“I’m fine,” he muttered into your hair, but you could feel the tremor in his breath, the way his chest rose and fell as if he were trying to shake off the weight of the world.

Your fingers slid to the back of his neck, threading through his hair. “But… they’re gone, right?”

“They’re gone,” he confirmed, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His lips twitched into something close to a smile, but there was still that storm in his eyes. “And you’re safe. No one will hurt you.”

You let out a relieved sigh, pressing your forehead against his. “I trust you.”

His eyes darkened, his hand sliding to your waist, pulling you closer as if to remind you that he would never let anything hurt you. His lips brushed your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

“Good. Because I’ll burn the world for you,” he murmured, voice thick with desire and promise.

Before you could answer, his lips crashed into yours, the kiss wild, desperate, as if the moment had slipped through his fingers and now he had to make sure you knew—he was here. He was yours.

You didn’t hold back. Not this time.

His hands roamed over your body, pulling you flush against him as his lips moved down your neck, biting gently. You moaned softly, threading your fingers through his hair.

And just like that, your world became nothing but him—his touch, his scent, the heavy presence of his love wrapped around you.

He didn’t need words. He never did.

Later, when the house was quiet again, Jungkook laid beside you, his arm draped over your waist as you both watched the glow of the setting sun outside the window.

Jeonsan was peacefully asleep, unaware of the chaos that had briefly torn through his world.

But you knew the truth. Jungkook had never once let go. He would always keep you both safe. Always.

You were his. And he was yours.

[END OF PART 2]

[the-iconic-euijoo]

~Blood & Honey~

Disclaimer: This story contains mature content, including themes of dark romance, violence, and adult situations. The portrayal of characters and events may involve intense emotions, explicit language, and explicit physical content. Reader discretion is advised. The characters and settings in this story are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

Genre: Mafia Dark Romance Pairing: Jungkook x Reader (Y/N) Extras: Baby Jeonsan (4-6 monts) Word count: 4.5k words

The golden rays of late morning sun spilled through the sprawling windows of the Jeon estate, casting warm shadows across marbled floors and ornate walls. Silence settled across the mansion like velvet—calm, serene… deceptive. Somewhere deep within its polished halls, danger coiled like smoke, invisible but present. But inside the master bedroom—your shared sanctuary—none of that existed. Not for now.

You stirred awake with the faintest weight against your side, and the soft cooing of your son, Jeonsan, reached your ears like music. His chubby fists were curled beside his face as he babbled to himself on the plush king-size bed, tucked beside you.

A low voice spoke behind you. "He was awake an hour ago. Didn’t wanna wake you."

You turned your head and there he was—your husband. Jungkook. Towering. Bare-chested. Hair tousled, black ink flowing over the thick curves of his arms, his hands resting on his thighs as he sat on the edge of the bed like a silent guardian.

He looked at Jeonsan.

Not you. Not yet.

Just your son.

You watched as his gaze softened. Barely. Just a flicker. If someone else saw him, they’d say his face was stone. But you saw the truth—he was worshipping the little boy with his eyes alone.

Your heart tightened, the same way it always did.

“He drooled all over your shirt,” Jungkook said flatly, nodding toward the black muscle tee half-thrown near the bassinet. “I changed him. Fed him. He likes warm bottles. Not room temp.”

“You figured that out?” you smiled.

“I know what my son likes.”

God. That did something to you.

Jeonsan let out a squeal, kicking his little legs. Jungkook’s eyes darted to him again.

And then finally, they landed on you.

There was no smile. No gentle "good morning." But he reached out, brushing your hair behind your ear with the rough pads of his fingers. His touch lingered, thumb pressing briefly to your cheek.

"I told them no calls today. Anyone who needs me can wait."

You sat up, tugging the blanket around your chest, blinking. "Why?"

He looked at you, dark gaze unmoving. “You’re mine. It’s your day.”

And that was the thing about Jungkook.

He didn’t say I love you.

He just cleared an entire floor of guards so you could sleep uninterrupted. He banned meetings, calls, shipments—moved the world on its axis just so you could breathe for a few hours longer in peace.

You cupped his face, dragging your thumb slowly along his jawline. “So… you’re not going to work today?”

He kissed your palm.

Then stood.

He didn’t answer, but the slow way he unbuckled the belt on his joggers and shrugged off his gun holster told you everything.

The kitchen was enormous—open, marble-topped, warm from the sunshine bleeding in through arched windows. You bounced Jeonsan gently in your arms while humming, staring at the faint layer of powdered sugar on the counter from the breakfast Jungkook had apparently made and eaten before you’d even woken up.

The door creaked.

You didn’t need to look to know it was him.

He walked over and took Jeonsan from your arms without a word. Jeonsan’s giggle lit up the space like sunlight, and Jungkook kissed the top of his little head, adjusting him expertly in the crook of one tattooed arm while his other reached for a bottle on the warmer.

You leaned on the counter, watching the way he cradled him, murmuring something low under his breath that made your baby burst into another fit of squeals.

“He loves you so much,” you whispered.

Jungkook glanced over. “I’d kill the world for him.”

And you. He didn’t say it, but he didn’t have to.

He turned to you, walking over. You leaned against the fridge now, your robe slipping just enough to expose your shoulder.

He caged you in with one arm, still holding the baby with the other, and lowered his lips to your neck. He pressed a kiss to your skin—slow. Purposeful. Possessive.

The kiss turned into a bite.

You gasped softly, your fingers clutching his waist.

"You wearing this around the staff?" he asked lowly, eyes narrowing at your thin robe.

You smirked. “Maybe.”

His jaw ticked. He pulled back, eyes dark, and you could already feel the storm he was holding back.

“I’ll have the staff replaced.”

"Jungkook—"

He shoved the baby bottle into your hand, calmly.

“Feed him. Then go upstairs. You’re not leaving our bedroom for the rest of the day.”

Your knees nearly buckled.

Later, you laid on the bed again—this time without the robe, without anything—beneath the silk sheets Jungkook had bought from Italy because “they don’t wrinkle against your skin.”

His hands were on your thighs, spreading you slowly, reverently, like he was handling gold.

“You don’t listen,” he growled softly, gaze trailing down your bare body. “Walking around dressed like that. Letting others look.”

“You’re the only one who gets to touch me,” you whispered.

He met your eyes. Something dark and wild flickered there. And then he was kissing down your stomach, taking his time, marking his territory.

Every motion was silent devotion.

Every touch was his love, poured out not in words but in the way his fingers pressed into your hips like he needed to hold the world in place. The way his mouth worshipped every inch of you, the way he dragged it out, took his time, because he didn’t just want to make you feel good—he wanted you ruined. For him. Forever.

“You’re mine,” he murmured against your thigh. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped.

“Only mine.”

“Only yours, Jungkook.”

He growled low in his throat, and then his mouth returned to you with the kind of heat that made your back arch and your hands fist the sheets.

Spice, fire, silk and teeth.

It wasn’t just pleasure—it was love, raw and desperate. Jungkook didn’t need to say the words. His body screamed them with every thrust, every kiss, every time he held you like the world could burn outside and he’d still never let go.

And later, as your bodies tangled in the afterglow, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist, pulling you close.

“You’re shaking,” he said softly.

“You always wreck me,” you whispered into his chest, smiling.

He kissed your forehead, slow.

“I should.”

Evening fell and soft lullabies floated through the nursery as Jeonsan drifted into sleep. You stood at the doorway watching Jungkook lower the baby into the crib like he was placing a crown jewel onto velvet.

His large hand gently stroked the baby’s chest. And then he whispered something.

You only caught the end of it.

“…protect you. Always.”

Your heart shattered and swelled all at once.

He turned, walked over, and without a word, wrapped his arm around your shoulder, leading you away. Down the hall. Back to your room. Like you were part of him—an extension of his soul.

The rest of the world would never understand how Jungkook loved.

But you did.

He loved like a storm.

Silently. Powerfully. Without warning. Without end.

And in the dark mansion, behind locked gates and guarded walls, you’d never felt safer.

Never more adored.

~END~

(~To be continued if y'all liked this oneshot.... ehehhe~)

[the-iconic-euijoo]

~Sun-Kissed Trouble~

Genre: Soft Romance | Fluff | Playful Banter | Slow-Burn Feels Word Count: ~4,000

Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction created for entertainment purposes only. The characters and events depicted in this story are fictional and do not reflect the real-life personalities, actions, or relationships of Kim Taehyung (V of BTS) or any other public figure mentioned. All rights to the original names and likenesses belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement is intended. This story is intended for personal, non-commercial use by fans.

You weren't expecting a shirtless man to crash your morning picnic, but there he was—gloriously sun-drenched, holding a half-eaten popsicle, and smiling like he invented the concept of charm.

“Hey,” he said, eyeing your setup with innocent curiosity and absolutely zero shame. “Are you… summoning forest fairies or something?”

You blinked, glancing down at the scene: a gingham blanket, a stack of rom-com novels, strawberries cut into heart shapes, and a candle that smelled like "sunlit rose garden."

“I’m summoning peace,” you replied dryly. “But you’re kind of ruining the vibe.”

He grinned, crouching down at the edge of your blanket like a playful golden retriever. “Sorry, couldn’t resist. It smelled like happiness over here.”

You squinted at him. “Do you always flirt with strangers in parks?”

“Only the cute ones holding sparkly lemonade,” he said, eyes twinkling as he pointed to your drink.

You blinked. You should’ve been annoyed. But instead, you found yourself biting back a smile.

“…Would it make you leave faster if I gave you a strawberry?”

His expression turned mischievous. “No. But I’ll stay longer if you give me two.”

That’s how it began.

You learned his name was Taehyung—which, in your opinion, should’ve been Korean for “dangerously charming fairy prince with puppy energy.” He was spontaneous, unpredictable, and way too smooth for someone who tripped over his own feet five minutes later while trying to impress you with a cartwheel.

He apologized by offering you the last bite of his popsicle. “Here. It’s peach. Like my soul.”

You snorted. “Your soul is peach-flavored?”

“Very juicy,” he nodded solemnly.

You laughed harder than you had in weeks.

The universe, it seemed, wasn’t done being nosy, because Taehyung kept appearing in your life like an uninvited sparkler. One week after the picnic, he showed up at your favorite bookstore—sliding a copy of Pride and Prejudice into your basket when you weren’t looking.

“Thought we could roleplay,” he said with a wink. “You be Lizzy. I’ll be the emotionally constipated Mr. Darcy.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You're definitely more chaotic Mr. Wickham than Darcy.”

“Oh, ouch.” He gasped, clutching his chest. “Say that again, but slower.”

Your lips twitched. “You’re ridiculous.”

He leaned closer, whispering, “And yet… you like me.”

You didn’t deny it.

Not when he showed up at your apartment on a rainy afternoon with a bag of groceries and declared, “I’m here to make you dinner and ruin your emotional stability.”

Not when he danced barefoot in your kitchen, spinning you between the oven and the fridge like the world was a musical and your laughter was the only soundtrack.

Not even when he accidentally set a pancake on fire and yelled, “Quick! Save the syrup!”

Taehyung had a way of making ordinary moments feel like fairy lights. And the more time you spent together, the more you felt like your heart had grown glittery little wings.

But it wasn’t just his chaos. It was the way he’d touch your wrist gently when passing by. How he’d trace constellations on your palm with his finger while you talked about your day. How he’d steal your pillow and sleep on your couch because he didn’t trust himself not to kiss you if he stayed in your bed.

“I’m a gentleman,” he’d whisper through the dark. “But barely.”

One night, it all spilled over.

You were lying in your bed, scrolling through photos he’d secretly snapped of you—mid-laugh, mid-eye-roll, mid-bite-of-toast. He’d edited little doodles on them. Devil horns on you. Hearts over his own head.

You heard the soft creak of the couch. Then a knock.

“Y/N?” His voice was sleepy, low. “Are you awake?”

“Barely.”

“Can I come in?”

You sat up, heart hiccupping. “Yeah.”

Taehyung stepped inside, wearing your oversized hoodie (the one with the bear ears on the hood), and holding a mug of warm milk.

“I made you something,” he said, cheeks slightly pink. “You always scrunch your nose when you can’t sleep.”

You took the mug, touched. “You notice that?”

“I notice everything about you,” he said softly, sitting on the edge of your bed.

The silence wrapped around you like a blanket. And then—he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I keep thinking about kissing you,” he whispered.

Your breath caught.

“I keep thinking about it, and stopping myself, because I want to do it right. And I don’t know what ‘right’ looks like with you. Because you’re not a crush. You’re not a maybe. You’re a yes. A yes that deserves something gentle.”

You stared at him, lips parting.

And in that moment, all the butterflies in your body learned choreography.

You kissed him first.

Softly. Slowly. Like tiptoeing through a dream. His lips tasted like warm vanilla and everything your heart had ever wanted. His hands cradled your face like you were something sacred.

When you pulled back, he was smiling.

“That was dangerous,” he whispered.

“Why?”

“Because now I’m never going to stop.”

After that, things turned into something sweeter.

Taehyung would steal kisses like secrets—when you were brushing your teeth, mid-grocery run, or while waiting at traffic lights. He’d write you sticky notes and hide them in your shoes:

Today, you’re legally required to be kissed 5 times. I don’t make the rules.

If you doubt how beautiful you are, ask me. I’ll give you 83 reasons.

Reminder: I’d fight a bear for you. A polite bear. But still.

Sometimes, he’d drag you to the park just to lie on the grass and count clouds shaped like penguins. Other days, he’d show up with a new recipe and a determination to impress you—usually ending with flour in his hair and you laughing too hard to stand.

You were the calm to his chaos.

He was the spark to your steady.

Together, you were something incandescent.

And then came your birthday.

You hadn’t told him what you wanted. But somehow, Taehyung always knew.

He surprised you with a picnic—just like your first meeting—but this time, it was on a rooftop lit with fairy lights, soft music playing from a speaker hidden in a basket.

“I remembered you said your dream date was something quiet,” he said, offering you a strawberry. “And something magical.”

You took it, heart fluttering. “This is…”

He leaned in, eyes glowing. “Wait till dessert.”

You raised a brow. “There’s more?”

He reached behind him and pulled out… a tiny kitten in a birthday hat.

Your jaw dropped. “Tae—”

“She doesn’t meow. She chirps. Like a tiny angel. Her name is Soufflé.”

You stared at him, blinking. “You’re giving me a cat?”

“I’m giving you everything,” he said, voice softer now. “If you’ll let me.”

You looked at the rooftop, the sky, the stars, the boy who once tripped into your life with a popsicle and a heart full of sunshine—and you knew.

You already had.

Because love, real love, is messy and glittery and full of stolen pancakes and tiny cats in party hats.And with Taehyung? Love was every shade of magic you never knew you were waiting for.

~END~

[the-iconic-euijoo]

Bloodlines & Betrayals

Chapter 2 – Part 2

The silence between you was blistering.

You sat on the edge of that stone table, robe parted just enough to tempt, bite mark fresh on his skin. His blood on your lips. His hands still twitching at his sides like he was holding back a storm.

He wasn't used to being touched like that.

He wasn’t used to you.

"So," you whispered, legs slightly parted, letting candlelight dance over your skin, "are you going to punish me, my King… or beg for more?"

He stepped forward with a snarl in his throat.

One hand gripped the edge of the table near your hip.

The other curled beneath your jaw, thumb dragging over your lower lip where his blood still lingered. His thumb pressed past your lips.

You sucked it slowly.

His breath caught.

"You really want to know what happens when you provoke a monster, wife?" he growled.

"Only if you're the kind that bites back."

He was.

Because in a blink, he hauled you off the table, slammed your back into the stone pillar behind, and kissed you like you were his first taste of sin.

His body caged yours, his thigh slotted between your legs, grinding. You arched into him with a gasp, hands clutching at his shirt, his hair, anything to hold on to as the heat cracked open inside you like a fire that had waited too long to burn.

He dragged his mouth to your throat.

"You walk into my den," he rasped, tongue flicking the mark on your neck where your pulse throbbed, "dressed like that, mouthing off like a spoiled queen, and you think I won't make you scream?"

"Try me," you gasped.

He did.

He lifted you, rough and hungry, as if finally snapping a thread that had been threatening to tear since the wedding. Your legs wrapped around him, and he walked you to the far wall—slammed you against it, lips everywhere, hand sliding beneath your robe, finding slick heat and groaning into your mouth like a man starved.

His fingers slipped between your thighs, and you moaned—head falling back as he circled, teased, refused to give you what you wanted until you were grinding into his palm, chasing it.

"You like sneaking into danger?" he said against your ear, fingers going deeper. "Here's your reward."

You whimpered his title, hips jerking.

He stilled.

“What did you just call me?”

You blinked through the haze. “My… King…”

His eyes darkened like a storm.

“Say it again.”

“My King,” you whispered, chest heaving.

He dropped to his knees.

And he worshipped.

There, in the heart of his underground world, where no queen had ever dared step, he parted your thighs like sacred scripture and devoured you like salvation. You moaned his name, your fingers twisted in his dark hair, and when you broke apart on his tongue with a cry that echoed off stone—

He held you through it. Every quake. Every tremble.

But when he rose again, lips glistening, eyes burning…

The softness vanished.

“You think this was surrender?” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “This was a promise.”

He grabbed your chin, pulled your mouth back to his, and kissed you until the fire lit all over again.

“You belong to me now,” he said into your lips. “In the dark. In the light. In the shadows and the crown.”

You didn’t answer with words.

You yanked him back into you.

And he stayed the night in the underworld.

Later, tangled in him, your body still sore and satisfied, your voice was barely a whisper.

“You run an empire no one sees. Why marry me?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then: “Because every King needs a weapon no one expects.”

You looked up. “And you think I’m that weapon?”

He kissed your shoulder, slow and dangerous. “No,” he murmured.

“You’re the war.”

~End of chapter 2~

[the-iconic-euijoo]

Bloodlines & Betrayals

Chapter 2: The Crown Beneath the Cloak

The palace was a cage. Beautiful. Golden. Deadly.

You walked through its corridors like a ghost in silk, the new royal bride everyone bowed to—but whispered about behind closed doors. They wondered how long you’d last. Whether you'd bend to him. Break for him.

They didn’t know you.

After the Binding Night—after he left you aching and furious—you hadn't cried. You hadn't sulked.

You'd planned.

Because while he held the crown above your head in public, you knew something most did not: The man they called Crown Prince…

Was hiding something beneath that throne.

A second kingdom. Built on blood, not bloodlines. And tonight—you were going to find it.

It started with a whisper.

One of the handmaidens—too scared to speak aloud—had let her gaze flicker toward a forbidden door in the East Wing. Said nothing, just looked. That was all you needed.

You waited until after midnight.

Slipped from your bed in nothing but a silk robe and bare feet. The halls were quiet, guards changing shifts. You moved like liquid shadow.

The forbidden corridor was colder than the rest of the palace.

Dustier.

Less perfect.

Ancient paintings lined the stone walls—images of monarchs long dead, eyes scraped out. You followed the corridor down a steep stairwell… and stopped.

A door. Reinforced with black iron and old runes. A single symbol carved into the wood: a snake eating its tail.

You recognized it.

The mark of the Underworld.

Your fingers brushed it. The door didn’t creak as it opened—someone oiled these hinges recently. This place wasn’t abandoned.

It was active.

You stepped inside.

The passage beyond was dim, lit by red lanterns. The scent of smoke and something metallic hung thick in the air. You walked deeper, heart pounding, every instinct screaming.

But you didn’t stop.

And then—voices.

Low. Male. Dangerous.

You pressed yourself behind a column.

Peered into a chamber cut from stone. Massive. Cold.

And there he was.

Your husband.

But not in his royal armor. No silk. No gold.

Dressed in black—combat gear, gloves, weapons at his waist. He stood at the center of the room, surrounded by men who didn’t kneel like servants.

They obeyed him like soldiers.

"...the shipment arrives in the lower ports by dawn," one man said. "Do we burn the rest?"

He tilted his head. "No. Let them run. Fear does more damage than ash."

The men laughed. Some nervous. Some feral.

You felt your pulse spike.

You were looking at the real him. Not the prince.

The King of the Underworld.

Then he turned.

Paused.

His gaze landed exactly where you were hidden.

Your breath stopped.

And then—he smiled.

"You can come out now, wife."

Shit.

You stepped into the chamber like you belonged there. Chin high, heart racing. The men fell silent as you appeared—bare-legged, barefoot, robe slipping slightly from one shoulder.

He took one long look at you.

Then dismissed the others with a flick of his hand.

They left fast.

You were alone.

"You’re a curious little thing," he said. "Most brides would be sleeping. Or crying."

You crossed your arms. “I don’t sleep well beside liars.”

He took a step forward. Slow. Dangerous.

"And yet you married me."

"You think I had a choice?"

He was in front of you now. So close you could feel the heat of him. See the faint scar near his jaw. The flecks of violence in his eyes.

He didn’t answer. Just stared.

Then his hand slid into your hair and pulled your head back.

Not hard enough to hurt.

Just enough to remind you: he could.

His mouth brushed your ear. “Did you come here to spy…”

His hand slid down your throat. “...or beg?”

Your breath caught.

His fingers kept going, curling around your waist, pulling you flush to his body.

“Because if you came here to play—” he whispered, “you’re in the wrong room, wife.”

"I came here," you breathed, "to see what kind of man hides beneath a crown."

His smirk dropped.

And then—he kissed you.

It was nothing like the wedding kiss. This was raw. His mouth crushed yours, one hand gripping your hair, the other wrapped tight around your waist.

You kissed him back with everything you had.

Fury. Fire. Desire you didn’t want to admit.

He groaned low, deep in his throat. Lifted you with ease, set you on the table behind, the cold surface shocking against your thighs as his mouth moved to your neck, your collarbone, down—

But just when it was about to tip into something undeniable—

You bit him.

Hard.

He hissed, pulled back, blood on your teeth.

You smiled. “You’re not the only one who likes to bite, husband.”

He laughed—really laughed. Eyes gleaming with something like pride. Or madness.

“You’re going to destroy me,” he said.

“I intend to.”

~To be continued~

[the-iconic-euijoo]

Bloodlines & Betrayals

Chapter 1: The Vows of the Damned (Part 2)

The palace servants didn’t look you in the eye.

Their hands were quick and cold as they stripped away your wedding gown layer by layer—removing silk, lace, and dignity until only skin remained. A whisper of gold anklets. A sheer veil over your eyes.

Tradition.

You were to wait like this in the Chamber of Binding—the suite reserved for royal consummation ceremonies.

The air was warm, scented with cinnamon and myrrh. Lit only by tall candles, flickering shadows across polished obsidian floors. In the center, the Binding Bed, made of dark carved wood, veiled in translucent black curtains.

No one told you what would happen. Not exactly.

They didn’t have to.

You sat on the edge of the bed, spine straight, heart hammering. Beneath the veil, you could see the door. Closed. Guarded. Sealed.

He could enter at any time.

Or not at all.

They said some brides waited hours, even days. Naked, humiliated, until the prince arrived to claim or reject them.

But you weren’t going to be passive.

No. You were going to make sure when he walked in, he remembered this night for the rest of his cursed, bloodstained life.

The door creaked open.

You didn't move.

Heavy boots on marble. The rustle of his cloak. The metallic clink of his ringed fingers brushing against the wall as he stepped in, then paused.

Silence.

Then: "You waited."

His voice—low, rough velvet laced with poison.

You didn’t respond.

He moved slowly, prowling around the room like a predator surveying prey. Then closer… closer… until the bed dipped beneath his weight.

Still, he didn’t touch you.

“You said ‘I do’ without trembling,” he murmured. “Impressive.”

You tilted your head toward him, speaking for the first time since the vows. “Disgust would’ve ruined the moment.”

A low chuckle.

And then… his fingers.

Two calloused, cool fingertips touched your jaw, running along the edge of your cheek through the veil.

“You're not afraid of me,” he said.

“No,” you replied. “You’re the one who should be afraid.”

A beat.

Then he ripped the veil from your face.

You blinked up at him, fully exposed.

His eyes, sharp as obsidian glass, studied every inch of you. Not just your body—but your defiance. Your poise.

You expected lust. You expected domination.

What you didn’t expect was the tension in his jaw. The flicker of surprise.

"You're not like the others," he said.

"No," you replied. "I’m worse."

He laughed then. Dark and genuine.

And finally, he leaned in.

His lips brushed your throat—not soft, but slow. Like he was tasting the defiance in your pulse. His hand slid to your thigh, gripping—not gently, not hard, just enough to remind you who he was.

Or who he thought he was.

“You know what this night is meant to be,” he whispered.

"Do you?" you shot back. “Because if you think this is the part where I beg—”

He cut you off by grabbing your wrist and flipping you beneath him in one fluid move.

The air rushed from your lungs.

He was over you now. His mouth near your ear, one knee between your legs, his palm spread over your ribcage like he was memorizing the shape of rebellion.

“Begging doesn’t interest me,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “Breaking does.”

You met his gaze, fire against fire. "Then good luck. You'll need it."

Something shifted in his expression. Not anger. Not desire.

Obsession.

He kissed you then—not with romance, not with patience. It was violent. Consuming. The kind of kiss meant to unravel you from the inside out.

You kissed him back harder.

The bed creaked. His hand slid down, wrapped around your hip, then lower—

But just when you felt the heat building to the edge—

He pulled away.

You gasped, breathless, furious.

"What—"

He stood. Adjusted his cloak. Licked his thumb, wiped your lip where your kiss had bruised it.

Then smiled.

“This was never about you wanting me,” he said coldly. “It’s about me making you want nothing else.”

Your blood boiled. “You arrogant—”

“You’ll scream my name when you beg for more,” he whispered.

And with that, he turned and walked out.

Left you burning.

Left you wanting.

Left you raging.

That night, you didn’t sleep.

And neither did he.

The games had begun.

End of Chapter 1.

[the-iconic-euijoo]

Bloodlines & Betrayals

Chapter 1: The Vows of the Damned

The marble floors whispered beneath your heels.

Every step echoed like a warning, bouncing off cathedral-high ceilings and stained glass windows older than the wars they glorified. Gold-trimmed guards stood along the hallway, their eyes fixed ahead—trained to ignore the trembling bride being walked to her fate.

Your fate.

Your gown was a masterpiece—stitched by hand, centuries-old lace dripping off your shoulders like sin. But it felt like a noose. Each breath was tight. Too tight.

Because today, you weren't just marrying a prince.

You were marrying the devil dressed in velvet and vengeance.

The forced alliance between your kingdom and his had been sealed in blood long before the announcement reached the world. A royal marriage, they called it. A peace treaty. A unification of kingdoms for the good of the people.

Lies.

Everyone smiled while they led you to the altar. But you knew the truth. He wasn’t just the Crown Prince of a rival kingdom.

He was the King of the Underworld.

A man whose name was never spoken in full. Whispers followed him like shadows—ruthless, brilliant, deadly. Rumors of men disappearing, enemies crushed under silence. And now, somehow, your husband.

The heavy doors opened. Gasps filled the grand chapel. All eyes turned to you.

And him.

He stood at the altar, draped in black royal regalia. His crown wasn’t gold—it was obsidian, forged with symbols only the oldest scrolls still dared show. His gaze locked on yours.

Cold. Calculating. Curious.

Not a smile. Not a hint of warmth.

Only hunger.

Your heart pounded, but you didn’t flinch. You were trained better than that. Raised in a palace built on lies, taught to never blink even as knives came for your throat.

But gods, standing before him?

You felt the ground shift.

He stepped forward as the priest began to chant—not in modern tongue, but the Old Oath Language, the one reserved for royal unions bound by ancient law.

A marriage under this ritual couldn’t be broken. Not by annulment. Not even by death.

"Do you take this crown," the priest intoned, "to bind your blood, your name, and your nights to the prince beside you, by the sacred laws of fire and shadow?"

Your lips parted. You hesitated.

He tilted his head slightly, watching you. His jaw twitched—was it anger, amusement, or something darker?

You whispered, "I do."

The crowd erupted in polite applause. But he didn’t take your hand.

Instead, he reached for the blade.

A ceremonial dagger, silver and black. The blade of the Old Kings. He slid it across his palm, letting blood drip into the carved basin.

Your breath caught.

He extended the blade to you.

You took it.

And sliced.

Blood spilled into the basin, and the mixture hissed—magic, ancient and angry, sparking in the air as if the gods themselves disapproved.

"By the binding of blood, the union is sealed," the priest said.

He stepped forward. Finally, he spoke.

"Say goodbye to your kingdom, wife," he murmured, lips brushing your ear. "From now on, you wear my crown."

You stiffened.

He pulled back and kissed you—not soft, not sweet. Possessive. A claiming. A declaration of war disguised as matrimony.

The guests clapped.

You tasted blood and victory on his tongue.

That night, the First Ritual would begin. The sacred tradition no bride had escaped in over six hundred years.

You would be stripped, blindfolded, and left waiting in the royal chambers while he decided whether to “consummate” or “deny” the union. A power play hidden beneath layers of royal duty.

But you weren’t going to be anyone’s pawn.

Not his. Not your family's. Not fate's.

So you planned. Quietly. Perfectly.

You’d survive the night.

And maybe, just maybe… break the king himself. ~To be continued~