forbidden;

The basket digs into your hip as you step out into the hallway, hoodie zipped up halfway and keys clenched in your free hand. The air outside is damp and strange, like it can't decide if it wants to rain or just hang there, heavy and indecisive. Like you. The street is deserted, lit by flickering lamps that paint everything in washed-out yellows and grays. You don't pass anyone—no cars, no late-night joggers, not even the guy who usually smokes on his balcony two floors down. Just you and the hiss of distant traffic.

You walk faster than usual, the weight of the basket throwing off your balance every few steps. It's not about the laundry. You know that. You just needed to do something, anything, other than sit on that couch refreshing your texts and trying not to picture your boyfriend wherever he is—laughing, forgetting to look at his phone, not thinking about you at all.

The laundromat is just around the corner, a sad little place that never closes with rows of outdated machines and cracked linoleum floors. Some of the knobs on the machines are missing, replaced with tape or left bare like little metal bones sticking out. One corner of the ceiling is stained dark with water damage, the edges curling like burned paper. The familiar smell of detergent and something vaguely burnt hits you as you step inside.

It's not cozy, it's not clean, but it's the only place that feels honest tonight. You drop your basket on the nearest folding table with a little more force than necessary. Your fingers are cold. Your chest is tight. You're not angry, not really. You're just tired of being the one still waiting.

You're halfway through dumping a load of clothes into the washer when the lazy, broken bell above the door jingles—it barely cuts through the hum of the old rackety machinery.

You glance up out of habit, expecting no one. Who else does laundry at this hour?

The man who stumbles in looks like he belongs more in a vogue magazine than sharing a space inside the laundromat with you. He's tall, lean, maybe late twenties, with a lax posture and the kind of walk that sways too wide, like he's not sure where the floor ends. His hair is dark and at the moment unruly, pushed back from his eyes that haven't decided whether to be open or closed. He's wearing a simple oversized crewneck and a pair of dark blue jeans clinging to his hips like they've been tailored to his body.

He carries an air of relaxed confidence even as his steps betray him. Rather than looking disheveled or ragged, there's an undeniable charm radiating from him.

You pause, a damp hoodie dangling from your fingers. The man doesn't look at you.

Instead, he moves with purpose, staggering toward the nearest washer like it personally offended him. He lazily throws his wallet and keys atop the washer before kicking off his tan boots. They tumble to the ground not too far from him. He then begins fumbling with the buttons on his jeans, muttering something under his breath that the machines drown out.

Then, to your absolute disbelief, he starts to undress—right there in the middle of the laundromat.

His crewneck is first to be yanked over his head. He is moving sluggish. Is he drunk? You wonder. It lands on the floor, forgotten. Next go the jeans, unbuckled and shoved down until they bunch at his ankles. He steps out of them, nearly trips, and steadies himself with one hand on the washer. He starts to chuckle and mutter to himself in slurring babbles.

Now he's standing there in nothing but a pair of dark boxer briefs—worn at the waistband and dangerously low on his hips. You can't help but stare.

His chest is buff and muscular. If you weren't so shocked, you think you would have more to say about him and his physique. The stranger tosses the jeans and shirt into the washer, slams the door, and only then—half-naked and swaying—does he notice you. His eyes widen, not with shame, but something more like surprise.

"Oh," he says, blinking slowly. His voice is deep, hoarse, the kind that sounds like it's been soaked in alcohol. "I honestly didn't see you."

You stare back, unsure whether to laugh, leave, or ask if he needs help standing. You are momentarily too caught off guard to decide whether amusement or empathy should guide your next move. A damp dirty towel hangs forgotten in your hands.

He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. "I... uh...," he mumbles, glancing toward the machine like it might defend him. "Wasn't planning on... an audience."

Your mouth is dry. You blink, and for some reason you are scrambling for something to say to this stranger. Your mind is empty—whether it is due to shock that this man is undressed in the laundromat at 3am, or because of how charming and attractive he is as he stares at you with anticipation, you don't know.

Consequently, the only thing to leave your mind is, "You forgot your crewneck."

The two of you glance down to your motioned hand. You are looking at the stranger's crewneck that was absentmindedly flung to the side. He chuckles deeply to pick up the material from the floor, almost missing it at his first attempt. His fingertips roughly jam into the tiled floor before settling on the fabric. You watch in slight concern for this stranger's wellbeing.

He lifts the sweater with a sheepish grunt, dusts it off instinctively, then drapes it over one arm like he might put it back on—but he doesn't. His shoulders rise and fall with a long exhale, and when he glances back up at you, the expression on his face is softer now; less startled and a little amused... and still, somehow, entirely sincere.

"Thanks," he murmurs, eyes catching yours again. "I guess I'm making a strong first impression."

You manage a small smile, even as heat creeps up the back of your neck. You will yourself to look him in the eye—but your gaze slips. Once, twice. You catch the subtle lines of his torso, the clean dips and angles of his collarbones, the way his skin shifts slightly with each breath. It's all casual, unintentional—but so evidently noticeable.

You force your eyes back to his face. The effort is... substantial.

"I mean... it's not every day you see someone strip down in a laundromat," you reply, tone light but edged with curiosity. "At three in the morning."

He laughs—a quiet, throaty and charming sound that feels too rich for the sterile buzz of the room. "Yeah,"  he says, scratching the back of his neck again, muscles flexing with the motion, "if I weren't a few tequilas in right now, I'd probably feel a little shame."

You grip the damp towel in your hands a little tighter. "So... why are you here? Like this?"

He blinks like he hadn't expected the question to come so directly, then shrugs with a kind of lazy honesty.

"Long night," he says. "Out with friends. Someone spilled a drink down my back." He gestures loosely at the washer.

"Someone?" you pry curiously.

There's a pause. He smiles—crooked, a little embarrassed, but not ashamed. He doesn't indulge you in elaboration, so you nod slowly, trying not to let your eyes trail down his body again, but you're very aware of the way the waistband of his briefs rests against his hips, the way the muscles in his stomach shift slightly when he talks. He's not flexing. He's not posturing.

That's the problem.

"I really didn't plan on the laundry show. Sorry about that."

You wave a hand quickly, hoping your heated face isn't giving away as much as it feels like it is. "No, don't worry."

You sit back against the edge of the folding table, eyeing him in the cold glow of the fluorescents. He doesn't fidget, doesn't look away. There's a steadiness in his gaze now that makes it hard to keep your own guard up. You hadn't realized how quiet your head had gotten—how for a moment, you'd forgotten everything that led you here.

But then he tilts his head slightly, studying you with a furrow of quiet concern.

"You okay?" he asks.

You hesitate to respond, caught off guard again—not by the question, but by how gentle it sounds coming from him. You weren't expecting the question from this stranger—him, half-undressed and half-drunk, who's been here all of five minutes and yet somehow sees right through you.

You look away, fix your gaze on the machine you have yet to start. "Yeah," you say. "Just... doing laundry."

The words fall from your lips half-heartedly. You release a breath before finally throwing the dirty towel, and the last of your laundry, into the washer. The stranger doesn't respond right away. You can feel him waiting, like he knows that's not really an answer. His eyes are following your every move.

You glance back at him. Fine. You need to release this pent up energy, and this stranger could work for you.

"My boyfriend's been out all night. He didn't text. He didn't call, so I decided to come here and wash some clothes instead of sitting in my apartment refreshing a screen."

His expression shifts—he seems empathetic.

"Sometimes the machines are easier to deal with," he says. "At least they don't lie."

His words pull a small breath of a laugh from you; they're unexpected and a little bitter.

"Exactly."

He leans against the washer beside yours, arms crossed, crewneck still hanging from one hand. "Sounds like a shitty night."

You nod. "It is."

"Well," he says with a slight smirk, "at least we're both miserable together."

He meets your eyes with something that feels like an offering—a shared kind of loneliness, wrapped in humor and late-night haze. For the first time tonight, you don't feel entirely alone.

You glance over at him again; your smile softens as it fades. You decide to pick apart his words and find out more of his story. You hate to admit to yourself that this attractive stranger has now garnered your full attention and curiosity. You don't know if something as weird as this will happen to you again, so you want to get the most out of it.

"So... why are you miserable?" you ask.

He exhales a long, quiet breath, his gaze shifting toward the washer. The light buzz of the fluorescent ceiling panels hums between you. For a moment, it feels like he might brush the question off.

Then he speaks.

"I wasn't just out with friends tonight," he reveals. "I was supposed to meet up with my girlfriend. Ex, I guess."

That word—ex—catches on something inside your chest. The way he says it feels sharp and recent. "She invited me to some rooftop thing," he continues. "I showed up late, and when I got there... she wasn't exactly waiting for me."

A slow throb builds at the base of your throat. You shift your weight, feeling a subtle ache bloom in your chest. His voice is calm, but there's something in the way he stares at the machines—like he's trying to detach himself from the memory just enough to say it out loud.

"She was kissing someone else."

You swallow hard. The image flashes in your mind uninvited—this man standing under some distant city skyline, arriving hopeful, only to see the person he loves tangled up in someone else's arms. It makes your own stomach knot.

"I didn't yell," he adds. "I didn't throw anything. She said nothing. Then her new guy threw a drink on me." He finally looks at you again. "And then another."

Your breath catches. Not from the story itself—though it's awful—but from the expression on his face now, the way his voice doesn't quiver but his eyes give him away. You're struck, again, by how beautiful he is, even now, even like this. And how tired he looks underneath it all. Still... there's no bitterness in his voice. Just a quiet kind of defeat.

The kind you know far too well.

"And now I'm here."

You nod slowly, your fingers curling around the edge of the table to ground yourself. His eyes are watching you intently. You are unsure why. Perhaps he is just studying you for your reaction to his words, but the way his eyes are roaming your face, and subtly taking glances at your body as you stand across from him, has you biting your lip.

You are feeling something from this stranger that you haven't felt even from your boyfriend.

The words press against the inside of your mouth, and before you can stop them, they spill out in a voice that doesn't sound like yours. "I think my boyfriend is cheating on me."

The air changes. Still and heavy. You don't look at him right away. Instead, your eyes lock on the clothes swimming behind the washer door like the colors there might soften the sharp edge of your own truth.

"I don't have proof," you murmur. "Just... I feel it. You know? He doesn't come home. He doesn't call. Everything he says lately sounds like a script. He's somewhere else, even when he's next to me."

Saying it out loud makes your ribs ache. It's like you've ripped open something you've been pretending wasn't there. The stranger doesn't say I'm sorry... or you deserve better. He doesn't offer hollow comforts or awkward platitudes. Instead, he gives you something harder to find—quiet understanding.

You break the silence, repeating the stranger's words from before, "The machines are easier to deal with," you say. "They don't lie."

The stranger shifts his weight, leaning back against the washer machine, his arms still crossed, his crewneck still limp in his hand like he's forgotten it again. His presence somehow doesn't make you self-conscious. If anything, his presence here makes you feel seen. You've just expressed more emotions to him then you have to your dishonest boyfriend.

"Exactly," he whispers.

You glance at the floor. "It's like I'm trying to convince myself it's normal. Like... maybe everyone feels like this, but I don't think they do."

"No," he confirms your thoughts. "He's a fucking asshole."

You can't say you're surprised when a shy smile forms from his honest and direct words. This is what you need. You need someone to validate your feelings towards your secretive boyfriend. This stranger, although being intoxicated and half-dressed with you in the laundromat at 3am, can offer this to you. You'll take it.

The half-dressed stranger continues, "I mean it." His tone sharpens a little, not angry at you, but on your behalf. "You're here, clearly trying to hold things together. Doing laundry at three in the morning, not calling him, not blowing up his phone... just dealing with it. And he's out there, what? Ignoring you? Letting you feel like shit?"

You don't say anything. You can't. Your throat is too tight again.

"I don't know him," he continues, "but I know the way he's making you feel, and that shit isn't love. He's a coward."

You want to open your mouth and agree with him. You know he is right. All the nights you spend worrying. All the nights you've spent crying yourself to sleep because of him. Your boyfriend's actions don't reflect someone who loves you. It's hard for you to come to terms with the truth.

The half-naked stranger breaks the intense silence, just above a whisper, as his eyes dance on your face.

"If you were mine, I'd never do that to you."

His words land harder than you expect; It's not because they're bold, but because they sound so honest. He is so certain, like he is seeing through any conflicted feeling you have. You risk a glance at him, and he isn't looking away. You don't want to look away either. You continue staring at him—your breath caught somewhere between shock and something warmer.

In the quiet that follows, your heart does a strange, fluttery stutter. It's too soon, it's too much, it's inappropriate—and yet... something about the way he said it felt right.

You let out a soft exhale. "You don't even know me."

His lips twitch upward. "Maybe not. Maybe I want to."

"You're just drunk and talking to a girl."

"Yeah, but you're beautiful, so I'd be thinking this sober too."

A shallow exhale releases the moment the words leave his mouth. You look at him—really look at him this time—the gentle curve of his mouth, the soft lines of exhaustion around his eyes. His eyes are so intense as he talks to you, yet so kind and alluring. He is only in his briefs and hasn't even put his crewneck back on and yet still somehow manages to make you feel more comforted than uncomfortable. This is more than your boyfriend has done... even in the last six months.

He watches you for a moment, and then smirks, letting the silence continue just long enough to make your stomach do something strange.

"If you keep staring at me like that, I'm gonna think you like what you see."

You let out a breath of a laugh, shaking your head as you glance away—flustered. "You're not exactly subtle, you know that?"

"Clearly I'm not going for subtle." The stranger motions to his briefs before he shifts his weight slightly, leaning one arm against the washer, his body angled just a little more in your direction. You bite a stupid smile at his words.

His voice drops, slow and warm. "But I meant what I said."

You arch a brow at him, feigning skepticism, though you already feel yourself softening under the weight of his gaze. "What, that you'd treat me better than my boyfriend?"

"That," he nods, lips curving, "and the part about you being beautiful."

You roll your eyes, though it doesn't hide the small smile forming at the corner of your mouth. "I bet you say that to all the women while you stand in your underwear."

He chuckles. "Hmm, no. I can honestly say you're the one and only."

You should say something snarky, or at least call him out on how ridiculous this whole situation is, but your cheeks are already warm, your arms crossed tighter against your hoodie to relax yourself. You sneak a glance at him again and find him already looking, like he never stopped. There's something dangerously comforting about the way he sees you. The quiet between you isn't awkward—it pulses, expectant, electric.

You shift in your seat, trying to act unaffected, drumming your fingers along the edge of the laundry basket. "You're seriously just going to sit there in your underwear this whole time?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Why? You want me to put the crewneck back on?"

Your eyes dart to the crewneck on the floor, then back to his bare shoulders. "I didn't say that."

"Don't excite me," he chuckles.

You shake your head and roll your eyes at his teasing.

"So," he says after a moment, "what do we do now? Wait out the cycle like two strangers who just trauma-dumped, flirted, and now we have to pretend this isn't kind of weird?"

You laugh—loud enough this time to echo slightly off the machines. "Yeah, I guess."

"Or..." he trails off, tone turning sincere again, like a gentle shift in gears. "Tell me something about you. Not your asshole boyfriend."

And that's how he disarms you—you look down at your hands, fiddling with the sleeve of your hoodie, suddenly aware of how exposed you feel. Not because he's looking at you like that—but because, for the first time in a long time, someone actually is.

You talk for hours. The buzz of machines fades into background noise as the two of you sit shoulder to shoulder on plastic chairs, trading stories and half-finished thoughts like it's the most natural thing in the world. The air shifts—softer now, calmer. He tells you about his favorite books, about places he has traveled. You tell him about the places you want to escape to, about the parts of yourself you feel like you've lost lately.

Eventually, you exchange names—Namjoon. It suits him.

By the time the dryers slow and click to a stop, the exhaustion of the hour has dulled into something more peaceful. The weight you walked in with feels lighter somehow. You fold your clothes. He pulls his jeans back on. There's a brief pause by the door—neither of you ready to leave the bubble of this strange, accidental connection. But you both know it's time.

He offers you a sleepy smile, still barefoot, his crewneck finally draped over one shoulder. "Take care of yourself," he says. "And maybe... stop doing laundry in the middle of the night and dump his ass."

You smile, eyes meeting his one last time. "Only if you stop stripping in public places."

You share the same knowing grin. Then he's gone—into the dark, quiet city, leaving behind only the echo of his laugh and the lingering warmth of being seen. You stand there for a moment longer, hands full of clean laundry, heart a little messier—and a little more hopeful—than it was before.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

It only takes another two weeks. Your fingers tremble against the cold steel of the laundromat door, pushing it open with more force than necessary. The fluorescent lights flicker to life above you—too bright, too sterile, and exposing the red rims of your eyes and the way your mascara has bled down your cheeks. You hadn't planned on coming here again. You swore you wouldn't—not after last time. Not after him. You didn't want to be tempted by that stranger.

But when you saw the pictures... when you opened the laptop and saw her—legs wrapped around your boyfriend in some hotel mirror selfie—when the nausea hit you so hard you couldn't stand, and then the silence that followed every ignored call and message...

You ran. You came back. You escaped.

You returned to the only place that held some kind of strange comfort. The place with old machines cracked tiles. The place where you felt human for a moment—even if it was with a half-naked stranger.

Your laundry basket is half-empty. You threw whatever was near you into it, not even bothering to sort it. A hoodie, your favorite pair of sweats, a towel. A bra tangled in a t-shirt. It doesn't matter. You just needed to move.

The laundromat door slams closed behind you with a hollow thud as you enter.

You move slowly to the far corner, the same row of machines you used that other night. You don't sit. You can't. Your knees feel like they might give out if you do. Your hands are shaking so hard you nearly drop a dryer sheet. Your breath shudders as you shove clothes into the washer—too fast, too angry. You are tunnel-visioned without awareness as to what is going on around you as you work.

When you finally sink to the bench, you press your palms to your eyes until you see stars. The burn behind your throat rises again, but you swallow it down.

You already cried the whole way here. You're tired of giving him more tears.

You assume you are alone until a voice startles you.

"___, are you okay?"

Your head lifts slowly, almost in disbelief. Sitting just across the way on a waiting bench—coat unzipped, eyes wide like he's surprised to see you too—is Namjoon.

He has been sitting there since you arrived, just watching. Surveying you.

Namjoon crosses the floor slowly towards you.

You don't move. You can't. His presence is surreal—it's like your grief conjured him, like some aching part of you called out and he answered. You want to speak, to explain, but the words are lost somewhere in the swell of emotion tightening your throat.

He kneels in front of you, his warm palms wrapping gently around your forearms. "What happened?" he asks, voice low, rough with concern.

Your lips part, but only a breath comes out. Then, without thinking, you fall forward into him. You touch the laundry stranger for the first time.

Namjoon catches you without hesitation. His arms come around you fast and firm, pulling you into the warmth of his chest like it's where you were meant to be all along. You bury your face in the curve of his neck, hot tears spilling freely now, soaking into the soft fabric of his hoodie. He smells like faint cologne and winter air.

He holds you tighter.

His body is solid and comforting, all lean muscle and quiet strength beneath his clothes. The way your palms press against his chest, you can feel the every curve and turn of his chest muscles. His hand rubs up and down your back in long, slow strokes, fingertips brushing just below the hem of your hoodie each time they pass. The contact sends a ripple of heat across your skin, and you're too enthralled to flinch from it. 

You lean into his touch, craving the sensation, craving him.

"I found pictures," you whisper, voice cracking against his collarbone, "of him with someone else."

Namjoon exhales sharply, his hand pausing on your back. "That motherfucker."

"I called. I texted. I begged for an answer and he won't even give me that." You pull in a breath, your cheek pressing against the curve of his shoulder, feeling the way his body tenses beneath your touch. "I don't know why I came here. I just... I didn't know where else to go."

He doesn't speak for a long moment; instead, he shifts, his hands moving to cup your face gently, tipping your chin until your eyes meet his. The pads of his thumbs brush away your tears. You can feel the heat in his palms, the strength in his fingers, the way he holds your face like it's precious—like you are.

"Forget about him," Namjoon murmurs, his gaze dropping from your eyes to your lips for the briefest moment. "You don't deserve it. None of it."

You breathe shakily, and you're aware—painfully aware—of every inch of him against you. The way his knee brushes yours. The way your hands have ended up gripping the front of his hoodie.

"I don't know why it hurts so much," you whisper. "I'm so stupid."

"Because you love him," he says. "And he's a scumbag. He doesn't treat you the way he should."

The truth stings. The words fall from Namjoon's mouth and stab you in the chest. You are trembling with disgust as you internalize what he is saying to you. Namjoon is right, and you are finally ready to admit it— your boyfriend is an asshole.

"I don't love him," you finally say aloud. You are quiet, speaking just under your breath.

Namjoon doesn't respond right away. His hand is still gently cupping the back of your neck, and his eyes search yours—like he's trying to make sure you believe what you just said. That it's real. That you're finally free. The truth settles between you in the silence of your stares.

Then he murmurs, almost shyly not wanting to speak but feeling compelled, "I've been coming here... almost every night."

Your brows furrow. "What?"

Namjoon's gaze drops briefly, then lifts again—stronger, bolder. "I was hoping I'd see you again."

You can't help but widen your eyes in some version of disbelief.

"___," he says your name softly, a slight smile curling at the edges of his mouth. "I couldn't stop thinking about you... about how you looked at me. How you listened."

He shifts closer—his knee pressing firmly between your thighs, his hand warm against your hip. "You've been stuck in my head, ___. And now you're here, crying again, and all I want to do is make it stop."

His forehead grazes yours. You close your eyes—just for a second—until his lips hover over yours, so close that you can feel the heat of his breath across your mouth.

"Namjoon," you breathe, but you don't know what to say.

Your mind is thinking of the many actions you want to take right now, and all of them lead to the same place. Your heart is fluttering in your chest as you decide then and now that you need this. You want Namjoon to close the distance.

You tilt your chin, lips parting instinctively as a silent indication of what you want. Namjoon's eyes roam your face, from your eyes and down to your lips, and when he finally kisses you—it isn't hesitant. It's slow and passionate.

His mouth moves against yours with quiet intensity. It's slow at first, then firmer, deeper—his hand slipping from your hip to your waist as his tongue slips into your mouth. He pulls you closer until there's nothing but heat between you. Your hands move on their own, feeling at his muscular chest and fisting the fabric of his hoodie to bring him as close as you can to you.

Namjoon kisses like he feels everything—like your pain is his to carry too. His other hand cradles your cheek, thumb brushing your skin with aching tenderness as his mouth moves with yours, slow and savoring.

He shifts his weight into you , pressing your body gently back against the bench, allow himself room between your parted legs. His chest presses to yours, solid and warm and unrelenting, with the thud of his heartbeat matching yours in a rhythm that's escalating.

Your body responds to him easily; you find yourself swaying your hips into him for some friction against your heating core. You gasp softly into his mouth as your body instinctively responding to the pressure. Namjoon pulls back just enough to look at you, lips swollen, breath uneven.

"This is okay?" he whispers.

You nod, already leaning back in. "Yeah," you breathe. "More than okay."

His smile is soft, but his eyes are dark and full of want. When he kisses you again, it's less patient—hungrier now. You respond with just as much heat, sliding your arms around his neck, fingers threading through the short, soft strands of his hair. You arch into him when his hands settle at your hips, his grip tightening, guiding you against him with no space.

The room is quiet except for the washer machine humming beside you, and the shared breaths of two people losing themselves in something unexpected. Namjoon's mouth trails from yours to your jaw, down to the sensitive skin below your ear, his breath hot against your neck as he disperses wet kisses on your skin.

You don't want him to stop. Not now. Not when it feels so good. You exhale shakily, and for the first time in what feels like forever—you feel wanted.

Namjoon's lips return to yours and the kiss deepens; the urgency in it is palpable. It's as if he can't get enough of you. Your lips are swollen and your chest is heaving as you moan into his mouth. His name slips in alluring mumbles from your lips.

The heat is tingling inside you. As your mouths and bodies work against each other in a passionate display of lust, your sensitive insides are feeling every inch of him. You feel it start as just a glimmer of excitement in your lower stomach, and then continue as a pooling mess in your underwear.

"Fuck," you whimper at how turned on you are. Your hands slide down to the front of his jeans, wanting to know if he is feeling the same way as you. Your exploration leads your to a inciting revelation; Namjoon's cock is hard beneath material.

You press your palm against him, feeling for the outline of his length in your fingertips. You apply pressure around his hardness as his lips continue against yours. Namjoon's mouth falls open at the sensation, mouth getting sloppy at the feeling of your caressing touch.

He groans lowly against your mouth, "I don't care who's watching."

The comment sends a shiver down your spine. He doesn't care. Neither do you. All that matters is the way your bodies fit together, the way his lips feel against your skin, the way he's gotten your panties wet; igniting you.

"I want it," you moan into his mouth.

Your hands move more urgently, retracting from his crotch and tugging at his hoodie. You pull it over his head in one swift motion. The cool air hits his chest, and you run your fingers over the solid muscle beneath his skin. He groans, low and deep, his head falling back as your hands explore the ridges of his chest.

You pull him back to you, your lips finding his again. He responds just as urgently, his hands now pushing your sweater up over your head. You feel exposed in the best way.

Namjoon steps back, his gaze lingering on your body, his eyes dark with a burning desire you too feel in your chest. He mumbles sincerely at you, "you're fucking beautiful"

You swallow, your breath uneven, as he moves in again, his lips finding the skin of your throat, trailing lower. You can't stop the soft moan that slips from your lips when his hands slide down your sides, brushing the curve of your hips.

The feeling of his hands on your skin—so hot, so sure—has you reeling, but you don't care. You want him. Namjoon.

"I don't give a shit about him," you murmur, your voice rough with need, and you can't help but feel a surge of heat flood through you. "I want you," you say.

Before he can respond, Namjoon's mouth is on yours again, but this time it's not soft or slow—it's urgent and demanding. His hands are on your body, caressing, pulling, guiding you as if he can't get enough. You wrap your arms around him, pulling him as close as possible, needing the weight of him against you. His lips trail down your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he leaves a trail of soft, desperate kisses.

Your hands find his erection under his jeans again, fumbling with the buttons, needing to feel him—all of him—just as much as he wants to feel you. Namjoon moans lowly into your kiss at the feeling of your hand against him. You're desperate now, for him, for the connection that's been building between you since the moment you met. It's all you can think about.

Namjoon pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes blazing with desire; panting. "____..?" your name trails off his lips in an unfinished question. He wants to know what you want. His gaze is narrowed down at you, voice thick and raspy.

You don't hesitate to confirm what you're both thinking. "Yes."

That's all it takes. He moves quickly, shedding the rest of his clothes. Your follow in suit, gently guiding your legs out of your shorts. His jeans drop to the ground, and his shirt is thrown to the side before returning to you with more passion, lifting you in his arms like it's nothing, carrying you to the nearby folding table. The two of you are left only in your underwear when he places you atop the surface, your body trembling beneath his touch, your hands already running over the soft, heated skin of his chest. The folding table, although inexperienced at supporting two hungry bodies, doesn't waver in stance with your weight on it. 

The world outside the laundromat no longer matters. It's just you and him, locked in this intimate, heated moment, the tension and desire between you both too strong to ignore.

His kisses are hungry, sloppy, devouring, like he's starved for you. You kiss him back with just as much passion, clinging to his bare shoulders, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his arms to hang on to the flood of feeling. Your insides are tingling with every ounce of desire that you can muster.  Namjoon presses closer, his hips wedged between your legs, the table creaking softly beneath the abrupt, relentless weight of the two of you. You can feel the hard, consuming pressure of him through the thin layers of fabric between you, and it's making your head spin. Every nerve comes alive where he touches you, where his hands move with growing boldness. His lips leave yours only to take a burning, open-mouthed trail down your jaw, along the sensitive line of your neck. He nibbles softly at the spot just below your ear, sucking just hard enough to make you shudder, to make you turn your head and offer him more. His hands roam up the heated skin of your abdomen, palms rough and warm as they travel up your ribs, thumbs brushing just under the swell of your breasts.

"Fuck," he growls against your skin, voice low and hoarse, "you're so fucking perfect."

You're trembling under his touch—partly it's that need—that need you haven't felt in a long time. The other part is slight disbelief that this is happening, that someone could want you like this, touch you like this. Your now ex-boyfriend made you feel like this was impossible. You clutch Namjoon's shoulders tighter, pressing your hips forward instinctively, shameless in how much you need more of him.

Namjoon groans at the movement, his mouth finding yours again in a bruising kiss, all teeth and tongue and breathless noise. One of his hands slides down your side, deliberately, until it finds the waistband of your underwear.

He hesitates—just for a second—his forehead pressing against yours, his breath ragged.

You shake your head, breathless. "Don't stop. Please."

That's all the confirmation Namjoon needs.

His fingers slip under the band of your underwear, dragging the fabric down your thighs with one hand while the other stays curled around your waist, holding you. The cool air brushes against your bare skin for a moment—before his hand returns, warm and sure, parting your thighs wider.

Your head falls back at the feeling of his fingertips at your wetness. Your body knows what it wants. Your insides are aching—yearning—to be touched, to be explored, to be wanted right at this moment. 

"You're so wet," he rasps, voice breaking around the words sexily. "God, you're so fucking wet for me."

His fingertips slide easily against you—the digits drenched in your pleasure. You nod drowsily at him, moaning a soft variation of agreement to his words. His touch feels so good as he slowly lathers your drenched insides at the pad of his fingertips. Your back hits the wall of the laundromat and you feel between your parted legs with your hand, searching hungrily for Namjoon's length. When your fingers finally find him, his cock is strained and throbbing against his briefs. You can't wait anymore. 

You bite your lip, looking at him through hooded eyes. You lean forward, catching the bottom of his earlobe against your lips as you whisper erotically. "Fuck me."

Namjoon groans at your command. You feel his cock twitch in your hand when you finally spring it free from his underwear. Your tall handsome sexual partner's mouth falls open against your neck as he continues to kiss your flushed skin. His lips are wet, delectable, as they attack your skin eagerly. Your palm slides up and down his throbbing length, his skin slick and lubricated from the tip. 

There are no words exchanged when your hands touch in-between you. You spread your legs for him, the tip of his cock swollen and wet when he starts playing with your clit. You fall back with a racing heart, moans slipping endlessly from your breathless mouth as Namjoon using the tip of his cock to rub circles on your most potent pleasure point. Your feet meet the back of his legs, urging him, willing him, to close the gap between you. 

"Yes," you moan. The heat is starting to tingle in your toes. You can feel with each torturous swipe of his tip against your clit, you are growing closer and closer to a climax, something you haven't had with another person in months. 

Namjoon knows you're close. He is observing your every reaction to him. His eyes are dark, full of lust, his erection throbbing with his heart thudding in anticipation. Your drowsy eyes make it hard to see him, but you can feel his stare. His hips sway softly, carefully, studying the way your body jolts as his sensitive tip rubs over your clit. 

"Namjoon," you cry. "I want you inside me."

"Oh, fuck, ___," he grunts at your breathless moans, your name sounding sinful from his beautiful lips. 

Your mouth falls agape when you feel his swollen shaft press into you. You whimper, almost relieved, as his cock slips past your entrance. You are biting your lips to control just how much you want to groan and moan for the feeling. Namjoon slowly shifts his hips forward, teasingly slow, as you stretch around him. You can feel every small movement, every new inch of your insides he pushes through. Your hands lock around his flexed bicep, digging your nails into his skin. 

"So—" he trails with concentration, "—fucking good."

You are nodding at him because you can't find words. His cock is almost fully inside you now, your legs tightening around his lean frame, wanting to stop the teasing so he can fill you. His cock is pulsing between your insides; your clenching walls giving his length immense pressure as he attempts to thrust into you. The two of you share different octaves of moans when he fills you entirely, his torso meeting your spread inner thighs. 

Namjoon pulls at the material of your bra as he begins thrusting into you. Your breasts spill, his hands molding and shaping your skin in his harsh grasp as your bodies work against one another. He groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin as he palms your breasts, thumbs flicking over your sensitive peaks while his hips grind deeper into you.

“God, baby,” he mutters, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His breath is hot, uneven. “Look at you taking my cock."

You gasp, sobbing out half-formed sounds as his thrusts pick up pace. "Fuck, I-I... yes."

His body is pounding into yours with slow, merciless rhythm. Each roll of his hips meets a varied sensitive hub within your core, sparking heat and tingles throughout every inch of your body. You can feel his length pressing deeply inside you, testing your limits, wanting to find that spot to take you over the edge. With each new stroke he takes against you, you feel his cock nearing it. 

The laundromat fades around you—the hum of forgotten rackety machines, the flicker of overhead lights, the cold, chilling air. All that exists is the delicious friction of Namjoon inside you, the grip of his controlling hands gripping your hips, steadying your body as he fills you repeatedly, and the way your bodies slap together in frantic, desperate synchronization.

Your head falls back, exposing your throat, and Namjoon doesn’t waste the invitation. His mouth latches onto your skin, kissing, biting, sucking marks you know will still be there tomorrow — proof of tonight, proof that you were wanted. You want the proof. You want your ex-boyfriend to feel the shame—even if just for a moment—some regret for the way he treats you. 

“Look at me,” Namjoon demands. "Oh, you good girl."

You force your heavy lids open, meeting his stare — dark, glassy, possessive. The raw need etched across his face almost undoes you. His hair falls into his eyes as he fucks you harder, deeper, chasing the tremble already building again in your thighs.

“You’re mine right now,” he growls, his hand sliding down to squeeze your ass, tilting your hips up so he can thrust even deeper. "Not his."

You whimper, feeling your whole body tightening.

"Say it," he grunts through thrusts.

 “Yours,” you breathe, desperate, broken and open for him. “I’m yours.”

Namjoon releases a guttural sound at your words, his cock sliding and pushing into your clenching walls with renewed intensity. Your insides flutter around him, collapsing to entrap him, your climax looming sharp and fast and inevitable. The folding table beneath you is now creaking loudly in protest, but neither of you care—too lost in the frenzied, frantic way your bodies drive toward release.

"That's it, ___," he coos in praise. "Cum for me."

Your hands squeeze around his biceps, trying to hold on as Namjoon's large frame continuously rocks back and forth into you. Cries are escaping you and you can't stop them, the pleasure becoming too much, overwhelming you, the tip of his length meeting you so deeply inside you that with your eyes closed, you feel as though you are falling through a different universe.

"Fuck," you cry, "Right there—yes—!"

It only takes a few more thrusts of his length inside you for you to climax against him. Namjoon's cock is swollen, rushing with blood, swelling between your walls as you clench around it. Your body is clamping down around him so tightly, that it's difficult for him to pull from you when he is reaching his climax. Namjoon is breathing heavily; his cock glistening and slipper when his hand grasps it. 

You are panting, almost unable to catch yourself when your hands fall back onto the folding table. Your body is still jolting, trembling from the loss of contact inside you. You ride out your climax while Namjoon pumps his shaft in his hand—only two times before he cums on your stomach. The substance oozes from his twitching member, sticky as it meets your heated skin. 

Your chest is rising erratically when you come down from your climax. Your legs are limp, totally exhausted as your body settles against the wall. The folding table creaks just slightly when Namjoon pulls his weight from you, and then buckles on one side. Your eyes widen and Namjoon catches your forearm to stop you from falling. 

The two of you share a breathless laugh. 

A slow, exhausted smile spreads across Namjoon’s face — it's so real, so unfiltered, that it makes your heart flutter. It's a feeling you didn't think you could have after dealing with your ex-boyfriend. And when Namjoon pulls you in, not caring about anything else in the world, to press a chaste kiss on your fatigued lips, you know that your desperate actions with him were right.

For the first time in months, you believe it: you're not forgotten nor neglected. 

◂ blog purpose: i really enjoy writing. i think i’m pretty good at it. i like to explore my creativity and take people on an imaginative adventure. escapism is the goal. i want to give people an escape—somewhere else to find their best selves. bts gave me the best of me, so i am only returning the favor. i’m also just really horny for them ngl. that’s kinda a joke? but not really. lol. i hope you enjoy what i have to offer. 

◂lore: if you wanna know some regan lore, look no further. i’ll catch you up. i was a med student for a while (2015-2018). it was my whole personality. i then started writing 10k+ worded chapters of bts fics on top of that. you can say i slept maybe three hours max on a given day. then i decided no thanks! no more med school. i’ll be an engineer! (-.-) i shockingly kept up with updating pretty consistently for a long time (2019-2022) while juggling engineering and fics… but inevitably i went on a two year writing hiatus (2023-2024). the sleeplessness was catching up to me. but hey, now i’m an engineer and i’m pretty proud of that. and i’m back here writing (which i am also pretty proud of).

⇾ more questions? check out my faq!

Your eyebrows furrow in instant worry. Fia's teasing leads you to believe she is talking about Jungkook. Why would he be on the news? In a semi-panicked state, you reach for your phone to check your messages. You tap once on the screen without a response. Then, you grab the device with a groan to click it to life. Nothing. You forgot to charge it last night—again.

You're startled when Fia throws the remote down on the coffee table. There's another shout: "I'm serious, ___! They're talking about Slash."

The masked drummer's name slices through the morning air like a jab in the gut; your skin crawls and your body physically shivers. Although you are relieved she isn't talking about Jungkook, you are still confused by her shouting.

It's then that you hear the faint sound of a news broadcast filling the apartment. You unwillingly drag yourself out of bed, shoving your covers away from your body and swinging your legs over the side. Your bare feet hit the cold floor as you stumble towards the door. When you softly push open your bedroom door, Fia is planted on the couch with crisscrossed legs and a coffee mug in her hand. She's not exactly alarmed—she's entertained.

"What's going on?" you grumble through sleepiness.

"Your favorite guy is on," she teases.

"Stop saying that," you say coldly.

When you finally follow Fia's stare at the television, the air inside you releases from your lips in an instant. The screen is displaying a live feed of flashing red and blue lights just down the block from your apartment complex. The police have taped off an alleyway you frequently pass on your walks home from work. Your eyes are slightly widened, and your eyebrows raise in drowsy shock at what you're seeing.

The screen then splits into two. On the right side of the broadcast, grainy surveillance footage is paused mid-frame to show a black, shadowy figure. His face is obscured by a familiar terrifying white boned grin—the skull mask. You're holding your breath as your eyes scan the image. You know that mask—oh, do you recognize that mask—the very same one you fearfully watched dominate the stage under crimson stage lights.

"Turn it up," you shakily instruct your friend.

Fia leans forward for the remote to raise the volume. The news caster is speaking, "—still unclear whether the suspect has any confirmed connection to Silver Tooth, though the resemblance to the band's drummer, known to fans as "Slash," is undeniable. The footage, which we are replaying now, shows the masked individual exiting an alleyway. The victim's body was discovered early this morning—"

You sink down onto the edge of the couch, your heart thudding and your eyes in a trance at the television. You're still reeling on that fact that you don't just know that intersection. You walked through it yesterday. You can still hear the sizzling of the grill and the smell of fresh chicken from the food truck located just at the corner. You ate from there on your walk home last night.

"Shut up," Fia says into the air towards the screen; her words are her coping mechanism for her disbelief. "It was not him."

Your eyes linger on the still-framed image of the masked suspect. You are trying to observe every inch of his body as if you would know whether or not it's actually Slash. How would you know? Sure, you remember his lean physique, toned thighs and muscular arms, but would that help you identity him at a crime scene? The person from the footage could be him.

It probably is, you think.

The media continues, "the suspect was last seen heading northbound. Authorities urge anyone with information to come forward, and advise residents in the area to stay alert and inside during the late hours."

Northbound, you mentally gape. You live northbound of the crime scene.

You want to say something assuring to your friend, but you can't find the words. You have been overcome by fear again. Your throat is dry and your pulse is rapidly increasing as your eyes continue to watch the news coverage just outside your complex.

"In response to these horrific events, and due to an abundance of caution, Silver Tooth has cancelled this evening's show as the investigation continues."

Cancelled the show? "He did it," you say; you're convinced.

Fia doesn't have a chance to push back against your words, because the familiar melody of her phone ringing fills the room. Your shoulders jump in fright at the sound. You have your hands in fists to stop the trembling you feel overcoming your body.

She looks at you before picking up the call: "Hoseok," she says.

"Yes," Fia replies to the low murmuring voice of your mutual friend. "We're watching the news right now. Please tell us the inside scoop."

Your face twists in disgust. The inside scoop? Your best friend's ability to lessen a literal murder into some band gossip has stunned you. You suddenly feel as though everyone is in on some sick joke that you're not apart of. You're shaking your head to yourself as you await Hoseok's response. Thankfully, Fia puts the call on speaker for you to hear.

Hoseok's voice, slightly muffled, comes through the speaker. It's not clear, but it's enough for the both of you to hear him. "I knew you guys would be watching. It's all anyone is talking about."

It's difficult to decipher his tone of voice as he's speaking, but you already know it—he is thrilled. You can already imagine the overjoyed smile on his face as he references how many people online are talking about Silver Tooth. You fight the urge to roll your eyes at his naive reaction. He is obviously motivated by the wrong things.

"It was him," you say as fact.

Although you can't see Hoseok's face, you know it probably looks similar to Fia's right now. She rolls her eyes at your comment as if what you've said would be utterly implausible.

"___," Hoseok's tired voice sinks in the line. "Come on. It was not him. You seriously think he has time to fucking role play as a serial killer?"

"This isn't a joke," you warn Hoseok, but you're also talking to Fia. "A woman was murdered."

There's a silence that stretches thin among you. The three of you obviously understand the grave implications of a murder, yet your two friends seem to willingly forgot the seriousness once they connect Silver Tooth's name to it.

"___," Fia says, but you interrupt her. You reach across the couch and grab the phone from your best friend's hand before she can protest.

"Hoseok," you say sharply into the phone. "You need to leave the band."

You are staring in silence as the news channel replays the segment you just watched about Slash. The grainy surveillance screenshot is in your view as you wait for Hoseok to respond to you. You can only hear the faint sound of him moving around.

"I'm serious," you continue due to his silence. "This isn't like... a fun, weird thing anymore. A woman was murdered," you repeat for emphasis, "the guy was wearing the mask, and people already think Slash is dangerous—"

"That's just you," Fia groans with an interjection.

It's not just you. There are countless articles, reddit forums,  blogs, posts, tweets, interviews, discussion boards, etc. that you have spent hours of your time reading and internalizing. Although you enjoyed Silver Tooth's performance—Slash's performance especially—and you respect the artistry that goes along with all of their skills, you will not allow that to distract you from what you already knew before all of this.

You ignore her. "This isn't edgy anymore."

"___,"Hoseok sighs after some silence. "We were rehearsing until late last night. Slash was there."

"See," Fia assures you. "It wasn't him."

You can't say you're convinced by the information. You want to start rambling about how the only way to know for sure is to check the timing—down to the second—to check if Slash had enough time to commit the murder after rehearsal. You can't. Your friends will only brush off your worries, just as they always do, when it comes to Silver Tooth. You decide that there's nothing more you say can convince your two friends. They are blinded. Hoseok by money, Fia by lust. You won't be so easily conned into disregarding what you believe to be the truth, or even a possibility.

"All I'm saying is," Hoseok speaks. "The band is blowing up. All of this is unrelated marketing nonsense. Be happy for me."

"We are," Fia replies confidently. She takes her phone back from you. "We always are."

Fia eyes you, silently signaling for you to contribute to her encouraging words. You blow out a quick breath of defeat and decide to move on; however, moving on from the topic doesn't mean you will stop worrying about his safety.

"Just... Just be safe," you mumble.

"Of course," he remarks, but you know there's not much anyone can do to actually keep him safe.

Fia ends the call and places her phone face-down on the coffee table. For a moment, neither of you speak. The television continues to loop the same segment—sirens flashing across familiar blocks, caution tape obstructing walkways, the skull masked perpetrator frozen mid-step. You feel sick to your stomach staring at the imagery again and again. You reach your limit and grab the remote to turn the television off.

"I just don't get why you're so sure it's him," Fia finally says, quieter now. "You don't even know him."

"Exactly," you counter. "You don't know him. I don't know him, and yet I can't stop thinking about him."

Fia raises an eyebrow.

"Not like that," you clarify quickly, though you're not sure if you're lying. "I just mean, something about him is off. I just know it."

She doesn't push. She just lifts her mug to her lips.

You sit back into the couch, curling your legs beneath you, the weight of dread heavy on your chest as you stare up at the ceiling. You can't stop replaying that masked face in your head, or how quiet Hoseok became when you asked him to leave. No one wants to listen. They all want to believe it's a game, a costume, a brand. It's not.

═════════════════════

Later that night, you stand at the doorway of Fia's bedroom with arms crossed over your chest. You lean against the doorframe in a state of pure disbelief as you observe her.

The floor in Fia's room is littered with a mountain of rejected outfits—various crop tops and tight jeans are stacked in disheveled piles, overflowing her desk chair and bed. An assortment of different bras and underwear have been thrown carelessly after being disregarded, catching on her lamp and bedframe. The mirror is foggy from a recent blast of setting spray. Typically, this would all be a normal occurrence. It's all so normal, except it isn't—not tonight.

"I cannot believe you're actually going out," you exasperate.

Fia stands in front of a full-length mirror, adjusting the tiny straps of her black top. The material excentuates her breasts, and the leather skirt she paired it with is just long enough to hide her ass. Yes, she looks amazing, and you know she wants to attract Jimin, but you're still trying to understand how your best friend could be so absolutely irrational.

She merely rolls her eyes at your expressed surprise. "It's just a party. They hit a million streams! It's exciting."

You scoff. "A woman was murdered, Fia."

"Yeah," she says flippantly. "I heard you the first one hundred times."

"You're seriously unbelievable," you groan.

"Oh my God," she groans back at your negativity. "It wasn't Slash. You heard Hoseok, they were all together at rehearsal. It's just some copycat loser trying to get attention."

The absence of concern makes something snap inside you. Your voice is sharper now in response to Fia's total disregard and lack of judgement. "Whether it was Slash or not, there's still someone out there who is murdering people!"

Fia clearly won't be swayed. She turns back to the mirror and dabs more highlighter across her collarbone. You watch with silent anger brewing in the pit of your stomach at your best friend. For a moment, and it is only merely a moment—nothing more—you debate whether or not to join Fia to ensure that nothing happens to her. No, you finally decide. You've watched too many crime documentaries to know better.

As you stare quietly at your best friend, you can't help but sigh at the effort she is putting in to look nice for Jimin. She has gone through five different sets of earrings, and has fumbled through several different shades of lipstick. She hums quietly to herself as she pulls her hair up, then lets it fall, then pulls it up again. As you watch her struggle to decide on a hairstyle for five minutes, you decide try a different approach to convince her.

"Is Jimin really worth risking your life for?" you ask sincerely. "You don't even know him."

You know they had a lot of chemistry that night at the show, but she is just starstruck at this very talented band member. You also can relate to how she's feeling. Your words to your best friend incite you to think about Jungkook. Even you know better than to risk your life to see him. Although you know he will be at the party—and you so badly want to see him—you're more intelligent than that.

You will stay safe inside your apartment.

Fia sighs more softly this time at your words. She turns to look at you. "I don't know anyone, ___. He's the first guy to show interest in me. I know you're scared, but I don't want to be."

You flinch at her honesty. Not because it's cruel—it isn't—but because it hits too close to home. The words sting you as she says them. You are scared, and you're tired of being the only one who admits it.

You say nothing as she grabs her purse and slings it over her shoulder. She has thin-framed sunglasses perched lowly on her nose although it's nighttime. You are still shaking your head as you follow her to the door. It's right before she's leaving that she places her hands on your shoulders as if giving you a pep-talk. Her grip is firm and familiar, like she's trying to convince you this isn't a final goodbye—just a temporary mood swing.

"I'll text you when I get there. I'll text you if I leave. I'll text you on my way home."

"Okay," you say reluctantly. "I love you."

"I love you," she squishes you in a tight hug. And then she's gone. You make sure to lock the door the moment it closes behind her.

You just stand there in the silence, listening to the city outside the window and trying to convince yourself that she'll come home safely, nothing will happen tonight, and the masked man isn't watching her walk into the dark, waiting to tie her up until she is subdued to his will; helpless.

═════════════════════

It's been a few hours since Fia left. She hasn't texted. Not yet. You know she arrived; you can see it from her location, but her unwillingness to believe in your fear has transcended the normal bounds of friendship: she didn't even text you to say she arrived. You've checked three times in the last fifteen minutes, thumb hovering over your phone like that might summon a message. Then you give up.

You glance at the door—still locked. You checked it twice. You even slid a dining table chair in front of it earlier as extra precaution. You're currently curled up on the couch, a throw blanket wrapped around your legs and the glow of the television flickering across your face. A movie plays, though you've barely retained any of it—just background noise to keep your mind from spiraling. Something light, something comforting, but not even the warmth of the tea in your hands is enough to settle the knot in your chest.

Just as your movie cuts to the ending credits, your phone buzzes softly in your lap. You know it isn't Fia. Your stomach flutters—not with fear this time, but something warmer. You smile before even checking the screen. It's Jungkook. You tap the message open immediately.

jungkook [11:13 PM] —you're not here. why?

You don't fight the smile stinging your cheeks. Your thumbs hover for a second. You are trying to decide how to respond. You decide to be truthful.

you [11:14 PM] —not in the mood to be murdered tonight

You smile faintly. Although it's the truth, maybe it won't read so seriously overt text. Jungkook will recognize your reference to the teasing banter you two have about the skull masked drummer. Maybe he might find it humorous and smirk in the sexy way he usually does. Three dots appear, then disappear. Then they appear again.

jungkook [11:20 PM] —did you lock your door?

Your fingertips are tingling as you read his written words to you. You're unsure if its because you're talking to Jungkook, or because he is referring to the possibility of someone invading your apartment, but the feeling of your quickened pulse has overcome you. Your eyes are scanning the keyboard as if a response will jump out at you.

Your eyes flick to the chair you have wedged under the doorknob. You lean into the cushions and type a response slower this time.

you [11:21 PM] don't patronize me lol

It takes him less than five seconds to respond.

jungkook [11:21 PM] —your windows?

Your initial response to the text message is a roll of your eyes. Obviously your windows are closed and locked. Your bedroom window leads directly to the fire escape. You knit your eyebrows as you think of a response to him, but now you are finding it incredibly hard to control how fast your heart is racing. Something about his question lands differently with you as you reread it. He doesn't add an emoji, and he doesn't follow it up with a wink or a joke. Is he seriously concerned about you?

You swallow the sudden lump in your throat and sit up straighter, peeling the blanket back. The room feels a few degrees colder now. You glance toward the hallway. There's a soft rustling sound, like a draft blowing in from somewhere. You can see the slight movement of the hallway curtain swaying in the mysterious whisper of wind.

Your feet move before your brain can reason with them. You step out of the living room and into the narrow hall, the creak of the floorboards beneath your steps impossibly loud. The closer you get, the stronger the cold draft becomes—brushing over your ankles like a warning. It's faint, but you can feel it. You reach the doorway of your bedroom and stop. The curtain is gently swaying—your window is open.

A paralysis of fear overcomes you—it's immobilizing you.

It's not only open, it is wide open. You don't move. You can't. Your eyes are locked on the window, on the way the sheer curtain breathes in and out like lungs, like it's alive. The wind from outside rattles the frame softly, almost tenderly, as if mocking your panic.

You can't hear over the thumping of your heartbeat in your ears, so you don't hear the footsteps coming from your closet, and you definitely don't sense the presence behind you—until you feel arms suddenly wrap tightly around your torso.

You scream instinctually.

The scream is raw and involuntary; it shatters the quiet of the apartment like a smashed mirror. You're lifted off the floor, spun effortlessly in the air by someone solid and strong behind you. Your limbs thrash instinctively, hands clawing at the air, heart pounding so violently you're sure it's going to give out mid-breath. The strong hold around your body doesn't budge at all against your erratic movements.

You are in full-blown fight or flight decision when the sound of a deep chuckle erupts in the room behind your labored fighting breaths. Your feet are set back down on the floor gently, your body still frozen in panic. You feel a warm breath against the back of your neck before you even dare to turn around.

You twist sharply at the intruder's deep laughter, eyes wide, and see him. Jungkook.

Jungkook is standing in the soft glow of your bedroom nightlight, the edges of his figure blurred slightly by the drifting curtain behind him. His attire is all black, evidently dressed up for the streaming party he ditched to come visit you. A well-fitted leather jacket adorns his body, hiding the tight fitted plain black tee snug against his lean torso. His jeans are dark and snug, framing lean thighs and strong legs. So handsome, you mentally gape. His hair is messier than usual—tousled from the wind or maybe from running his hands through it—it falls across his forehead in a way that makes his almond eyes look even more alluring. He looks both impossibly soft and dangerously sharp at the same time.

There's something smug in his expression when you observe his features. He's enjoying this. He's enjoying the chaos in your chest, and the way your body slowly eases despite your mind screaming that it shouldn't.

You stagger a step back, hand to your chest. Your chest is still heaving as your brain catches up to the moment. "What the fuck, Jungkook," you gasp unfiltered. "You—You can't just—sneak up on me like that."

You quickly turn on your lamp to finally illuminate the room. A soft warm light cascades the space.

You want to say something, but you're too busy. You're too busy taking in him—how incredibly irresistible Jungkook looks now that you can see him unmasked by the darkness. The fabric of his jeans sit so snug against his muscular thighs... and the frame of his body: his broad shoulders and wide stature connecting to his slender and carved torso. You bite your lip as you watch him shake off his leather jacket. He places it on your desk chair casually. His black tee is tightly wounded around him, showing just how big his arms are.

Jungkook just smiles, cocking his head like he's waiting for your pulse to slow down.

"You didn't lock your window, baby," he explains. "That's not safe. Someone dangerous could come in here."

You are quiet because you agree with him wholeheartedly. How could you forget to lock your window? For a second, you consider the possibility that maybe you forgot. Maybe the latch just didn't catch properly when you last closed it... but you know yourself. You've lived in this apartment long enough to be overly weary about locking that window—especially since the fire escape is so easily accessible from the public sidewalk.

Your rambling mind is interrupted when Jungkook closes the distance. You melt safely into his touch.

His lips find yours, and he presses his body against you. You open your mouth for him, allowing him to swallow your fears. One of his hands cups you at your jaw, gentle fingertips catching your jawline and tilting your head back to allow him to kiss you deeper. The other catches you at your waist, snaking around to your lower back to bring you in closer. Your arms raise and settle just above his frame, one hand squeezing his shoulder and the other clutching onto the strands of his hair at the nape of his neck.

"You scared me," you breathe against his mouth. Although it's relieving you that Jungkook is the one to climb up here and invade your bedroom, it's hard for you to overlook who it could've been.

He pulls away, only for a moment, your mixed saliva dribbling over his moist lips. His gaze narrows at you, almost alarmed, when he mutters lightly, "Don't say that."

"You did," you want to scold him, but you can't fight your smile at the feeling of him. You feel his smile grow against your lips.

"I just wanted to see my girl."

His lips are soft and desirable when he closes the gap again. Jungkook deepens the kiss without hesitation, like he's been thinking about this moment just as much as you have—maybe more. His lips move with yours in some kind of practiced control that makes your knees weak. He kisses you like he owns the right to, like your mouth is already his and for no one else, like he's been waiting patiently for you to open it to him again.

You whimper softly when his tongue finds yours, the kiss turning hotter, wetter, more desperate in the quiet stillness of your bedroom.

Your hand slides further into his hair, tangling in the soft dark strands at the nape of his neck, tugging just enough to make him groan into your mouth. His palm at your lower back shifts downward, gripping the curve of your ass tightly before pressing you flush against him. There's no space between your bodies anymore, only the friction of his hard chest against your soft curves, the warmth radiating off him, and the unmistakable press of his erecting length straining against the zipper of his jeans.

Jungkook's other hand cradles your jaw so delicately that it contradicts the hunger in the way he kisses you—it's like he's memorizing the shape of your mouth... the way you breathe for him. His thumb strokes the side of your face, slow and gentle, even as his teeth graze your lower lip.

You let out a shaky whimper into his mouth. Jungkook hums in delight at the sound of you. He uses his body to move you backwards until the back of your thighs hit your mattress. You sink down onto your bed knowingly, your legs parting as he stands between them, still holding your face as he kisses you again—deeper this time—from above you.

You set your hands on his thighs as he continues to kiss you passionately. Your palms slide up and down his strong thighs teasingly, and Jungkook's breathing deepens. Your fingertips press ever-so-lightly against his hard cock hidden beneath his jeans. He is rock hard and wanting you. You apply pressure into the firm fabric of his jeans with your fingertips, playing with his sensitive tip oozing with pre-cum.

Jungkook groans deeply into your kiss as a reaction. His lips become sloppier against you. You say sweetly, almost innocently, "you're so hard for me."

He pulls back just enough to look at you—his eyes hooded, lashes low, mouth swollen and kiss-bruised. "Yes, baby," he nods his head lightly, "The sight of you makes my cock twitch," he says sexily.

You suck in a breath, your entire body prickling with awareness. You should feel scared—you were scared, minutes ago—but now, with his hands on you, his voice in your ears, your mind is fogged and you feel safe in this moment with him.

His words excite you; motivate you. You bravely reach forward and pull Jungkook's body into you, pressing your palm against his chest to control him. You force Jungkook to fall into the bed beside you. He lays back onto the mattress, hands fallen to the mattress in an elated submission, eyes never leaving you. There's a flicker of surprise in his expression—but it's laced with something more primal. He's enjoying watching you take control.

You climb onto his lap to straddle him slowly. Jungkook's masterful hands slide up your thighs instinctively, molding your skin into his palms. You're wearing fluffy pajama pants. It doesn't matter. You can feel how wet you are against your underwear, and you know it's starting to seep through the material. Your knees sink into the mattress on either side of him, and you settle your weight against him fully, hips slotting perfectly atop his straining length; it's pressing urgently against his jeans.

"My girl is so fucking sexy," he gawks at the sight of you atop him.

You bite your lip with a shy smile at Jungkook beneath you. With confident hands, you unbuckle his belt to peel away the thick jean barrier. The metal clanks as you successfully undo it, pulling his zipper down and revealing his pre-cum moistened briefs. You lean forward with one hand on his hard chest and the other leaning back against his knee for support. 

The two of you share a low whimper of moans when you roll your hips down for the first time.

Jungkook groans, deep and guttural. His hands capture you at your waist, gripping you tighter this time as your hips skillfully grind down again against his bulge. "Fuck," he murmurs, his voice low; allured. "You feel so fucking good like this."

You sway your hips down slowly—torturously slow—against Jungkook's thick shaft. You can feel him between your soaked folds. With each grind of your hips, you align Jungkook's swollen tip with your clit. Your core is hot and you feel the stickiness from how wet you are. Jungkook's briefs become soaked from your wetness with each and every movement you make. His head falls back into the mattress and he groans oh so sexily beneath you.

"You like that?" you tease him seductively. You feel confident in the safety of your own bedroom, and given Jungkook climbed nine stories of fire escapes to surprise you, you think he deserves it. "I'm dripping for my good boy."

The pressure continues to build between the two of you. The only sound swirling in your bedroom is of your whimpering breaths and the slippery wetness at your core. Jungkook's fingertips run under your t-shirt; you moan, breathlessly, nodding to yourself when you feel his cold hands fondle your breasts. He squeezes them, running his thumb over your nipples, as he feels his length sliding in-between your labias.

"My dirty girl," he hisses in agreement at your words, glancing between you; delighted. "Your pussy's drenched for me."

"It's yours," you mumble a breathy response, knowing it's what he wants to hear. "Only for you."

You start whining above him when you feel the tip of his cock pressing inside you through the fabric of your pajama pants. Jungkook lifts his hips to meet you with more force, his pulsating tip unable to fully enter you due to your clothing. He strains against your pajama pants, entering you just enough for your insides to clench around him. Jungkook sighs in pleasure. You want more—you want to feel him.

You lean forward and brush your nose against his. He is the one to close the distance between your mouths in a rough sloppy mess of a kiss. You then guide his hand in-between your bodies. His eyebrows raise slightly at your curious action, pleasantly enthralled as you help his hand find the hem of your pajama pants, sliding beneath the material of your underwear. Your mouth falls agape when Jungkook's fingertips sink into your soaked pussy. His warm fingers move fluidly against your throbbing clit, knowing exactly where to rub circles. The sound of his fingers getting drenched fills the hot air between your bodies. Your forehead falls desperately into his shoulder. Jungkook plays with your clit so perfectly as you whimper into his skin.

He remembers exactly how to make you feel good; his fingers feel more sure, less exploratory, this time as they caress your the smooth wet folds, the pads of his slippery fingers continuously glazing over your potent pleasure point. You chest falls into him when you start getting close to a climax—your hips start to grind down into his hand.

Jungkook is whispering dirtily right up against your ear as his fingers slip inside you; stretching your walls before curling upwards towards your g-spot.

"That's my girl, my filthy, filthy girl..." he is almost spatting at you. "You're so good for me, baby."

Your eyes are rolling back beyond drowsy lids as Jungkook continues. You are finding it difficult to grasp words, the only sound falling from your lips are absent swears and his name muffled in moans. When Jungkook's fingers retract from your aching, crying core, you have no time to complain. His strong body forces yours to fall into the mattress to switch your positions. He presses his body firmly against yours, disabling you from escaping his clutches. You don't want to escape.

Jungkook's eyes peer down at you with a look of desire, his weight pinning you to the bed, his chest heaving, eyes burning down into yours with a hunger that makes your breath catch. For a moment, he doesn't move—he just watches you; curiously. His glinting eyes falling into yours in a trance.

His gaze then flicks to his glistening fingertips—wet and sopping—the ones that had been inside you seconds before. You're still catching your breath when he bring his fingers to your mouth. Your eyes narrow as you watch, but then flick to watch is face, when Jungkook's fingertips part your swollen, puffy lips to slide them in. When you start sucking on his fingertips, your tongue swirling around them, tasting yourself on his fingers, his lids flutter closed in a moment of bliss; he groans. Your insides clench.

His cock is twitching against your upper thigh at the sight of you. Jungkook slowly pulls his fingers from your mouth, your saliva dripping all over: his fingertips, your mouth, your chin, your chest...

"You wanna taste?" you breathe.

You reach forward and catch his lips with yours, allowing him to taste the saltiness of your insides. Jungkook moans greedily against your mouth as your tongue slips into his. He mutters, lips already dispersing wet messy kisses down your jaw and to your neck, "Ah, ___, I need more."

He continues to trail lower, his wet lips leaving a damp trail down the fabric of your t-shirt. There's no time to take it off; he is sliding down your body without hesitation. His hungry mouth drags slowly down the length of your torso—over your ribs, your waist, to your hip—like he's mapping your body with intent. He bunches your shirt at your belly button, lips meeting your hot skin just above the waistband of your pajama pants.

You shiver under his touch, anticipation pulsing through every inch of your skin.

Jungkook's fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants to pull them down your legs. He kisses the skin just beneath your navel, tongue brushing lightly over you as he tugs the fluffy fabric down your hips, your thighs, your calves—taking his time to undress you. Jungkook's smirk grows at the visual he could only hear and feel until now.

Your panties—soaked through, wetness smeared all along your inner thighs. Your head falls back into your pillows when his fingers tap on the drenched fabric of your underwear, splashing your wetness to tease you. Your body jolts as he taps right atop your clit. You hear a brief, humored breath from him.

Without a word, he leans forward and presses his lips right where you're aching for him most; his nose nuzzles into the thin fabric. The sensation draws a sharp gasp from your throat, and your fingers instinctively reach for his hair.

His tongue swipes up and down your soaked panties, teasing you, forcing you to beg under your breath for him to remove the barrier. His teeth pull playfully at the fabric, pulling it away to force the fabric to snap back against you.

"I want your mouth," you cry; beg; plea.

Jungkook pulls back with a cocky grin at you. You whimper when he finally peels your underwear from your core. The air meets your bare pussy and causes chills to erupt at the base of your spine, chilling over your wet skin. He slides the soaked fabric down your shaking legs torturously slow, his fingertips trailing over your skin.

You expect him to toss the material to the side. He doesn't. The soaked fabric hangs from his fingers for a moment, his gaze flicking between it and the headboard above you. Then, his eyes lock with yours, and a slow, devilish smile curls at his lips.

"Perfect," he murmurs, almost to himself.

You swallow, your breath catching in your throat as he leans forward again, his voice low and soft against your ear, "you said you wanted me to tie you up."

He is reminding you of your horny words to him at the bar. You definitely are feeling that way right now. Your stomach flips, but you obey—lifting your arms above your head, your skin already tingling in anticipation. He gathers your wrists gently in one hand, lifting them to the bars of the headboard. Then, with that soaked strip of fabric—your own desire clinging to it—he begins to tie you.

The cotton is warm, damp, and humiliatingly intimate. Your pulse is hammering against your wrists as he knots it, not tightly, but just enough to constrict you. Jungkook knots your shackles like he has done this many times before; masterfully. You are now totally immobilized, tied to your headboard, giving Jungkook complete power over you.

"Mmm," he murmurs. "Now you can't run."

You didn't want to. Jungkook yanks on the material to ensure it will hold, and then finally, as you lay without any advocacy for yourself, totally submitting yourself to Jungkook, does he strip off that perfectly fitted black tee from his body. He lifts it over his head, carelessly throwing the material to your bedroom floor.

You bite your lip as you marvel in just how toned he is; his naked torso cut with his very prominent abdominal muscles on full display. His drenched briefs peek through his undone jeans, buckle clanking with each movement he makes towards you.

He is smirking at you as he watches your eyes trail all over his body. He is so beautiful. You cry verbally in small whimpers for him to touch you; your body jolts instinctively to reach forward for him, but your drenched panties constrict your movement. You lean your head into your inner elbow in a moment of frustration, just waiting for Jungkook to make the move.

"Be a good girl," he coos, "spread yourself for me."

Jungkook's body is between your legs now. He falls to his chest on the mattress, one muscular arm hooking around your leg, his fingertips gripping around you to rest on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You can feel his hot breath at your core again, your head falling back to accept your fate.

"Please," you beg, "Jungkook."

His dominant other hand starts playing with your clit again. He uses two fingers to slowly play with you, sliding the pad of his fingers up and down your labias teasingly. Your back arches and your hips slowly grind against his touch. You grunt and groan at the desire to hold onto his hair. You want to push his head, force him to start eating you, but you are powerless and yearning breathlessly instead.

Your wrists tug instinctively against the makeshift restraint as the headboard rocks softly behind you. The sounds of your bedroom are filled with nothing but your breathless gasps, the creak of the mattress, and the occasional low, satisfied hum from Jungkook as he curiously uses his fingertips to slip and slide all over you.

Your begging is finally answered. Jungkook leans his mouth close to your throbbing folds and spits on your clit. Your body flinches at the feeling; his saliva is dripping all over you. It's just so messy—there is just spit everywhere, running down your skin, smeared all over Jungkook's face, and dripping onto your comforter. His soft breaths hit against you and your body is experiencing involuntary reactions. With your closed eyes, you don't have to see to know how much you're struggling against your tied hands, you can hear it—the headboard is banging against your bedroom wall.

A few moments pass until his tongue finally replaces his fingers. His tongue spreads flat against your pussy, excruciatingly meticulous as if licking up icing, and you have chills from how slowly he is lapping against your skin. He nuzzles his nose into you, pressing against your clit, and every movement of his tongue is slow; sensual— like he is savoring a meal. You have no choice but to wrap your legs around his face because you can't control your reaction. His tongue is wet, so very soft and wet; his saliva lathering your labia. . . and his tongue entering places that make your hips squirm.

"Mhm," he merely murmurs between lapping breaths, a pulsating stream of attraction bringing you together.

"Yes," you cry. "P-Please... yes."

Jungkook is gradually quickening every swipe of his tongue; sloppy and determined. His arm tightens around your thigh, holding you steady and forcing you to spread more for him as his mouth devours you—slow at first, with deep, languid strokes that build like waves, pulling you under. Your hands clench and twist above you, friction chaffing at your wrists, mouth open in silent plea.

It's as if he can read your mind, because when you mentally want him to apply more pressure, he is doing it. Your whiny cries are unlike you, but they continue relentlessly due to how incessantly amazing he feels against every fold. His fingertips move back and forth against the sensitivity of your inner thighs, and the combination of feelings has you in a lull; an intense daze has casted over your body. You have no control over what you're feeling, nor your actions, as Jungkook hungrily licks and laps your tied up body against your mattress.

Your release is building fast now, an ache growing unbearable as your thighs tremble against his shoulders. You're moaning his name like a mantra; you are breathless and frantic.

"Jungkook," you choke out, your body arching toward him. "Yes, yes, please—just like that."

Jungkook groans into you, listening to your pleas, the vibration making your vision blur. His mouth works in perfect rhythm with the pressure of his grip... anchoring you, claiming you. You are his and he is yours in this moment. You're burning alive beneath him, unraveling with every passing second as his tongue nestles in your sopping pussy. You glance down at your mysterious lover—just once—and the sight of his eyes dark with focus, lips glistening and wet, face smeared with your pleasure, sends a fresh wave of heat spiraling through you.

His grip on your thighs only tightens, holding you wide for him, keeping your legs spread open, as if he knows you're close. He can feel the way your body shakes under his touch. Your hands continue to strain against the knot at the headboard, wrists twisting against the soft binds, your back arching high off the bed as your climax begins. Your hips are riding into his face at the intensity of your feelings.

"Jungkook," you sob desperately as you orgasm against his mouth.

It starts at your core and ripples outward, your whole body shaking as wave after wave tears through you. Jungkook doesn't stop—not once—licking, sucking, nuzzling, eating. He holds you there, mouth still moving against you, drinking in every stuttered breath, every whimper, every tremble of your thighs.

The sound of the headboard banging against the wall mixes with your ragged gasps, the rustle of sheets, the wet sounds of his tongue still moving gently over you as you ride it out. And then, when you finally collapse back onto the mattress, breathless and trembling, Jungkook kisses your thigh—softly this time. You flinch with overstimulation at how sensitive you feel.

Jungkook climbs up beside you, his chest pressing against yours, the heat of his body grounding you again. "My girl," he murmurs, brushing your hair away from your damp forehead.

Your wrists remain bound to the headboard. You're breathless—every nerve in your body tingling. Your chest rises and falls in sharp, uneven pants as you lie there trembling, eyes half-lidded, skin damp and flushed, watching how beautiful Jungkook looks with his tousled hair and wet mouth.

The two of you are staring at one another, dazed. He's kneeling between your legs, silent now, his head tilted slightly as he watches you; almost curiously again, like a cat. Your eyebrows knit at a darker shift in his gaze at you. He doesn't reach over to untie you. Not yet. Your chest begins to rise and fall more deeply.

You test the restraint gently. Your wrists tug at the damp fabric, but the knot doesn't give. It's not painful, just firm.

You swallow hard as Jungkook watches you lightly pull at the fabric. A flicker of panic—fear—strikes you as you realize just how subdued you are in this moment. There is no where for you to go, and your mysterious lover doesn't seem keen on untying you. You are defenseless.

He continues to watch you struggle in light distress with an unknown expression.

Jungkook takes a moment too long for your liking to act. He patiently leans forward and presses a chaste kiss to your lips. You are tense against him.

"___," he says in some variation of disbelief at you, "you're scared."

"Can you untie me?" ask hesitantly, ignoring his words.

Jungkook chuckles, but it's soft, still disbelieving.

"Baby," he murmurs, leaning in to nuzzle your cheek. "You think I'd leave you like this?" His voice is warm against your skin. There's a mix of amusement and something tender.

Jungkook's hand moves up to gently untie the knot at your wrists. The moment your arms fall free, he pulls them to his mouth and kisses the inside of one wrist, then the other, like he's reminding you that your fearful thoughts are unwarranted.

You blow out a breath to recover. You don't want to hurt his feelings by confessing that for a moment we're legitimately scared of him. It was only for a moment. You aren't now.

"No, I..."

Your words trail off because you don't know what to say. He presses another kiss to your mouth as if to take the pressure off you, and it reminds you how secure he actually makes you feel. Your heartbeat settles. When Jungkook leans his head back to look at you, your insides flutter at the sight of his alluring, soft smile playing at his lips. 

You were foolish to be afraid. He looks at you like you're the only thing that matters. Consequently, you exhale shakily, and he watches you with a softened gaze.

"I wouldn't," he assures you sweetly. "I do really like you tied up though." He grins, more playful now.

You reciprocate his playfulness with another kiss. It's so natural now—the way your mouths move together fluidly. The two of you are smiling against one another.

Your greedy adventurous hands take the opportunity to finally feel Jungkook's naked body, a luxury you didn't have while your hands were tied up; you run your fingertips softly against his chest, and then against every indent and curve of his muscular stomach, wanting to know how every inch of your man feels under your touch. Jungkook falls back more comfortably into the bed to allow you to explore—wanting you to.

That passion returns between you as your wandering hands lead to his soaked briefs. You're still kissing, albeit breathy and weak, when you slide your hand underneath to take his thick throbbing shaft into it. Jungkook sounds sexy, lowly whining into your mouth as you pump him; his cock slick and smooth in your tight grasp. You use the cum oozing from his tip as lubrication.