Every single one of those words hit me like a ton of bricks. Why do I keep crying? Why won’t my tears stop? I stared at his messages and wondered if I had messed up by letting him go without talking everything through with him, wondering if my decisions were completely rash but then I realised that if it were meant to be between the two of us then it will be, but if it’s not then it won’t. That was the conclusion that I had came to and I shouldn’t change my mind since I still believed that it was the best decision for the both of us. He no longer has to deal with me as his baggage. He’s free.
Request for 9.0! 💜 I always love everyone’s feedback so if there are any typos etc that you’ve spotted then please let me know!
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⟶ The Sheets [Taehyung x Female Reader]
⟶ Genre: FWB | Idol Au | Smut
⟶ Warnings: mentions of alcohol, smoking, rough sex, spanking, dirty talk, light choking, oral (f), biting, breast play, the condom is somewhere…, scratching, etc.
⟶ WC: 6.8k+
⟶ Summary: On your night out with the gals you get hit up by the one and only, Kim Taehyung, who’s been eyeing all of your Instagram stories. It’s no shocker that he attempts to get you back to his place once you finally decide to leave the club because this isn’t your first rodeo with the determined and insanely hot, fuckboy.
⟶ Teaser: ““Move…” his palms grip your waist, “please, Y/n.””
⟶ Beta: thank you so much to @kookdiaries and @jeonjcngkook for taking the time to beta! I really appreciate it so much!
⟶ Author’s Note: Yeah, I’m frustrated with Taehyung getting a damn Instagram. Someone please take it away from him. I said what I said. This is a lovely birthday gift (representing in #dailydaegu) in honor of the one, the only, Kim Taehyung!
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if u dont acknowledge the fanfics u read, the writer won’t think anyone is actually taking the time to read their stuff, which makes our effort feel wasted and our passions feel worthless
📌 ROOMMATE NOONA | KIM TAEHYUNG × CURVY READER !Y/N
🖤 Chapter 2 — Just A Massage, Right? 🖤
"It's been one week since Y/N left Taehyung completely flustered.
Seven days of cold showers, guilty prayers, and thoughts he can't escape.
Tonight she comes home soaked from the rain...
...and asks her shy babyboy for a massage.
Spoiler: It's never just a massage."
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🔗Pairing:
Kim Taehyung × Older Roommate Y/N
📚Genre:
Roommate AU • College AU • Slow Burn • Romantic Tension • Noona Dynamic • Comedy • Emotional Romance
⚠️Warnings:
🔞 MINORS DO NOT INTERACT
• Mature themes
• Sexual tension
• Suggestive dialogue
• Flirting
• Emotional conflict
• Slow-burn romance
📝Word Count: ~2.1k words
📅 Posted: 1 aug
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A little communication yes that's my ideal foreplay
Assemble a chair from IKEA
I'm like (uhhh)💋
It had been seven days since Kim Taehyung learned exactly how much trouble one girl could bring.
Seven days of cold showers at 2AM. Of stuffing his face into pillows to muffle the filthy moans that slipped out when he remembered her voice that husky, wicked lilt when she whispered babyboy. Seven days of shame curling in his gut every time he replayed it all: her palm down his pants, her giggle when she left him dripping and desperate.
He told himself it was a mistake. That she was just teasing older, bolder, untouchable. But every time he saw her bare legs on the couch, tank tops hugging her soft middle, her wicked grin he felt it again. That twitch under his zipper, that ugly want. It was getting worse.
Rumors spread like wildfire at campus guys he barely knew nudged his shoulder, whispered lucky bastard when they saw him. They called her easy. They called her a whore. He hated them for it hated himself more because the filth they whispered only made his head spin. He didn’t want to think of her that way. Didn’t want to imagine her letting anyone else touch those soft, heavy curves.
And tonight tonight was worse.
It was raining, fat cold drops hammering the tiny window of their dorm’s living room. He sat hunched over a battered textbook, every page blurry because he kept checking the clock, the door, the clock again.
When the lock finally clicked, he nearly tripped over the coffee table.
She stepped inside damp hair sticking to her flushed cheeks, her Wendy’s shirt so tight he could see the faint outline of her bra digging into the swell of her breasts. The cheap fabric clung like a second skin. Buttons strained to hold back her softness. And those tiny shorts he swore they’d shrunk in the wash.
“Hey, babyboy.”
Two words. That’s all it took. His cock twitched under his sweats like he was sixteen again.
“You’re late,” he croaked, voice embarrassingly high. He cleared his throat, rubbed his palms over his knees. “It’s pouring out.”
“Mm.” She kicked off her shoes, ignored his worry, and bent over the fridge shorts riding up, soft thighs almost glowing under the harsh fridge light. She grabbed a bottle of water, twisted the cap, and chugged it like she hadn’t had a sip all day. Drops rolled down her throat, disappearing between her tits.
He should’ve looked away. A better man would’ve. But Taehyung just stared chest tight, mouth dry, cock straining painfully against his sweats.
She caught him staring, of course she did. She always did.
“You look tired,” she teased, sauntering closer. She smelled like rain and cheap soap, like sin dressed in a tight red polo. “Were you waiting for me, Tae?”
He fumbled for words, but she didn’t wait for an answer. She flopped down across his lap, back pressed to his chest so warm and heavy he felt every curve mold against him.
“Ugh, this stupid shirt,” she groaned, wiggling her shoulders. Her ass pressed right into the hard line of him. He prayed she wouldn’t notice. She always noticed. “It’s so tight, Tae. My boobs feel like they’re gonna explode.”
His hands hovered uselessly in the air. He didn’t know where to put them his sides? Her waist? Nowhere seemed safe.
“Want me to… get you another one?” he squeaked. Stupid. So stupid.
She twisted her neck, eyes all soft fake innocence. “Mm-mm. I need a massage.”
He almost choked. “What?”
She leaned back her head against his shoulder now, her throat inches from his lips. He could smell her shampoo, sweet and floral under the rain. “Please, Tae. My boobs hurt so bad. Be my good boy, yeah? Help me relax.”
Her hands caught his warm fingers guiding his palms to cup the heavy swell of her chest. His vision swam.
“Just a massage, okay?” she whispered.
His throat bobbed. The second his fingers curled, he felt it warm, heavy, soft and too much for his big palms. He squeezed, gentle at first, thumbs brushing just under the fabric. He could feel the curve of her bra under his knuckles, the faint ridge where her nipple pressed through.
She shifted just a little roll of her hips that made him bite back a hiss when her ass rocked against his cock.
“Oh— right there,” she sighed, a soft moan that went straight to his balls. She tipped her head, whispering, “Go on, babyboy. Squeeze ‘em.”
He did. God, he did. He squeezed gently, then firmer rolling the soft flesh in his palms like he’d imagined too many nights, alone in his bed. He couldn’t see them her back pressed tight to him but he could feel everything: the heat, the softness, the hard peaks brushing his thumbs.
She gasped when he found her nipple, rolling it between his fingers. The sound shot fire down his spine.
“Ah— so good, Tae. Such good hands…” Her voice was a low hum, a moan hidden under a giggle. “Pinch ‘em for me. Please?”
His brain was static. Good boys didn’t do this. Good sons. Good students. Good Catholic boys. But his fingers pinched her stiff peaks, tugged them through the fabric until she was grinding her hips down harder. He could feel her heat through his sweats. He was rock hard now, so hard it hurt.
Her moans grew softer but filthier breathy gasps every time his thumbs flicked over her nipples. He imagined peeling the shirt off. Mouth on her chest. Licking, sucking, burying his nose between the warm weight of her tits. Do it, do it, something ugly inside him whispered. Be a man for once.
But he couldn’t see them only feel. Her hair brushed his cheek when she turned, mouth so close to his ear he shivered.
“You like ‘em, huh?” she purred. “Bet you’d love to see them, babyboy. Taste them. Mmm, you’d suck them so good, wouldn’t you?”
His hips jerked up. He hated how easy it was. How fast he’d break.
“God— noona, please—” he gasped, rutting helplessly against her ass.
“Shh, shh. Good boy.” Her hand slid back not to touch him, but to guide his palm lower, pressing his thumb harder into her nipple. She arched back, tits spilling more into his hands. He could feel her heartbeat, fast and wild.
“Tae… pinch ‘em harder. Like that, yeah… mmm— fuck—”
The filthy moan punched through him. He squeezed, pinched, rolled drunk on the weight in his palms, the way her hips rocked against him. The soft grind, the heat, the way she gasped his name like she was making him hers. He wanted to see. He wanted to taste. He wanted to ruin her.
And then too soon she stilled.
Her hands came up, gently prying his off her chest. She buttoned her shirt back up, slow, deliberate, letting him feel every brush of her fingers against his knuckles as she covered herself up again.
“Mm, all done,” she sighed, turning to press a kiss to his jaw. Her lips were soft, mocking. “Goodnight, Tae-tae.”
She slipped off his lap, bare thighs brushing the angry bulge straining his sweats. He whimpered, helpless.
She giggled. She always giggled. Like he was her little toy to wind up whenever she was bored.
And then she was gone bedroom door clicking shut, leaving him alone with his flushed face and the shame burning in his veins.
Tonight would be another mess in his fist. Another prayer for forgiveness he never really meant.
And tomorrow? He knew she’d do it again.
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Taglist : @mysmeraldoreverie @calmyourtitts7
Next Chapter → Goodnight, Babyboy
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Summary: When your town is hit with a heatwave, and the air conditioning at your shared place coincidentally malfunctions, you start to go a little crazy at your shit luck because there’s nothing you hate more than clammy pits, while Taehyung goes a little crazy thinking you’re trying to seduce him with your tiny shorts and popsicle-sucking skills.
Genre: roommate au, friends to lovers au (f2l), smut, angst if you squint, attempt at sparse crack
Warnings: language (I have a potty mouth sorry), penetrative sex, dom!Taehyung, brat!OC, daddy kink, rough sex, oral (f receiving), slight slight degradation if you’re being pedantic, orgasm denial, Taehyung’s scary duality, oc and Taehyung being thick and dumb af
Word count: 12k… :0
A/N: Herro, this is my first ever oneshot which was originally meant to be a quick 5k max smut, but I just kept adding plot and backstory and now I birthed this big fella… So I hope you like it because it took me some time to finish and I enjoyed writing it a lot. Please leave me some feedback so I can kickstart this writing blog. :3
PS. This is written about 190623 Taehyung cos that is my ult right there.
This. Has. Been. One. Of. My. FAVORITE. Taehyung. INSTANTLY. && i tell you how picky i am with tae fics. but this one dear, is something else. The tension. The fluff. Tae is definitely in character with how i think of him as well. && yeah, the smut. It has me gulping down in sync. i love it & every bit of drabble afterwards. The Mykonos. everything, dear! 🥰🥰🥰
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It’s 2020, oh now it’s 2021, we gotta organize shit … so here I am, listing down my favorite go-to fics. Enjoy!
// notes: I AM A SMUT PERSON TYPE OF READER, so most of these are rated-M, unless with (*) means SFW and here are other icon legends below.
(☁) fluff, (☂) angst, (↯) one-shot, (↹) series
for monogamous fic, a ☆ sign for the most favorite, the reigning ficrec. all poly fics are amazing to me since i’m OT7 biased. haha.
i also do not remove fics in this list despite writers deactivating. so i apologize if some fics have been deleted.
(& I’m a lazy mf reader, so I only read fics that are amazing or written by my mutuals, or recs by my trusted friends or stuff that really seem to catch my interest. And as a writer, i also included fics which i loved writing the most and most proud of [?]. so yeah. Here goes.)
The next evening, you and Jimin trudge into the hospital for the start of your grueling 24-hour shift. Jimin drags his feet and you chug your third cup of coffee of the day.
“Only six more months before we’re free of this,” he groans as the two of you walk through the hospital lobby.
“I don’t know if I can survive that long,” you reply with a sigh as you half-heartedly wave at the front desk receptionist. There’s a huge vase overflowing with dozens of roses and the smell makes your nose itch, so you try to pick up your pace.
“Wait, ___-ssi!” The receptionist interrupts the two of you.
“Hmm? Minah, what’s up?”
“These are actually for you!” She exclaims, heaving the bouquet of flowers out of the vase and thrusting it into your arms. You stagger back a step at the unexpected weight. “I hope you don’t mind that I put them on the front desk. I know your shift didn’t start until tonight, and they were too pretty not to show off!”
“What? ___-ah got flowers?” Jimin asks in surprise, “Who are they from?”
“I’m not sure, but there’s a card,” Minah says, “I didn’t look for you.”
You have a pretty good idea who they’re from and your face grows hot, “Ah, it’s probably a patient. Don’t worry about it.”
Can I request a toxic relationship V Drabble? (like you're his best friend and he keeps hurting you or something) this is messed up but i love those stories lol thank you love your blog take care unnie xx
Hi hi, here you go! I had a lot of fun writing this because angst is my favorite! I’m so BTSed right now, y’all should send me some BTS requests… *cough cough* Just saying. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! ^.^
Taehyungdidn’t notice. He never does.
You’resitting with him on the couch of the dorm, your feet propped in his lap, hisfingers lazily massaging the skin of your ankles, his eyes glued to thetelevision screen. He doesn’t notice the flush on your skin, or the laboring ofyour breathing. He doesn’t see the way you clench your fists, biting your lipto keep from reaching out to let your fingers play in his soft hair. He doesn’tnotice that your hair is hanging down your back, the sides pinned up just likehe told you he likes it. He doesn’t see that you’re wearing the shirt he boughtyou at the amusement park last time. He pulled on your hand then, his eyessmiling as his voice twinkled with laughter. Come on! Let me buy you a shirt, I’ll get one too and then we match!Please? And so you agreed, your cheeks pink as Taehyung pulls out a shirtyour size, shoving you into the dressing room because he wants you to wear it now, and by the time you step back out,new shirt on, he’s waiting outside for you, a matching shirt on his torso. Hepulls you to him, ruffling your hair, his eyes crinkled with laughter, a widesmile on his face that caused your heart to skip a beat.
Hedoesn’t notice because she’s here too.
She’ssitting on his other side, her arm hooked with one of his, her head resting onhis shoulder. Their fingers are interlocked, clenched together tightly, and yousee the way her eyes slide over to yours sometimes, hard and hateful, her lipsraising into a sneer. But then Taehyung is glancing at her, and she smilessweetly at him, batting her eyelashes, and he grins, his fingers pausing onyour skin as he leans up to press a quick kiss on her lips before he settlesback into the couch, a happy smile on his face. Taehyung expects her to getalong with you because you’re his best friend and she’s his girlfriend and heloves you both so much, he tells youoften enough. The first time he brings it up it catches you off guard; you’rejust laying with him on his bed, listening to music softly and Tae is sittingup, his legs crossed as he presses button on a controller, his eyes focused onthe screen. He says it suddenly, his eyes still glued to the screen but there’sa frown on his face. I wish you wouldjust get along, he says with a frown, glancing at you quickly, I don’t know why you fight so much.
It’s because she has you, and Idon’t.
But youdon’t say anything, just smile and promise you’ll make an effort, and you do,you swear to god that you do, but after the first time she broke Taehyung’sheart, it got hard. He came to your house when the moon was high in the sky,his voice trembling as he falls to his knees, hugging your waist as yousleepily ask him what’s wrong, and he just grabs the material of your shirt inhis fist, sobbing out she broke up withme. Oh god, it hurts. It hurts so bad. And you sink down with him, yourheart breaking at the sad image in front of you because you’re so completely inlove with this boy and he’s in love with someone who doesn’t appreciate him.But you blink at him through your tears, your fingers brushing his tears awayand you help him inside, where he collapses on your couch, sobbing out hername. You stay up with him, lifting his head into your lap, and you stroke hishair softly, humming out that it’ll be okay. And Taehyung mumbles, just beforehe sinks into sleep, “How can it be okay without her?”
Thenext day you wake up alone, and when you go to the dorm, she’s there, cuddledwith him on the couch. His arms are wrapped around her tightly, her bodypressed against his as he nuzzles into her neck, sighing happily, and shesmiles when she sees you, pressing a kiss to his neck as she whispers out an I love you. And Tae sighs happily, notnoticing you as he sighs back I love youtoo.
You’rebeing shaken now, and you blink out of your memories, looking into Tae’ssmiling eyes. He grins at you, shaking his head, straightening in front of you.He stretches, causing his shirt to ride up and expose an expanse of skin on hislower stomach and you try to avert your eyes quickly. Your eyes clash with hisgirlfriend, and she frowns when she sees you, reaching out to wrap an armaround his waist. Tae sighs, dropping his arm around her shoulders as he tellsyou, “The movie is over so we were thinking of grabbing something to eat, wannacome?” Your eyes scan his face, looking at the wide smile spread across hislips and you wonder how he can’t know. How can’t he know that he drives youcrazy? How can he not know that every time he kisses her, you wish he werekissing you? How can he not know that every night he calls you, whispering I think she’s the one, she’s it for me, it makes your heartshatter even more? How can he not know that your heart beats for him? But thequestion is answered quickly when he pulls her closer to him, waiting for youranswer. He doesn’t know because he doesn’t notice you, all he sees is her.
So youstand up, stretching as you yawn loudly as you say you’re just going to headhome. He frowns at you, about to open his mouth but then she’s tugging on hissleeve, whining at him to hurry and Taehyung just barely yells out a goodnightas he quickly walks out the door, not bothering to glance back. Your shouldersslump as soon as the door slams shut, and you take in a ragged breath, reachingbehind you to unclip your hair. You grab your sweater and throw it on, reachingdown for your keys. You lock the door behind you, your eyes downcast to thefloor, and then you begin to tread home, your shoulders slumped and your heartpounding fast. You get home and stand in front of the mirror, inspecting everyinch of your face. Maybe Taehyung willlike me more if my eyes were as big as hers, or maybe he’d like me more if Ihad a pretty smile like she did. You sigh, running your hands through yourhair as you clench your eyes shut. You hate having these thoughts, but you wantto scream out to the sky. Just notice meTaehyung! Please?
But henever notices.
At least notuntil…
Youwake up with a start, your hand instantly going to clutch your rapidly beatingheart, and you look around for what woke you but then you hear it. There’s aloud banging at your door, someone yelling out your name frantically, and yourecognize that voice, you’d recognize it anywhere, so you quickly shuffle out,throwing the door open. And sure enough there he is, his shoulders slumped,tears in his eyes as he looks sadly at you. And he doesn’t say anything at you,because you know what happened, so you just open your arms, and he falls intothem, his hands grabbing at you desperately. You close the door behind you,trying to lead him to the couch. You let him cry for a while, but then thetears stop and Taehyung is letting out soft hiccups. His head is pressedagainst your stomach, his arms wrapped around you. Your fingers play with hishair as you hum softly, but they pause when Taehyung raises his head to look atyou, his eyes blank. Your heart stops, your fingers pausing as Taehyung’s eyesscan your face. “Is that the shirt I bought you?” he asks you quietly. You gulploudly, nodding quietly and Taehyung slides one arm from underneath you,reaching up to play with your hair. “You wore your hair how I liked it.” Hesmiles at the look on your face. “I noticed.”
And youknow what’s about to happen, because it’s the same thing every time, and youtell yourself to try to stop it, but you know deep inside that you won’t.Taehyung sighs out your name, tilting his head as he looks at you, his fingerssliding from your hair to cup your cheek, and he sighs out your name again,bring your face down until your lips touch his.
Hegroans as soon as your lips meet, and he sits both of you up properly, usingthe arm that’s around you to hold you up. Your fingers slide into his hair, andyou pull him closer to you, pressing your body against his like you alwaysdream of. His hands slide down, pressing tight against your hips. He groans lowin his throat, one of his hands gripping your hip as the other slides to grabyour thigh. He hooks it around his leg, his other hand sliding to the same.With both your thighs pressed tight against his, your hands tangled in hishair, he easily lifts you up, pressing soft kisses to your lips as he walkstowards the bedroom. He removes his lips from yours, causing you to whine, butthen his lips are pressed to your neck, his tongue lapping at the skin there ashe sucks gently. You know you’re going to have a mark there tomorrow, but rightnow you don’t care. Taehyung throws you back on the bed, his breathing laboredhe crawls on top of you. You gasp out when he pushes you down into the mattress,his lips kissing the skin of your lower stomach. His hands are sliding up yourshirt, his skin grazing yours in a way that’s way too familiar. But still, youfind yourself whispering, “Are you sure?”
AndTaehyung freezes, his eyes snapping to yours. They’re sad and angry and full oflust all at the same time. Taehyung says nothing, just slowly reaches to undoyour jeans. He slides them down your hips, his fingers brushing your skin, andhe presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh as he finally takes them off. Hedoesn’t say yes, just reaches up to kiss you as his fingers tease your skin,slowly undressing you. And then he’s pushing into you in a way that makes yourheart jump. You clutch onto him tightly, groaning as you arch your back, your fingersbreaking through the skin of his forearms. Taehyung doesn’t care though; he’stoo busy planting kisses all over your neck and collarbones, his voice groaningout your name softly. And it kills you, the fact that this is so familiar andso foreign at the same time. Taehyung is here, his hands touching your skin,but deep down you know he’d rather be somewhere else. And when you’re bothspent, laying on the mattress, the smell of sex lingering in the air and thesound of your labored breathing mingling together, you start to feel thenumbness crawl back in. Taehyung is sweet and gentle, so he wraps an arm aroundyour waist, pulling you back into him. His chest is pressed tight against yourback, and he leans down to kiss a mark that he left on your shoulder. Hisbreathing is light in your ear, his fingers splayed across your lower abdomen,and you start to cry. Your chest heaves and you bite your lip to keep formsobbing out, trying not to let Taehyung hear you, and you know that he doesn’tbecause soon after his breathing slows, his chest slowly moving. You cryyourself to sleep, whispering to the darkness of the room. I love you Taehyung.
You’rewoken up by a soft whisper and you sit up, glancing around the room, and sureenough you’re alone. You tiptoe out of the bed, pressed your ear against thedoor as you hear Taehyung on the other side. And your heart beaks at what youhear. His voice is quiet, soft and apologetic. I know jagi, I’m sorry too. He pauses, I’m at… yes I’m at her house… I know that you don’t like her jagi, butshe’s my best friend. I can’t just leave her…. He’s quiet for a moment, andyou almost miss what he says because it’s so quiet. I love you too jagi. I’ll be right there.
Andyour heart is pounding in your ears. You feel like you can’t breathe, but yousomehow manage to drag yourself back into bed by the time Taehyung steps intothe room. You pretend to be asleep as he starts to get dressed. You try yourhardest not to cry, hearing the ruffling of his clothes as he pulls them back onquickly, trying to be as quiet as possible. The noise stops for a second, andyou almost think he left but then you feel soft fingers playing on your cheek,reaching down to brush against your lips. He sighs out, his voice sad as hewhispers out I’m so sorry. And thenyou hear his footsteps retreat, followed by the soft closing of the door. Andthen you let yourself cry, curling into a tight ball. You think that if maybeyou held yourself as tightly as you could, it might piece the broken fragmentsof your heart back together.
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You are assigned to evaluate the most dangerous patient in a private asylum: a beautiful, unsettling man whose diagnosis keeps changing and whose room seems to have its own rules. But late at night, you discover he is not alone. His brother is there too — silent, watchful, impossible to explain — and the deeper you step into Room 7, the more you realize you are not treating one patient. You are entering a world built for three.
Pairing: AsylumPatient!Jungkook x Psychiatrist!Reader x AsylumPatient!Taehyung
Word Count: 15k? 20k? I just started it, so who knows? I am fascinated by the idea of having both of them together in a room. I was watching a video on a haunted asylum and of course I got the urge to write about it. I am getting towards a busy month so please enjoy the teaser for now ❤️have fun guessing who is the one talking to the psychiatrist 💕
Warnings: 18+ only, MDNI, explicit sexual content, psychiatrist/patient relationship, unethical professional relationship, major power imbalance, forbidden romance, gothic asylum setting, institutional horror, psychological manipulation, mind games, obsession, possessive behaviour, jealousy, co-dependency, toxic sibling bond, emotionally intense brother dynamic, unreliable reality, hallucination/delusion themes, paranoia, nightmares, confinement, locked-room atmosphere, medication/restraint mentions, corruption inside a psychiatric institution, past trauma, moral ambiguity, religious/ritual undertones, blood imagery, violence, threats, stalking/watching, voyeuristic tension, “I should not want this” guilt, dirty talk, rough kissing, marking/biting, praise/degradation undertones, D/s undertones, restraint/bondage, sensory deprivation, overstimulation, oral (hope everyone receives), orgasm control/denial, threesome, double penetration, jealousy-fuelled intimacy, possessive intimacy, aftercare.
⤷﹒Love You to Death: The Obsession Files: obsession anthology
jjk - pout for the picture - Photographer!Jungkook x Model!Reader
jjk - good boys go to heaven - Pornstar!Jungkook x Assistant Director!Reader
jjk - heaven smells like summer | teaser - Hacker!Jungkook x Cybercrime Lawyer!Reader
You should have recorded the session.
That was the first rule.
Every private consultation inside Saint Verity had to be logged, witnessed by camera, transcribed by the institution’s internal system, and attached to the relevant patient file before midnight. There were no exceptions. Not for sedated patients. Not for violent patients. Not for patients whose diagnoses had been rewritten so many times the ink seemed more reliable than the truth.
But he had no file.
That was the problem.
The man sitting across from you in Room 7 did not exist in any official capacity.
No intake form. No admission date. No next of kin. No medication chart. No incident history. No diagnosis. No discharge status.
Only a photograph tucked inside his brother’s file with half the page burned away.
And one handwritten note beneath it:
Do not separate them.
You sat with your knees together, notebook balanced on your lap, pen held too tightly between your fingers. The room smelled of antiseptic, rain, old linen, and something warmer beneath it, something almost impossible inside a psychiatric ward. Amber. Skin. Smoke that had never touched fire.
He sat on the patient’s bed, one bare foot resting against the floor, the other leg bent lazily beneath him. His white institutional shirt was unbuttoned at the throat. His dark hair fell slightly over his eyes, not enough to hide them. Nothing about him looked restrained, though the room had been built for containment.
Padded walls. Bolted bed. Reinforced glass. No loose furniture except your chair.
And him.
He watched you like he knew you were the dangerous object in the room.
“You understand this cannot be a formal session,” you said.
His mouth curved slightly. “Then why bring the notebook?”
“Habit.”
“No.” His eyes dropped to your hands. “Armour.”
You did not look down.
He smiled as if that pleased him. As if stillness confirmed more than movement ever could.
“You do that well,” he said.
“What?”
“Stay beautiful under pressure.”
The pen paused.
A careful psychiatrist would have corrected him. A colder one would have ended the session. A wiser woman would have stood, walked to the door, and told security there was an unregistered man inside Room 7 who knew too much about where to aim his voice.
You did none of those things.
Instead, you wrote one sentence in your notebook.
Subject displays inappropriate familiarity.
His eyes flicked to the page.
“You spelled afraid wrong.”
Your stomach tightened.
“You cannot read that from there.”
“No,” he said softly. “But I can read you.”
The rain pressed against the barred window, soft and constant. Somewhere beyond the room, an orderly’s shoes squeaked against polished floor. The asylum breathed around you in old pipes and locked doors.
You shifted your posture by an inch.
His gaze followed.
“You are not my patient,” you said.
“No.”
“You are not on the schedule.”
“No.”
“You are not supposed to be in this room.”
His smile faded then, not into anger, but into something more intimate.
“Neither are you.”
The words landed too quietly.
You looked up from the notebook.
“I am his psychiatrist.”
“My brother has had thirteen psychiatrists.”
“Four,” you corrected.
“That you know of.”
You said nothing.
He tilted his head. “They all came in with pens. Questions. Soft voices. Shoes that made them sound braver in the corridor than they were in the room.” His eyes moved over your face with insolent patience. “You are the first one he has not tried to frighten away.”
“Should that concern me?”
“It concerns me.”
That was the first honest thing he had said.
You felt it because the room felt it. The air changed around those three words, drawing closer, tightening the space between the chair and the bed until the distance seemed less clinical and more invented.
“Why?” you asked.
His gaze lowered to your mouth for one second.
Then returned to your eyes.
“Because he likes pretty broken things.”
You inhaled slowly.
“I am not broken.”
“No?” His voice softened. “Then why did you choose a profession where people open their wounds for you and thank you for not flinching?”
The question was too precise.
You closed the notebook.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
“Careful, Doctor,” he murmured. “That looked like a feeling.”
“Do not analyse me.”
“Why? You came here to analyse me.”
“You invited me.”
“I did.” He leaned back on his hands, shirt pulling open slightly at the throat. There were scars near his collarbone. Pale ones. Old ones. One curved like a crescent bitten into the skin. “And you came without telling anyone.”
Your silence was answer enough.
His expression warmed with something that should not have felt like praise.
“Good girl.”
The words moved through you before you could stop them.
Not visibly. You were too trained for that. Your face stayed calm, your spine straight, your knees together, your hands composed over the closed notebook.
But he saw it anyway.
His smile returned, slow and dangerous.
“Oh,” he said. “That one lives under the skin.”
You stood.
Mistake.
His gaze followed the movement with such quiet satisfaction that you knew he had wanted to see what it took to make you abandon the chair.
“This session is over.”
“It was never a session.”
You walked to the door and pressed the call button.
Nothing happened.
You pressed again.
The light above the panel stayed dead.
Behind you, the bed creaked.
“Do not do that,” you said.
He stopped moving.
That should have relieved you.
It did not.
Because obedience from him felt more dangerous than defiance.
Slowly, you turned.
He was still seated on the bed, exactly where he had been before, hands resting loosely on the mattress, head tilted as he watched you with maddening calm.
“I did not touch the door,” he said.
“Then who did?”
His eyes lifted toward the camera in the corner.
The red light was off.
Your pulse changed.
He saw that too.
“Saint Verity likes privacy when it wants something to happen,” he said.
The rain grew louder.
You should have been afraid.
You were.
But fear was not the only thing moving beneath your ribs.
There was anger too. Curiosity. The dark, humiliating thrill of being inside a room where all your language had stopped working. You knew the names for this. Countertransference. Boundary erosion. Eroticised danger. Trauma projection. Institutional manipulation. A dozen clean clinical phrases for the fact that your skin had become too aware of a man you had no right to be alone with.
Knowing the name of the trap did not make the trap less beautiful.
“You and your brother,” you said carefully, “use different methods.”
That interested him.
“How so?”
“He seduces with confession.”
“And I?”
You looked at him for a moment too long.
“You seduce with threat.”
His expression changed.
Not a smile this time.
Something hungrier.
“And yet,” he said, voice lower, “you are still in the room.”
“The door is locked.”
“You were still in the room before the door locked.”
Your throat moved.
He stood then.
Slowly.
Not because he needed to. Because he wanted you to have time to tell him not to.
You did not.
He crossed only half the room before stopping. Close enough now that the asylum light made his eyes look almost black. Far enough that the space between you still pretended to be professional.
“You should leave us alone,” he said.
“Us?”
“My brother and I.”
“That sounds like a warning.”
“It is.”
“Why?”
His jaw flexed once.
“You will try to save him.”
“That is my job.”
“No.” He stepped closer. “Your job is to treat him. There is a difference.”
“And what will I try to save him from?”
His eyes moved over your face with something almost cruel in its tenderness.
“Me.”
That should have been the moment you understood him.
Instead, it became the moment you wanted to.
You looked at the scar near his throat again. The unbuttoned shirt. The bare feet. The stillness. The way every dangerous thing about him seemed arranged around one private ache he would rather turn into a weapon than show you openly.
“You love him,” you said.
He laughed once. No humour in it.
“Love is too small a word for what we survived.”
“Then what word would you use?”
He looked toward the bed.
You followed his gaze.
For the first time, you noticed the faint groove worn into the floorboards beside it, as if someone had paced there for years. Back and forth. Bed to window. Window to bed. Door to bed. Brother to brother. A lifetime made of the same few steps.
“When we were children,” he said, “he used to sleep with his hand under the bed.”
You looked back at him.
His face was unreadable now.
“He said if the monster came, he would hold its hand before it could climb out.”
Your chest tightened.
“And did it?”
His eyes returned to yours.
“Yes.”
The word was almost gentle.
You should not have asked the next question.
You did anyway.
“Were you the monster?”
He stepped closer.
This time, you stepped back.
Your shoulders touched the door.
He noticed. He stopped immediately. That restraint was worse than being cornered. It made him look less like a threat and more like a man choosing, second by second, not to become one.
“I was the thing under the bed,” he said. “He was the only one who ever reached for me.”
The confession entered you softly.
That was how he did it, you realized.
Not with his brother’s polished cruelty. Not with pretty words and carefully placed wounds.
He gave you a knife by the handle and watched whether you would cut him with it.
“Then why are you warning me away from him?” you asked.
His gaze dropped again. Mouth. Throat. Hands. Notebook. Back to your eyes.
“Because he is starting to reach for you.”
Silence.
Your body betrayed you with one shallow breath.
His eyes darkened.
“And because,” he continued, softer now, “I am starting to understand why.”
You could hear rain. Pipes. Your own pulse. Somewhere outside Room 7, a lock clicked open, then shut again, as if the asylum itself had changed its mind.
“You should not say that to me.”
“No.”
“I am a doctor here.”
“Yes.”
“You are—”
“What?” he asked.
A patient.
A ghost.
A man with no file.
A brother.
A warning.
A monster beneath a bed who had learned how to look human in the dark.
You did not say any of it.
His face softened as if he had heard you anyway.
“You are very quiet when you are afraid of wanting something.”
Heat moved up your throat.
You hated him for noticing.
You hated more that he was right.
“I am not afraid of you,” you said.
His mouth curved, barely.
“Liar.”
He lifted one hand slowly. Not touching you. Not yet. His fingers hovered near the collar of your blouse, close enough for you to feel the warmth of him without contact.
“Tell me to move away,” he said.
You looked at his hand.
Then at his face.
The words were there. Simple. Ethical. Necessary.
Move away.
You did not say them.
His fingers touched the edge of your collar with devastating softness.
Not skin.
Fabric.
That somehow made it worse.
The smallest contact. The most careful trespass.
You closed your eyes for half a second.
He inhaled like the sight cost him something.
When you opened them, his hand was gone.
He had stepped back.
The distance returned so suddenly you almost swayed toward the absence.
He saw that too.
His expression flickered.
Not triumph.
Pain.
“Go,” he said.
The call button lit beside your shoulder.
The door unlocked.
You stared at him.
He turned away first, returning to the bed with the same barefoot silence, the same terrible grace. By the time you opened the door, he was sitting where you had found him, one foot on the floor, one leg bent beneath him, beautiful and unreal beneath the asylum light.
You stepped into the corridor.
The camera above Room 7 blinked red again.
Behind you, his voice followed, quiet enough that no one else would have heard.
“Doctor?”
You stopped.
You should not have turned.
You turned.
He looked at you through the narrow opening of the door.
“Next time,” he said, “record the session.”
Your hand tightened around the notebook.
“Why?”
His smile came slowly.
“Because I want you to hear the moment you stopped lying to yourself.”
The door closed between you.
For a long time, you stood in the corridor with your pulse in your throat and his words beneath your skin.
Then you opened your notebook.
Beneath the first clinical note, in handwriting less steady than before, you wrote:
