SHREEEP.

Waking in a panic, you instinctively reach for your phone, convinced an alarm is waking the entire house. At the aggressive reach, you nearly roll out of bed, bracing yourself by the edge of the mattress. 

Your phone falls with a thud.

Disoriented and painfully aware of the alcohol in your system, the side of your face smothers into the soft cushion of your pillow. Mind and body still disconnect, a deep slumber welcomes you again. 

Breath evening out—!

SHREEEP.

SHREEEP.

SHREEEP.

Head digging further into the pillow, a muffled groan escapes.

High-pitch screeching scratches your ears, sharp nails tearing into you. More awake than you’re happy to be, you realize it’s not an alarm.

A loud bang against your door jolts you. 

Several emotions pass in seconds—shock, fear, confusion. As the source of your rude awakening reveals himself, you settle for anger. 

“Wake up, you sons of bitches!” Seokjin bellows down the hall. “Time for some reef-freshing mistakes!”

Cracking an eye open, you breathe deeply. 

The curtains are swaying with the early sea breeze, light spilling in brightly. Irritation stirs with every beat in your chest, homicidal thoughts passing your mind in a matter of seconds. 

Another whistle splits the air. Long, drawn out, and so unnecessarily loud, claws piercing your brain painfully.

Before you realize, you’re marching towards the door.

Prying it open, you find Seokjin with lips wrapped around the maddening whistle. 

His cheeks are puffed, about to blow another screech. Without a moment's hesitation, you rip it away from him with a menacing glare.

Hissing, you greet, “Shut. The fuck. Up.”

“Mornin’, sunshine.” Seokjin spins on his heel to better face you. “How’d you sleep?”

Before you answer, a flashing red glint catches your attention. 

Beneath his Hawaiian button-up is a glitter-coated undershirt that spells “Tropic Like It’s Hot” in bright red letters, clashing against the plain white of his tank. His swim trunks are patterned entirely with parrots wearing pineapple sunglasses, each one holding a tiny cocktail.

A pair of pineapple sunglasses rests on the bridge of his nose, but his dedication to minute details isn’t what gives you pause. It’s the horrifying fake parrot perched on his shoulder—paint chipped, wings bent, eyes permanently bulging, and extremely creepy.

A grin curves on his lips, hand reaching to pet the plastic bird’s head. “Meet Captain Eggbert.”

“Why?”

“I couldn’t get a real one.”

“No. Why do you have a fucking - you know what, no. Never mind.” Rubbing your temples, a headache settles in. “I don’t want to know.”

“Your loss.” Seokjin shrugs before shifting his attention to his whistle. “Give back my whistle.”

“No.”

“It’s Sandathlon today,” Seokjin announces, arms crossing over his chest. “I need my whistle.”

Every year during the getaway, the group gets drunk and plays a string of increasingly stupid games—aka Sandathlon. The winner of the previous year (aka Champion of Dunes) oversees the creation of nonsensical games for the following year. Last year, Seokjin won, meaning today is destined for chaos. He’s spent a year fine-tuning a ridiculous lineup of events, having not shut up about it since Christmas.

Your eyes roll. “Not at ass o’clock in the morning.”

“My whistle shows authority as reigning champion,” he declares, as though the plastic Walmart whistle is a crown forged in dragon fire. “The whistle is my power. How will people respect my title if—!”

Not sparing another second, the door slams shut. 

On the other side, he releases a muffled noise of betrayal. His miserable attempt at whistling echoes as he ventures down the hall. 

Chucking the whistle across the room, you release a breath. It’s early, you’re hungover, and there isn’t enough caffeine in the world to help you process whatever the hell that was.

Head heavy, your feet shuffle towards the bed, grabbing your phone.

8:12 AM.

Far too early for Seokjin’s brand of chaotic beach theater.

Groaning, you collapse onto the mattress. Annoyed that you’re awake. Annoyed by the dull throb behind your eyes. Annoyed by the sunlight stabbing through the blinds. Annoyed at the abrupt awakening. 

Plotting revenge, faint footsteps enter the shared washroom.

Eyes flickering towards the entrance, the door is slightly ajar. 

Finding the time to speak with Taehyung became increasingly difficult as the night passed.

Hectic drinking games left you buzzed and barely coherent. More people from neighbouring houses joined, hearing the deep thrum of the base from down the block. New people cornering you into conversations you could barely hear, nor cared about. Whenever you found Taehyung, once you managed to escape the confines of small talk, he would be gone. 

Fear seized you last night.

Whatever this is, it’s slipping through your fingers like sand. Desperately, you need confirmation that alcohol and weed worsened your worries. That every projection of fear was a seed of doubt intensified by the terrors of anxiety. 

Now, under the warm sunlight, your thoughts are more settled. More secure that it was merely just senseless worries fueled by inebriation. But the seed of doubt lingers.

Feet planting on the ground, there’s a moment's hesitation before they propel you towards the washroom.

Leaning back against the counter, he’s brushing his teeth. Hair mussed in every direction, limply flopping in the air as he rubs the remnants of sleep out of his eyes. 

“Morning.”

His eyes widen, surprised by your voice. He doesn’t respond, hand pausing mid-brush.

Taking another step, you nod towards the sink. “Mind if I join?”

Slowly, his head shakes, resuming his actions. 

Standing beside him, you proceed. You face the mirror; he faces away. Eyes closed, he almost seems serene, whereas you feel everything but. Hundreds of times you’ve done this at your apartment, but here—now—everything feels wrong.

Face a void of emotions, you can’t read him, despite how hard you try.

Minutes pass, and the doubt spreads. Thorned vines curl around your ribs, twisting tighter with every passing thought. Mercilessly, it coils around your heart, strained against snarred stems, fear burrowing deep into your chest.

His voice cuts through the silence. “You gonna shower?”

Pausing to turn and face him, you merely nod. 

“Let me know once you’re done.” He pushes from the counter. “I wanna rinse off before I head down.”

Frowning around your toothbrush, you ask, “‘Ot going ‘o a’k a’out ‘howering ‘ogethe’?”

Ever-so-slightly, the corner of his lips twitches. 

He nods to the sink. “Spit.”

Rolling your eyes, you quickly rinse your mouth with water. 

“No cheeky comment?” you ask, reaching for the towel. “No saving water excuses? I expected more from an environmental enthusiast.”

No spark of humour, no sly comeback. Instead, an unrecognizable presence dances in the space between you. It seeps into your skin and curls in your stomach until you can feel its claws at the base of your chest.

A shoulder lifts and drops casually. “Don’t think you need my help with that.”

Brows furrowing, you ask, “Why’s that?” 

A ghost of a smile, hollow as it reaches his eyes. “You’ve got serious options now.”

His words hang heavy in the air. A beat passes. Then two.

“Serious options?” A bitter taste on your tongue. “You mean Damon?”

“Yeah.”

Brows pinching further, you start, “We haven’t even met—!”

“You’re thinking about it.” He meets your gaze, searching. “Not judging. I just didn’t know you were seeing other people.”

A part of you hesitates, not wanting to admit you haven’t seen—been with anyone in months. Your interest in other men died shortly after Taehyung became a daily occurrence in your life. 

Unpacking why is of no interest to you. 

Swallowing, you murmur, “Not like you haven’t been with anyone.” 

A faint crease forms between his brows, a flash of confusion in his eyes. He watches you intently, the scrutiny of his gaze stretching seconds into minutes.

“Yeah.” A mask of indifference. “Right.”

Beneath the detached tone, there’s an edge to his words.

“It’s just a date,” you say, eyes slightly narrowed. “You don’t get to be all pissy because of that. Don’t be a hypocrite.”

His gaze hardens. “A hypocrite?”

“You flirted with half the crowd last night.” Arms cross over your chest. “You don’t see me throwing that in your face.”

A humourlesssmirk.“Feels like you are.”

“I’m making a point.” Sucking the inside of your cheeks, you match his fervent gaze. “We never agreed to anything. This,” —you gesture between yourselves— “isn’t anything. Don’t be a dick when that's always been the case.”

He builds a wall brick by brick with every word exchanged. A void of emotions. “Because it means nothing to you.”

You. Not us. 

Before you question it, he turns on his heel. “Let me know once you’re done.” 

He shuts the door with a soft thud, leaving you in the aftermath. Wordlessly, you repeat the conversation, questions running through your mind as much as they did before. 

Instead of resolving the tension nestled in the space between, things are worse. Everything feels wrong—the distance, him. 

Annoyance sparks as you stare at the space he once occupied. A deep breath as you recall his last words. 

Means nothing to you. 

You.

An observation more than an admission. Words that sounded more for him than for you.

Words that are entirely not true. 

The blaring heat worsens your hangover.

Despite the cold shower to ease the nausea and pain, your thoughts were consumed by Taehyung. The conversation replayed on repeat until your head was pounding for more reasons. Now, hours later, irritation courses through your veins. 

Beside you, Maya lifts a fork from the fruit bowl perched in her lap. “So,” she drawls, “OBV day one was a shit show.”

“Dare I ask,” Namjoon mutters, voice hoarse, “what the fuck is OBV?”

Unimpressed, she blinks. “Operation Bang Voyage.”

Namjoon grumbles, “Such a stupid name.”

Her gaze narrows. “That attitude is exactly why last night was a shit show.”

He throws an arm over his eyes, blocking the sun. Sprawled across the couch beside yours, Namjoon looks as you feel. Hungover, half-dead, and clearly reliving a highlight reel of regret.

As per their deal, Maya and Namjoon were each other’s wingman and woman. Except neither of them got far enough to flirt. Maya ended up drinking herself into oblivion and spent the rest of the night with Namjoon holding her hair back. Namjoon, ever the good friend, left the girl he’d been chatting with to help Maya. Only to later discover one of Seokjin’s neighbors seized the opportunity in his absence.

Namjoon murmurs, “Some fucking wing-woman.”

“Hard to help a walking disaster,” Maya says, scornfully.

“Takes one to know one.”

“Dick.”

“Bitch.”

“No neck giraffe.”

“Skid-marked drawers—!”

Rubbing your temples, you hiss, “Can you both shut up before my brain actually liquifies?”

Namjoon flips Maya off before shuffling on the cushions again, getting comfortable. 

Eyes falling shut, your head falls against the backrest. Much to your dismay, peace and tranquility don’t find you. Nothing eases the weight on your shoulders, unanswered questions pestering you as the seconds tick by. Anxiety ceases your heart, claws so deep in the muscle, every beat propels fear further into the depths of your mind.

Maya breaks the silence. “Sigh one more time, and I’ll throw the bowl at you.”

“Make sure to concuss me when you do,” you reply, turning to face her. “A really bad one.”

Namjoon offers, “Just ask Jin to go water-tubing.” 

“I want minor brain damage,” you clarify, baffled. “Not a death sentence.”

Seokjin’s Sandathlon challenges are full of ludicrous ideas that spark overachieving competitiveness among the lot. Water-tubing, dueling on large floaties, human bowling, and more activities that probably require a waiver. 

“We’re on a five-day bender,” Namjoon points, scoffing. “That is a death sentence.”

“Maybe for you.” Maya plops a grape in her mouth. “I’m thriving.”

He cracks open an eye. “You were sick less than half an hour ago.”

“Irrelevant.”

“Sure.”

A familiar pattern of bickering falls among you, and this time, you welcome the nonsensical chatter. Better they disrupt your thoughts than you sit here pondering over an unsolvable riddle.

In the midst of their bickering, a familiar voice cuts through. 

Jungkook’s voice calls, “‘Sup bitches.”

Namjoon groans. “Shut up.”

Jungkook snorts, footsteps closer. “Mornin’ to you, too, sunshine.”

Drink in hand, he rounds the couch until he stands in view. His eyes dart between you three, wincing at your expressions.

Last night’s endless drinks had no effect on him. Dressed in a basic pair of swim trunks, tattoos on display, and a shit-eating grin curled on his lips, he’s put-together for someone who drank his weight in tequila last night.

“You were worse off than us,” Namjoon points, watching Jungkook warily. “How are you functioning?”

Jungkook shrugs. “Old age’s catching up to you, bro.”

Namjoon raises a finger, and Jungkook snickers. “Piss off.”

Jungkook’s cup lifts in a mock toast. “Have any of you seen Tae? I’m trying to recruit him.”

At the name, you tense, slouching into the couch. Focusing on the condensation running down his cup, you ignore the sharp, involuntary twist in your gut.

Namjoon asks, “Recruit him for what?”

“Sandathlon,” Jungkook answers. “Jin’s got a few partnered games, and I got a hundred riding on me winning this thing.”

“You’re betting on yourself?” Maya asks, incredulous.

“Confidence, sweetheart,” Jungkook sings-songs. “Seokjin got lucky last year.”

Sandathlon brings out the worst in Jungkook.

His competitiveness amplifies during these games as though his dignity is at stake. Last year, he nearly won, and the loss still sours him. Awaiting today as much as Seokjin, his loss manifested as fuel for his desire for the title, Champion of Dunes.

“Haven’t seen him since the morning,” you murmur, gaze falling astray. “Probably flirting with one of the girls.”

“Really?” Jungkook looks around, brows raised. “Fucking finally. He’s been dodging girls for months.”

You blink once. Twice.

“What?”

“Yeah.” Jungkook scans the terrain for Taehyung. “He’s turned down everyone I sent his way. Refuses to wingman me, too. Now, I’m stuck with Park, and that bitch has no game.”

“Tae goes out with you weekly.” Disbelief coats your tone. “He comes back piss wasted every time, and I have to deal with it.”

“He gets drunk,” Jungkook agrees with a shrug. “But he hasn’t given girls the time of day in a while.” 

Your brows furrow. “Really?”

“You live with him,” Jungkook accuses. “When’s the last he brought someone over?”

Mouth flounders for a response, but you have none. Mainly because—well. You can’t remember the last he brought anyone home.

During the first few months, there was a routine. A warning text for your benefit. Sometimes it was as simple as don’t come home yet. Other times, a sheepish maybe crash at Millie’s? followed by unnecessary emojis.

Cursing his rotating roster, you learned to avoid the house altogether when he was busy.

But recently…

“He could easily be going their’s,” you counter with little conviction. “He knows how I feel about strangers constantly at the house.”

“And how often has he been sleeping away from home?” Jungkook prods, brow arching. “He’s rarely even crashed at mine and Jimin’s after a night out these last few months. Tae’s been bitchless since… for like…”

Jungkook lifts his fingers, trying to determine the time.

Frowning, you’re about to answer, but then you remember.

A month ago, when this foolish game became a battle of wills. A month ago, when Taehyung made that promise. He told you he hadn’t been with anyone since you—since the night he became a drug in your system. You’d brushed it off, thinking nothing of it, refusing to acknowledge it as more.

Because otherwise it’s been—!

“Two months.” 

Jungkook’s face pulls. “I’d go into cardiac arrest if I wasn’t getting my dick wet for that long.”

Namjoon scoffs, nodding at Jungkook’s cup. “Not the inordinate amount of alcohol you’re drinking before noon?”

He shrugs. “Five PM somewhere.”

The conversation passes as a blur. Instead, your mind’s stuck on Taehyung—his easy smiles, his quiet mornings, the way he’s been around more lately, lingering.

A question curls on your tongue, but—!

“SANDAHOLICS UNITE!”

The voice booms through the air, cutting you off before you could begin. Seokjin, megaphone in hand, stands on a picnic table by the beach.

“DIVE INTO GLORY, OR WALLOW IN SANDY SHAME!” He turns dramatically, blonde hair glowing in the sun. “TIME HAS RISEN AND SANDATHLON SHALL COMMENCE AGAIN!”

Namjoon lifts onto his elbows, blinking slowly. “What is wrong with him?”

“Everything,” Maya mutters.

“Not that any of you will last that long,” Jungkook starts, stretching his arms overhead, “but try not to get in my way. I’m winning that crown this year.”

Your brow arches. “It's a pink Dollarama tiara.”

“A crown is a crown.” He lifts a mock salute. “May the best contender win.”

He skips down the patio steps towards Seokjin, preoccupied with untangling cords. Jungkook attempts one of his usual rage-baiting moves—a casual lean-in, a flash of teeth—but Seokjin dodges without sparing a glance, causing Jungkook to stumble.

You snort.

Maya hums, watching with thinly veiled appreciation. “Is it weird I found that hot?”

Namjoon deadpans, “Yes.”

Outside, a crowd slowly gathers around Seokjin. 

He relays the nonsense speech given every year at the start of Sandathlon, and you tune it out. Not even because you want to, there is simply no room for it when your mind lingers on a newfound fact. 

Taehyung hasn't been with anyone since you. 

Two months. 

No one since you. 

A silly string pulls in your heart, and among the anxious tension that’s built in there since last night, something light and airy flutters. The riddle transfigures, a faint crack splintering across the maddening fear molded around your chest.

“Two months is a long time.” Maya lifts a strawberry to the air. “Wonder what that’s about.”

“Maybe he’s not into pointless sex anymore,” Namjoon feeds. 

“Maybe he’s interested in more,” Maya adds. 

“Maybe he’s feeding all that energy into one person instead,” Namjoon continues. 

“Maybe—!”

“For fucks sake,” you glower, “will you both shut up?”

Maya and Namjoon grin. 

The bud of hope blooms at an alarming rate. Maybe they’re right. Maybe this isn’t something disastrous sprouting in your head. Maybe his reaction from this morning wasn’t from indifference or annoyance, but something else entirely. Something heavier—personal.

The possibility roots itself in your chest, fragile and trembling. Spreads like wildfire until it threatens to overtake every thought.

With it, your anxiety claws up to meet the flicker of hope. A terrible, dizzying collision because if you’re wrong, if you’ve misread this, it’s not just embarrassment that follows. A deep pain that will gut and destroy you follows as well. 

Despite that, you wonder: could he have been jealous?

Your heart stutters violently, betraying you before your mind catches up. Jealousy means wanting. Wanting means feeling.

And if he feels—!

Oh, God.

Every emotion you’ve buried—ones you swore to keep locked away for sanity’s sake—suddenly swim towards the surface, all at once, demanding air.

“Fuck.” Panic besieges you. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

Maya shifts to face you. “Why are we fuck-ing?”

Namjoon pulls a face. “I - what?”

“She’s fuck-ing.”

“No.” He blinks. “She’s not.” He seems appalled and exhausted. “Do you even know what that means?”

“Yeah.”

He corrects, incredulous. “You clearly fucking don’t.”

Maya frowns. “Well, now you’re fuck-ing—!”

“That is not what fucking means!”

Maya crosses her arms. “A random man made the English language and created grammar. Who said I couldn’t add to it?”

Before either of them can continue, the reason for your panic comes into view. 

Air thickens. 

Sun-kissed and smiling, he strides over to Seokjin, who’s perched on the picnic table again. But it’s not the sight of him that shallows your breath.

It’s the girl beside him.  

Minji.

She who spent the night talking with him yesterday. Every time you found him, he was by her.

The burning twist in your chest isn’t from the sight of her. It’s the arm she’s wrapped around familiarly that claws at you, because, of course, you were being ridiculous. How silly to doubt there could be more to this—to you.

Hope collapses in one breath. Cold water floods your veins, and you release a humourless, brittle laugh. How pathetic to believe in otherwise, even momentarily, when you know Taehyung. 

The silence around you is deafening. Maya and Namjoon have stopped talking.

Maya murmurs, “You can keep fuck-ing.”

Namjoon doesn’t bother to correct her.

By the early evening, you’re pretending not to be bothered.

You are unbothered. 

With nothing but the sea breeze and the warmth of the sun kissing your skin, you are the picture-perfect definition of indifference. Unnecessary thoughts do not linger on your mind, irrelevant questions are not plaguing you, uncertainty is not washing over in relentless waves, drowning you. 

No, you’re fine. 

Perfectly, blissfully fucking—!

A deep laugh carries in the wind.

Warm. Familiar. Bothersome.

Curiosity turns your head to the source. Dark hair striking under the afternoon light, sun-kissed skin stretching over a frame you know well. 

Taehyung’s favourite pastime today is ignoring you. In return, it’s been yours, too. Engaging in conversation with him after this morning doesn’t interest you. After berating you for entertaining dates before proceeding to flirt audaciously with someone else.

More so, you’re annoyed that you believed otherwise for a second.

He’s leaning against the rails of the patio. Minji stands beside him, her hand brushing his arm whenever she laughs.  

This forces your gaze to the ocean. The rhythmic crashing against the shore should be calming, but the thud of his fingers against the metal rail rattles your skull.

“Hey.” Yoongi’s voice cuts disrupts your thoughts. “You’re being loud.”

Frowning, you ask, “What?”

He tugs the net rope, sighing. “You’re practically screaming what you think.”

Rolling your eyes, you respond, “You can’t hear thoughts, Yoongs.”

“Maybe not,” he says, tying another knot. “But yours are written all over your face.”

Fingers tightening around the rope, your frown deepens. “They are not.”

He secures a final knot before his eyes flick towards you with a calm, unreadable gaze.

Easily, he states, “You’re jealous.”

The rope slips from your grip. “What—!” You scramble to stop the loosening knot. “Fuck.”

He doesn’t move to help, just watches with faint amusement.

Muttering a curse under your breath, you retie the cord. The sun is hot on your shoulders, and the sound of deep laughter continues to drift in the air.

Out of all the ridiculous Sandathlon games Seokjin’s concocted, this one is the least devious. A well-loved game of beach volleyball. He claims it balances the chaos; you argue it’s because half the group is bruised from earlier, and the other wants an excuse to throw things at each other.

“I’m not jealous.” You frown. “Why would I be jealous?”

Yoongi glances at the figures further back. “Did you fight?”

“No.”

His lips quirk. “You did.”

“We didn’t fight,” you reiterate, finishing your knot. “We’re fine. He’s just doing what he always does. Can’t you tell when Taehyung’s trying to get his dick wet?”

“I can,” Yoongi huffs. “And it looks nothing like that.”

Confusion flickers on your face. “What?”

“Jealousy's making you blind.”

“I’m not—!”

“They wouldn’t still be chatting if he was interested.” Yoongi strides towards you. “Patience isn’t his strong suit.”

“Taehyung lives for the chase,” you counter, crossing your arms. “He’s dragging it out to enjoy it more.”

Yoongi arches a brow. “Minji’s been nothing but obvious about what she wants. Not much of a chase, is it?”

Mouth shut, you merely blink.

Yoongi is perceptive, insightful, and infuriatingly right. Minji has been obvious about her intentions. And when someone reveals interest in Taehyung—mutual interest, it goes only one way. 

He doesn’t wait, doesn’t linger. He acts—fast, precise, and direct. You’ve seen it with others. He’s done it with you, bringing every thought to existence once his mind is made. 

“Finally clocked it, have you?” Yoongi smirks. “Took you long enough.”

Huffing, you say, “I am not easy to read.”

Yoongi shrugs. “You are when it comes to—!”

“Y/N!”

A familiar voice calls. 

Yoongi’s voice cuts off as both of your attention turns to the house. Taehyung whips in the direction of the voice, too, despite mid-conversation with Minji metres away from the source. 

By your room balcony, stands Maya. 

She waves an article of clothing in the air. Squinting, you focus on the material and—!

You choke on your breath. “Is - is that lingerie?”

“Why’s she waving it around?” Yoongi frowns, confused. “Jin’s not even here to see it.”

“Shame. He would’ve—!” Words cease to exist as the flimsy, sheer bodysuit finally registers. “What the fuck.”

Heat rises to your cheeks, and you make haste towards the house. Several thoughts whip through your mind, but with each step, one thing is clear: you know that set of lingerie.

You own that set. 

What the fuck is it doing here? 

Smiling brightly, she asks, “Can I borrow your white bikini?”

Eyes nearly popping out of their sockets, you struggle for words. “That is not a bikini, Maya!”

“I got it from your bag, though.” Maya, a picture of innocence, gazes at the material in her hands and feigns shock. “Oh. Sorry. I thought it was a bikini.”

“IT’S A BODYSUIT—?!”

Feigning confusion, she frowns. “Why’d you pack lingerie—?” The material slips from her hands. “Whoops.”

Part of you wants to scream. Part of you wants to bury your head in the sand. And part of you realizes your best friend is deviously cunning because she’s packed your skimpiest lingerie without your knowledge.

Maybe she did it in case you got dicked down this weekend. Or maybe, she’s the universe's right-hand woman and prepared for this exact moment. 

Your lingerie, landing right in front of Taehyung. 

For a moment, the world stills. Everything blends into nothing; attention focused on just him. Slowly, he lifts the material, gaze tracing every line and pattern. 

Noticing your approaching figure, his gaze locks with yours. It presses against your neural circuit, sparking the thread of connections like a live wire. He watches with a look so piercing, anyone could read the intent behind it. 

“I—!” Words fail you miserably. “Can you—!”

Taehyung remains perfectly still. He hasn’t moved a muscle, yet the way his gaze darkens leaves you breathless. Heat prickles beneath your skin, adding more threads to the cord that’s been weaving together for the past month. 

Minji’s gaze flickers to the set held oddly delicate in his hand. 

“It’s super cute, girl,” Minji comments, unaware of the buildingtension. “Where’d you get it?”

“I, uh…” Blinking, your eyes glance towards her. “Bluebella.”

Minji gushes, oblivious, “They have such good sets there.”

Agreement forms as a weak hum. Your attention barely stays on her, drawn to Taehyung.

His stare is impossibly dark—dangerous, licking the base of your spine. 

Every nerve flickers with anticipation, thrill shooting through you as a pleasant shock. Rationality disappears, instinct operating the network of nerves that feel bare from the heat of his desire, keenly aware of his every breath.

Intent to ruin you, he moves.

His thumb grazes over the front of the fabric, slow and deliberate. Right where the sheer material would rest against your nipple. Dragging roughly. Intentional. Torturously hot.

Your knees threaten to buckle. For a moment, everything else—the sun, the sand, Minji’s chatter—vanishes, leaving only the heat of his stare and the ghost of his touch.

“—have to check out more of their stuff.” Minji’s voice brings you to reality.

“Huh?” You blink. “Oh. Yeah. Definitely.”

Minji merely smiles. At least you didn’t miss anything important. 

Hand outreaching, you command, “Give it.”

Taehyung murmurs. “Demanding.”  

A flicker of recklessness ignites. “Not yours now, is it?”

He tongues the inside of his cheek at the card you dealt. A dangerous play, but the thrill of excitement clouds all judgment—urging you to side against caution.

Slowly, the fabric falls into your palm. Lace brushes your skin, soft to the touch, but the slight graze of his fingers spreads like wildfire. 

He muses, “Wouldn’t hurt to be polite.” 

A quiet scoff, fist curling into the fabric. “I’m nice when I wanna be.”

His gaze drifts from your eyes to your lips, then down further. His thoughts are loud, imagining how the sheer material would kiss the curves of your body. 

Low, he says, “You’ll have to show me.”

Pulse thundering, you swallow. “I’m not feeling nice.”

His voice is sinful. “Show me that, too.”

A shiver crawls up from the base of your spine. His real intentions are not lost on you, and you don’t check to see if the same applies to Minji. Instead, you turn to skid up the stairs, failing to ignore his lingering gaze.

Dark, molten eyes follow until the wall finally provides shelter. But even then, the heat of his gaze lingers, seared onto your skin.

Air ceases to fill your lungs fully until you find your room. The door shuts with a soft thud, knees giving out. Dragging in a shaky breath, your back presses against the frame, blinking out of the daze.

Maya sits on the edge of your bed, a sly smile adorning her lips. “How’d it go?”

Floundering, a string of broken words comes out. “I - it - you—!” Closing your eyes, you exhale. “Fuck you.”

Her smile only widens. “I’m so winning that bet.”

Surviving the remainder of the day is worse than Sandathlon’s chaos.  

Anticipation courses through you in a steady stream since your conversation with Taehyung.

Concern is lulled by everything around you. The alcohol in your system tells you to fuck it; the music blares so loudly you can barely think; the sea breeze so refreshing, it dares you to make reckless decisions.

Irritation from this morning’s argument hums in the air, but it doesn’t dissuade you from the excitement of the game. Brushing past him when you don’t need to, tossing double-entendre responses, matching his fervent gaze with your own.

Each move is a silent dare, a calculated provocation.

He matches the cards you play with his own, though, far more childishly. 

Anger and frustration gather in every interaction, but fuel the cord of tension threatening to snap. Jealousy, as stupid as it feels, consumes you as he basks in Minji’s attention. Yet, he revels in the spark of irritation within your gaze whenever he catches you looking.

He’s more interested in you—your attention—than the girl beside him. He knows how it undoes you. He knows how it lures your thoughts to him. He baits intentionally, provoking your irritation to match his.

And, infuriatingly, a traitorous part of you enjoys it.

Enjoys that he registers you searching for him before you realize where your gaze lifts to. Enjoys the small heat lingering behind his otherwise masked features. 

Enjoys the thrill.

You’ve played this game too long—too willingly, you don’t believe yourself when you say this isn’t what you want anymore.

Namjoon presses the wound with a disinfectant wipe, pulling you from your thoughts with a hiss.

“Sorry.”

Sucking a breath, you grit, “Liar.”

He smirks. “You’re right.”

There are perks to being friends with a student nurse.

Mainly because you harass him regarding all your healthcare needs, even if he unhelpfully answers that he’s not a doctor. However, moments like these—where you’re injured and need medical attention for broken glass piercing your leg—Namjoon eases your worries before they become debilitating. Skillfully patching things whilst also soothing your anxiety with a few jokes. 

He sits on the stool in front of you with calm, capable focus. He doesn’t even flinch at the sight of blood. 

Gazing down, you ask, “Does this mean I can’t swim?”

He doesn’t look up. “Flesh-eating bacteria is pretty deadly.”

Your jaw drops. “Joonie, I can’t be at the beach and not swim.”

“Then don’t fall on glass.”

During a late game of volleyball, you dove for a save, only to crash into a few empty bottles left near the net. Sharp edges of shattered glass sliced your skin before you even realized. The sand coated with your blood instantly, the multiple cuts and relentless bleeding worrying.

Namjoon immediately brought you back inside to the downstairs washroom. He took a quick look at all the cuts, none needing stitches, and became a master at work. 

Snorting, you answer, “Your medical training would go to waste then.”

He presses the antiseptic against your wound with more pressure, and you yelp. 

“Ow!” You twist your leg in his lap. “What the—!”

“Y/N? Y/N—!”

Taehyung bursts through the washroom door, voice cutting off when he finds you. Namjoon and you blink at the frantic look on his face. His gaze trails over your body before landing on the wounds along your calf. 

“Uh, hey,” you manage. 

His gaze doesn’t falter from your injuries. “You - your leg.”

Fingers brushing the edges of the wounds, the corner of your lip lifts. “Looks a lot worse than it feels.”

“There was blood all over the sand.” His lips press together. “Even a trail of blood leading to the washroom. I’d say those are pretty bad cuts.”

Brows pulling with concern, he closes the distance. He scans the medical supplies around you, crumpled cotton balls with dried blood resting on the counter or mindlessly discarded on the floor.

Namjoon tosses a crumpled package into the trash. “She doesn’t need stitches,” he says, glancing at Taehyung. “It’s all superficial - no foreign bodies, no deep tissue involvement. I just finished cleaning them.”

Taehyung nods, still focused on your wounds. “Okay.”

Namjoon reaches for a bandage, tone wry. “Now let’s get this covered before you make it worse.”

Rolling your eyes, you start, “I would not—!”

“I can do it,” Taehyung interrupts, glancing at Namjoon. “It’s just bandages, right?”

Namjoon blinks. “Uh. Yeah.”

Taehyung nods, more certain. “I’ll do it.”

Namjoon glances at you, and you merely nod.

“Cool.” Namjoon sets the material on the counter beside you. “Everything’s here or in the bag.” He stands, beginning to walk away. “Shout if you need me.”

He leaves without sparing another glance. Taehyung takes a seat on the stool in front of you, gently resting your leg on his lap. 

He grabs the package of bandages. “Does it hurt?”

“A little,” you answer, shrugging. “But I’ll be fine.”

He nods once.

Positioning the bandage over the cuts, he ensures they rest flush against your skin. His movements are confident and sure, whereas his touch is tentative and gentle, worried the lightest graze may hurt.

Breaking the silence, he says, “There was a lot of blood outside.”

“Yeah.” A laugh escapes you. “I was scared I’d need stitches.”

His muscles tense, eyes fixed on your leg as he finishes patching you up. When the last of your wounds is covered, his fingers brush down to your ankle, lingering.

Earlier today, his presence sent you on a lust-induced frenzy. However, the air is thick with something quiet and heavy. No room for teasing or playful banter here; every movement—every touch full of concern.

Tentatively, you ask, “Is everything alright?”

He doesn’t answer. 

“Taehyung?”

“I was worried,” he admits, thumb brushing your ankle. “Hoseok said you were hurt, and then I saw how much blood there was. Maya was saying something, but I just ran up here. I was so fucking worried—!”

“Tae.”

Slowly, his head rises. There are remnants of fear in his eyes, tugging your heart. 

“I’m sorry for scaring you,” you murmur, smiling softly. “I’m fine, though. I’m alright.”

He studies you carefully. “You swear.”

“I promise.”

A long breath escapes him, relief slouching his shoulders as his forehead rests against your opposite knee.

Inky hair brushes your skin, soft and damp from the ocean. Fingers itch to run through the strands while you whisper everything’s okay. But you don’t—can’t. Not when it gives shape to something you’ve been told doesn’t exist. Forces you to acknowledge the bud that sprouted and grew delicately around your heart, along with the thorns of anxiety. 

Blurring the lines of what is real and what is not.

His breath is warm against your skin, grounding and dangerous all at once. The silence stretches, comforting as the night breeze seeps past the windows. Beneath it, however, the tension, the fear, the pull you keep trying to ignore festers.

“You can head back down,” you murmur, pretending indifference. “I’ll clean up here.”

“I’ll help,” he says, rising to his feet. “You should lay off that until it heals more.”

“It’s fine,” you brush off, reaching for the first-aid kit. “Plus, Minji’s going to be worried sick if you’re not glued to her hip in the next second.”

He pauses. “Minji?”

Focus on the floor, you continue, “All I ask is you don’t fuck in the shower.”

He blinks. “You think I’m going to fuck Minji?”

Confused by his tone, you hesitate. “Why else would you be flirting with her?”

His silence sparks your anxiety, teeth catching your bottom lip. You become hyperaware of your pounding heart, the sting of your wounds.

You scramble to explain. “You’ve spent the entire day with her. You were flirting with her last night. I don’t get why you can’t spend more than a second apart, but game is game—!”

“Y/N.”

Unrelenting, you continue, “But, seriously, if you fuck her in the washroom, I will pluck your eyebrows.”

His lips twitch, a hint of laughter. “Y/N.”

Dread creeps up your spine. “Don’t tell me you’ve already done it in the shower.”

“No,” he says, amusement tugging his mouth. “I haven’t fucked her. Minji and I—!”

A hand raises, eyes shut. “I really don’t want to know.”

“Are you jealous?”

Eyes snapping open, you’re rendered speechless. Mouth floundering for a response, you blink. His gaze is unwavering, tone maddeningly calm. 

“I - no,” you stammer, heat crawling up your neck. “That’s not - I’m not—!” You swallow hard, brows knitting together. “You’re being ridiculous.”

A slow, knowing smirk curves his lips. “So you are.”

Defensively, your arms cross. “What about you?” you shoot, desperate to redirect. “As if you weren’t jealous of Damon.”

“You’re right.”

“What?”

“I was jealous,” he confirms, voice steady. “Pissed. Annoyed. I don’t even know what he looks like, but he fucking irritates me.”

The words hang heavy in the air, sinking like warmth and warning all at once. You can’t look away from him, can’t move, can’t breathe.

A shallow breath. “W-why?”

He swallows, gaze unwavering. “I don’t like that you’re seeing other people.”

“You spent the entire day with someone else.” A frown finds your lips. “Last night, you were flirting with a dozen others. You don’t get to say that and act however you’d like.”

“I know.” His fingers rake through his hair, frustration bleeding into his voice. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I used Minji as a distraction. Figured if you’re seeing others, I should, too. It was stupid and childish, and - it didn’t work.”

Hesitant, you press, “A distraction from what?”

“Thinking about you with other people - with Damon.” His gaze flickers between your eyes. “I just - shit, I was upset and wanted to make you jealous.”

The admission lingers in the air, raw and unguarded—a truth that should’ve surfaced long ago. Something in you loosens, a knot inside your chest gently unwinding.

Softly, you say, “I’m not seeing anyone else.”

He blinks, stunned. “What?”

“I haven’t seen anyone.” Fingers fiddle with the hem of your shirt. “Not since that day.” 

That day.

The one that started this all; your slow, deliberate descent into the inevitable. 

For a moment, there is nothing beyond the steady beat of your heart. Relief so palpable, it rises in the air. Honesty that dissolves the frustration and tension built from the past day. Unspoken words floating delicately in the air, curling into your lungs and breathing life into hope. 

Taehyung hesitates. “So, you’re not going to see Damon?”

“Not interested.” You shake your head. “I wasn’t even considering it.”

He nods. “I wasn’t going to fuck Minji.” 

“I didn’t ask.” Arms crossed, you frown. “You can do as you please.”

“Okay. Then - I want you to know.” He smiles at the small act of indifference. “Nothing happened between us. Nothing will. I don’t want her.”

Another strand loosens, the anxiety surrounding your heart slowly dissolving. His words release a tension that’s been weighing on you for hours, worries that have gnawed you relentlessly. 

That mere thought awakens a different sort of irritation.

Eyes narrowed, you ask, “You flirt for sport, then?”

His eyes widen briefly before releasing a small laugh. “Sorry.” He shakes his head, fingers in his hair. “It’s just—!” A grin. “It’s nice knowing you hate seeing me with other people, too.”

Stunned, you stutter, “I - I didn’t say that!”

His smile doesn’t waver. “You don’t have to.”

Immediately, you protest, “I don’t care if you’re with other people.” 

He hums, maddeningly calm. “Sure.”

“I don’t!”

“Okay.”

A frustrated sound tears from you. “Taehyung!”

“I don’t believe you.” He steps away from your half-hearted swat. “But keep going, I like this version of you. It’s endearing.”

Again, your brain momentarily short-circuits, as if he’s rewriting the faulty wiring. Because now there’s this fluttery, breath-catching lightness in your chest, one that never existed to this intensity before. 

Your conviction’s diminished. “I am not endearing.”

“Not at all.” He shakes his head, solemnly. “You’re right. You’re ridiculously jealous, and I love it.”

“I am not—!”

Taehyung steps further away. “Even your denial is so cute.” 

“I am not in denial, you little shit.” Standing on your feet, he watches you adjust your weight on your injured leg. “Get back here. Hey - wait! Stop! I’m injured, I can’t chase you.”

He stalks away, a gleeful smile on his lips. “You’re especially cute when you’re annoyed.”

Irritated, you grit, “I swear to fucking God—!”

He clutches his heart. “It’s like music to my ears.”

“—I’m going to shove a broken bottle up your ass.”

A sound so mellifluous escapes him, boxy grin so contagious that your own becomes increasingly difficult to suppress.

“I think I just came in my pants.”

“Taehyung!”

The next day, there is a palpable shift in the air.

Subtle, but undeniable.

Perched on the counter whilst Taehyung makes pancakes for lunch, something sweet lingers in the air. Sweeter than the scent of warm vanilla and browned butter.

Golden afternoon light spills into the kitchen, catching the steam rising from the pan. Quiet familiarity hums in the air; the clatter of cutlery, the faint buzz of music from his phone, the easy rhythm of two people who’ve slipped into a habit. 

When you glance up, Taehyung’s already watching you. “Can I have a bite?”

“No.” Pulling a face, you nod to the pile of pancakes by the stove. “That’s yours.”

He steps towards you. “Yours look better.”

Incredulous, your brows furrow. “They look the same.”

“You want more?” He arches a threatening brow, shutting your mouth. “Give me a bite.”

He steps closer—so close in your space, the argument dies on your tongue.

Frowning, you cut a bite. “This is the greed they talk about in the bible.”

He leans in, smiling victoriously. As he takes a bite, syrup pools on the corner of his lips and slowly trails down his chin.

“Shit.” A snicker escapes whilst you grab a napkin. “Hold still.”

Without thinking, you pull him closer, steadying his chin with one hand while dabbing at the syrup with the other. He doesn’t complain, moving naturally into the space between your thighs, close enough the warmth of him seeps through your clothes.

“Open wide next time,” you tease, wiping carefully. “Now look at you. You’re a mess.”

He hums. “Just how I like.”

You shoot him a look. “Don’t be gross.”

He chuckles, fingertips brushing the bare skin of your thigh.

Yesterday’s conversation nudged open a door once wedged shut.

Taehyung’s smiles are different, yet entirely the same. Curled with a fonder edge you never registered before. More weight rests with his teasing, a sharper intimacy to his words. Everything is more intentional, no longer just playful.

“Why am I even doing this?” you mutter, half amused, half exasperated. “You’ve got hands.”

He closes his eyes, lips curving. “You seem to enjoy it.”

“Done.” A lone streak catches your attention. “Wait. Here,” —you swipe your thumb across the corner of his lips— “okay. Now, done—!”

Your words catch.

Your thumb’s caught between his lips, tongue swiping your skin before sucking the pad of your thumb clean. His eyes lock on yours, teasing and light, as he releases your finger with a soft, wet pop.

His eyes flicker between yours. “You taste sweet.” 

Throat tight, you murmur, “It’s the syrup.”

“That so?”

Your gaze falls to his lips—soft, plush, inviting—before darting back up to meet his eyes.

Fingers resting against your hips, he gently squeezes. Hands pressed lightly against his chest, your fingers curl into the soft material of his shirt. His eyes drop to your mouth, and the air shifts. 

Breathing becomes difficult.

As the world narrows to the warmth of him, realization dawns on you. Despite the months of teasing—despite knowing the weight of him, the warmth of his breath against your skin—you don’t know the sweetness of his kiss. How his lips would slot against yours, the slow drag of his tongue. 

You can taste the moment before it happens, before the distance disappears entirely—!

Footsteps round the corner, and you jump, instinctively pushing Taehyung away. Jimin greets you both, hair mussed with sleep. He doesn’t seem to register the lingering sweetness in the air, focused on pouring himself a coffee. 

Whilst your heart hammers beneath your chest, Taehyung begrudgingly finds his spot by the stove again.

The rest of the day passes like this. Orbits colliding and drifting apart, tugging closer and snapping back again. It’s only a matter of time before you crash.

And what a day for it.

After your injury, Sandathlon was postponed.

There was supposed to be a water-gun fight between Namjoon and Jungkook. A final battle between those with the most points. Except, the next day, everyone is re-energized, demanding to join rather than watch the two have all the fun. Meaning you’re dragged into the chaos, rather than where your mind and body urge you towards—Taehyung.

Instead, the winning team earns the respected title of Champions of Dunes. 

Deciding to proceed with the duel at night, anticipation builds for the final game. As time nears, everyone uses whatever can be found. Couch cushions, beach chairs, umbrellas, pool floaties—everything is used to build an obstacle course in the sand. Capture the flag, but with a sandcastle that must be defended or destroyed.

Pledging your alliance to Namjoon, you help create his sandcastle. However, hours spent crouching leave your wounded leg sore. Not wanting to do more harm, you decide against participating in the actual game. 

Long after the sun sets, teams gather. Namjoon’s team gathers on the left side of the beach, consisting of Hoseok, Jimin, Sana, and Zoe. On the opposite end, Jungkook’s team gathers—Yoongi, Maya, Minji, and Taehyung.

From your balcony, you have a birds-eye view of everything. Moonlight shining brightly, everyone takes position. Although they're still far enough away, you cannot fully tell who is who. 

A knock redirects your attention. 

Taehyung stands, leaning against the balcony frame, and you double-take.

“What’re you doing here?” you ask, jerking a thumb to the beach. “You’re supposed to be playing.”

“Switched with Seokjin,” he answers easily. “He took my spot. Mind if I join?”

“I don’t know. What do I gain from—!” He lifts a bottle of your favourite drink, and your voice cuts. “Please, take a seat. I insist.”

Taehyung passes the bottle with a chuckle as he sits beside you on the couch.

Taking a swing, you hiss at the bitter taste, but welcome it. 

Below, chaos unfolds. Jungkook’s course of orders blares through a plastic megaphone; Namjoon rallies his team with hand gestures that make zero sense; Seokjin runs around in the inflatable shark and still manages to stand tall.

Taehyung and you erupt into laughter every few seconds, watching their interestingly competitive game. As conversation flows, however, the rest of the world blurs. Lit softly in moonlight, everything ceases to matter.

“Remember when we met?” you ask, facing him. “Like, first met. We downed all of Seokjin’s infamous jello shots.”

Taehyung snorts. “Infamous for giving me the worst hangover of my life.”

“Right!” You laugh. “What were we thinking?”

Fondness curls the corner of his smile. “I doubt I’d have let you move in with me if I hadn’t met you then.”

Brows furrow, confused. “You needed a new roommate.”

“I did.” He nods. “I just didn’t mention I was considering someone else.”

This new information renders you speechless. Taehyung told you he was still searching for someone that night. After the unforeseen slap of an eviction notice, you thought the universe sent a saving grace.  

“Who?”

“Jimin.”

You blink. “What?” 

“I had a crush on you.” He glances from the corner of his eye. “From the first night we spoke. I don’t think I laughed that hard in my life.”

A small laugh escapes you. “Alcohol makes everything funny.”

“Maybe,” Taehyung concedes, smiling softly. “Still had a crush on you, anyway. And then we barely spoke after, and I thought you had this thing with Joon—!”

“With Joon?!” you screech. “Ew, ew, ew. Gross - no. Why would you put that in my head?”

He laughs. “Yeah, I figured that out eventually. But then you showed up at that bar, sobbing about an eviction notice, and I thought,” —he tilts his head, looking over you— “if I’ve laughed so much and we’ve barely ever spoken, imagine how much fun living with this girl could be.”

Everything stills, left speechless and hypnotized. A perspective of how things had played out from his point of view, a story you never thought you needed to know. Except, now that you do, you realize how much it means.

Was any of this just a game?

Hesitantly, you ask, “Did I live up to the expectations?”

“And then some.”

For months, the tide has been pulling you in, and you’ve stopped resisting the current. Teetering on the edge of something for so long, you barely noticed when the slow descent toward this warmth began. Neither willing to push the other further, you’ve taken months tip-toeing around each other, using a game to mask the feelings brewing beneath.

Yet, the universe kept tilting more. Pushing for that last breath—that last look to guide you into embracing what’s found a home in your chest.

Fear doesn’t find you when the world finally tilts off its axis completely. In fact, you’ve never felt more grounded in your life.

“Taehyung?”

“Hm.”

With a soft clank, the empty bottle settles on the ground. “Do you remember your promise?”

He glances, cozily sunk into the cushions. “I promise a lot of shit—!”

You sit straighter. “About how you’d fuck me.”

Seconds pass as eons.

His gaze says he doesn’t believe his ears, but he finds the confirmation he needs on your face. 

He watches, dark and disbelieving. “Yeah.”

“You’d said you’d ruin me,” you remind, voice low. “Never really got the details on how.”

Gaze hooded, he searches, “Why suddenly curious?”

“Might convince me if it’s worth it.”

“That so?”

Heart leaping, you make the first daring move. Ever so slowly, you move closer until you’re seated on his lap, straddling him. His fingers rest on your hips, but do nothing; instead, his eyes trail the slow motion of your hands coming to rest against his chest.

“I’ve been keeping track,” he says, low. “Every time you push, every time you tease. I’m making a tally in my head.”

“For what?”

“How many times I’ll deny you an orgasm.” Vulgar, brazen, and completely unexpected. “You’d look so pretty spread open for me - crying. Begging to finally cum.” His words are a promise searing into your skin. “Why don’t you finally let go?”

Involuntarily, your thighs spread open, settling deeper in his lap. “And lose?”

Smirking, his gaze falls at the motion. “You’re not lasting much longer.”

“Wanna know what I think?”

“Enlighten me.”

“You spent an entire month resisting me, but since we’ve been here, you’ve been losing your restraint,” you murmur, tilting your head. “I think you’re not lasting much longer.”

He huffs a laugh. “I didn’t hold out this long to break first.”

“I didn’t either.” Your voice is low and certain. “Unless you beg.”

He’s suddenly pulling you closer, and your hands brace on his chest from the momentum. “Beg?” Fingers trace the ridges of your spine. “Is that what you want? Me to tell you how much I dream about your sweet cunt?”

A month of his silence made you forget he’s good at this for a reason. How easily he unravels you with a few filthy words.

“I still remember the taste of you.” His lips brush your neck, feather-light. “Remember how greedy you were for my fingers, taking them so well.”

A shaky breath. “Taehyung.”

“Want me to beg to have a taste again?” The words are molten heat down your spine. “Want me to beg to see you take my fingers?” At your breathy silence, he pushes, “Answer me.”

He’s trying to break you, coaxing submission. Desperate to shed his thinly held restraint, he bends the rules of his promise to tempt you. He’s maddeningly persuasive, but underestimates how much you enjoy him being as bothered as you.

You tilt his chin to meet your gaze. “Wanna hear you beg me to take your cock,” you answer, eyes fluttering. “Beg to have me full of you."

His gaze hardens. “You’re playing a dangerous game, sweetheart.” 

Despite the fire licking under your skin, a small, satisfied smile tugs your lips. “I learn from the best.”

A breathless chuckle rumbles from his chest. His forehead rests on your shoulder, collecting himself. 

“You know how hard it’s been not to touch you?” he murmurs, breath fanning across your skin. “Every time you push, all I see is your mouth wrapped around my cock. All I want is to make a mess of you - filthy and full of me.” Heat stirs your core. “But I didn’t wait this long just to break first, Y/N.”

A puff of air. “Not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m pretty good at this game.”

Teeth graze your ear. “I can tell.”

Leaning away, he watches the rise and fall of your chest. Neither of you has properly touched the other, his bruising grip and your shallow breaths the only proof of the restraint to not do so.

And, so, you decide to break the rules.

“You can make this easier for us, Taehyung.” Your lips find his ear. “All you have to do is give,” —a hand slides down his chest, further, further until they land on his crotch— “in.”

Applying the right pressure to stir him, you nip the curve of his ear, smiling. He hisses, fingers digging deeper.

Giggling, you murmur, “You’re already so hard.”

“Yeah, well.” His breaths are shaky. “You’re practically fucking naked on my lap.”

Merely wearing an undone button-up and a bikini, he’s not wrong. Pressing feather-like kisses against his jaw, you trail a path to his pulse. Nipping the sensitive skin under his ear, you apply more pressure to the bulge in his sweats, humming when it twitches to your touch.

His voice is hoarse. “Y/N.”

“Hm.”

“If you’re gonna touch me,” he starts, guiding your face from his neck, “it’s only fair I do the same.”

Heart thundering, your gaze flickers between his. An unspoken truth lingers between you; one way or the other, someone will give in tonight. It’s a matter of who. 

You shed the button-up, and his eyes darken. Agonizingly slow, you tug one of the strings holding your bikini together. He tracks the next smooth motion to undo the final strands around your neck. The material falls between you, but he doesn’t care.

A shudder ripples through him at the sight of your breasts, nipples pebbled.

Confidence swells at the desire swirling behind his eyes. Bringing a single hand to cup a breast, you close a forefinger and thumb around the waiting nub.

A rough exhale. “Fuck.”

Kneading the other breast, you murmur, “Bothered?”

He then leans closer, pressing butterfly kisses against your neck. “You sure you wanna play this?”

Eyes falling shut, you breathe, “Yes.”

His lips trail to your collarbone, fingers sliding up your waist until his thumbs brush the underside of your breasts. Inching forward, your hips replace the hand resting on his crotch, rolling your clothed cunt against him. He groans as a jolt of electricity ignites at the friction against your clit. 

“Positive?” He licks up the valley between your breasts. “We’re in public.”

“Haven’t you done this before?”

He pulls back. “You haven’t.”

Caught off guard, you blink.

A glance over your shoulder confirms your friends are still busy playing. Nothing lights the balcony, overhead of clouds dimming the moonlight.  

“Yeah.” You nod. “I’m positive.”

He nods, hands sliding up and down your waist. “You can change your mind anytime.”

“Okay.” You smile, fingers curling into his hair. “Now - do your worst.”

A dark chuckle. “I won’t hold back.”

“Good.”

He leans down, holding your gaze. Tongue flicking a perked nipple, you shudder on top of him. Smirking, his undivided attention turns to your breast, mouth wrapping around your areola.

A moan escapes you, eyes rolling back. Arching into his touch, you tug his hair. He hums his assent, spare hand going to knead the other breast. 

His mouth is as skillful with your tits as they were with your cunt—wicked and sinful. He’s intent on devouring you, replacing every thought with him. His touch. His lips. His tongue. 

A particular swirl of his tongue leaves you cursing. “Fuck.”

He pulls back, a string of saliva connecting him to the perked bud. At the sight, a coil tightens deep inside. 

“So fucking responsive,” he muses, fingers brushing up your spine. “Almost like you didn’t want me to stop.”

Breathing heavy, you challenge, “You might be hearing things.”

“Is that right?” He smiles at the challenge. “Let’s try again.”

His mouth finds the other mound, pressing against the swell of it. Kneading the other breast, he pinches the bud between his thumb and index finger. A small pain elicits when he tugs on it, but it adds to your pleasure.

Moaning, you pull at the strands by the base of his neck. As his tongue swirls against your nipple, your hips find a familiar pattern against his, desperate for friction. 

He pulls back, tugging the nub with him until it lets go with a wet pop. The image is so obscene, so indecent, it fuels the burning fire. Large hands firmly squeeze your breasts, yours resting atop his, encouraging him. A whimper escapes as he pinches both buds, arching to the touch.

“Look at you,” he muses. “Grinding against my dick.”

“You aren’t, ah, doing anything,” you taunt. “Had to do something about it.”

His gaze hardens, hands falling to your hips. Without warning, he pulls you further into him as he rolls his hip strategically against yours. 

At the newfound friction, your breath catches. “Oh - fuck.”

“I’ve barely started,” he says. “Just a lick here,” —his tongue flicks your nipple— “a kiss here,” —he turns to the other, wrapping his mouth around it again— “and you’re putty on my lap.”

“Tae, ah, fuck—!”

His teeth graze the swell of your breast. “Barely done a thing and you’re already so pretty and fucked out.”

He doesn’t look any different. Cheeks red, pupils blown, and lips parted, he as fucked as you feel.

“Bet I’d look prettier,” —you roll your hips against him, hard— “full of your cock.”

He groans, eyes closing momentarily. “Fuck.”

Finding your gaze again, his hand smacks against your ass. A gasp flees you, fingers digging into his shoulders at the impact. He kneads the muscle, massaging it through the sting. 

“Dirty fucking mouth,” he muses, chafed. “Do you know how many times I’ve dreamt about it?” A hand comes to your cheek, thumb rough against your bottom lip. “Jerked off to the memory every time you set me off.”

A sly smile. “Must’ve been a lot.”

“Too many.” His hand slithers to wrap around your neck. “Took everything not to bend you and fuck you over every piece of furniture.”

“Fuck,” you breathe, lashes fluttering. “Why’d you put that image in my head?”

He takes in every microexpression you make. “Bothered, are we?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

He sucks and nips at your neck. Granting him more access, your head tilts to the side. You catch the reflection of yourself in the balcony window. Completely fucked out with your gaze half-lidded and lips parted as he elicits a whimper from you.

“Like that?” he asks, trailing kisses across your skin. “Like me marking you for everyone to see. Want everyone to know what you’ve been up to?”

You whimper, “Tae—!”

His hips roll against you with purpose. “You don’t care if someone sees you grinding on my lap, do you?” His brows furrow in concentration. “No, you want them to see.”

Lips parted, you suck in a breath. “Fuck - ngh.”

“Want them to see how desperate you are for my touch.” Hands skim the edges of your body. “For my lips.” Lips press against your pulse. “My cock.” 

Every passing second—every ministration—challenges your restraint. Instinct and desire overwhelm you with every act he does upon you.

“Am I right?”

“You,” you correct, lashes fluttering. “Want them to see how desperate I am for you.”

For a moment, he merely watches, a slow smile finding his lips. “Are you, pretty?” At the pet name, your heart soars. “You desperate for me?” 

“Y-yes.”

He chuckles, fingers trailing down your bare thighs. “My, my. How honest we are. I almost feel compelled to reward you.”

Heat courses through you adamantly. “Please.”

“Maybe I’ll fuck you where everyone can see.” Taehyung's grin is wicked. “Or - maybe I’ll eat you out. Have you come on my mouth over and over until I’m sated.” He cocks his head. “What do you think?”

“All of it.” Eyes trailing over his face, your chest heaves. “Let them see what a mess I am for you.”

He smirks, fingers curling under the band of your bottoms, snapping it against your skin. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” A hand trails further down, inching towards your core. “Love having everyone see how much of a slut you can be.”

A single finger presses against your clothed slit. Your hips jerk at the contact, seeking more. 

“Taehyung, ah, please—!”

“Too bad.” He pulls away. “You need to earn it.”

His hands return to your hips, gaze hard and unforgiving. You blink, confused. Frustration builds within you, worked up by his words, and now struggling to understand the loss of him.

“What?”

“You want me?” He leans back, head tilting. “Prove it.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am.” His tone is deadly. “I held back for a month. Might be wet and needy on top of me, but I need more, sweetheart.”

A thrill runs through you, searching to see how serious he is.

For a month, you had pushed and prodded and provoked a master in his own game. Continuously poked the bear, enlightened by every little reaction you stirred. Every tease and touch you used to tempt him—to break him—fed a demon instead. Frustration so evident, it emits from him in waves. Pleasant shudders trail up your back from the carnal look in his eyes.

“Prove it, pretty,” he urges, thumb and index lifting your chin to face him properly. “How badly do you want my cum?”

Heat pools in your cunt, clenching around nothing. “Need it,” you answer, pleading. “Need you. I give in. You win. Please.”

Gently, his knuckles brush your cheek. “This isn’t a game, pretty. No one’s winning.” Despite the hardness in his gaze, his voice is soft, soft. “Show me how bad you need me.”

His words reset something in your mind. Fix a worry that was so deeply rooted, you’re momentarily stunned. 

You push it away, nodding. 

An idea stirs in your head; he’s good with his words, but you’re better with actions. Taking the hand against your cheek, you bring it low, low, low. Guiding them between your thighs, you rise on your knees ever so slightly. Enough that when his fingers near your slick, he can feel. 

Momentarily, his eyes flicker down, but you take his chin between your fingers and lift his gaze. 

“Up here,” you murmur. “On my face. Watch what you do to me.”

His gaze is molten heat, but he obeys, and you smile—slow, knowing. Holding his stare, you shift, moving with deliberate grace. Guide his fingers to your weeping cunt, lips parting to gasp from the light touch. 

His jaw clenches, devouring the shift in your expression. Bringing his fingers to your mouth, your head tilts. Your lips wrap around the first digit, tongue swirling around the tip. Humming, you release it with a pop. Then, you do the same with the next.

Taehyung swallows roughly.

“Bothered, are we?” you mock. “I’m not done convincing, yet.”

Strained, he asks, “Have more in mind?”

Removing yourself from his lap, you lie back on the couch. Taehyung watches confused, until you remove your bottoms. Hitching your leg over the top of the couch, you rest your weight on one elbow so you can watch. 

Watch as his eyes devour your bare cunt. Watch as his lips part and fingers twitch, itching for a touch—a taste.

Hand between your legs, your arousal coats your fingers. 

“Look.” Two fingers spread your slit. “Messy and weeping for you.” Middle finger presses against your heat before slowly rising to circle your clit. “I’ve thought about you while fucking myself with my fingers.”

He shudders, torn between watching your face and your pussy. 

A finger slips into your cunt. “I’d, ah, fuck myself like this pretending it was you. Your hands. Your lips. Your tongue.” Another finger slips in. “No matter how many times, it was, ngh, never enough. Never full enough.”

His eyes are glued to your cunt, palming himself. “Fuck.” 

“But I’d pretend anyway.” Fingers slipping out, you swirl them against your clit again. “Pretend it was your cock. Imagine the stretch, the length.”

He groans, lips parting. “Show me.”

He’s under a trance created by you, and this sets you more on edge.

Head falling back, you collapse on the couch, breathing ragged. “Imagined how, ngh, your mouth would feel. Dreamt about it so much.”

“Fuck.” He growls. “Let me—!”

“No,” you protest, lifting your head to meet his gaze. “Watch. Gonna show you how much I fucking want you. Gonna, ah, gonna fuck myself to the thought of you.” Another hand trails down to your clit while your fingers fuck you. “Show you what I did in my room for months.”

He sounds tortured. “Y/N—!”

“I - I’m so close.” A whimper escapes you. “God, ah, Taehyung.”

“That’s it, pretty.” He licks his lips, eyes flickering from your face to your cunt. “Let go. Fuck yourself with your fingers, show me.”

“Tae, ah—!” A coil burns hotter and hotter. “So fucking close.”

“Come for me, pretty,” he rasps, rough with control. “Come thinking of me. Right here. Watching you.”

Moments later, an orgasm washes over you. Harder than others you’ve had whilst masturbating. Chest heaving, you bask in the high crashing over you. As the seconds pass, you barely register that you’ve just done that—fucked yourself in front of Taehyung—when his breath suddenly fans over your cunt.

Brows furrowing, you start, “Tae—!”

Loud and uncaring, you moan.

Taehyung's tongue flattens against your soaking entrance, reaping the efforts of your work. He's fast and hot, sliding his tongue up your slit before his mouth closes against your clit, hot pressure making you scream. 

Heart pounding, every word is a prayer of his name. Blood is boiling beneath your skin, and you wish forever to be this moment as Taehyung brings you closer and closer to release.

“Feel so good,” you whimper as he forces your hips in place. “Makes me, ah, wanna spend forever with your head between my legs.”

His tongue swipes around your throbbing clit with approval, and stars form behind your lids. Everything is pushing you towards the edge—the wet sounds of his tongue against your cunt, the sensation of his rough hands against your soft skin, his warm breath. 

He taps your thigh twice, and you glance down to see him watching. His wants are clear without expressing words. To watch you as you inevitably unravel before him. A familiar rhythm of his tongue on your entrance and then your clit that has you propelling towards release.

"Fuck, Taehyung—!" you gasp, as he relishes in every sound and taste of you. "Just - ngh - like that, baby.”

The sight of him between your legs—tongue merciless against your cunt, greedily drinking every drop it weeps—pushes you over the edge. It doesn't take much longer before another wave of pleasure crashes over you.

“Tae - ah, fuck!” 

Focus slipping, your body tenses with release. His mouth is relentless, prolonging your climax until you’re a writhing symphony of sensations. The world narrows down to his touch, the sound of your moans, and the pleasure that settles over you.

Eyes fluttering, you catch your breath. “What - what was that for?”

“Gave me such a pretty show.” Taehyung presses kisses to your skin as he travels up. “Only fair I reward you.”

He’s crowding your space, fully on top of you.

Before you respond, he’s leaning down to press a searing kiss. Dizzying, and maddening, and all-consuming. Mind and body still under a haze, his kiss only drugs you more. Every thought focuses on his lips, his taste—him.

A new hunger brews within you with every press of his lips, every swipe of his tongue. He’s demanding every ounce of oxygen you breathe, taking and taking, the line where you end and he begins blurs.

His hand slides down, gripping your thigh, coaxing your legs around his waist. Desperate to lose the space in between, you oblige, needing him closer—wanting more. A shuddering breath draws from your lips as his hips find a rhythm that borders on desperate, friction igniting new flames to your still sensitive nerves. 

Low and wanting, he groans, finally pulling away. 

You tug his shirt. “Off.”

The material is discarded without thought. He sits straighter, on his knees, and you admire the rigid curve of his body. Arm stretching to run your fingers down his abs, before snapping the waistband of his sweats. 

Slow, you whisper, “Take it all off.” 

He listens, removing the material in a smooth motion. The hard length of him snaps against his abdomen. Lips parting, you’re mesmerized at the sight of him—the length, the girth. Taking in the view of him towering over you, you watch as he pumps himself, pre-cum leaking from the tip and coating his length.

“How do you want it?”

“Hm?”

There is no room for humour. “How do you want to be fucked?”

Moonlight shines around his hair like a halo, tongue prodding his cheek as his gaze slithers over you. A shadow covers his face, a predator watching its prey. A shrill of excitement courses through you, clenching at sight.

“Faster, Y/N,” Taehyung warns, tauntingly. “I won’t stay nice for long.”

“Wait.” Hesitation fills your tone, eyes darting out towards the beach. “What if someone sees?”

He arches a brow. “Two orgasms and now you get shy?" 

Frowning, you nudge him with your leg. “I’m being serious.”

He leans, laughing. “They won’t see us.” Lips brush against your jaw. “We can barely even see them. Look.”

Turning your head, he’s right. Up here, with barely any light, they can barely see anything. You can barely even hear their voices over the sound of crashing waves. 

“We’re fine here,” he assures, lifting his head enough to meet your gaze. “Promise. Okay?”

You nod. “Okay.”

His gaze is soft, soft. “Good.”

“So,” you drawl, cocking your head. A hand lowers between you, eager for his cock, pumping him in lazy strokes. “Are you finally gonna make good on your promise to ruin me, or what?”

The softness curling into the corners of the air, shatters instantly. 

Holding his gaze, you continue to stroke him, pleased with the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He’s hot and pulsating in your hand, painfully erect and beautiful. Slowly, you guide his head to your cunt, brushing his head against your slit, and you both shudder. 

Both your attentions are fixed on your arousal mixing with his, the sight so perfect that a fresh wave leaks from you.

His eyes are dark and calculating. “Look how your body responds to me.”

“Hurry,” you urge, trying to move against him—trying to feel, but he pulls away from you. “Tae.”

“Impatient.”

You hiss, “Then - do something about it.”

“I plan on it.” Taehyung’s gaze flickers over you, lips turning down. “I don’t have a condom.”

Your face falls flat. “You didn’t bring a condom?”

He returns the expression. “I wasn’t expecting to fuck you when I came up here.”

That catches your attention. You slot the piece of information away, unable to pay it mind now. 

“I’m on the pill.” His eyes shoot to yours. “And I haven’t been with anyone since us.”

He’s quick to understand what you imply. That night, you both checked if you were clean, and you both were. 

“I haven’t either.” Taehyung swallows. “You sure?”

You nod. 

Carnal intent shadows his face. He leans back on his knees, assessing you as if determining how to fuck you best.

“Put your legs together.” He pumps himself lazily, watching as you do. “Lift them.”

Without question, you follow. He pushes them back, further and further, until they no longer fold. 

“Fuck.” He groans, “Your pussy’s begging to be fucked, pretty.”

You mewl—literally mewl. Before today, you didn’t think it was possible, but there are a lot of new things you’re trying tonight. 

Again, the head of his cock brushes against your slit. Noise so filthy as he drags it down your slick, smearing his pre-cum along your cunt. 

He does this a few times, teasing you both. 

“Taehyung,” you breathe. “Please.”

“Please, what?”

“Stop, ah, stop teasing.”

The length of his cock presses against you now. “What do you want?”

“Inside.” Eyes rolling back, you moan. “Wanna be stuffed and full of your cock. Please, baby.”

He smirks. “Thought you’d never ask.”

His head enters you, and the stretch is as pleasurable as you'd imagined. Another moan escapes you, eyes watching as his brows furrow with concentration. His breathing turns ragged, waiting for you to adjust, but your patience has long since left. 

Hips hitching, you rasp, “More.”

“Wait, fuck,” Taehyung struggles. “Slow, baby. Don’t wanna hurt you.”

His patience also seems to be running thin, rubbing your clit as he inches the rest of him inside. You knew he would stretch you in ways no one else had, but nothing prepared you for this fullness. 

A garbled noise leaves him from the vice grip surrounding his cock. “Can’t believe you made us wait this long.”

A breathless smile finds you. “Makes for better sex.”

“Does it?”

“About to find out.”

“Want it that bad, pretty?” he growls, sliding out. “Fucking take,” —a sharp, deep thrust, and you gasp at the unexpected momentum—  “it.”

The length of him goes deep inside you, the head of his cock brushing against something that can’t be sated. His movements are unrelenting, instinct taking control. He finds a tempo he pleases quickly, balls slapping against your ass with every thrust.

He meets you with so much force and speed, it hikes you further and further up the couch. The sheer noise of wet slaps with every thrust makes everything more sinful, obscene—perfect. White hot pleasure through your veins. 

“Cock hungry slut,” he rasps. “Making such a mess for me.”

“Because of you.” An arm shoots to brace the armrest behind you. “Only, ngh, nasty for you.”  

He moves with skillful precision, each thrust stealing more of your breath. Mindlessly, you understand why every girl seems to regard him as a sex God. Pushing your legs further back, he lifts your hips, claiming your body as his to use.  

“Feel so good wrapped around my cock,” Taehyung grunts, pounding into you. “Feel unbelievable.” He brings a thumb to swirl your clit. “Bet you’d feel better creaming it, too.”

“Shit.” Jumping at the contact, your fingers wrap around his wrist. “Too much.”

“You asked for this,” he reminds, pressing harder against your nerves. “You wanted rough, pretty.” 

A choked noise emits as he pounds into you with newfound determination. His brows are pulled into concentration, your pussy pulsating at the overwhelming sensations of his cock and fingers. 

“Dirty girl.” Legs thrown over his shoulder, he ploughs with no mercy. “Been too nice to you.” 

Eyes rolling back, you moan, “Tae - Taehyung, ungh—!”

“This cunt is begging for me.” A sharp thrust. “To be used the way I like.” A deep roll of his hips. “Fucked the way I want.” 

“Use me.” You knead a breast. “Try and make this - ngh - make this pussy yours.”

“Little minx.” Tempo sharper, you wither beneath him. “Come for me.”

“Right there - fuck!” you cry, unable to hold back. “Right fucking there! Taehyung!”

Shuddering waves of pleasure ripple through you. Taehyung moves with relentless hunger, greedily chasing each obscene sound you weep. Body still shaking in the wave of your third orgasm, he pulls out, and you blink dazed. 

“What?” Brows pinching together, you rise on your elbows. “You haven’t—!” 

“Need to feel that again,” he rushes, breathing heavily. “I need one more.”

Blinking, your head begins to shake. “I got what I want. You don’t have to—!”

“I’m not done with you.” He slaps your leaking pussy. “Promised to ruin you. Fuck you so well no one else will ever be good enough once I’m done.”

His gaze is full of promise—not gentle, not kind, but feral. Hunger, raw and unfiltered, within his dark gaze. Pretense completely stripped away, all that’s left is instinct. The air thickens with it, charged and trembling, as if the world itself is holding its breath.

Clenching at the sight of him, painfully erect and angry, a curse slips past your lips. A burningurge—need to be at his mercy.

“Turn around,” he orders, tongue darting to lick his lips. “Get on all fours. Show me that ass.”

Without question, you listen. Chest pressing into the cushion beneath, your ass raises, brushing his cock playfully. Arousal leaks from your cunt, coating your thighs, evidence of his efforts glistening under the moonlight for him.

“You should see yourself like this.” His hand lands with force on your ass, a claim more than a touch. “Gonna come to the image of this for the next fucking month.”

Swaying your hips, you throw a sly look over your shoulder. “Or - you could come in me.” 

His face is carved with an animalistic intensity. Lethal focus touched by a dark promise as his fingers tighten on your hips, holding you captive beneath his gaze.

In a rough and possessive motion, you’re pulled towards him.

“Woah. What—!” He sheaths himself into your wanting cunt, words dying on your tongue. “Fuck!”

He pounds into you; new depths, new strokes, new tempo. He’s single-minded in his pursuit, a predator intent on unraveling his prey. Every thrust is a claim, strengthened by the trembling sounds that escape you.

Gasping, you curse, “Fuck!”

Fingers bruise your hips, forcing you to meet every sharp thrust. He sheathes you on and off the length of him, fucking you on his cock. Using you the way he wants—needs. The mere thought sends you into a frenzy.

“Nothing to say now, pretty?” he growls, going deeper, deeper. “Have I finally fucked that attitude out of you?” 

A breathless laugh. “Getting, ah - getting there.”

“Had you cumming not long ago. Screaming my name so loud, everyone knew who this pussy belonged to.” He chuckles darkly. “I’d say I did better than just good.”

Unable to form a response, you lose yourself to the feeling of him. His cock is the only thing on your mind. How he fills you, leaving a deep ache when he bottoms out. Easily, tendrils of pleasure knot within you again, thighs shaking every time you get close. And every time, he changes the tempo, the pace, his strokes. 

“Taehyung,” you whimper, helpless to his mercy. “Please. I - I need, ngh—!”

“Hm?”

“Stop teasing,” you murmur, grappling with reality. “Making me, ah, insane.” 

His strokes are languid, teasing. Experimental rolls rather than relentless thrusts because you were teetering too close to the edge, and he’s not done playing yet.

“Wanna drive you as crazy as you had me,” he affirms, breathless. “Take it, pretty.”

A deep, teasing roll. “God - fuck. Fucking me so good.”

“I will,” he whispers as a promise into the night. “Soon. I’ll have this cunt singing for me soon.”

Every brush of his cock ruins you—ruins how good sex can feel. Ruins anyone else you might ever meet because only he can get you like this. Bringing you to the edge of bliss and then denying an orgasm every time, until you're crying into the fabric. 

“Taehyung.” Tears coat your lashes. “Please.”

He muses, “Tell me. Use your words.”

“This pussy is yours, baby,” you admit. “No one’s fucked it as good as you. No one can.” 

A sharper thrust—a reward. “That so?”

He’s making a point. A punishment for having toyed with him for so long. Driving you crazy for his touch just as he once was for yours. Making good on his promise to make this pussy his.

“Ah, yeah.” Fingers curling, nails biting the palm of your hands. “Filling me so well. Want - fuck - want your cum.”

“More.” Grunting, his hips stutter. “You can do better.”

“I need you.” A cry tears from your throat. “Wanna make a mess on your cock again. Please. You feel so fucking good. Let me cream this cock, baby. Please - ungh—!”

His thrusts are sharper now, deeper. He plants a foot on the couch, raising your hips as he finds a tempo that has galaxies forming in your blood. 

“How could I want any other cunt when this one takes me so well?” His praise makes your pussy pulse. “Wrapped around me so tight. Doesn’t wanna let go.” 

“Close.” His new pace floods molten pleasure through your veins. “I’m so close.” 

“Me, too.” Each deliberate thrust drags you both closer. “Almost there.”

Pleasure brews fast and strong. “Don’t, ah, stop.”  

“Want everyone to hear you, baby?” His thrusts are relentless, brushing you right where it threatens to snap the coil burning in you. “Hear how well I fuck this pussy?”

His words drag you towards the edge. “Yes.” 

“Want everyone to know who this pussy belongs to?” He slaps your ass. “Want them to know who fucks this cunt the best?”

“You.” Whimpering, you look over your shoulder. “You. Only you.” 

“Fucking right.” Possessive eyes trail over your face, falling to where your body meets his. “This pussy is mine. Understood? Your cunt belongs to me.”

“Always.” Nodding frantically, coil burning white hot. “Fuck, please—!”

He grits his teeth. “Say it.”

“Yours!” Loud and unabashed, the word falls like a prayer. “My pussy is yours. All yours. Fuck, Taehyung—!”

Shuddering, a wave of pleasure washes over you, hot and strong. It takes the breath from you, almost blacking out at the sheer force of it. Taehyung continues to pound you through it, your pussy clenching onto him, enjoying every primal thrust of his hips.

Hips stuttering, your walls are painted with his sperm. He comes hot and deep, groaning your name. Riding out your highs, his pace falters, both catching your breath as the pleasure rides out.

Moments pass, his chest against your back, from collapsing on top of you. You're not sure how much time passes until he finally rolls to the side, pulling out of you.

He faces you, breathless and dazed. “Woah.” 

Unable to form thoughts or words, you merely blink. Nothing but the final wave of your orgasm washing over you, easing you into nirvana. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, clinging to your cheek from sweat.

He whispers, “Hey.”  

You smile. “Hi.” 

Leaning closer, he presses a sweet kiss against the crown of your head, your nose, the bow of your lip. Before you can question him, he captures you in something lazy, sweet, and unrushed. Lips brushing against yours in small pecks, as though he has all the time in the world.

“You’re unreal,” he praises softly. “Incredible.” Another firm kiss. “Fucking unbelievable.”

Humming, you smile. “Whipped already?” 

He laughs, the sound more addictive than anything else. “What about you?” He raises on an elbow, leaning to hover over you. “Think you said this pussy,” —two fingers find your slit, spreading the mixture of his cum and your arousal— “is mine.”

Your hand wraps around his wrist, responding by spreading your thighs. “Yeah. So you should probably clean it before it stains Seokjin’s couch.”

Hand coming to rest against your thigh, he groans dejectedly, “You ruined it.”

You snort. “I’m not getting yelled at for ruining his couch.”

“It’s already a mess,” Taehyung argues, but he goes to stand. “Made you cum four times. Remember?”

He dodges the swat of your arm, winking as he disappears behind the balcony door to your room. Awaiting his return, you’re unable to hide your smile. It widens when he returns, quick to clean you before he makes another comment that has you threatening violence. 

Falling under the familiar hum of bickering, you almost don’t notice the undeniable shift in your heart. The air between you is charged—soft, electric, and full of unspoken promises.

For once, you choose to ignore it, choosing to bask in the present.

Enjoying the moment that is now.

“Y/N.”

“Hm.”

A kiss on the junction of your shoulder. Lips brushing your skin, towards your arm. Fingers that trail your hips, soothing as the voice pulls you from your slumber.

A familiar, husky voice. “Wake up, pretty.”

You groan softly. “‘S still dark outside.”

He manages to turn you on your back. His face finds the crevice of your neck. Coaxing you with more kisses, voice soft as you wake. 

“I know.” His breath is warm against your skin. “I want to show you something.”

“You can put your dick away,” you murmur, fingers tangling in his hair. “It’ll still be there when the sun's up.” 

“I’ll make sure to put it to good use then, too.” He chuckles, pinching your waist. “C’mon. I really want you to see it. You’ll love it.”

A few more minutes pass by. He continues to press kisses at every expanse of skin available—though you're dressed in his shirt. His hands roam your body, softly teasing and squeezing until your eyes finally peek open. 

Grumbling, you allow him to coax you out of bed. He gives you a few minutes to get ready, telling you to meet him out by the beach before he disappears. Although you oblige, every step towards the beach is a curse under your breath. 

Simply, it’s too early. 

Neither of you bothered to find your friends after. Instead, curled under your sheets, you stayed up talking and laughing until sleep found you. Only to wake in the middle of the night, where he took you again.

Him just as feral, you just as needy.

Ropes and ropes of his cum decorating your body. Making a complete mess of you, and he memorized it like art worth hanging. Then, in the shower, you took the weight of him on your tongue.

Insatiable, the two of you were.

As if now knowing what sex together is like, you crave more, more, more. Enough isn’t a concept that exists. Not when it feels like you only have the time at the beach house to savour it. 

You push the thought aside. Refusing to sullen your mood with the thought of what happens next, once you return home. A conversation you both skillfully avoid. 

Stepping onto the beach, you find Taehyung starting a fire.

A blanket rests on the sand, a box of s’mores beside it. Approaching him, he grins and gestures to the small setup. Facing the beach, it’s a perfect view of the sunrise, the small fire crackling in the thinning night. 

Taehyung pats the seat beside him. “Come here.”

And you do. 

Sitting beside each other, roasting marshmallows, your voices are as soft as the fire crackling. Even when the first break of light slips over the horizon—slow, tender, almost shy—you both continue to whisper. Afraid to disturb the delicate vine winding between you, growing gentle and unhurried, the way dawn strokes across the sky. 

Light seeps through, gentle as a fingertip brushing away sleep. The world is painted in hesitant golds and washed-out pinks. Darkness doesn’t vanish all at once; it loosens, melts, retreats, as if surrendering to something it always knew would return.

A soft exhale towards the inevitable. 

Taehyung glances. “Worth it?” 

“S’mores?” You take your last bite, swallowing. “A hundred percent. The view? Debatable.”

His fingers poke your side. “Don’t be a brat.”

Grabbing his hand, you giggle and try to lean away, but he doesn’t let you. A toned arm keeps you firmly by his side despite his feigning annoyance.

“You weren’t complaining about it last night,” you tease. “I’d say you like it.”

He’s silent for a moment. “I like you.”

You still. “What?”

A flush to his cheeks, lips pressed into a thin line. He looks nervous, almost as surprised at the words that spill from his mouth. 

“I like you,” he repeats, resolved. “A lot.” 

Brain short-circuiting, you mutter. “What - I…”

“I knew you were special the night we met.” A lopsided and devastatingly soft smile. “I brushed it off, but every time I saw you - every year at this beach house - I was drawn to you. I never stood a chance.”

A breathless laugh. “I did threaten you into an alliance to fuck over Jin.”

Fondly, he chuckles. “I should’ve known then you weren’t just anyone.”

The fire crackles. Waves crash somewhere in the distance. And you—silent, breathless—watch as he gathers himself, as if deciding this is it. No more holding back.

“I didn’t think someone could make every second around them my favourite.” He watches you in wonder, as if admitting this for the first time to himself. “Then - you happened. One day I woke up and you were all I could think about - you’re all I still think about.” Emotions lay bare on his face; you’re stunned at the intensity of them. “You take up so much space in my head, it drives me fucking crazy.”

Heart pounding, you murmur, “You sure it’s not because I forget to take my hair out the drain?”

A thumb brushes your cheek. “Definitely not.”

Chewing your bottom lip, you whisper, “Not even the sex?”

His expression shifts—deeper, more serious—anticipating this. “I know these last few months we’ve been… It’s just been about sex. But that’s because I wanted anything you were willing to give, and I didn’t think you saw anything more in us - me.” There’s a flicker—hurt, raw and real—crossing his eyes. “I could never tell if you wanted more.”

Frowning, you say, “I could never tell what you wanted.”

“You told me this isn’t anything.” The reminder shuts your mouth. “You said we never agreed to anything when we started this months ago.”

Your stomach drops, the memory hitting hard and sharp. “I was annoyed and upset,” you admit. “You were giving me mixed signals. Caring one second, and then pretending not to the next. I didn’t know what to think.”

He inhales slowly, threading his fingers through his hair. “I acted that way because I thought you didn’t want me the way I wanted you.”

You look at him—really look at him—and the weight of how long you’ve both been misreading each other settles between you, warm and devastating.

Softly, you ask, “How do you want me?”

“I don’t want to be just someone to you, Y/N,” he replies, voice wrecked and honest. “I don’t want to go back to the way things were. I want more.” A shaky breath leaves him. “I want all of you. I want everything with you. I want us - this - every day, for as long as you’ll have me.”

For a moment, you can only stare.

This is the most exposed you’ve seen him. The same eyes he’s always had—mischievous and bright—carry a tenderness you never recognized until now.

On instinct, you move, knees sliding over his thighs, hands braced against his shoulders as you ease yourself into his lap. Instinctively, his fingers find your waist, resting there. Loose. Shaky. Like he’s afraid to hold you too tightly.

Finally, you ask, “Do you know why I kept pushing back for so long?”

He shakes his head. 

“I told myself it was because I was worried we’d fuck everything up,” you admit, gaze searching. “And maybe that was part of it, but I wasn’t being entirely honest with myself.”

Taehyung’s gaze softens, waiting with quiet invitation.

A shaky breath, heart thundering. “Before I knew it, you became one of my favourite people in the world. I think a part of me knew long ago, and I was scared if we slept together, that’s all it’d ever be - all you’d ever want from me. That I’d be left wanting something you never even meant to offer.”

“You mean more to me than just that.” His lips curl down. “I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“I know,” you whisper, smiling. “I know that now. I wasn’t sure then, and I think that scared me. Because I was so worried that it was all in my head, that I was the only one feeling this.”

His breath catches—barely, but you hear it.

His voice is low.“What are you saying?”

“I like you, Tae,” you breathe. “A lot.”

For a moment, neither of you moves. It’s strangely peaceful—this small pocket of quiet where the truth finally exists between you, uncomplicated and real.

He whispers, “Again.”

It isn’t a command. It’s a plea.

You close the distance between you as you always have, even when you pretended you weren’t. Resting your forehead against his, your breaths mingle, and he lets out the softest exhale, like he’s been holding it for months.

“I like you,” you whisper. “I really, really like you.”

Taehyung smiles—small, crooked, beautiful. One that’s entirely meant for only you.

“Good,” he murmurs, nose brushing yours as he leans closer. “Because I really, really like you, too.”

He kisses you, slow and certain. Warmth unfurls in your chest, spreading through you in soft, weightless waves.

Moments pass, seconds turning to minutes until time fades away. Everything dissolves into kissing—slow, lingering, then hungry. A kind of whispered, tangled honesty that leaves no room for doubt.

By the time you pull away, the two of you smile as brightly as the sun breaking the horizon. 

Soft laughter and whispers fill the morning air. Taehyung pulls you into his chest, your back resting against him as you watch the world slowly fill with light. His fingers intertwine with yours, wearing a smile that outshines the sun. 

Time continues to pass as you address every gnawing fear that lingers. You peel apart every shadow of doubt that lingers until there’s nothing left but certainty. Because somewhere along the way, you both convinced yourselves this was nothing more than finding pleasure, a distraction, something temporary. 

Now that the air between you has cleared, he’s desperate to rewrite everything to your skin.

“We should, ah, we should get back to the house, Tae,” you breathe.

He’s above you, mouth trailing down your jaw, your throat, your collarbone—kissing you senseless like he’s trying to relearn every inch. His lips drag over a mark you swear wasn’t there this morning.

He hums, distracted. No intention to stop, not even slowing.

“Taehyung.”

Another hum, deeper this time, like you’re interrupting something important.

You try again. “Baby.”

He finally lifts his head, gaze unfocused. “Yeah?”

A sharp gasp swallows your answer when his hand cups your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple. He kneads exactly the way you like—slow pressure, then firmer—and you arch to the touch.

“Tae—!” you choke out, but your voice betrays you, soft and needy.

He smirks. “Yes, pretty?”

Heat unfurls in your stomach, pooling low.

It takes everything in you to grip his shoulders and push enough to create an inch of space. He’s nowhere near done, simply patient and indulging you for the moment.

He sits back on his heels, breathing hard, the picture of a man who could take you apart right there on the sand and wouldn’t regret a second of it. The way he looks at you—hungry, devoted, wrecked—says he has no intention of dropping this easily.

“Later,” you pant, taking his hand from under your shirt. “Everyone's going to be up soon.”

He snorts. “And?”

“We are not fucking on the beach,” you say, adamant. “I’m not getting sand up my cooch.”

He levels you with a look—unimpressed, borderline offended, but he sighs. “Fine.”

He helps you up, brushing sand off you in a way that’s only partly innocent. The moment your fingers tangle together, his thumb instinctively brushes against the back of your hand.

Laughing as you enter through the balcony door, you’re met with three familiar faces. Jimin, Maya, and Namjoon are sitting at the table, all wearing the same shit-eating grin.

Their gazes drop straight to your interlinked hands, then slowly rise to your faces.

You can feel the joy radiating off them, just as they see the joy radiating off you and Taehyung. Warm, obvious, and embarrassingly bright.

Maya wiggles her brows. “Good morning to you two.”

Jimin’s smile hides behind the rim of his coffee. “When did this happen?”

Heat rushes to your cheek, unable to form a response with multiple eyes so intently on you. 

Taehyung doesn’t hesitate—just pulls you closer by the waist, arms looping around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Last night.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Tae—!”

Before you can continue, Maya releases a banshee-level screech. “I WON!”

You jump, moment obliterated.

Maya points at Namjoon, eyes bright. “Give me my money, bitch. I won the bet!”

Namjoon blinks, affronted. “Absolutely not. ‘Last night’ could be midnight, could be one in the morning. I’m not giving you shit until I get a timestamp.”

“It was obviously when we were playing Capture the Flag, dingus,” Maya fires back, brow arched. “Don’t be a sore loser. Give me my ten bucks.”

“You don’t know that,” Namjoon grumbles. “Maybe they had their sexual awakening at three a.m. Maybe—!”

Maya breezes past it, poking Namjoon’s forehead. “PAY UP!” 

Namjoon swats her hand. “Stop assaulting me!”

Jimin chimes, “Technically, Joon and some of the others owe us.”

“The fuck.” You blink. “What do you mean, some of the others?”

Jimin winces like he’s been caught stealing. Maya and Namjoon pause, staring at each other with slight panic. Before anyone says anything more, footsteps echo down the hallway.

“Why the fuck are you screeching?” Jungkook grumbles as he enters. “Shit’s fucking loud—!” His eyes land on Taehyung wrapped around you. He freezes. “No way.”

Maya panics. “Kook, shut up—!”

Jungkook’s gaze snaps to Namjoon. “When did they fuck?”

Your hackles shoot up instantly. “Are you fucking—!”

Seokjin strolls in next, mid-yawn. “What’s the commotion - oh.” His brows shoot up, interest sparking. “When did this happen?”

Jimin answers, “Last night.”

“Fuck yeah, bitches!” Seokjin whoops, fist pumping. “Run me my money.”

A strangled, incredulous sound claws its way out of your throat.

As more and more of your friends wander into the room, you realize everyone had placed bets to determine when Taehyung and you would finally crack. Courtesy of Maya and Namjoon, who broadcast their wagers like a stock tip.

Their argument escalates instantly—Maya climbing half onto Namjoon’s chair, Namjoon defending his wallet like a soldier, Jimin quietly sliding his mug out of splash range. Jungkook and Seokjin are arguing over the logistics of the 24-hour clock. Zoe and Yoongi merely watch fondly and tease in the background. Hoseok’s trying to convince everyone he bet three days, not four.

Everyone’s far too busy arguing to notice your slowly rising rage. Except Taehyung. 

He leans down, lips brushing your temple as he murmurs, “Want me to do something?”

Seething as you watch your friends, you answer, “Unless you want me to commit murder, yeah - mmph!”

Taehyung cuts you off with his mouth.

It’s not a rushed kiss or a stolen peck; it’s deliberate, steady, dizzying. His hand slides to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone as he leans in fully, blocking out everything else. His lips move against yours in a slow, coaxing rhythm, a quiet claim.

He goes and goes until you forget where you are. Then—!

Hoseok bellows, “LOOK! THEY’RE KISSING!” 

The room descends into fresh chaos.

Before you can do anything, Taehyung pulls you into another searing kiss. More ruckus and hoots of hollering as they cheer you on, and you smile into the kiss. Taehyung leans back, laughing into your mouth before he fully separates. His forehead resting against yours, smile melting the last of your anger.

You glance back at the chaos—your friends, wild and loud and ridiculous—framed by the bright morning sun spilling across the floor. Sand still clings to your legs, your shirt wrinkled, and the ocean breeze whistles through the open balcony like it’s elated, too.

Happiness blooms so strong it bursts into a quiet, breathless laugh.

Taehyung grins. “There’s my girl.”

Like that, the anger disappears—swift, effortless. The bet, your friends’ ridiculous antics—none of it matters anymore. All of it dissolves into nothing as you kiss him again, slow and sure.

"Operation Bang Voyage; success!"

a/n: i hope you enjoyed, my loves! i especially hope the sexual tension and the smut left you as hot and bothered as i was every time i read it omg. as always, please let me know what you think :>

all rights reserved © svenotes 2025

“Can you just—!”

“No.”

Brows furrowing, she pleads, “I only need this small favour.”

Fingertips drumming against the wooden counter, you pray the server hurries with your order. Your unwanted companion’s name dances on the tip of your tongue—Anna? Annie? Whoever she is, her persistent whining wears your patience thin, and you refuse to bear it any longer.

Not sparing a glance, you respond, “I’m not talking to Taehyung for you.”

“Unbelievable,” she scoffs with a shake of her head. “He’s not yours.”

Her shift in demeanour is a reaction you've come to anticipate. Having played out this routine with countless girls, it was all too familiar.

“Excuse me?”

“He doesn’t belong to you.” Her eyebrows raise in challenge. “I’d suggest you stop leeching onto him because it’s starting to look pathetic.”

Momentarily speechless, you blink.

At the time, moving in with Taehyung was a good idea. Though you didn’t account for the string of issues—your current predicament—to unfold months down the line. This doesn’t happen often, but it’s enough that your patience has thinned.

Word spread that your roommate was the Taehyung Kim, and since, there’s been a significant increase in the number of glares you receive on campus. Until recently, it was a nuisance you easily brushed off—empty threats that held no weight. Lately, however, people have gotten bolder. Some ask to be introduced, others try to belittle you, and few have even asked for his number.

Blondie in front of you was no different. 

Grabbing dinner at your favourite burrito place on your way home from work was supposed to be a treat. As fate would have it, you encounter her here. A scenario that unfolds with a sense of inevitability. Almost immediately, she tried to butter you up before asking you to persuade Taehyung to respond to her messages.

Apparently, you control who a grown ass man decides to text.

A long, strained sigh slips. “Listen, Annie—!”

Her brows furrow. “Aileen.”

“What?”

“My name is Aileen.”

“Sure.” Dismissing her, you continue, “I don’t care what you have to say. And, frankly, instead of standing here and making pointless accusations, I’d rather you do me a favour—!”

Incredulous, she scoffs, “That’s gold—!”

“—and take Taehyung.”

Aileen’s mouth falls slightly ajar, not expecting your response. A smile curls on your lips, but it lacks warmth.

Confused, she stammers, “I - what?”

“Have him,” you insist, and she blinks. “He is unbearable to live with, so please,” —you take a hold of her hands— “get him out of the apartment.”

Her gaze shifts between your entwined hands and your eyes, determining your intentions. Unbeknownst to her, you're as genuine as you could be. 

Images surge through your mind as a ghastly reminder. A carnal smile, thick and heavy need in your blood, long and slender fingers slick with your desire—!

With a firm shake of your head, you push the memory image aside.

Living with Taehyung took a sudden turn, to say the least.

“O-oh.” Her head tilts, unsure. “I - um. You don’t want him?”

A shake of your head, face pulled. “Not in the slightest.”

Her brows pinch together. “Why?”

Muttering, you glance away, “He’s more infuriating than you think.”  

As she processes your words, the cashier places your order on the counter, and you offer your gratitude. More so because you can end this conversation and finally go home. Dealing with Taehyung’s frenzy of fans is not how you want to spend your time after an eight-hour shift.

Hesitantly, Aileen tries, “Can you still ask Taehyung—!”

“Don’t push it.”

“Right.”

“Good luck!” You salute with two fingers. “Rooting for you, sis!”

Not waiting for her response, you exit the shop. Taking a bite out of your burrito, a sense of relief washes over you at the thought of going home, even though it harbours another issue you wish to avoid.

Taehyung.

At the reminder, you frown. 

Taehyung is unbearable to live with, but it’s not because he’s a horrible roommate. In fact, it’s the opposite; he’s been too good a roommate. So good, his name became a mantra on your lips while his were on your—nope.

We are not revisiting that.

Five months have passed since your new living arrangement, and the solution you devised to fend off impending homelessness, somehow, inadvertently, led to unforeseen complications.

Taehyung and you shared a mutual friend. He was a friendly face you’d greet now and then. An eviction notice, a visit to a bar (where he frequents), and a series of shots later, you found yourself sharing a fairly priced apartment with the notorious campus fuck boy.

You don’t recall how you agreed to this rooming situation. A haze of intoxication clouds the night, but you vaguely remember both of you being in a predicament. He had been searching for a new roommate when you came into the bar, cursing the rotten landlord who evicted you. 

Initially, you were wary of moving in with Taehyung; his reputation preceded him. However, concerns about waking up to unfamiliar girls in your apartment faded as the months passed. Besides the odd morning, you never really notice anyone over. He’s surprisingly good at ensuring his late-night activities don’t cross paths with you.

Dare you say it, you enjoy living with Taehyung. Minus one teeny, tiny, ridiculous thing.

You hooked up.

A notification from your phone interrupts your thought.

joonie: EMERGENCY [10:34 pm]

joonie: i cut my finger making dinner :( [10:34 pm]

maya: is ur dinner okay [10:34 pm]

Maya's tendency to brush off Namjoon as mere inconvenience is nothing new. It’s how their friendship has been for as long as you’ve known them.

joonie: im bleeding bitch [10:35 pm]

maya: did i ask [10:35 pm]

you: joonie ur a nurse??? [10:35 pm]

joonie: STUDENT nurse [10:35 pm]

joonie: andam i getting paid to fix me??? [10:35 pm]

you: then don’t complain??? [10:35 pm]

maya: im trying to get laid [10:36 pm]

maya: plz stop texting emergency over irrelevant things [10:36 pm]

joonie: both of u got dick and forgot all ab me [10:36 pm]

you: i have got *nothing* [10:36 pm]

joonie: remind me, y/n [10:36 pm]

joonie: how is NOT sleeping w taehyung going [10:37 pm]

joonie: 🤔🤔🤔 [10:37 pm]

maya: L O L [10:37 pm]

A noise of discontent bubbles in the back of your throat.

For months, Taehyung and you have been playing a game of cat-and-mouse. Harmless flirting that gradually evolved into something far more intense.

After a few weeks of living together, his shallow flirting lost charm. He recycles the same line on every girl, they barely hold any weight. Taehyung caught on, and that’s when this game started. At first, he was just more flirty—still harmless, but more frequent than usual. But when you continued to be unbothered, he took it as a challenge.

Unfortunately for you, Taehyung loves a challenge, and he was set on you.

Not thinking much of it, you played along, amused by his determination and equally eager to make him squirm. Months later, you’re stuck living with the dire consequences.

His words, the way he acts around you—everything about him is different now. Every interaction leaves you stunned and speechless. Your heart works on overdrive the closer he is to you. He deliberately pushes your buttons until you’re a cursing mess.

Taehyung made it his goal to sleep with you—to have you writhing under his touch, and he’s done almost that.

A month ago, the thick and heavy weight of him rested on your tongue before his fingers were slick with your arousal, mouth hot on your clit. It didn’t get further than that, but everything about your dynamic has changed.

Ever since, he’s been ten times more insufferable, and because you’re too prideful and stubborn, you refuse to be the one who bends to the other’s will first. More so, you’re scared of what happens if you do.

Unease swirls in your stomach by the time you reach your flat, but you’re too exhausted to let it linger.

As the door shuts behind you, you announce, “I’m home.”

Half expecting a towering figure to ambush you, you gaze across the living room. To your surprise, you’re not welcomed by a familiar pair of mischievous brown eyes. For once, it seems Taehyung went to bed at a reasonable hour, sparing you from his arrogance tonight.

To say you’re impressed would be an understatement—!

Thump.

Hands fly to your mouth as you muffle a gasp, heart leaping at the barely audible sound.

Heart returning to its regular rhythm, your thoughts whirl in circles, torn between checking it out yourself or leaving the task to your roommate. Just as you're beginning to discern the source of the noise, realization dawns, cheeks flushing with warmth.

“Ah - fuck!”

Sex. 

You’re listening to the sound of sex.

Composure dissipating, your lips press into a thin line, suppressing the urge to yell. A glare shot into the dark abyss.

Gritting your teeth, you stride towards your room. Your mind is clouded with the dozens of things you’ll do to Taehyung if he initiates another round in the dead of the night while you're attempting to sleep—because let's face it, he probably will. 

A groan escapes you, halting a few paces from your door.

Gaze drifting towards Taehyung's room, his door stands slightly ajar. Fortunately, the narrow opening doesn't reveal anything, yet the creaking of his bed remains audible, and a protest threatens to spill. He groans, coinciding with the resounding thud of his bedframe. Heat flushing your cheeks, you want to claw at your eardrums.

Taehyung Kim is a dead man.

Shutting your door behind you, you let out a strained breath. He’s fucking some girl, a few feet away, and it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. 

Taehyung is a man who refuses to be tied down in a relationship. Even if he courts one girl, he’ll still sleep with another; it’s engraved in his nature. Yet, you can’t help but envy the girl who currently commands his attention, while you skulk within the confines of your room.

A green, ugly monster finds refuge in your heart.

Tonight marks the first instance he’s brought someone over since your fateful evening. You never deluded yourself into thinking he miraculously changed, but a small part of you relished the notion of his attention being exclusively on you.

Refusing to shower and risk crossing paths with him or his guest, you fall on top of your mattress with a gentle thump, gazing up at the ceiling.

That's when you hear it again. A faint thump followed by a subdued thud.

Facing away from your door, you press a pillow against your ear, hoping your torment ends soon.

Taehyung is so fucking dead.

“Bullshit.”

“I wish,” you snort, pressing the button to your floor. “Her name was Aileen or something.”

His brows furrow, memory searching for the face associated with that name. A heartbeat later, he groans, head falling back in resignation.

“Damn it,” he mutters, irritation palpable in his voice. “Why do they always find you?”

“I wish I knew.” Exhaling deeply, the weight of exasperation carries within the breath. “Maybe you should stop fucking crazy people.”

He frowns. “I don’t do it intentionally.”

Taehyung and you established a routine to go out for bottomless mimosas and brunch once a month. A tradition you look forward to every month. Mainly because Taehyung can be very cute when he’s tipsy on champagne. 

Returning home, you passed the burrito place, and it brought memories from the night before. Recalling the story, you internally wished Aileen the best of luck in her future endeavors with him.

“You always say that,” you snark. “Then half of them are clingy and bother you, and the other half are crazy and bother me.” Arms crossing over your chest, you huff. “You need a vetting process before you sleep with people. Half these girls are acting like you’re some sex God.”

He arches a brow. “Want to find out?”

“Be serious.”

“I am.”

A glint flashes through his eyes, stomach leaping, before you look away with fear of what he might discover if you hold his stare. 

Eyes rolling, you mutter, “Don’t be silly, Tae.”

In the confined space, the walls suddenly feel suffocating. His presence becomes strikingly apparent; the heat of his body and subtle fragrance of his cologne waft through the air, overwhelming your senses.

“Maybe they know something you don’t,” Taehyung ponders, low. “Maybe you should find out.”

“I’ve already had a taste,” you reply, eyes trailing to the column of his throat. “I think I know plenty.” 

He grins wolfishly. “You could have more.”

Your gaze snaps to his, surprised. “Maybe you’re the one who hasn’t had enough.”

A shrug. “Maybe.”

The elevator chimes, and the door slides open. Eager for distance, you exit hastily, Taehyung following behind. 

Clearing your throat, you say, “The mimosas are getting to your head.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, and so you glance over your shoulder. His characteristically snarky retorts are preceded by his eyes fixated on your ass, tongue prodding the inside of his cheek.

A mixture of flattery and annoyance courses through you. You halt abruptly, catching the appreciative glint in his gaze as he continues to trace the curve of your ass.

Noticing your lack of movement, his gaze lights with an unmistakable spark of mischief.

“You were staring at my ass.”

“Mhm.”

You arch a brow. “Is that really appropriate right now?”

“I’m always staring,” he confesses, shurgging. “Just more shameless about it now.”

His unabashed honesty stirs a mixture of frustration and amusement, tugging the corners of your lips. 

Against your better judgment, you ask, “And why now?”

He grins. “Because I know how you taste—!” 

“Shut up!” you exclaim, quickly covering his mouth with your hands and glancing around in frantic concern. “We’re in public.”

He chuckles, delighted to coax this reaction from you, as if it were his intention all along. Your hand darts to swat him, but he proves to be too agile, sidestepping from your reach.

“And?” he asks, brows raised, amused. “I’ve done a lot worse in public.”

You shoot him a wry look. “That’s not something to be proud of.”

“Like you haven’t done anything in public.” He rolls his eyes, but at your silence, his brows pinch together. “…Have you?”

“No.”

“Really?”

A touch of embarrassment warms your face. “I really haven’t.”

“I’m not talking about just sex,” he continues in disbelief. “Hands under the pants counts.” 

“I haven’t done anything in public,” you affirm, looking at him pointedly. “Why the hell are you fucking people out in the open?”

“Free will,” he responds, gaze momentarily distant, studying you. “Would you ever try?”

His tone is light, but the weight of his words rests heavily. Does he mean would you consider trying with him? Your cheeks burn, struggling to suppress the images of Taehyung that threaten to surface. Memories that make you squirm if dwelled upon for too long.

Attempting to regain some composure, you clear your throat. “We are not having this conversation out here.” 

“Hm.”

Hesitant, your eyes narrow. “What?”

The distance closes with a short stride, a freshaquaticscent filling your breath. His hand comes to cradle your neck, thumb brushing against your skin. A protest catches in your throat as his eyes trace the curve of your neck.

“I want to check something,” he murmurs, brows slightly furrowed in concentration.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “What—!”

His thumb presses against your pulse, breath lodging in your throat in response. His gaze searches yours, seeking something you're not entirely sure of.

“Y/N.”

“Y-yeah?” 

His warm brown eyes linger on your lips a second too long before meeting your gaze. Slowly, his fingers wrap loosely around your neck, the heat of his palm seeping into your skin. He leans closer, fingers applying the faintest pressure, and your breath hitches.

“You’re not against it,” he muses, almost to himself.

Softly, you say, “Never said I was.”

His gaze intensifies, locking with yours. A fiery intensity simmering beneath it, and you're drawn into its depths—into him.

“Wanna know what it’s like?” His voice is velvet and smooth as he adds slightly more pressure around your neck. “To be fucked so good where anyone can see?”

Your eyes flutter as his spare hand rests low on your hip, fingers brushing against the curve of your ass.

“Yes.”

He smirks. “You’re just like me.”

Dark eyes scan over your features, lingering on your lips more than you deem appropriate before they flicker to meet your gaze. 

“How so?”

He tilts his head. “Want to find out?”

Against your better judgment, you answer, “Show me.”

“Hm.” He leans, lips brushing the curve of your ear. “Maybe.”

Taehyung winks before striding towards your flat. Momentarily, you stand stupefied, blinking at the sudden loss of contact. Realizing what’s happened, you trail after him while releasing a breath filled with incoherent frustration. His hold on you has you intrigued and wary, a potent mixture you struggle to process.

He can easily shift the mood, creating tension palpable enough to touch. Always commanding the attention of everyone in every room he enters, it’s no wonder he holds a similar sway over you.

You curse at yourself for falling for his antics. He's either honed his skills or the need for him complicates your ability to resist.

With a deep breath, you step over the threshold, the door closing behind you.

“I’m gonna shower,” he says, glancing at you. “Wanna join? For the environment, of course.”

How he’s able to brush past whatever just happened is beyond you. Your heart is still racing in your chest as you kick off your shoes. 

“For the environment, my ass,” you deadpan, earning a chuckle from him. “I’d sooner drink battery acid.”

He smiles, sickly sweet and cunning. “You were wrapped around my finger seconds ago. I could do it again.”

Being in the privacy of your home, you’re less confident in your ability to resist him. Not that you’ve ever really been able to. He’s so acutely aware of how you react because you’re terrible at hiding it.

“A moment of weakness,” you dismiss, gaze faltering. “Plus, I’m not entertaining anything with you less than twenty-four hours after you slept with someone else.”

Taehyung’s brows furrow. “What?”

“I heard you last night,” you accuse, raising a finger in his direction. “Don’t bother denying it.”

His eyes narrow slightly, processing your words. Seconds pass, and your pointed finger curls back into your palm at his momentary silence.

“Heard what?” he asks, tone as incredulous as he looks.

“You.”

“Anything else?”

“Your bed slamming against your wall,” you huff, crossing your arms. “I don’t know why—!”

He presses, “Did you hear anyone else?”

Contemplating, your thoughts circle the memory. Realization settles; there hadn't been anyone else to hear. It was just Taehyung and his bed, a truth that momentarily renders you speechless.

“Oh!” Your eyes widen. “I’m so sorry, oh my gosh.” Heat flushes your cheeks as the words stumble out, “I didn’t realize, I mean… were you using a sex doll? Not that it's any of my business, but there’s a list of people—!”

His frustration seems to intensify as he asserts, “I wasn’t fucking a doll.”

“No,” you raise a hand, shaking your head. “Don’t be embarrassed.”

“I’m not—!”

Insisting, you continue, “I’m really not judging—!”

“I was fixing my bed!” A sound of discontent escapes Taehyung's throat. “One of the legs was wobbly, so I was putting it back in place.” 

Formulating a response, words stall in your throat. Taehyung's gaze remains steady, expression flat. Taking a moment to gather your thoughts, you meet his exasperated look.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Eyes narrowed, you ask, “You were just fixing your bed?”

“Yes.” He sighs, as if this conversation has exhausted him. “I can’t believe you thought I brought someone over. I haven’t been with anyone in weeks.”

You blink, taken aback. “Bullshit.”

Uncertainty flickers in Taehyung's gaze. “I haven’t been with anyone since you.”

His confession stuns you, unable to accept his words. However, the genuine sincerity in his tone is undeniable. Taehyung might have a reputation for spinning elaborate tales and using playful charm when it comes to women, but he’s never done it with you. 

“Why?”

He cocks his head. “Why do you think?”

“Taehyung,” you start, “this can’t happen.”

“Let’s skip this part,” he suggests, stepping towards you. “We both know I’m not about to listen to whatever excuse comes out of that pretty mouth anyway.” You take an involuntary step back. “Let’s put it to better use.”

His eyes roam over your body, the suggestion hanging heavy in the air.

“I…”

He taunts, “You?”

Gnawing on your lower lip, a mix of emotions swirls within you. Caution prickles at the edges of your thoughts, reminding you that crossing this line could dismantle the carefully constructed walls you've built around yourself, exposing the risk of falling too deeply. And, yet—!

Gods, oh, Gods do you want to kiss him.

With all the fervour of tangled tongues and teeth, until your lungs burn and thoughts are consumed by him. The craving is undeniable, a magnetic pull that courses through your veins. He senses your longing, manipulating your desire to influence you.

“You keep doing this,” you mumble, frowning. “I haven’t had a moment of peacefor a month.”

“Good,” he relishes, fingers brushing your waist. “I’ve gone insane because of you.”

You counter, “You’re the one who left me high and dry in the hallway just now.”

“I was returning the favour.” His gaze falls to your lips. “You’ve made me crazy for your touch.”

Your tongue sweeps across your bottom lip, his gaze tracking the small movement. Despite knowing this isn't a game you should entertain, you inevitably find yourself trapped in a predicament.

Because you can’t seem to care.

The heat from earlier still courses through your blood; defences utterly abandoned.

Softly, you tease, “Have I?”

His voice is low. “Don’t play dumb.”

“I think we’re both equally… bothered by each other,” you muse, gaze flickering between his eyes. “I’d say that makes us even.”

“Maybe we should do something about it,” he whispers, leaning closer. “Show you how bothered I am.”

Usually, this is where you’d stop things. Usually, this is where you’d snap out of the trance. However, something in the air intoxicates you, ceasing all reason.

Instead, you ask, “What do you have in mind?”

His gaze searches yours momentarily to find hesitation. A second later, he pushes you against the door, a gasp escaping you at the sudden motion.

Bright, red flashing lights set off in your head, but all you see is him—all you want is him.

“A few things,” he starts, fingers digging into your waist. When you don’t push him back, he leans down, bringing his mouth to your neck, nipping at the unmarked skin. Your eyes flutter shut at his ministrations, fingers curling into the hair on the nape of his neck. “All of them involve you naked.”

His words settle as a promise in the air.

“What about you?” you ask, breathless.

He’s barely touched you, but here you stand, willing to grant him anything he desires. Your knees weaken beneath you from the hot, open-mouth kisses he presses to your skin.

“I’d be too busy making you cum,” he murmurs between soft, promising kisses trailing from your neck to your jawline. “I’d take my time teasing you like I am right now - like I did then.”

His hips press with intent into yours, holding you against the wall. The scene feels too familiar, and you're transported back to the night he made you come over and over until tears wet your lashes.

“Fuck.”

“Let me take care of you,” he coaxes, lips softly brushing the corner of yours. “Promise you won’t regret it.”

Heat surges through you, a coil of tension knotting in your stomach. Instinctively, you press your thighs together hard. He notices and smirks, rolling of his hips against you.

Then you feel it—him.

You breathe. “Shit.”

“Convincing enough, yet?”

“God - fuck.” Your head press into the wall behind, eyes squeezing shut.

His mouth trails along your collarbone, featherlight. “I can be nice,” he murmurs. “Give in to me, pretty.”

It takes everything you have to say, “No.”

“Why not?” He frowns, head lifting. “And don’t say it’s because you don’t want me. I know you do.”

You swallow thickly, ignoring your body’s desperation for him. “Because I said so.”

“Are we still playing this game?” he asks, face finding the crook of your neck. “I want you, Y/N. I haven’t been secretive about it, and I know you want me.” His tongue licks the column of your throat, before teeth nip sensitive skin. “Probably dripping right now for me.” Lifting his head, gaze full of lust and frustration. “What’s holding you back?”

Your voice is barely above a whisper. “It’s a bad idea.”

“How so?”

“I don’t want to risk screwing up our friendship,” you answer, not completely lying.

Risking your friendship is one of several reasons you refuse to take this further. But truthfully, there is as much fear in your heart as there is desire, holding you hostage from letting go.

A fleeting emotion passes through his eyes, too swift for you to decipher. He considers you, tongue prodding the inside of his cheek, and you wonder if he can see through you—see how desperately you’re hiding your emotions.

“Bullshit,” he concludes, and you nearly choke on your spit. “You’re lying.”

“And you’re a little shit,” you retort, easily. “Anything else we wanna air out?”

Taehyung might’ve cracked a smile if he weren’t deciphering your hesitation.

“Okay.” He pulls away. “I can be patient. I’ll wait until you sort out whatever’s bothering you. And once you finally agree running from this is pointless, I’ll have you begging for my touch.”

Arching a brow, you scoff, “You sound pretty sure about that.”

“I am sure,” he grins, confident bordering on cocky. “When you finally let this happen - us,” —he drags a thumb across your bottom lip— “I’m going to ruin you.”

“Fuck.”

A boyish grin finds his face as he steps back, warmth fleeing with him. His desire swirls in his eyes, but he opts for a wink.

“I will.”

A whole month passes, and you’re a mess.

Taehyung keeps his word, refusing to toe the line past friends. His unabashed, shameless flirting returned to something harmless. He hardly reacts when you tease, even when you suggest provocative double entendres to provoke a reaction.  

The only reason you’re aware he’s affected is because his eyes leave little to the imagination.

A look that holds so much promise—so much desire—if you finally give in, you’d regret testing his patience. Sometimes you wish he’d finally snap and bend you over the kitchen counter to have his way with you.

“I know exactly what you’re trying to do, sweetheart,” Taehyung warned during a night of relentless teasing. “And I’m going to remember this when you finally break.”

He’s not commented since. And though he does nothing to tease, your thoughts are overtaken by him.

This is more challenging than when he was pursuing you. At least then, it released some building tension. Now, consumed by desire and need, there’s nothing to be done for it. Despite initially hoping his advances would stop, restless desire corrodes your being due to a situation you created.

“Make way bitches, I’m - the fuck.” Maya’s eyes flicker across your room with mild concern. “Are you fleeing the country?”

“Told you.” Namjoon licks ice cream off the spoon. “You overpacked.”

Defeat slumps your shoulders. “I need help.”

“An understatement.” Maya carefully navigates through the heap of clothes. “You know we leave in the morning, right?”

You gape. “No, really?”

“Bitchy.”

Every summer, Seokjin—an old friend of Namjoon’s, and now a friend of yours—throws an annual beach trip under the guise of vacation. A guaranteed blackout blur so Seokjin can maintain his self-acclaimed title as King of Parties.

Seokjin is actually the mutual friend who introduced you to Taehyung.

Freshman year, Taehyung wasn’t yet infamous around campus. His name had just begun to whisper among crowds when you met at Seokjin’s first beach trip. Met, meaning you drunkenly coerced him to aid you with finding Seokjin’s secret stash of jello shots.

And find it you did.

Fingers sticky with sugar, and the taste of cherry vodka on your tongue is the only lingering memory before the night blurs.

Following that year, things changed.

The next beach trip girls gravitated towards him, drawn by his irresistible charm. He’d grown into his boyish looks, enchanting anyone curious about Taehyung Kim. People became putty in his presence, unable to resist him.

Until five months ago, you hadn’t properly spoken to him since that night. 

Now, the boy you barely knew is the man you live with. The stranger you hardly spoke to in passing now knows the sounds you make when you cum.

Blinking the thought away, your gaze finds Maya.

Her foot nudges a pile of clothes. “You don’t need eighty percent of these.”

“I know,” you concede, fingers brushing the pile. “How are you guys done packing?”

Namjoon lazily swivels in the chair, spoon occasionally dipping into the tub of ice cream in his hands. “It was easy,” he says between bites. “You’re overthinking your fits.”

“Says you,” Maya jeers, lying on the bed. “You were late to bowling last week because your shirt was drying.”

His brow raises. “And?”

“Your entire closet is full of shirts,” Maya deadpans, eyes narrowed. “You didn’t need that particular one.”

“Yes, I did.” Namjoon points the spoon at her. “That shirt got me that girl's number.”

Your face falls flat. “You blocked her number the second she walked away.”

He shrugs, unapologetic. “Never said I wanted it.” 

“No wonder you’re still single,” you mutter, cross-legged by your duffel bag. “You complain about not being in a relationship, but then run away—!”

Namjoon interjects, unimpressed. “How’s Taehyung?” 

Instantly, your mouth clamps shut, attention shifting to the heap of clothes. Attempting to stifle your tangent works; message loud and clear. 

“How is Taehyung?” Maya prods, intrigued. “Put yourself out of misery, yet?”

“Nope,” you say, hastily. “We’re not having this conversation.”

“Too bad.” Namjoon grins. “You still playing hard to get?”

A sound of discontent escapes you. More than their own romantic endeavours, your friends are engrossed in yours. Never have two people been so committed to learn new advancements about something. 

“No.” You fold a random shirt with exaggerated precision. “Nothing new.”

“Remind me,” Maya taunts, voice flat. “Why’re you fighting against this?”

Namjoon scoffs. “As if she knows.”

“Because it’s a bad idea,” you reason, glaring. “Fucking him is only going to fuel his ego and make him more unbearable.”

“Coming from the same person who’s constantly pushing his limits, that’s hilarious,” Namjoon snorts, stabbing the spoon into the tub. “Is this some weird foreplay where you keep edging each other?”

Cheeks heating, you stammer, “I - we - shut up!”

Namjoon cackles, easily dodging the shirt you chuck. “You clearly want to bone each other. Put yourselves out of misery.”

“Namjoon has a point,” Maya agrees.

“I always do.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” she chides before her attention shifts to you. “You love a good orgasm, and he gave you four.” For effect, she pauses. “Imagine the sex you could be having.”

“Believe me, I have,” you murmur, memories flashing through your mind. “But it’s not that simple.”

Namjoon asks, “Why not?”

“It’s messy,” you answer, brows pinched. “We share a fridge and a Netflix account. I’m not about to gamble that just because he’s hot and wants to prove a point.”

You're no stranger to one-night stands, but those encounters involve people who aren’t motivated by a desire to win some game. Taehyung's intentions are different; he sees you as a challenge. You won't become another notch on his bedpost so he can have his ego stroked.

“Is that the only reason?” Maya pushes with a curious glint. “Do you like him?”

Ridiculed, you stare. “Do I look stupid?”

Namjoon shrugs, head tilting. “I mean—!”

“Not a word.”

He chuckles behind you, swirling in your chair. “Do you like him, though?”

“As if,” you say, rolling your eyes. “We’re just friends.”

Maya and Namjoon exchange a look, and you frown, unable to understand their unspoken words.

“Sure.”

“Right.”

Your frown deepens. “I’m being honest.”

Though your friends are unconvinced, you know anything you feel is an extension of physical attraction. Attraction intertwining itself with every fibre of your being, attempting to sway you against your better judgment. A ruse your body creates to cave into temptation, the foolish thing unable to separate lust and desire from something real.

Anything beyond physical attraction is a pointless endeavour. 

“Do whatever you like,” Maya appeases, hands raised in surrender. “All I ask is that you keep it in your pants when you’re in my line of sight.”

Finding the notion absurd, you snort. “The beach house is the last place anything would happen.”

Every year, Seokjin invites a crowd of people, and every time, Taehyung finds someone to spend the week entwined with. Not expecting anything different this year, you’ve been wrestling this thought for the past week.

Part of you is relieved to leave the apartment behind—the tension, the near-misses, the building frustration.

A week by the ocean is what you need.

Warmth from the sun, fresh sea breeze, and space from the kind of temptation that’s starting to feel all consuming. Another part of you is twisted with something cruel. The gnawing thought that you will inevitably be forced to watch Taehyung’s attention be devoted to someone else. Watch him flaunt around someone else, kiss someone else—be with someone else for a whole week.

A bitter taste finds your mouth.

A knock on your door disrupts the thought. 

Gaze lifting, Taehyung leans against the doorframe, eyes lazily trailing your room.

“Hey.” He nods toward the chaos. “Packing’s going well.”

You frown. “I don’t need the sarcasm, ass.”

Namjoon flaunts the spoon around. “Take over, dude. She isn’t listening to a word I say.”

For the umpteenth time, the nearest item hurls towards Namjoon. Easily, he catches it, only to realize he’s now holding your blue bikini bottom. It dangles on his finger, eyes narrowed like it’s personally offended him.

His disgust directs to you. “Seriously?”

Worried because you were nowhere near ready, your friends came over to help pack. Except, Namjoon used that as an excuse to raid your kitchen, having done nothing but sit and eat the past half hour.

“First of all,” you hiss, grabbing another shirt threateningly, “you haven’t helped with shit. Second - stop waving the spoon around! You’re gonna get ice cream on my clothes.”

“Stop throwing shit at me,” he hisses before glancing at the garment again. “Second thought, you should bring this set.”

“Joonie,” you start, dejected, “I’ve packed ten pairs of bikinis already. You’re not helping.”

He shrugs, returning the item. “Swap it out.”

Accepting with one hand, you return to face Taehyung. His expression gives you pause, tongue prodding the inside of his cheeks, eyes slightly narrowed on Namjoon. A cunning thought devises.

Innocently, you call, “Tae?”

“Hm.”

Raising the blue bikini, you lift another bikini folded at the top of your bag.

With an innocent tilt of your head, you sweetly ask, “Which one would look better on me?”

Dark eyes snap to yours, sharp and warning, but it sends pleasing shivers up your spine. Holding his stare, you silently dare him, take the bait. His gaze drops to the fabric in your hands, and you watch in satisfaction as the muscles in his jaw flex.

“Does it matter?” he asks finally, voice dangerously low.

“Well—!”

“You won’t be in them for long.”

Everything he doesn’t say hangs thick in the air, a wordless echo of the promise he made a month ago—one that’s still seared into your skin. Heat melts your bones, threatening to unravel you, but you hold your ground.

Barely.

“Then I guess,” —you lift the skimpier bikini higher with a delicate flick of your finger— “this is easier to take off.”

His eyes darken. His jaw clenches.

Power tastes so sweet.

A pointed throat-clear pleads attention. Over your shoulder, Maya raises a brow to remind there’s an audience.

“I’m off to the store to grab some last-minute things,” Taehyung announces, unbothered. “Need anything?”

Deliberately swaying the bikini on your finger, you reply, “Got everything I need.”

His gaze lingers on the item, and you suppress your smirk.

Eventually, his attention turns to your friends. “You guys?”

“I’m good.”

“Nope.”

Taehyung nods, holding your gaze one last second before he leaves. Silence falls around the room until the soft click of the front door locking emits through the flat.

Maya and Namjoon pin you with a look of disdain, and you have the decency to look ashamed.

Extending his hand to Maya, Namjoon’s gaze fixes on you. “Ten bucks they fuck four days in.”

Maya counters, “Three.”

With a low five, the deal is placed. At the absurdity, your mouth gapes.

Glaring, you affirm, “Nothing’s going to happen.”

“You still haven’t recovered from his tongue,” Maya responds flatly.

“You’re going to let him fuck you into next month,” Namjoon says simultaneously. 

Mouth floundering, you look abashed. “You guys are the worst.”

“No,” Namjoon huffs, incredulous. “You’re the worst. Those were the worst five minutes of my life.”

Around Taehyung, you easily get lost in your own world. Lust and desire wrap around you, everything else ceasing to exist.

Meekly, you respond, “I was being funny.”

Namjoon mocks, “I witnessed foreplay.”

Maya cackles at Namjoon’s response.

Namjoon continues complaining, “Do that shit in front of me again and I’m charging you my therapy bills.”

“Relax.” You busy yourself by folding a shirt. “He’s gonna be too busy screwing someone else to spare me a second. Your sanity will be spared.” 

“What?” Namjoon’s brows pinch together. “Are you blind? Did you not see the way he looked at you?”

“Like he wants to fuck me.”

“I - yeah,” he admits, blinking. “Exactly.”

“Exactly,” you reiterate. “He wants to fuck, I don’t.”

“Debatable,” Maya murmurs. 

“He’s not gonna waste the week playing cat and mouse with me with no assurance of sex. This is Taehyung. He can’t make it through a five-night bender without food, booze, and sex.”

“He likes this more than you realize,” Maya responds, shrugging. “This is sport to him, and you’re giving him a real game.”

Instead of comfort, the words fuel your worries.

A game—one you secretly enjoy more than you believe—but regardless of how well you play, it doesn’t change the outcome. Taehyung won't wait for a possibility when he’ll have endless options in every corner of that house.

“And sleeping with him is how I lose,” you attest, grounding your will. “I’m too damn competitive to let him win.”

“Right.” Namjoon seems unconvinced. “Make sure when you lose, it’s on day four.”

“Dick.”

“At your service.”

Maya drops to the floor beside you, giggling as she folds her legs beneath her.

“Fuck it,” she shrugs. “You fuck him, or you don’t - doesn’t matter. I’m making sure you pack the skimpiest things in your closet.” She starts peering through your bag. “You might as well fuck someone else, too.”

Amused, your head shakes at her determination.

Namjoon finally sets the ice cream aside, resting his weight on his feet as he crouches on the floor. “I can set you up with one of the guys,” he offers casually. “Jin will offer himself if you wait long enough.”

You snort. “That’s all Maya.”

“Dibs.” Maya smiles deviously. “Jin’s mine.”

Maya and Seokjin have teetered on the edge of friends and more since the day Namjoon introduced them. For years, you’ve watched them inch closer towards something more, and somehow they still haven’t crossed that line. 

Maya carries on, “I went to the gym last week—!”

“You went to the gym?” Namjoon interjects, dubious. “Willingly?”

“…okay, I walked by the gym.” Maya pins him with a look. “Point is I saw him and something divine spoke to me.”

“Your hormones?” you ask.

“Probably.” She shrugs. “Or his fucking abs.”

Namjoon grimaces. “Gross.”

Maya reaches over you to grab a hold of his hands. “You need to help me, Joonie. I’ll be your wingwoman, if you wingman me. Please? Please?”

Namjoon gazes with disinterest at their joined hands. “What’s in it for me?”

“I’ll make sure you’re known as the Messiah of the Sheets, God of Sin, Prince of Pleasure - ow!”

Maya rubs her skin, where Namjoon pinches her.

He grumbles, “Keep saying stupid shit and I’ll tell Jin you smell like something’s been rotting in you for weeks.”

“You fu—!” She cuts herself off, swallowing. “Fine. Deal. I’ll be a normal, boring wingwoman instead.”

He feigns disappointment. “How unfortunate.”

“You have no taste,” Maya huffs, dramatically. “I’ll have to work twice as hard to sell you to someone now.”

“Because you’ll be easy to pimp out.” He snorts, waving a hand at her. “Have you met yourself?”

“I’m a delight,” Maya huffs, before turning to you with a pout. “Tell him I’m a delight.”

You snort, jabbing a thumb at Maya. “She’s drama and chaos wrapped up in a hot fucking body. Pimping her out to Jin will be the easiest thing in the world.”

Without warning, Maya throws her full weight into you. “Awe, babe!”

“Maya, wait—!”

“Oh shit.”

Briefly, you feel Namjoon trying to support your weight. “Fuck—!”

One by one, you all topple over and crash on the ground in a tangled mess of limbs. 

Namjoon groans from somewhere under your leg, and it unleashes a fit of giggles from you. As he curses under the weight of you both, it continues to fuel your humour.

Maya lifts a single finger, wiggling it with excitement.

“Operation Bang Voyage has officially commenced!”

“Mm - are we here?”

Glancing over your shoulder, you greet, “Mornin’, sleeping beauty.”

Maya lifts her eye mask, adjusting to the light. For the entirety of the two-hour trip, she was asleep. Honestly, you’re surprised she managed to sleep through Namjoon and you singing and bickering.

“Mornin’,” she purrs with a quip of her lip. “What’s the time?”

“A little past one.”

“One?” Maya yawns, arms stretching overhead. “You said we’d be here by twelve.”

“We would’ve,” you murmur, stifling a laugh as you unbuckle. “Until someone decided to take the wrong turn.”

Namjoon grumbles, “I said sorry.”

“Joon,” you start, incredulous, “you missed the same exit three times.”

Namjoon wanted to leave early to secure the nicer rooms before anyone else could claim them. Last year, you arrived closer to dinner, and the three of you were forced to cram into a room with one twin bed.

To say it tested your friendship is putting it kindly.

Departing at 9 AM, the goal was to grab a quick breakfast and arrive by 12. However, the plan didn’t account for Namjoon’s directionally challenged ass. Too distracted by singing, he missed the exit. Easily, you rerouted him, but he missed it again. Even with your constant reminders during the third attempt, he drove right past.

On his fourth attempt, he finally made it. However, for the remainder of the journey, you laughed at his expense.

“Wow.” Maya pauses halfway through opening her door to look at Namjoon. “How’d you get your license again?”

“You’re here in one piece, aren’t you?” he asks, stepping out of the car. 

Maya chirps, “Bare minimum, Kim.”

With a snort, you step out of the vehicle. Warmth from the sun kisses your skin, a salty breeze carrying across the driveway. Over the chatter of your friends, you can hear the distant sound of the waves crashing on the shore.

A smile instinctively curls on your lips, limbs stretching overhead as you hum in content.

“Might catch a ride back with Tae,” you muse as Namjoon pops the trunk. “You hungover and driving - no, thanks.”

“Ride with him, or ride him?” he asks, dryly.

A ghost of a smirk tugs at his mouth when you lift a finger. 

No matter how many times you see this place, it always feels surreal. Red roof bright and sharp against the sky, white siding glowing in the afternoon sun. Memory after memory from previous years spill through every inch of the view. 

Seokjin’s parents are hotshot lawyers who passed their natural talent in academics to their son. Good looks, academically inclined, and rich. He checks a lot of boxes; it’s a wonder how he’s been single for so long.

“Shell-o, my guests.” A voice bellows from the front of the house. “Long time, no sea!”

Eyes trailing to the source of the noise, your eyes roll. “Shut the fuck—!”

Words cease to exist as you find Seokjin.

Maya blinks. “What the fuck?”

Gazing over the rim of your sunglasses, you watch Seokjin’s dramatic 360 before striking a pose.

A sheer, glittery kimono flutters in the breeze, blinding under the sunlight. His abs are on display, but they barely command attention in his ridiculous fit. 

With every step, his flip flops slap obnoxiously against the concrete, rattling the seashells glued onto the straps. Pink swim trunks adorn his hips, littered with cartoon crabs and the words "Feeling Claw-some!" stitched in white sequence across the waistband. On the bridge of his nose rest his star-shaped sunglasses, and putting the entire look together, a giant inflatable flamingo rests comfortably under his arm.

Coming to a stop in front of you, he dramatically shakes his blonde hair out from his face.

Vaguely thinking about Seokjin's perpetual singleness, it seems you’ve answered the question.

“You look…” Your eyes slowly trail over his figure. 

“Dashing?” He wiggles his brows. “Sexy? A wet dream—!”

“Ridiculous.”

He smiles, undeterred. “You’re jealous I’m pulling this off.”

Maya stares blankly. “Definitely not jealous.”

“Where did you find the kimono?” Namjoon asks, face pulled into disgust. 

“Your mom.” Seokjin pulls a face. “None of you have a sense of appreciation.”

“Appreciation for what?” You snort. “Making public humiliation a personality trait?”

“Mock me all you want,” Seokjin says unbothered, flapping his kimono. “Greatness is always misunderstood during its time.”

Maya murmurs, sauntering over to the trunk. “Delusion’s a hell of a drug.”

Eyes narrowed, you ask, “This the first andlast of these ridiculous fits?”

“Nope.”

“Brilliant.”

Seokjin’s chaotic nature and lack of care has always been refreshing. His dramatic flair is a testament to his confidence if anything.

“Wear whatever you want,” Namjoon says, shutting the trunk. “As long as there’s booze, I don’t care.”

Maya drops her duffle to the ground, unzipping the bag. “You got more pink accessories?”

“Obviously.” Seokjin gazes down. “Why?”

Lifting a hot pink bikini, she grins, wicked and bright. “Guess we’re matching today.”

He cheers, stepping forward to dab her. Maya laughs, using his hand to lift herself up. Namjoon comes to a stop beside you, handing over your duffle bag as you exchange a knowing look.

Seokjin grins. “See - this is why you’re my favourite.”

“Sure that’s the only reason, pretty boy?” she asks, winking as she stalks off. 

Seokjin blinks, momentarily caught off guard. His gaze follows her as she climbs the stairs, and like the minx she is, she’s slow and deliberate, aware of her audience. With ease she commands the attention she wants with the sway of her hips.

Until she disappears beyond the threshold, Seokjin’s focus is fixed on her.

Clearing his throat, Seokjin turns to face Namjoon and you. “Where was I?”

“Drooling at her ass,” Namjoon remarks. “Good luck, Romeo.”

Seokjin pins him with a look. “You get the room by Jungkook.”

Namjoon makes a strangled noise of discontent. “Dude. He’s going to be fucking like rabbits all night, every night.”

“Jungkook’s a nice guy.” Seokjin pats Namjoon’s shoulders. “He’ll let you join.”

“Hard pass.”

Before they continue bickering, you ask, “Where am I sleeping?”

“Wherever you want.” Seokjin lazily gestures at the house. “Let me know and I’ll tell the others it’s off limits.”

You lift a brow. “Even the master bedroom?” 

A sly smile curls on his lips. “My only rule for sharing a bed is that we do it naked.”

“Gross.”

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

“I’ll take my chances with the floor.”

“Your loss,” Seokjin sighs, fingers pressed between his brows solemnly. “Beauty sleeps alone tonight.”

Before either Namjoon or you can respond with a well-deserved retort, a familiar voice cuts in from behind.

“Who’s Beauty?”

Taehyung strolls towards you three, eyes darting between you through his sunglasses.

He’s wearing an undone white button-down, his golden tan skin on display. Under the sun, his skin seems to glow, the defined muscles grabbing your attention. Eyes trace over every inch, trailing down to the sharp, familiar v of his waist. A pair of blue swim shorts hangs low on his hips, and you resist the memory of what hides beneath.

“Me, obviously,” Seokjin responds. “Who else?”

A slow smile tugs his lips. “Only pretty one I see is Y/N.”

Unlike Taehyung’s deliberate attempts to unravel your composure, his light-hearted flirting doesn’t have as great an effect.

Or, so you thought.

Under his gaze, your traitorous heart stutters.

“Charming.” Rolling your eyes, you ignore the way your insides flutter. “When did you get here?”

Taehyung left earlier with Seokjin and another friend, Jimin. Needing to be here before any of the guests arrived—without Seokjin, no one can access the place—he was gone by the time you woke up. Had they not woken up at six am to leave, you might’ve joined them. 

He did, however, leave breakfast on the kitchen counter. A plate of scrambled eggs, hash browns, and bacon. Along with it, a stupid note that had no business making you laugh as hard as you did: next time, i’ll make sure your eggs are fertilized x - chef tae

“A little past nine,” he answers, stepping closer. “What took you guys so long?”

“Namjoon”

Namjoon grumbles, “It was the GPS’ fault.”

“Whatever you say, Joonie.”

Seokjin looks at Namjoon, appalled. “Who gave you a license?”

Instantly, they return to bickering, voices rising, and insults flying. Namjoon and Seokjin have been friends for years, long before college, and have only operated on insults and jabs.

Distracted, you don’t notice Taehyung closing the distance until there’s a weight lifted off your shoulder. 

He’s unbothered by the weight of your bag, whereas you were silently cursing yourself for having overpacked. After Namjoon and Maya left, you’d thrown in a few more ‘just in case’ outfits and spiraled for ten minutes about which shoes to bring.

“You don’t have to carry that,” you say, reaching for the strap.

He shifts out of reach. “I know.”

And there’s something about the way he says it—so matter-of-fact, so soft—that makes your hand fall to your side.

He walks towards the house, and you follow, leaving Seokjin and Namjoon behind.

Passing the threshold, the sweet smell of fruits and sunscreen overwhelms you. Taking in the sun-drenched space, there’s music humming from a speaker tucked in the corner, bottles and cans littered on tables, and towels scattered everywhere.

“How was breakfast?” Taehyung asks. “Enjoy the eggs?”

“Make sure my eggs are fertilized?” you recall, arching a brow. “Grow up, Tae.”

He laughs with a boxy grin you’ve come to adore. Unable to help yourself, you match his visible joy.

“I thought it was clever,” he replies, chuckling. “A promise I plan to keep.”

“We’ll see.”

“Yeah.” A subtle smile on his lips. “We’ll see.”

Looking away before he could wordlessly convince you into temptation, you clear your throat. “Where are we going? I’m allowed to choose whichever room I want.”

Winking, he responds, “I’m taking you to the best one.”

Silently, you follow as he leads up the stairs and down the corridors. A comfortable quiet settles between you, thoughts consumed by him. By the broad line of his shoulders, the easy way he moves, the quiet confidence in each step.

Deep in thought, you don’t realize he’s stopped until you walk into his back.

“Ow,” you mutter, rubbing your forehead. “A warning would’ve been nice.”

Taehyung glances, lifting a brow. “Why’re you so distracted?”

“I—!” Stumbling over words, you glance away. “Nothing. Are we here?”

He doesn’t seem convinced, but he doesn’t push, merely smiling to himself. 

Turning the knob to the door, he reveals the room. “Ta-da.”

Immediately, you’re welcomed by massive windows framing a breathtaking view of the ocean. Light spills into the room, golden and warm, brushing over the crisp white sheets, the soft beige rug, the pale wooden floors. A balcony opens directly off your room, completing the scene.

Removing your sunglasses, you rest them on the nightstand.

Taehyung steps in behind you, setting your duffel bag on the floor. “Master bedroom still has a better view, but this is the next best. I saved it for you.”

Astounded, you turn to him. “You saved it?”

He nods, sliding his sunglasses to rest atop his head. You’re dumbfounded because there’s no possible way no one else wanted this room.

Before you can push, he walks toward another door. “Guess the best part?”

Brows pinching, you question, “There’s more?”

He swings open the door, and you follow him into a Jack and Jill washroom. 

He nods to the door at the opposite end. “I’m next door.”

You blink, then peek into the adjoining room. Sure enough, his bag is sprawled open across the bed, clothes already tossed haphazardly around.

“Are you obsessed with sharing a washroom with me?” you ask. “Or living down the hall from me?”

He chuckles. “I chose it for the view. Not as good as yours, though.”

“Tae, you could’ve just taken the better one.” Your shoulders slump. “Why leave it for me?”

“Do you not like it?”

“I love it, but—!”

“That’s all that matters,” he interjects, soft but firm.

An argument dies in your throat. There’s a steady certainty, the unwavering warmth in his gaze. An intensity in his eyes you’re not accustomed to, a softness that pulls your thoughts into dangerous shores. 

Clearing your throat, you walk towards the sink counter. 

Through the mirror, you catch Taehyung’s teasing smile. “I’ll just walk over whenever I want to see something pretty.”

Holding his gaze through the mirror, you drift into uncharted waters. His teasing and flirting are manageable when it’s obvious his intentions are lewd.

This, however?

A war rages between your heart and mind as it tries to decipher what it means.

Needing to bring things somewhere you can control, you press, “You sure the view isn’t walking in on me naked?”

His head tilts. “Already have the memory of that.”

“That so?” You hold his stare, unblinking. “Don’t need a refresher?”

A muscle ticks in his jaw, eyes dark as they bore into yours through the mirror.

“You’re such a tease,” he says, voice rough around the edges. “Keep saying things, but you never do anything about it.”

Heart drumming in your ears, you taunt, “Maybe I want to see you break first.”

You’re playing a dangerous game.

The more you push, the closer you get to shoving him off the edge of his barely contained restraint. For a month, you’ve enjoyed watching him keep his restraint tethered, rather than crashing into you with the same recklessness he normally does.

He considers you. “And if I do, will you finally give in?”

“Nothing to give in to.”

His eyes flash with challenge.

In a few strides, he closes the distance, hands resting on either side of you on the counter. Heat from his body seeps through the thin space between you, igniting a subtle warmth along your spine. His lips brush against the shell of your ear, feather-light as they curl into a smirk.

His voice is soft and low. “Liar.”

“Am not.”

“You sure?”

A shiver runs down your back. His tone is far too challenging, far too low, settling in the pit of your stomach. 

Ignoring this, you tilt your head. “Maybe if you try hard enough, I’ll actually be tempted.”

He considers you, and you can see him rising to the challenge. A part of you wonders if you’ve finally made him break.

“I can’t decide if I love or hate how stubborn you are,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Part of me can’t wait to watch you beg—!”

“Not happening.”

He chuckles, deep and low. “And the other wants to fuck that attitude right out of you.”

His words render you speechless, knocking the air out of your lungs. After a month of silence, you were not expecting anything out of his mouth this vulgar. Perhaps his patience is finally wearing thin, or the beach house will be his demise. 

As if he’s proved his point, catching the way you react to his vulgar words, he pulls away. Instead, he stands beside you, back against the counter as he grins.

Blinking, you find the words to respond. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

He winks. “Could kiss you, too.”

“Piss off.”

“You wouldn’t like that.”

A brow arches in challenge. “I can’t think of a better way to kick off this weekend.”

“Don’t pretend like you won't miss me.”

A playful smile finds his lips, but his words land close to a truth you don’t want to confront. He’s right, you wouldn’t like that. 

A small fear embeds deep within you. Fear he’ll disappear as he has previously on these trips. Fear that every interaction will be reduced to a passing greeting and nothing more. Not because you’re accustomed to his attention being fixated on you, but because of the possibility that this has always—only been about sex.

Months of laughing, becoming friends, bickering—all of it. It would mean nothing, and the thought twists sharply in your chest.

Masking your emotions, you respond, “You sound pretty sure of yourself.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asks, nonchalantly. “You said ‘I don’t think I cummed so hard in—mmf!”

“Would you shut up?” you hiss, covering his mouth with your hand.

Heat rises to your cheeks, panic surging through you. 

Post-four-orgasms, you were dangerously honest—breathless, blissed out, and utterly unfiltered. He clung to that line like a trophy, letting it inflate his already unmanageable ego for days.

Withdrawing your hand slowly, you pin him with an unimpressed glare. Not that it phases him. He’s far too amused by the whole ordeal.

He tilts his head, teasing, “I was just reminding you why you’d miss me.”

“By quoting all the stupid and irrelevant shit I say?”

“Highly disagree on the irrelevant.”

“Do you?” you challenge, arms crossing. “The stuff that boosts your ego sticks, but when I repeatedly tell you stop using my shampoo, it just goes in one ear and out the other.”

“No, I remember that,” he corrects. “I chose to ignore it.”

“Ass.”

He winks. “An ass with glowing reviews.”

“And you wonder why I tell you to piss off.”

“Wait—!” He straightens slightly, brows pinched together. “You brought it with you, right?”

Your face falls flat.

He grins. “You did.”

“Don’t fucking even.”

He kisses his teeth. “Roommates are supposed to share things.”

“Yeah, like utilities and rent. Not high-end, salon-grade shampoos that cost more than your streaming subscriptions combined.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

You arch a brow. “Without using your dick?”

He pulls a face, almost appalled. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“Wait - is that why you picked these rooms?” you ask, eyes narrowed. “You wanted to rob me blind?”

“I would’ve stolen your shampoo regardless.” A boyish grin curls on his lips. “This just makes it easier.”

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you exhale sharply. “I will replace my shampoo with Nair.”

Taehyung blinks. “I carry your heavy-ass duffel bag upstairs, and this is my thank you?”

“Yeah.”

“Definitely using your shampoo.”

He dodges just as you lunge to twist his nipple, laughing as he bolts into his room.

“You little—!” You’re on his heels in an instant, chasing him into the hallway. “Touch my shampoo and you’re dead.”

Over his shoulder, he calls, “File a complaint, then!”

“I did! Months ago, when you first started robbing me!”

He skids to a stop and spins around dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “And I’m taking it very seriously. Extensive review process and everything.”

Mid-step, you falter. “It’s been five months, Taehyung.”

“I’m a one-man operation,” he argues, offended. “I have a lot of complaints to go through. Including this one now.”

“Then stop pissing me off.”

“I’m not trying to piss you off, Y/N,” he assures. “I’m trying to make you cum again—!”

“Shut up!” you screech, launching at him once more. “Oh my God, what is wrong with you?!”

Taehyung’s laughter echoes through the halls as he catches your wrist mid-air, his grip annoyingly firm. You writhe in his hold, cursing every molecule of his being, but it further amplifies his laughter. 

“You’re so violent.”

“You’re so dead.”

He frowns. “Who’s going to remind you to restock your shampoo if I’m dead?”

Trying—and failing—to hide your smile, your mouth gapes. For someone so infuriating, he makes it ridiculously easy to forget why you’re mad. 

Disbelieved, you counter, “I wouldn’t need to restock so often if it weren’t for you.”

“Your expenses are acknowledged, but will not be reimbursed.”

“Let go,” you say flatly, gaze hard. “I’m going to fix this by ripping out your hair.”

His grip tightens, stepping closer until your back brushes against the banister. He barely flinches as you squirm in his hold.

“When you think about it,” he starts lightly, tone infuriatingly casual, “it’s kind of a compliment.”

Your brows furrow. “How?”

“Means you smell good,” he states. “And I like it.”

He effortlessly brings you back to the very thing you were avoiding.

Uncharted waters.

Flirting is Taehyung’s second language, coming to him as natural as breathing. Months ago, this wouldn’t make you pause, but something’s shifted. Maybe you’ve changed, or maybe it’s your dynamic, because regardless that these superficial one-liners are a ruse at best, your heart stumbles.

“At least be original,” you murmur, ignoring the tightening in your chest. “Flattery only works when it hasn’t been rinsed and repeated, Kim.”

“Excuse me,” he scoffs, feigning offense. “That was a Taehyung Kim exclusive.”

“And I’m sure you meant it as deeply the last ten times you used it.”

His smile falters, his usual brand of mischief gone. Instead, he watches with a new intensity—something quieter, more focused.A shift in the air that you’re not accustomed to, pressing against your chest.

“Not everything I say is a line,” he says with unexpected candor. “Not with you.”

The depth of his sincerity holds you hostage. Standing here, air knocked out of your lungs, you see it clearly; the quiet focus dancing behind his gaze is a silent plea.

His sincerity is so tangible, you’re unsure what to make of it. Unsure what any of this means, but before either of you get the chance to continue—!

“Taehyung!”

A voice cuts through the moment like a blade, loud and familiar, and unmistakably Jimin.

At the distraction, you pull away from Taehyung. Instead, you stand beside him before Jimin catches you. A small crease forms between Taehyung’s brows, displeased by the sudden distance.

Jimin calls, still out of sight, “Tae!” 

Taehyung’s gaze holds you for a second longer before exhaling. 

“Upstairs.”

Peering over the bannister, the view of the foyer veers off to the living room. Enough of the chaos is visible from where you stand; bags scattered by the front door, voices echoing faintly from the kitchen.

Jimin rounds the corner, stepping fully into view. His pink hair catches your attention first, bright under the lights. His shirt is long gone, a lei hanging around his neck—no doubt Seokjin’s if the neon pink colour is anything to go by—and a pair of swim shorts adorn his hips.

He pauses as he catches sight of you, doing a quick double take.

“Oh - hey, Y/N!”

You return his smile. “Hey, Chim.”

“How was the drive up?”

“Joon was driving, so…”

“At least you had better company,” Jimin says, nodding toward Taehyung. “We were stuck with Captain Brood over here.”

Glancing at Taehyung, you snort. He’s never been a morning person, even when he’s up willingly. At best, you’ll get a grunt until he’s had coffee and stared blankly at a wall for ten minutes.

Humming, your gaze lingers on him. “I’m honestly surprised he even made breakfast this morning.”

Jimin’s brows lift. “He made breakfast?”

Before you can reply, Taehyung cuts in, “What do you want?”

For a second, Jimin’s gaze lingers on you, something curious flickering across his face.

“Your ass downstairs.” Jimin’s hands slip into his pockets. “We need to unload JK’s car.”

“Find someone else.”

“No.”

“I’m busy.”

He’s been bothering you for several minutes, having done absolutely nothing of importance. And if anyone can pick up on that, it’s Jimin. He’s come over often enough to know the two of you together consists of nothing productive.

“Get busy later,” Jimin replies, unimpressed. “I’m not carrying the groceries myself.”

Taehyung frowns. “Where’s Kook? It’s his damn car.”

“Taking a shit.”

Typical. Of course, the first thing Jungkook does is claim a bathroom by stenching it.

“Which washroom?” you ask, scanning around the foyer.

A thumb jerks over his shoulder. “He’s in that one.”

Following the trajectory of his thumb, you make a mental note not to avoid that toilet. Jungkook has a natural talent of being a nasty shit—literally and figuratively. 

A second later, a groan echoes across the foyer.

“Fucker,” Seokjin mutters, rounding the corner with a sneer. “I told him to use any other bathroom but that one.”

“You told Jungkook not to do something, and he did it?” Jimin wears a flat stare. “Shocker.”

“Fuck off,” Seokjin grumbles. “He had Mexican last night. Dude’s gonna clog my fucking pipes, again—!”

“I’M SHITTING, NOT DEAF, MOTHERFUCKER!”

Jungkook’s voice bellows from behind the bathroom door, booming through the house.

Hands immediately flying to your mouth, unable to stop the laughter spilling out of you. Jimin’s brows are in his hairline, Taehyung blinks with disbelief, shoulders shaking silently, and Seokjin marches toward the bathroom door, fuming.

“Overgrown shit!” he yells, punctuating the insult with a swift kick to the door..

Inside, Jungkook cackles, “What’s that, old man? You want a whiff of this?”

Seokjin looks appalled, and a second later, he and Jungkook are bickering through the closed door. Chaos ensues, layered with shouting and exaggerated gagging sounds. 

Jimin murmurs, “Idiots.”

Seokjin whips around. “Groceries, Park. Or you’re getting locked in there once he’s done.”

Jimin’s eyes widen with slight fear, turning to face you both again. “Tae. Get down now.”

Taehyung groans, clearly uninterested in moving the groceries out of the car. “Fine,” he mutters, pushing off the railing with a huff. “Coming.”

At the top of the stairs, Taehyung pauses as if on the verge of saying something. But just as quickly, it’s gone.

Instead, he says, “I’ll find you later.”

Not waiting for a response, he takes the stairs two at a time, the soft thud of his footsteps growing fainter with each step.

His choice of words doesn’t go unnoticed; find rather than see. Although you enjoy the promise of seeing him again—him seeking you—it’s a short-lived dream.

Taehyung will find his usual rhythm as he normally does. Attention will gravitate towards him, and his charisma will charm spectators who’ll refuse his focus to wander. He’ll disappear into someone else’s orbit as always, wrapped around someone else’s time. Despite the promise, you know better than to hold him to it. 

Still, hope clings stubbornly. 

Long after returning to your room, your thoughts linger by the bannister, stuck in a moment that fled as quickly as it came.

Not with you.

He hadn’t been teasing.

And that’s the scariest part.

Everyone’s arrived now, the house mainly full of familiar faces.

Despite anticipating it, there aren’t as many new faces as last time. Seokjin’s guest list is shorter, meaning he’s grown wiser, or he’s haunted by last year’s cleaning bill still.

Four shattered coffee tables, spray paint on the garage doors, and an angry set of parents tend to add perspective.

Guests scatter everywhere: sprawled on faded towels down by the shore, ankle-deep in the surf, shouting across the sand during a sloppy game of volleyball. Others linger near the house, plastic cups in hand, hopping between drinking games—beer pong, flip cup, king’s cup.

And then there’s your group.

Tucked into one corner of the wooden deck, playing a game of Hear Me Out that’s gotten progressively worse with every round. Mainly because beneath mismatched fairy lights, slouched in the couch and beanbags, you’re passing a joint between each other, letting the world soften at the edges, thoughts loosened.

“Alright.” Namjoon takes a swing of his beer. “JK’s turn.”

Jungkook wears a victorious smile as his phone turns to face the group. “Pennywise.”

Namjoon spits out his drink. 

“You’re joking.” Zoe looks around the group bewildered. “He’s joking, right?”

Beside her, Yoongi, her boyfriend, takes a slow drag of the joint. He’s the least surprised, expecting this level of chaoticism from Jungkook. 

“No,” Yoongi sighs, resigned. “He’d really fuck Pennywise.”

Beside you, Maya wrinkles her nose. “The clown?”

Jungkook grins, all teeth and no shame. “Yup.”

Seokjin blinks. “You’re unwell.”

“You’d smash Nick Wilde, a literal fox, and everyone agreed like that was normal. I say clown dick and suddenly I’m the problem?”

Seokjin shakes his head, leaning back into his flamingo throne. “One is a charming, street-smart con artist. The other literally eats kids.”

Jungkook lifts both hands like a scale. “Bestiality.” He raises one. “Clown.” He lifts the other. “Which is worse?”

Before anyone can reply, Hoseok shoots him a look. “You chose Judy Hopps last round.”

“Irrelevant,” Jungkook replies.

Namjoon raises a finger, as if trying to put some order back into the madness. “Okay, wait. Why the demon clown?”

“Tall. Good bone structure. Killer smile.”

Dryly, you add, “A murderer.”

Jungkook gives you a flat stare. “You’d fuck Slender Man. You don’t get to judge.”

“Tall, faceless, well-dressed mystery man?” A brow arches. “Any time, any fucking day.”

“Slender Man is the better demon,” Hoseok chimes, nodding. “Dude shows up in a suit. Hot.”

“Slender Man is a faceless freak who kidnaps children in the woods,” Yoongi deadpans.

Zoe eyes her boyfriend. “You’d rather a clown who eats them?” 

Instantly, the group splits into debate: Pennywise or Slender Man. Chatter overlaps with horrified hypotheticals about how sex with either one of them would be. Zoe insists clowns are the stuff of trauma, Namjoon’s arguing for ethical monster choices, and Hoseok mutters about the need for a ‘rules of decency’ clause in Hear Me Out. 

“Alright,” Namjoon’s voice slices through the buzz of conversation. “Jungkook, take the shot. You’re outnumbered.”

Jungkook makes a sound of discontent in the back of his throat. “That was an even split. Hoseok, Yoongi, Jin, and Jimin agree with me.”

Seokjin’s eyes narrow. “Jimin isn’t playing.”

“YO, CHIM!” Jungkook shouts toward the other end of the deck.

From where he’s locked in a beer pong battle, Jimin responds with equal aggression. “SHUT UP!”

He’s mid-round in a game of beer pong with Taehyung, Sana (Seokjin’s cousin and an annual beach house guest), and Sana’s friend, Minji. 

Judging by the table, Jimin and Taehyung are desperate for a redemption arc: Sana and Minji’s side still has a neat row of cups, while the boys’ side is empty. Jimin’s eyes sharpen as he lines up his next shot.

And then—!

“YOU’D FUCK PENNYWISE OVER SLENDER MAN, RIGHT?”

The ball misses the table entirely, bouncing on the wooden deck with a sad clunk.

Jimin stares after it, stupefied.

Jungkook whistles low. “Shit shot, Chim.”

“You fucker—!”

“Pennywise, though, right?”

Jimin turns to him, gaze hard. “Why the fuck are you asking me?”

Jungkook blinks. “You’ve literally fucked a clown.”

Maya chokes on her drink, erupting into a fit of coughs as the attention sets on Jimin. 

Everyone waits to hear Jimin’s response. Taehyung doesn’t even bother to mourn the loss, watching Jimin as if he, too, is learning something new about his best friend.

“When?”

Jungkook smirks. “Your ex.”

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING—!”

Jungkook turns away, jerking a thumb in Jimin’s direction. “Yeah, he agrees.”

A pillow whizzes through the air and smacks the side of Jungkook’s face with a thwack. He’s stunned, blinking as laughter explodes around the room. However, an instant later, he’s jumping over the couch, barreling straight for Jimin.

Insults and physical threats are carelessly tossed around as they circle the beer pong table. 

Zoe laughs, leaning into Yoongi’s side. “Remind me why I voluntarily joined this chaos?”

Yoongi glances at her, mouth quirking. “Because you love me.”

She hums, feigning thought. “Do I?”

“Helplessly.”

Her brow lifts. “Bold assumption.”

“And true,” he adds, brushing his thumb lightly over her knee where his hand rests.

A small smile tugs on her lips. “If you weren’t so smug, I might actually say it.”

Yoonig grins, eyes crinkling. “I can wait.”

An endearing smile curls on your lips.

It’s Zoe’s first time at the beach house, but you’ve known her for months—since Yoongi and her started dating. From the moment she met everyone, she fit in seamlessly into the group, now considered a friend in her own right.

Maya groans dramatically, head falling against the couch. “Be gross somewhere else. I am single and emotionally fragile.”

“Speaking of,” Zoe starts, gleaming brightly. “I know the perfect guy—!”

“No.”

Her smile wavers. “I barely said anything.”

Maya raises a hand. “Your credibility’s shot after the last date you set me on.”

“He was nice!”

“He brought his puppet on the date!”

A laugh bursts from you, the memory crashing back. Pictures, panicked voice notes, and Maya’s re-enactment of her date reciting his order through the puppet.

Yoongi asks, “Didn’t you fuck him?”

Maya opens her mouth and hesitates.

“And my credibility still stands,” Zoe sings-songs. “You’re welcome.”

Maya takes a long sip of her drink, giving Zoe a look that says shut up. Apparently, if a man is hot enough, puppet-related behavior can be ignored.

“How do you vet out questionable men, but simultaneously date Yoongi?” you question. “You have the blueprint to God-tier men, and you’re still bad at this.”

“I have a sane guy this time,” she counters, frowning. “Hear me out!”

At your mutual silence, she continues. 

“His name’s Damon. He works with Yoongi at the studio. Yoongi likes him, so ‘God-tier’ approved.” She glances at Yoongi, who merely nods. “Volunteers at the local animal shelter. Cute. Really sweet.”

“Hard pass,” Maya says, raising her drink. “I’m over sweet.”

Yoongi snorts, “Maya wants guys who are overly dramatic and dressed in pink.”

Maya chokes mid-drink, violently coughing as Yoongi smirks.

Between coughs, she hisses, “Jackass.”

Patting her back, you don’t miss her glance towards Seokjin, who’s engrossed in a conversation with Namjoon. He's gesturing animatedly, eyes bright, clearly mid-rant about something ridiculous, and Namjoon’s half-laughing, half-judging whatever it is.

Zoe giggles, following her line of sight. “Right. Forgot.”

Maya objects, “Nothing’s going on.”

“Of course.”

“Zoe!”

You’re giggling when the weight on the couch shifts behind you. Without a sound, Taehyung appears, leaning over the backrest, arms folded and close enough to feel his warm breath against your cheek. 

“Hey.”

Your head leans back to rest against the cushion.

He’s close, the scent of his cologne—light and airy—wrapping around you. When you tilt your chin just slightly to glance up, your eyes catch on the constellation of moles dusted beneath his eyes, ones that trail like stardust across his face.

Moonlight draws to his presence as easily as you. A soft halo catches in his hair, weaving silver where the sun once lay its bold, sharp edges. Brown eyes an endless ocean of warmth, and you never want to look away.

Before knowing Taehyung, you thought he resembled the sun; his presence loud and untouchable. He filled up a room without even trying. He was golden, magnetic, always surrounded by laughter and attention.

Lately, that’s shifted.

Taehyung glows under the moonlight—blooms in the darkness. A quiet force that draws you in without demanding a thing; a presence that wraps around you in silence. He doesn’t need to be the center of the universe to make you feel like you’ve found home in his orbit.

Your gaze lingers on the curve of his cheek, the soft dip under his eye where one of those tiny moles rests. 

“Pretty,” you murmur.

“What?”

“You.”

A rare stillness takes over him. 

His eyes widen, speechless—not daring to breathe as if afraid you’ll take it back. Your whisper lingers between you, delicate and unafraid, and for the first time in a long time, he falters.

Rarely do you see his breath betray him, and you hope to remember this forever if you’re never to see it again.

His lips curl, soft and warm, resting quietly in your chest. His forehead drops against the backrest with a breathy laugh, hair brushing the fabric. Without thinking, your fingers tangle in the dark locks, alcohol and weed abandoning hesitation.

He turns his head, leaning to your touch.

“Just figuring that out?” he teases.

You don’t miss the slight unsteady hitch in his breath. 

Tugging his hair, you murmur, “Don’t make me regret it.”

His eyes flutter shut, lost in the feeling of your fingers curled in his soft locks. “Too late. You’ve created a monster.”

You scoff, quietly amused. “You’ve been a monster.”

“Maybe,” he concedes as he opens his eyes. “But now I’m a pretty one.”

“This is why I never compliment you.”

“And that’s why I never shut up when you do.”

Before you respond, Zoe calls your name, grabbing your attention. Hand falling limp, you pretend you weren’t lost in your own world for a moment. And if she or Yoongi noticed, they don’t mention it.

You don’t, however, miss the smirk on Maya’s lips. 

“So,” Zoe drawls, “you doing this or what?”

Every muscle stiffens at her words. 

Behind you, Taehyung shifts to stand straighter, but his posture remains relaxed. Even as he lifts his drink to his lips, you feel the weight of his attention honing in.

“Maya has other interests,” Zoe continues, a sly smirk towards Maya. “But you don’t.”

Your voice sharpens. “Zoe—!”

“I’m just saying,” she starts, unbothered, “it’s been a while. And you’ve been complaining about needing a good fuck.”

Maya breaks into a fit of coughs, sounding suspiciously similar to laughter. Yoongi pretends not to hear, suddenly finding something interesting on his phone. Meanwhile, you’re silently praying the Earth will swallow you whole. 

“Has she?” Taehyung asks, innocently. “I hadn’t realized.”

Zoe snorts. “That’s because you don’t notice anything beyond your own dick, Tae.”

He hums, rich and unhurried. “Not true,” he muses. “I’m very attentive. Especially when it comes to Y/N.”

Your stomach flips.

A simple statement to others, but one that holds secrets that weigh heavily on you. Which is why the worry gnaws on your chest, a slight panic about where this conversation heads.

Zoe snorts, rolling her eyes. “She’s practically taken a vow of celibacy. How have you not noticed?”

He chuckles. “Is that right?”

Heat crawls up your neck. “Can we not—!”

“You live with her.” Zoe gestures towards you, raising a questioning brow. “You would know about her celibacy better than anyone.”

Taehyung makes a thoughtful sound. “Define celibate.”

You don’t have to turn around to picture the sly curve of his mouth, the lazy tilt of his head. You know Taehyung’s tells by heart; the lazy velvet drawl, the tilt of amusement. For a moment, you forget this isn’t your usual game. 

Then Zoe speaks, and the ground shifts.

“Right.” Zoe rolls her eyes. “Back to the matter at hand—!”

Fear ceases you. “Zoe—!”

“Damon is a really great guy,” she continues, undeterred. “And if you don’t hit it off, he’s still hot enough to break your celibacy streak.”

Gravity rearranges itself, the world shifting on its axis. His silence fills the air, heavy and deliberate, night itself waiting for his reaction. 

Taehyung’s voice cuts low and deceptively even. “You’re going on a date?”

You answer fast. “No.”

Simultaneously, Zoe chirps, “Yes.”

A beat of silence. Taehyung lets out a low hum. Not amused—not quite anything, really.

“It’s not a date,” you rush to explain, feeling defensive. “I haven’t even said yes.”

“What’s there to decide?” Zoe asks, unaware of the slowly building tension. “Let loose and have some fun. Taehyung, back me up here.”

Your spine is too rigid, hands too still in your lap.

Awareness prickles the back of your neck, one that exists when Taehyung’s watching. His gaze burns into the back of your head, but you refuse to face him. 

You can’t. 

Guilt crashes into you, sharp and disorienting. 

It swells in your chest, pressing down on your lungs until you’re half-convinced something needs to be said. Desperate to offer an explanation for a crime you haven’t even committed. 

But before you can say anything—!

“Sure,” Taehyung says. “Why not?”

That’s it?

His expression is unreadable, gaze steady on the rim of his cup as he takes a slow sip, unbothered.

Blinking, you ask, “What?”

“You should go for it.” He shrugs, a teasing smile finding his face. “Might finally get that stick out your ass.” 

His teasing has always unnerved you, always found its way easily under your skin. However, this time his teasing bothers you for entirely different reasons, brows furrowing deeper.

“Finally!” Zoe cries. “Someone else who sees it. I’ll text you his deats right now.”

A second later, your phone buzzes. Glancing down, you find a thread of messages lighting your screen.

zoe: damon’s number: xxx-098-8888

zoe: cute, respectful, great arms

zoe: fuck him 😘

Looking up again, Taehyung’s gaze is on your screen, but there’s nothing behind them. No indifference, no anger, nothing.

As if he doesn’t care.

The conversation shifts with ease, and you pretend to listen. Nodding along, you smile when necessary, laugh when needed. Your mind, however, is possessed by worrisome thoughts, keenly aware of Taehyung’s presence behind you.

Aware of how at ease he seems, how he carries on like nothing happened.

Meanwhile, you’re sifting through the pieces, realizing none of it meant anything. Everything built up over these last few months was a game, as suspected. 

Harmless flirting.

A whisper of more, kissed with the promise of nothing. 

This is what you claimed you wanted—an easy out. No strings, no fallout. Just clean detachment wrapped in silence.

So why do you fall further and further into despair?

next

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The mirror stares back at you like it’s trying to convince you of something.

That you’re beautiful. That you’re lucky. That this is what you’ve always wanted.

But the mirror lies.

You’re dressed in layers of ivory lace and silk so heavy it feels like armor. Gold threads snake across your bodice like vines, binding you into a shape you barely recognize. Somewhere behind you, handmaidens fuss with ribbons and brocade, cooing soft words you don’t hear. Your reflection looks poised- majestic, even.

But you feel like you’re drowning beneath the weight of expectation.

Your chest tightens. Not from nerves. No, you’d welcome nerves. This is worse. This is suffocation. The perfume in the room is too sweet. The silence, too loud. Every delicate “Princess” that slips from a servant’s tongue hits like a blade.

You’re getting married today.

To a man you’ve barely spoken to.

A man who’s ten years older.

A prince from a kingdom that needed a treaty more than a love story.

You catch your own gaze in the mirror again. Your lips are painted, your hair perfectly pinned, your veil stitched with symbols older than your name. You look like a queen-in-the-making.

But inside?

You’re unraveling.

“Too tight,” you say sharply, not looking at the handmaiden tying your corset.

She freezes. “Apologies, Your Highness…”

You stand abruptly, fingers tugging the laces yourself until the pressure eases from your ribs.

“Leave,” you murmur.

They hesitate.

“I said leave.”

Their skirts whisper across the marble floor as they vanish, one by one, until the room is yours again. Quiet. Empty. Suffocating.

You exhale shakily and lower yourself onto the velvet stool near the fire. You should feel like a bride. Instead, you feel like a pawn being moved across a glittering board.

A knock at the door makes your spine go rigid.

“Come in,” you say, voice tighter than you’d like.

The door creaks open. And there she is.

Jisoo.

Your older sister. Your kingdom’s golden girl.

She steps inside delicately, wrapped in blush silk with her hair softly swept up, eyes wide with sympathy you don’t want. She’s everything gentle and graceful the court adores. She looks like spring in human form.

And she looks like someone’s first choice.

“Soo,” you say, your tone unsure- too many emotions knotted in one syllable.

She smiles. Soft. Almost apologetic. “You look… stunning.”

You blink at her. “Why weren’t you here earlier?”

“I thought you’d want to be alone.”

“I didn’t,” you admit. “Not today.”

She hesitates a step from you. Her fingers curl into each other.

You feel the question bubbling before you can stop it. “Does he love you?”

The words spill out like poison.

Jisoo’s expression flickers- guilt, shock, something unreadable but she catches it before it fully forms. “Y/N…”

“You don’t have to lie,” you whisper. “Not today.”

“I never encouraged it.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I didn’t know.”

“You must’ve known.” Your voice cracks just slightly. “He looks at you like you’re the crown he lost.”

Jisoo swallows, her voice quiet. “He’s marrying you.”

You stare into the fire, the flickering light licking at your gown like flame to paper. “But he wanted you.”

She doesn’t answer. And her silence says more than a confession ever could.

You don’t blame her. Not really. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“Maybe you should be the one marrying him,” you say, not able to meet her eyes.

“I would never take this from you,” she breathes.

You turn to face her finally. “Would it really be stealing if I was just keeping your seat warm?”

The air between you thickens. You’re not angry at her. Not really. You’re angry at fate. At politics. At the cold man waiting at the altar who wants a different bride.

Jisoo takes a step closer. “You’re stronger than you think.”

“No, I’m just better at pretending.”

She reaches out to touch your shoulder. You don’t pull away, but you don’t lean in either.

“He’ll learn to love you,” she says gently. “Anyone would.”

You let out a dry laugh, sharp as glass. “You don’t learn to love someone like me. You endure her.”

The bell tolls outside- three slow, echoing chimes that stretch across the walls like the opening notes of a funeral dirge.

It’s time.

You rise. Your gown shifts like water. You steady your shoulders, straighten your crown. You feel her watching you, but you can’t look at her again.

Because you are walking down the aisle

Not as the girl he dreamed of. Not as the sister he wanted. But as the bride he’s stuck with.

The chapel smells like ancient roses and old prayers.

You glide down the aisle slowly, deliberately, as the eyes of two kingdoms drink you in. The train of your gown trails behind you like spilled moonlight. Hundreds of royals, nobles, and dignitaries line the carved pews, all dressed in silks and golds, but none of them matter. You feel them watching, judging, whispering about your age, your family, your worth.

But you only look forward.

You keep your eyes on the altar where Prince Jeon Jungkook stands like he’s carved from ice.

He doesn’t smile.

Not even a flicker of warmth touches his face when he sees you. His expression remains cold, impassive, lips a straight line, shoulders square. You wonder if he even sees you or if he’s just counting the seconds until this political obligation is complete.

The music swells. The world fades.

You reach him.

He doesn’t offer his hand.

The High Cleric begins the ceremony with blessings in a language older than either of your kingdoms. You barely hear the words. Your fingers are trembling in your gloves. You feel like you’re underwater. Everything is soft and distant and slow.

Until it’s time for the vows.

You turn to face him. And his eyes aren’t on you.

They’re on her.

You see it. Just for a second. A flicker. A heartbeat. But it’s real.

His gaze shifts- barely, subtly- but you know the direction. You don’t even have to look.

Jisoo.

She’s seated near the front. Pale dress. Downcast eyes. Perfect posture. As still and serene as a statue. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t acknowledge it.

But you feel it. All of it.

The phantom of his feelings for her settles like a chill between your ribs.

“Repeat after me,” the Cleric intones, unaware of the slow fracture blooming in your chest.

You say the words.

You pledge your body, your name, your crown.

You do not cry.

He says the words, too. Calm. Flat. Emotionless. He binds himself to you in front of gods and ghosts, but his voice doesn’t tremble. Not from nerves. Not from affection.

Because he feels nothing.

He lifts your veil. His hands are steady. Distant.

Your first kiss as husband and wife is just that- a formality. His lips brush yours like the passing of winter wind. No passion. No warmth. No curiosity.

The crowd erupts into applause.

You smile.

You have to.

He offers you his arm.

You take it.

You walk down the aisle together, shoulder to shoulder but not touching, as cheers rain down from the golden arches of the chapel.

You smile.

You have to.

And though you can feel him beside you… 

he says nothing.

═══════

The ballroom gleams with gold and artifice.

You’re standing in the center of it, hand in hand with a man who hasn’t spoken a word to you all day. Not during the procession. Not during the ceremony. Not after the kiss. Not when he escorted you down the aisle like he was walking beside a shadow.

And now, in front of hundreds of watching eyes, it’s time for the first dance.

The music begins. You take one step forward, and so does he.

His gloved hand rests against your waist like he’s afraid to touch you too firmly- as if contact might imply something that isn’t there. His other hand holds yours, just tight enough to be respectful, just distant enough to make your stomach sink.

You lift your eyes to his.

And for the first time, he speaks, “You should smile.”

Your breath catches.

“That’s what they’re expecting,” he continues, voice low, precise. “A happy bride. A glowing princess.”

You try to smile, but it curls wrong on your lips.

“And you?” you murmur, eyes still fixed on his. “Are you pretending too?”

His grip tightens ever so slightly. “I’m fulfilling a role.”

You laugh- soft, bitter. “And what role is that? Dutiful husband or heartless executioner?”

He doesn’t answer.

You move together across the marble floor like strangers trapped in the same song. The music is beautiful, swelling in delicate arcs around you. But you can’t feel any of it.

“What did I do to make you hate this so much?” you whisper.

He blinks, slowly. “I don’t hate you.”

“No?” you scoff. “Then why won’t you look at me the way you looked at her?”

The words are out before you can stop them. His jaw clenches.

“Don’t bring her into this.”

“She’s already in it,” you breathe. “You put her there when you looked at her during our vows.”

The music swells again, a waltz that sounds too pretty for this kind of pain.

“I don’t want to embarrass you,” he says finally, voice tight.

You force a smile- sharp, graceful, empty. “Too late.”

He turns you in a slow spin, elegant, effortless. From a distance, the court sees perfection. A prince and his new bride, radiant under the candlelight.

But you know better.

You feel the space between your bodies like a scar that hasn’t healed yet.

“Do you love her?” you ask, quiet enough for only him to hear.

He doesn’t answer.

His silence slices deeper than any truth could.

You feel your chest tighten, throat burning. But your face? Your face stays royal. Untouched. Serene.

“Will I ever be more than her shadow to you?”

You see something flicker in his gaze, but it’s gone as fast as it comes.

“You were not the choice,” he says at last.

You blink. You stop moving for half a second. Your shoes nearly slip on the polished floor. The world tilts.

But then the music carries on.

So you do too.

He guides you back into motion, and you match him- fluid, poised, empty.

When the music ends, he steps back. Bows. You curtsy.

Applause erupts across the hall. And you smile so wide it almost cracks your face open.

═══════

The halls are empty when you’re escorted to the royal bedchamber.

No music now. No guests. No watching eyes. Just the sound of your heels against marble and your pulse humming beneath your skin.

The doors are already open.

He’s already inside.

You step in carefully, unsure of what you’ll find. The room is as grand as you imagined- pillars of carved obsidian, embroidered silks draped from the high ceiling, a fire crackling in the hearth like it’s mocking you with its warmth. A table is set with untouched wine. Rose petals litter the floor like someone believed romance could be faked.

He stands by the window, facing away from you. Still dressed in full ceremonial regalia. Still silent.

The doors shut behind you with a hollow thud.

You wait.

You don’t know what you’re waiting for. Instructions? Affection? A beginning?

Instead, you get nothing.

You unclasp your cloak. It falls silently around your feet. Your hair is pinned and tight, your corset aching against your ribs. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to be held.

But he still won’t look at you.

“It’s done,” you say quietly, just to break the silence.

He hums in acknowledgment. Doesn’t turn.

You take a step forward, cautious. “Is there something you’d like me to do?”

At last, he speaks. “Sleep. That’s all.”

That’s all.

The words hang heavy in the air.

You try not to show it, but your fingers curl against your side. “Isn’t this… expected?”

“I don’t owe them a performance.”

“And me?” you ask.

He turns to face you now, slowly. His expression unreadable. Cold. He looks at you like a decision he regrets making. Like a formality he’s been assigned.

“You don’t want this,” he says.

You flinch at the assumption. “You don’t know what I want.”

“You want love. Passion. Devotion.” He crosses his arms. “I’m not the man who gives those things.”

“No,” you say, stepping closer, “you’re the man who gives silence. Distance. Glances meant for someone else.”

His jaw ticks.

You keep going. You’re tired of swallowing pain. “You said your vows. You kissed me. You danced with me. And not once did you pretend I was enough.”

“I told you I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Oh, so this is honesty?” you snap. “This- coldness. This rejection. This… emptiness?”

He sighs. Runs a hand through his hair. His voice is quieter now. “It’s mercy.”

You shake your head. “It’s cruelty.”

Neither of you speak for a long moment.

You break the silence again. “Did you ever think that maybe I didn’t want to be just some treaty girl, either? That I didn’t want to marry a man in love with someone else?”

His face flickers. Just briefly.

You don’t know what emotion it is. Pity? Guilt? Regret?

But it fades too quickly to hold onto.

“You can sleep in here if you want,” he says, voice controlled again. “Or I’ll have a separate room prepared.”

You take a deep breath, walk past him toward the bed. You don’t look at him. Not this time.

“I’ll stay here,” you say softly. “Not because I want you. But because this is my marriage, too.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, spine straight, heart hollow. And he walks away without another word.

The doors close.

You are alone.

Again.

You unlace your corset with trembling fingers. You slide the jewelry off your skin like it’s shackles. You curl beneath the covers, staring at the ceiling that feels more like sky than stone.

And for the first time since the ceremony began, you let the tears fall. No one hears them. No one sees. And when morning comes, you will wear the crown like it never hurt.

═══════

The palace is dead quiet after midnight.

You lie still in the enormous bed, staring up at the carved ceiling, your body wrapped in satin, your heart wrapped in stone.

Jungkook came back hours ago.

He didn’t speak when he entered.

He didn’t speak when he undressed, carefully, methodically, folding his ceremonial uniform with military precision and draping a robe over his bare chest. He didn’t speak when he climbed into the opposite side of the bed, a world away from your side.

He just turned his back to you.

And that was that.

You listened to his breathing even out. Watched the fire in the hearth dim into embers. Let the weight of the sheets press your body down like a crown too heavy to wear.

Sleep never came.

The silence around you was too loud.

You watched the moonlight crawl across the walls until your eyes ached. You imagined what it might’ve felt like to be chosen. To be wanted. To be seen.

You almost didn’t hear it.

A whisper. Barely there.

You blink, breath catching, your body frozen as stone.

Then again- soft. Muffled. Threaded with sleep.

“…Jisoo…”

Your heart stops.

The name barely drips from his mouth- half breath, half confession- but it’s real. It slithers through the shadows between you like smoke.

“…Jisoo…”

He shifts in the bed beside you, still deep in dreams.

And you?

You’re wide awake.

The ache in your chest is immediate and consuming. Sharp enough to make your eyes water, soft enough to break you slowly. You don’t speak. Don’t move.

You lie there, paralyzed. Because how can you scream when the knife was never even meant for you?

It was a whisper. A sleep-talk. A mistake.

But it was her name. Not yours.

Not once tonight- not in his gaze, not in his vows, not in his arms- did you belong to him. But her? She owns the quietest part of him. The part he doesn’t even guard.

You turn your head toward him slowly. His face is peaceful in sleep. Untroubled. Like he hasn’t just carved you open.

You stare at him for a long time.

And for the first time since this all began, you don’t feel sad. You feel cold.

Numb. Resolved.

You pull the covers tighter around you- not for warmth, but for armor.

He may have married you.

But he dreams of her.

And if he thinks you’ll stay quiet forever, if he thinks you’ll simply live in her shadow…

He doesn’t know you at all.

═══════

The first week of marriage does not belong to you.

It belongs to the court.

Every morning begins with a maid waking you before the sun, layering you in gowns chosen by someone else, and fitting a crown so heavy you can feel it in your spine. Every day ends with aching cheeks from holding the same smile for hours.

They don’t call you by name anymore.

You’re Her Royal Highness, Princess Consort of the Northern Kingdom.

A title. Not a person.

The palace calendar is full- parades, charity luncheons, handshakes with foreign diplomats, appearances at schools, hospitals, markets. At each stop, you are arranged like part of the decor. A jeweled accessory for the prince’s arm.

He almost never offers it.

When he does, it’s for the benefit of the crowd. An elbow bent at a perfect angle, a smile carved into place like it was taught, not felt. He’s a master of performance.

So are you.

The people cheer for the image of you both. They throw flower petals into the street, shout blessings, push forward to glimpse their fairytale couple.

If only they knew fairytales rot when the gold is only paint.

At the textile factory, you stand beside him while the foreman gushes about the kingdom’s prosperity. At the ribbon-cutting for a new bridge, you’re handed the scissors, smiling for the press while Jungkook stares past you at some distant point, as though the moment doesn’t require him.

Sometimes, you catch yourself wondering if he forgets you’re even there.

You’ve learned the choreography. Sit still. Smile faintly. Look engaged, but not outspoken. Be regal, but not commanding. Be graceful, but not bold.

Be there.

But never be.

The only time you feel remotely human is during the carriage rides between engagements, when the curtains are drawn, and the crowds can’t see you.

That’s when the silence between you becomes unbearable. He doesn’t speak.

You don’t either.

But you glance at him once, catching his profile in the dim light. It’s like looking at a portrait- beautiful, distant, untouchable. You turn away before he can feel you watching.

By the end of the week, you’ve perfected the role:

A crown without a voice.

═══════

It happens because it has to.

Not because he wants you. Not because you want him. But because it’s expected. Because the kingdom will talk if it doesn’t.

The door opens without a knock. You glance up from your seat on the edge of the bed, silk robe tied loosely around your waist, hair falling over your shoulders. He steps inside, closing the door with quiet finality.

“We need to talk,” you say.

“Not tonight.” His voice is low, clipped, as he shrugs out of his coat. “This isn’t a conversation.”

Your brow furrows. “Then what is it?”

He looks at you but it’s the way a jeweler inspects a gem before deciding if it’s worth setting. “It’s what’s required,” he says. “For the line. For the crown.”

Your chest tightens. You know the court’s whispers- how the marriage will be scrutinized until you produce an heir. You know the timeline they expect. You’d expected distance. You hadn’t expected to feel like an appointment.

He approaches slowly, rolling his cuffs to his forearms. When he stops in front of you, he doesn’t touch you right away- just stands there until the air between you grows heavy.

When he stops in front of you, he looks down at you with the same expression he wears in court- measured, guarded, cold.

“Stand up,” he says.

The command leaves no room for hesitation. You rise.

His hands land on your waist, not with affection but with control, guiding you closer. His mouth meets yours in a kiss that isn’t really a kiss- no give, no hunger, no softness. You press harder anyway, trying to spark something. He responds by gripping your jaw, holding you still.

“You’re trying too hard,” he murmurs.

“At least I’m trying,” you bite back.

A slow, humorless smile curves his lips. “Careful.”

He turns you with deliberate force until your knees meet the bed. You sit. He follows, untying your robe in one smooth pull. It falls to your sides, cool air grazing bare skin.

His gaze sweeps over you- assessing, not admiring. “Beautiful,” he says, tone flat. “But beauty doesn’t make you powerful.”

You swallow. “Then what does?”

His eyes lift to yours, sharp as steel. “Control. And you don’t have any here.”

The word sends a shiver down your spine- half fear, half something you don’t want to name.

He presses you back into the mattress with a firm hand to your shoulder, sliding the robe from your arms. His touch is skilled, confident, but there’s no tenderness. Every movement feels deliberate- designed to take without giving.

You arch into him once, testing him. His palm flattens against your sternum, holding you down.

“Do you think I’ll lose myself for you?” he asks softly, mockingly. “You can’t provoke me into wanting you.”

The words burn hotter than his hands.

When he finally takes you, it’s with the same efficiency as everything else he does- controlled, unhurried, purposeful. The sounds in the room are soft but sharp: the creak of the bed, your shallow breaths, the low rumble of his voice telling you to hold still.

His grip on your hips is firm, guiding you exactly how he wants. You try to match his rhythm, to pull him closer. He shifts his hold, pinning your wrists above your head against the mattress.

“Not yours to lead,” he says. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

It’s almost clinical. Almost mechanical. Your body reacts anyway- heat, breathlessness, the helpless ache for more. But you know he’s watching every flicker of your expression like a general studying an opponent’s next move.

When it’s over, he pulls away immediately. No lingering touch. No kiss. Just rises, adjusting his clothes with the same precision he undid them.

You’re still catching your breath when he looks at you one last time. “This is duty, Princess. Don’t confuse it with anything else.”

And then he’s gone.

The door shuts behind him.

You stay there, robe open, pulse still racing- not from closeness, but from the sting of his words.

═══════

The council chamber smells faintly of parchment, polished wood, and the faint metallic tang of ambition.

You sit in the gilded chair to Jungkook’s right, posture flawless, hands folded in your lap. It’s your first time attending a full royal council since the wedding. You’re here to listen. To be silent. To play the part of the well-bred consort.

At least, that’s what they expect.

The chamber doors close, and the discussion begins. Ministers rise, presenting their concerns: border tensions with the Western Kingdom, grain shortages in the southern provinces, a brewing dispute with the merchant guilds.

Your husband listens with that same infuriating calm, speaking only when necessary, voice even, deliberate. A king in training.

But when the Minister of Trade suggests raising tariffs on imported grain to “incentivize” local production, something twists in your chest.

“That would starve half the southern provinces,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

Every head in the room turns.

Jungkook’s gaze cuts to you. Sharp. Warning.

The Minister blinks, surprised. “Your Highness, the measure-”

“-would drive up prices so high,” you continue, “that families already struggling would have to choose between bread and rent. And if the people are hungry, unrest follows. That is not ‘incentive,’ Minister. That is negligence.”

Murmurs ripple through the chamber.

Jungkook’s voice is quiet but firm. “Princess-”

You turn your head slowly, meeting his eyes. “Am I mistaken?”

A pause. His jaw tightens.

“You are… uninformed,” he says at last.

You lean forward, resting your hands on the table. “Then perhaps inform me. Tell me how destabilizing our food supply will help secure your rule. Or ours.”

A faint gasp from one of the scribes. A few ministers look away, hiding smirks. The Minister of Trade fidgets.

Jungkook’s expression doesn’t change, but you see the flicker in his eyes- anger, yes, but something else. Curiosity.

You look back at the table. “Instead of tariffs, subsidize local farmers to increase production. Buy excess grain directly from them at fair prices, then sell it cheaply in the provinces that need it most. The treasury loses nothing if the surplus is sold abroad. Everyone wins. The farmers, the provinces, the crown.”

The room goes still.

Then, slowly, the Minister of Agriculture nods. “It’s… a sound plan.”

More murmurs. Agreement.

Jungkook leans back in his chair, studying you like he’s seeing you for the first time. You can feel his gaze on your skin, hot and assessing.

“Very well,” he says finally. “We’ll consider the Princess’s… suggestion.”

It’s not an admission. Not in his tone.

But you’ve already won.

When the meeting ends, you rise before he does, smoothing your skirts. As you pass his chair, you feel his hand catch your wrist under the table.

You glance down at him.

His voice is low, for you alone. “We will discuss this later.”

You smile sweetly. “Of course, Your Highness.”

And you leave the chamber with your head high, the echo of your heels a victory drumbeat in the quiet hall. Yet, the moment the council doors close behind you, you know he’s following.

Your heels click against the marble corridor, echoing between the towering pillars. You don’t turn around, but you can feel him gaining on you- steady, purposeful, silent.

You make it halfway to your chambers before his hand closes around your wrist.

He pulls you into a side room- an antechamber lined with bookshelves and an unused writing desk- and shuts the door hard enough to rattle the hinges.

The air changes instantly.

He steps closer. Not close enough to touch, but enough that you can feel the weight of him, the way his presence seems to draw the oxygen from the room.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he says, voice low, razor-edged.

You arch a brow. “Speak?”

“Undermine me in front of my council.” His gaze is molten steel, locked on yours. “You embarrassed me.”

You take a deliberate step forward, closing some of the space between you. “I saved you from making a decision that would’ve turned half your kingdom against you.”

His jaw flexes. “That’s not your place.”

“And sitting there like a decorative vase is?” Your voice is calm, but each word lands sharp.

He moves closer, forcing you to back up until the edge of the desk presses against the back of your thighs. His hands plant on either side of you, caging you in without touching. “You don’t understand how dangerous it is to overstep in that room.”

You tilt your chin up. “I understand perfectly. They’ll eat you alive if they think you’re weak. And nothing says weakness like a wife too afraid to speak her mind.”

His eyes narrow. “You think you’re clever.”

“I know I am.”

For a moment, there’s only the sound of your breathing. His gaze drops briefly- not to your mouth, but to the stubborn lift of your chin- then returns to your eyes.

“You enjoy provoking me,” he says quietly.

“Only when you deserve it.”

One corner of his mouth twitches- not quite a smile, not quite a snarl. “Careful, Princess. If you make a habit of this, you might find I have… inventive ways of teaching obedience.”

You lean just slightly into the space between you, your voice a whisper. “And if you keep underestimating me, you might find I have inventive ways of winning.”

The tension between you is almost unbearable- not heat, not tenderness, just raw defiance meeting raw authority.

Finally, he pushes back, giving you space. “You’re not stupid,” he says. “But you are mine to manage.”

You smooth your skirts, stepping past him toward the door. “If you think I’ll be managed, Your Highness… you really haven’t been paying attention.”

You don’t wait for him to follow.

═══════

5 years earlier (jungkook’s pov): 

The gala had been suffocating.

Perfume and politics choked the air inside the ballroom. Every step, every word, every glance felt calculated. The music was loud enough to cover whispers but not loud enough to drown them out.

Jungkook slipped through a side door.

The night air hit him like a blessing- cool, crisp, tinged with the scent of rain. He loosened his collar and exhaled, letting the weight of the crown’s expectations roll off his shoulders, if only for a breath.

That’s when he saw her.

Jisoo.

She was standing at the edge of the balcony, moonlight touching the soft curve of her cheek. A pale silk gown flowed around her like water. Her hands were clasped in front of her, her lips moving faintly as she hummed something he didn’t recognize.

She turned when she heard him.

“Oh- Your Highness,” she said, voice light, careful. She curtsied, the movement graceful, unhurried. “I didn’t realize anyone else would be out here.”

“I needed air,” he admitted.

Her smile was small but knowing. “So did I.”

They stood there for a moment, the muffled music from the ballroom spilling through the open doors. He should have gone back inside. Instead, he found himself asking, “Do you come to many of these events?”

“More than I’d like.” Her gaze drifted toward the gardens below. “But my father says it’s important to be seen.”

The words were simple. Obvious, even. But the way she said them- steady, resigned, without bitterness-  struck him. She wasn’t like the others inside, scrambling for attention or advantage.

“I suppose he’s right,” he said.

She looked at him then, really looked, and for a second, he thought she might see past the prince to the man beneath. “You wear the pressure well.”

The compliment shouldn’t have mattered. It was the kind of thing royals said to each other all the time. But there was no jest in her tone, no false sweetness. It felt… clean.

Someone called her name from inside- a soft summons from a lady-in-waiting.

She dipped her head. “I should go.”

And just like that, she was gone.

Jungkook stayed on that balcony long after, the faint sound of her humming still in his ears.

It had been nothing- a polite exchange in the quiet. But in a life where every word was a weapon, her simplicity had felt like a shield.

Years later, he still told himself she was different.

He never noticed that he didn’t know a single thing more about her.

═══════

Two months change nothing… and everything.

The last time you and Jungkook stood together in the council chamber, you defied him in front of his ministers. He hasn’t forgotten. Neither have you.

The winter gala is your first appearance together since then.

The ballroom glitters under crystal chandeliers, every corner alive with silks, jewels, and the low hum of politics disguised as conversation. Gold light spills across polished marble, and the air is warm with the scent of champagne and candle wax.

You’ve chosen your gown carefully.

Silk the color of deep wine, cut low enough at the back to reveal the elegant dip of your spine, the fabric clinging to your curves before spilling loose in a daring slit high on your thigh. By court standards, it’s scandalous. By yours, it’s perfect.

You don’t tell Jungkook you’ve done it for him.

You tell yourself it’s for you.

The heads turn as soon as you enter on his arm. Ministers pause mid-sentence. Noblewomen whisper behind jeweled fans. Men look longer than they should. You feel the power in it- the way the room bends toward you.

Jungkook’s grip on your arm is tight enough to bruise.

“Enjoying yourself already?” you murmur, eyes fixed forward.

“You think this is clever?” His voice is low, dangerous. “Every man here staring at what’s mine?”

“Every man here staring at their future queen,” you correct softly.

He doesn’t reply, but you feel the tension radiating off him.

And then you see her.

Jisoo.

She stands near the far end of the room, surrounded by a small cluster of dignitaries. She’s dressed in soft silver, hair pinned in perfect curls, a picture of refined restraint. The kind of elegance that draws admiration without scandal.

She sees you. She smiles- polite, warm, and just a little too knowing. You smile back, the kind that could be taken for friendliness or challenge.

You make your rounds, greeting nobles, shaking hands, accepting compliments that dance on the edge of impropriety. You can feel Jungkook’s gaze on you even when he’s not beside you- especially when you laugh at another man’s joke, your fingers brushing his sleeve as you speak.

When you finally return to Jungkook’s side, his jaw is tight.

“Careful, Princess,” he says under his breath. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

You sip your champagne, unbothered. “So are you.”

The orchestra swells, the floor clears for the next dance. He offers his hand, not out of romance, but because tradition demands it.

You place your hand in his and let him lead you into the spotlight.

Around you, the court watches. Some curious, some envious, some waiting for one of you to slip.

Under the chandeliers, his hand rests low on your back, almost possessive.

You wonder if he’s imagining Jisoo in your place. You wonder if it’s killing him that he can’t look away from you.

═══════

The ride back to the palace is silent.

Not the comfortable kind.

The kind that crackles with things unsaid.

You can feel him beside you in the carriage, his body still wound tight, his hand flexing once on his knee as though resisting the urge to act. He doesn’t look at you, but his gaze burns into the side of your face all the same.

When the carriage stops, he’s out first, striding through the palace doors without a word. You follow, heels clicking against marble. He doesn’t slow down until you’re inside your chambers.

The door shuts hard behind you.

“Do you enjoy humiliating me?” His voice is sharp, each word laced with steel.

You slip off your gloves one finger at a time. “Do you enjoy pretending you own me?”

He takes two steps forward, closing the space between you. “Everything you did tonight- the dress, the smiles, touching him-”

“-was diplomacy,” you cut in. “Something a ruler should understand.”

His eyes flash, and then he’s crowding you backward until your spine meets the wall. His hand presses against it beside your head, trapping you in place.

“You wanted my attention?” His voice drops lower, dangerous. “Now you have it.”

Your heart kicks hard, but you lift your chin. “And what will you do with it, Your Highness?”

His mouth crashes onto yours- not gentle, not tentative, but claiming. His other hand drags up your thigh, finding the slit in your gown and shoving the silk higher.

“Prove to you,” he murmurs against your lips, “that you can play with anyone else in the room… but you’ll still end up here.”

You bite his lower lip, pulling back just enough to smirk. “And if I’m not impressed?”

His grip tightens on your hip. “Then I’ll try harder.”

He turns you toward the bed in one swift movement, the skirt of your gown bunching in his fist. You go willingly, but when he pushes you down, you twist to look over your shoulder.

“Still just duty?” you taunt.

He freezes for a fraction of a second- then his hands are on you again, rougher now, dragging you back against the hard, unmistakable shape of his cock through his trousers. “Tonight? It’s a lesson.”

The dress comes off in a series of impatient tugs, pooling on the floor. His palms roam over your bare skin like he’s taking inventory, thumbs digging into your ass before parting you just enough to feel the heat of his breath between your legs. You shiver, but refuse to turn your face away.

His clothes follow- not rushed, but stripped with deliberate precision, every motion dripping with control. When he finally presses the heavy, hot length of him against your entrance, he holds there for a moment, letting you feel every inch before he pushes in.

The stretch is deep and sudden, making your breath catch, your nails digging into the sheets. He doesn’t give you time to adjust- his hips drive forward in hard, unrelenting strokes, the thick slide of him hitting deep enough to make you gasp every time. His hands lock your hips in place, forcing you to take him exactly how he wants, his pace a brutal, steady rhythm meant to grind down your defiance.

But you meet every thrust, rocking back against him with just as much force, your slick making every connection filthy and loud.

“Say you belong to me,” he orders, voice ragged.

You shake your head, breathless but smiling even as pleasure twists low in your belly. “No.”

His mouth is at your ear in the next breath, teeth grazing the shell before his words pour over you like molten heat. “You will.”

You push back harder, grinding until the head of his cock drags against that sweet, swollen spot inside you. A moan slips free- you swallow it down before it can give him satisfaction. “Or you’ll learn I don’t belong to anyone.”

The challenge hangs between you, thick as the sweat on your skin. Neither of you slow down, each thrust sharper, wetter, more desperate. The slap of skin fills the room, your breaths tangled with curses and broken sounds you’d never admit to making.

You’re so close you can feel it buzzing in your bones but you hold it back out of spite, out of sheer will. His fingers slip down between your thighs, finding your clit and circling hard until your resolve cracks and your body shudders around him.

He follows with a deep, savage thrust, spilling into you with a low groan, hips grinding through the aftershocks like he’s branding you from the inside.

When it ends, you’re both breathless, flushed, staring at each other across the tangle of sheets.

He doesn’t kiss you. You don’t ask him to.

“You’re exhausting,” he says finally.

“You’re obsessed,” you reply.

And you both know you’re right.

═══════

Two weeks have passed since that night.

The night where anger blurred with want, where neither of you surrendered but both of you took.

Since then, you’ve spoken little. Polite exchanges in public, calculated silences in private.

The world sees perfection. You see the cracks.

This morning, the palace gardens are alive with late winter sunlight. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of blooming camellias and damp earth. You’ve always preferred this part of the palace- away from the council chambers, away from the eyes of the court.

Your ladies follow at a respectful distance as you take the marble path toward the upper terrace. The view from there sweeps over the river, the towers, and the city beyond- a reminder of everything that belongs to the crown, if not to you.

You’re halfway up the wide steps when your heel catches on the edge of your gown.

The world tilts.

Your breath leaves you in a sharp gasp as your foot slides on the slick marble. You stumble forward, ankle twisting hard. The pain shoots up your leg before your knees hit the ground.

And then- 

Strong hands catch you before you collapse completely.

The scent of warm spice and leather floods your senses.

“Y/N.” His voice is low, urgent.

You blink up into Jungkook’s face. For once, his expression isn’t composed. His eyes are wide, scanning you for injury.

“My ankle,” you breathe, wincing as the weight shifts.

Without hesitation, he bends and sweeps you into his arms. The motion startles you, your hands gripping his shoulders instinctively.

“Put me down,” you protest.

“Not a chance,” he says, his tone sharp but not cold. It’s threaded with something you’ve never heard from him before. Fear.

He carries you to a shaded bench, lowering you carefully. His fingers are warm and gentle as they press around the swelling ankle, his jaw tight.

“You’ll be off it for a day at least,” he says.

“It’s just a twist-”

“You’ll rest,” he interrupts, brooking no argument. “I’ll have a physician sent immediately.”

You tilt your head. “Are you… worried?”

His eyes meet yours. For a heartbeat, he doesn’t answer. “You are my wife,” he says finally, voice softer than you expect. “What happens to you matters.”

“You’ll stay in your chambers today. I’ll make the arrangements.”

And before you can protest, he bends again, one arm hooking under your knees, the other around your back, lifting you as if you weigh nothing.

“Jungkook-”

“Save your breath,” he says, eyes fixed forward. “You’re not walking on it.”

The world tilts in a different way now, the solid heat of him under you, the steady rhythm of his steps carrying you through the garden paths. Court attendants bow as he passes, some openly staring, but he doesn’t slow.

He carries you up the palace steps, down the corridors, and straight into your chambers-  only setting you down on the bed once you’re surrounded by the familiar silk and shadow.

His hands linger for a heartbeat longer than necessary before he steps back. “Rest.”

Then the mask is back, and he’s gone.

═══════

The physician leaves just before noon.

“It’s only a mild sprain,” he’d said, binding your ankle with clean linen and instructing you to stay off it for a day or two. “Nothing serious, Your Highness. As long as you rest.”

You’re propped against a fortress of pillows in your bed, silk sheets spilling over your legs, a cup of cooling tea at your side. The room is too still, too quiet. You’ve never been good at sitting still.

Your ladies-in-waiting keep offering to read to you or bring fresh flowers, but you send them away after the fourth polite interruption. It’s not their fault you feel caged. The crown fits heavy enough without being confined to your chambers.

You’re staring at the gilded canopy when there’s a knock at the door.

“Come in,” you call.

Jungkook steps inside.

You blink. “I thought you had meetings all afternoon.”

“I do,” he says, but he doesn’t leave. He crosses the room, the sound of his boots muffled against the carpet. “I wanted to see if you were following orders.”

“Orders?” you repeat, arching a brow. “I didn’t realize marriage came with a chain of command.”

His gaze flicks to your bandaged ankle. “You’re still in bed. That’s a start.”

You expect him to leave after that, but instead, he moves toward the table and pours you fresh tea, setting the cup within reach. You catch the faintest furrow between his brows, the one that appears when he’s thinking too much.

“You didn’t have to-”

“It was closer to me than to you,” he cuts in.

“Right,” you murmur, hiding a small smile behind the rim of your cup.

He stands there a moment longer, as if debating something. “If you need anything-”

“I’ll send for a guard?” you finish for him, teasing.

His eyes narrow slightly, but there’s no heat in it. “Exactly.”

He turns to go, and something in you flares- curiosity, stubbornness, maybe both. “Jungkook.”

He pauses at the door.

“You caught me before I fell,” you say. “Why?”

For a heartbeat, his eyes meet yours. “Because you’re mine to protect.”

Then the door shuts behind him.

You’re left staring at it, unsure whether his words were a claim, a duty… or something else entirely.

═══════

By morning, the dull ache in your ankle has faded to something tolerable. Not gone- but not enough to keep you trapped in bed.

You dress yourself in a pale blue day gown, something soft and unassuming, and braid your hair back in a way that says I am perfectly fine, thank you. Your ladies-in-waiting hover nervously as you make your way to the sitting room.

“Your Highness,” one begins gently, “perhaps you should-”

“I’ve rested long enough,” you say, taking the first careful step toward the door. “There are things I need to see to.”

They exchange looks but say nothing.

The moment you open the door, you nearly collide with him.

Jungkook stands there, dressed in deep charcoal, the morning light catching on the silver clasp at his cloak. His gaze drops immediately to your feet, to the subtle limp you try- and fail- to hide.

“Where are you going?” His tone is calm, but there’s a weight to it.

“For a walk,” you say. “It’s a palace, not a prison.”

His jaw flexes. “Not without me.”

You fold your arms. “You’re busy. I can manage.”

He steps past you into the room, closing the door behind him. “You can barely walk without favoring that ankle.”

“I can walk,” you counter. “And I intend to.”

Something flickers in his eyes- not anger, not quite- before he exhales sharply. “Then I’ll escort you.”

It’s not a request.

You consider arguing, but there’s something in his stance, in the set of his shoulders, that tells you it will only waste time. So instead, you smile- sweet, false. “As you wish, Your Highness.”

He offers his arm. You take it, because refusing would feel like losing, and you refuse to lose to him in anything.

The walk is slow, deliberate. The gardens are busy with attendants pruning roses and sweeping paths. You can feel the eyes on you- the court always watches. Jungkook’s hand stays steady under yours, guiding you away from uneven ground, adjusting his pace without comment when you falter.

It’s infuriating how natural it feels.

When you reach the far end of the garden, you stop beside the fountain, pretending to admire the lilies floating on the surface.

“See?” you say. “Perfectly capable.”

He studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable. “You’re stubborn.”

“And you’re controlling,” you reply. “Somehow, we make it work.”

For a moment, it almost feels like truce.

Almost.

Then he says, “Next time, I’ll carry you from the start.”

And before you can respond, he turns and starts back toward the palace, leaving you to follow with the faintest, most infuriating smile tugging at your lips.

═══════

The royal conservatory smells faintly of jasmine and politics.

Today’s luncheon is meant to honor a visiting trade delegation, but as always, it’s also a performance- a showcase of unity between the prince and his consort. You sit at Jungkook’s right, posture perfect, hands folded loosely in your lap.

The conversation drifts from tariffs to art to upcoming festivals. You answer politely when addressed, keeping your smile fixed in place.

Until Lord Jimin speaks.

He’s old money, old power, and old enough to think his opinion is law. Leaning back in his chair with a practiced smile, he says, “It’s lovely to see you out and about again, Your Highness. I’d heard you’d been… recovering from a fall? I suppose marble steps can be dangerous… for those unused to palace life.”

A polite ripple of laughter travels the table. The words are coated in courtesy, but the meaning is sharp- a reminder you’re an outsider, unaccustomed, and perhaps unfit.

You meet his gaze without flinching. “It’s true. I fell. Luckily, my husband was there to catch me.”

“Yes,” Jimin says smoothly, “though I imagine His Highness has far more pressing matters than tending to scraped ankles. Affairs of state require… sturdier footing.”

It’s a dig. Gentle enough to pass as banter, but you hear the insinuation beneath it: fragile, ornamental, a burden.

You’re ready to respond, but Jungkook speaks first.

“Lord Jimin,” he says, voice even but edged with steel, “you mistake grace for weakness.” The table quiets instantly. “The Princess has already proven herself in council and in matters of policy. She is not a burden. She is my partner.”

Jimin blinks, caught off guard.

“And,” Jungkook continues, his gaze locking with the older lord’s, “if I ever hear you suggest otherwise again- even in jest- I will ensure you regret it.”

A ripple of stunned silence follows. Somewhere down the table, a glass is set down a little too quickly.

Jimin forces a smile. “Of course, Your Highness. I meant no offense.”

“Then perhaps,” Jungkook says, his tone softening but not losing its weight, “you should choose your words more carefully.”

The conversation resumes, but the balance at the table has shifted.

You glance at Jungkook. His expression is unreadable, his focus already on the next course being served.

But under the table, you let your fingers brush his hand- not a thank-you, exactly, but an acknowledgment.

He doesn’t pull away.

The luncheon ends in a blur of polite farewells and murmured congratulations. You don’t remember half the names of the people you shook hands with- not because they weren’t important, but because you could feel Jungkook beside you.

Not just beside you. With you.

Every time you replay his words- “She is my partner”- your pulse stirs a little faster.

The doors close behind the last of the guests. Servants move to collect the empty glasses, but Jungkook’s voice stops them.

“Leave us.”

The room empties quickly. You’re still standing by the long banquet table when he crosses to you, his steps unhurried, but his gaze locked on yours like he’s already made a decision.

“You enjoyed that,” you murmur, chin lifting.

“What?” he says, stopping just close enough that you feel the warmth of him.

“Defending me.” You allow a slow smile. “Making it clear I’m yours.”

His hand is at your waist before you can react, pulling you flush against him. “You are mine.”

The words aren’t cold this time. They’re hot. Dangerous.

You open your mouth to retort, but his lips crash onto yours- not claiming like before, but taking, deep and insistent, like he’s been holding it back all afternoon. His tongue pushes past your lips, tasting you, coaxing a soft sound from the back of your throat.

Your fingers curl into his jacket, dragging him closer. The kiss breaks just long enough for him to murmur, voice rough, “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

He lifts you onto the table in one motion, your skirts spilling over polished wood. His mouth moves to your neck, your jaw, his teeth scraping lightly before his hands shove fabric higher and higher, until your thighs are bare.

“This isn’t about duty,” you breathe, half dazed.

He pushes you back so you’re lying on the table, bunching your dress up, and then he drops to his knees between your legs. Your breath catches. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you open. 

“No,” he agrees, his voice low, almost dangerous. “This is about you.”

And then his mouth is on you- a slow, deliberate lick over your slit that makes you jolt.

He doesn’t give you time to think before his mouth is on you- hot, wet, and devastatingly slow. His tongue slides from your entrance to your clit in one unhurried stroke, making you jolt.

His hands grip your thighs like steel, keeping you open while his tongue circles lazily, deliberately avoiding giving you enough pressure to push you over. He pulls back just enough to blow a warm breath over you, watching the way you shiver.

“Already wet,” he murmurs, smirking before diving in again, licking you like he’s savoring every drop. He alternates between slow, languid strokes and fast, focused flicks over your clit until your hips are rocking into his face.

You try to pull him closer, but he shakes his head against you, forcing you to take his pace. “You’ll come when I say,” he growls, before sealing his mouth over your clit and sucking hard. The sound that tears from your throat is half-moan, half-curse.

He doesn’t stop. His tongue fucks into you, wet and insistent, before returning to your clit. The obscene sounds of his mouth on you fill the room, mingling with your ragged breathing. You’re panting now, thighs trembling against his grip, every muscle wound tight.

When your climax finally breaks, it’s sharp and shuddering, your back arching off the table. He holds you there, riding out every wave, his mouth never leaving you until you whimper from oversensitivity.

Only then does he rise, mouth slick, eyes dark. He leans over you, his cock already pressing against your thigh. “You don’t get to keep pretending after this,” you whisper, still catching your breath.

His hips still for a second, gaze locked on yours. Then he leans to your ear. “Then don’t give me a reason to.”

He frees himself and pushes into you in one deep, steady thrust, the thick stretch forcing a sharp gasp from your lips. The aftershocks of your orgasm make every inch of him feel amplified, your walls fluttering around him as he bottoms out.

He doesn’t give you time to settle- his hips draw back slow, almost teasing, before slamming forward again, the table groaning under the force. The rhythm he finds is hard and sure, each thrust hitting deep enough to make your breath hitch. His hands grip your hips, dragging you into every snap of his body, the sound of skin meeting skin sharp in the quiet room.

You cling to him, nails digging into the back of his jacket as he fucks you like he’s trying to brand himself into your muscles. The slick slide between you is filthy, your wetness coating him, making each thrust faster, harder.

When his mouth finds yours again, the kiss is desperate-  teeth, tongue, shared breath- his pace never faltering. He swallows your moans, dragging them out until they’re rough, uncontrolled sounds you swore you wouldn’t make for him.

Your legs wrap tighter around his waist, angling him deeper, and he growls low in his chest, the sound vibrating against your mouth. His hand slips between you, thumb finding your clit and circling just hard enough to make your vision blur.

“Come for me,” he orders, voice ragged. You do- helplessly- your body clenching around him as the climax rips through you. He groans, hips driving deep one last time before he spills inside you, grinding through the aftershocks until you’re both shaking.

For a moment, the only sound is your mingled breathing.

When it’s over, he stays inside you just long enough to make you feel the weight of it- then pulls out, tucking himself back in with slow precision. He adjusts his jacket, then reaches down, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“You should eat dinner in your chambers tonight,” he says.

It sounds like an order. It feels like care.

═══════

It’s only been a few days since the luncheon- and what happened after- but already, the edges between you and Jungkook are back to cutting.

The council chamber is thick with debate. A dispute over land rights has ministers talking over one another, and you’ve had enough. You speak up, cutting through the noise with a solution that’s both strategic and bold.

The room goes quiet. Even the scribe pauses his pen.

Jungkook’s expression doesn’t change, but you catch the way his knuckles tap the table once- a subtle warning meant for you.

When the meeting adjourns, you rise with the others, smoothing your skirts. You expect him to walk beside you. Instead, he barely glances your way.

“You enjoy taking command in front of my council,” he says as you step into the corridor. His tone is light enough that an outsider wouldn’t catch the bite beneath it.

“They were wasting time,” you reply evenly. “I offered a solution.”

“You offered my solution,” he says, eyes forward. “Before I could give it.”

“That’s not my fault,” you counter, but he’s already striding ahead.

By the time you reach the great hall, he’s gone. No explanation. No dismissal. Just gone.

You wander the palace to cool your temper, your steps echoing in the quiet corridors. You’ve never cared much for the east wing- it’s quieter, more private- but today, you find yourself there.

A door at the end of the hall stands slightly ajar.

Jungkook’s office.

You hesitate, but curiosity wins.

Inside, the space is meticulously ordered- shelves lined with ledgers, a polished desk, the faint scent of ink and parchment in the air. You trail your fingers along the edge of the desk, noticing the papers stacked with military precision.

And then, near the bottom of one stack, you see it.

An envelope. Unsealed. Your name isn’t on it and the handwriting is Jungkook’s.

The date at the top freezes your breath in your chest- the day after your wedding.

You shouldn’t read it. You know that. But your fingers are already sliding the page free.

The first word you see is her. 

Jisoo.

Your stomach twists.

You look toward the door- still closed- then back at the page, your pulse loud in your ears.

You sink into his chair, the letter trembling slightly in your hands.

Whatever’s written here, you already know it’s going to hurt.

═══════

My dearest Jisoo,

I should not be writing to you. Every reason I have been given tells me to let go- to accept the reality they have bound me to. But it is not reality I am living in. It is a sentence.

Yesterday, I stood at the altar with your sister. I said the vows. I placed the ring on her finger. I lifted her veil. And the entire time, all I could think was how wrong it was that it was her standing there, and not you.

You should have been my bride. You should have worn the crown beside me.

But politics is a crueler ruler than either of us. You know as well as I do that your father would never have allowed it- not with the trade agreement your marriage prospects could secure for your kingdom.

You were promised long before I had the right to ask.

Lord Dae-Hyun’s second son was a match your father could not afford to lose, and once your name was spoken, it could not be withdrawn. By the time I realized, you were already gone- sealed off by duty, unreachable by even my title.

They told me it was impossible. That I had to take the match offered. That she was the only way to solidify the alliance.

As though I should be grateful.

I am not.

Y/N is… restless. Too quick to speak, too unwilling to simply be still. She moves like she’s waiting for a fight that no one has offered her, and perhaps that is the part I resent most- her constant need to be seen, to be heard. Even in these first hours as husband and wife, she seems determined to prove something, though I cannot imagine what it is, or to whom.

She will make noise, I am sure, and perhaps even cause enough distraction to make the ministers believe she is worth the trouble.

But she is not you.

She does not have your grace. Your steadiness. The way you can command a room without raising your voice.

When I look at her, I see only the shadow of what could have been. And it is unbearable to wake each day beside the wrong sister, knowing the one I wanted most is still within reach, yet impossibly far.

I do not expect you to answer this. Perhaps you will not even read it. But I needed you to know that, in every way that matters, I am still yours.

I will always be yours.

- Jungkook

═══════

You don’t remember standing.

One moment, you’re staring at the ink-  the words curling across the page like they were meant to strangle you- and the next, you’re shoving the letter back into the envelope with shaking hands.

Your legs move without thought, carrying you out of his office and through the palace corridors. You don’t care if anyone sees you. You just need to be away from there. Away from him.

By the time you reach your chambers, your breath is uneven, your vision swimming. The ladies-in-waiting rush to greet you, offering tea, asking if you’d like to change before dinner.

“Leave,” you say, your voice tight.

They freeze. “Your Highness-”

“Please,” you add, softer this time, but your voice cracks around the word. “I need to be alone.”

They bow and file out, glancing back as though worried to leave you like this. The door shuts.

The silence is crushing.

You press your back against it for a moment before sliding down to the floor. The sob breaks free before you can stop it-  raw, shattering, the kind that leaves you gasping.

You push yourself up and stagger to the bed, sinking into the mattress as if the weight of the letter is still pressing down on you. The tears come harder now, unstoppable. You press your hands over your mouth to muffle the sounds, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no one left to hear.

Every word replays in your mind- restless, wrong sister, always be yours. Each one cuts deeper, tearing through every fragile thread of dignity you’ve tried to hold together since the wedding.

Hours pass. The light outside dims to gold, then gray, then nothing. You don’t move. Dinner comes and goes. You don’t send for food. You don’t light the lamps. The only glow in the room is the faint spill of moonlight across the floor.

The knock at the door comes late. Before you can answer, it opens.

Jungkook steps inside, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “You weren’t at dinner.”

You don’t reply.

His gaze shifts to your face- the flushed skin, the reddened eyes, the damp lashes. His body stills.

“What happened?” he asks, his voice quieter now.

You just stare at him, the letter’s words burning between you like a secret only you know.

You don’t remember standing, but you’re on your feet when he steps closer.

“What happened?” he asks again.

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides. “If my father let you marry her right now,” you say, your voice shaking, “would I still be here?”

His brows draw together. “What are you talking about?”

“Answer me!” Your voice rises, breaking against the walls. “Would I still be here, Jungkook?”

His eyes narrow. “You went through my things.”

“You wrote it!” you shout, the tears burning hot again. “You wrote it the day after our wedding! You said you wished it was her. You said I was the wrong sister. You said you’d always be hers.”

His jaw tightens, but his voice stays level- too level. “And what if I did? It was the truth.”

Your breath catches.

“I married you for politics,” he says, each word deliberate, cold. “Not for love. And yes, everything in that letter is true.”

It feels like the floor drops out from under you.

You take a step back, but he follows, his voice sharper now. “You think snooping through my office will make you more than what you are? It doesn’t. You were a convenience, Y/N. Nothing more.”

The sob rips from your throat before you can stop it. “You’re cruel.”

“And you’re naive,” he snaps. “If you thought this marriage was anything else, that’s on you.”

It’s the final blow- not just the words, but the way he says them, like they’re facts, not daggers.

Your vision blurs. You turn away before he can see the collapse happening inside you. “I’m going home.”

“You can’t just-”

But you’re already moving, shoving past him, through the door, and down the corridor.

Within the hour, you’re in the stables, your guards scrambling to follow orders they didn’t expect. The palace fades behind you as the carriage rattles toward your father’s kingdom.

You don’t look back.

If you did, you might see the shadow in the window- a figure watching you leave, unmoving until you vanish from sight.

═══════

jungkook’s pov: 

The door slammed behind her hours ago. And yet, the echo of her voice still lingers.

Jungkook sits at his desk, the untouched glass of brandy in front of him reflecting the moonlight. He’d been furious when she confronted him- furious she’d been in his office, furious she’d read the letter. But fury fades fast when it’s replaced by the memory of her face, wet with tears, breaking in front of him.

Six months.

They’ve been married six months. Long enough for him to know the sound of her laughter when she’s not guarding it, the precise way her brow furrows when she’s deciding whether to speak her mind, the warmth in her voice when she’s talking to anyone who isn’t him.

And long enough for him to notice her- truly notice her. The way she moves, carries herself, commands attention without even trying. The way her beauty isn’t something the court dresses gave her, but something she wears like armor.

He’d told himself from the start that she was a political necessity, nothing more. The letter he’d written to Jisoo had been the truth back then or at least the truth he’d chosen to believe. But now?

Now he remembers the garden. How light she’d felt in his arms when he carried her back to her chambers. How she hadn’t flinched when Lord Jimin made his sly dig, but met it with a smile that made Jungkook want to break the man’s teeth.

The way her hand had brushed his under the table after he defended her. The faint smile she tried to hide.

And after everyone left , the way she’d come apart under his hands. How the urgency between them had been more than anger, more than duty. The taste of her still lingers on his tongue, the sound of her voice when she moaned his name still carved into his memory. It hadn’t been detached, like before- not when he was buried inside her, not when his mouth was on her, not when her nails clawed at his shoulders like she was trying to hold him there forever. He’d been closer to her in that hour than in the entire six months of their marriage.

God, he’d said she was a convenience. Nothing more.

The lie tastes bitter.

He pushes back from the desk and stands abruptly, the chair scraping the floor. His coat is on in seconds, boots echoing against the stone floors as he makes for the stables.

It doesn’t matter that it’s past midnight. It doesn’t matter that the journey to her father’s kingdom will take hours.

He has to see her.

Not as a prince, not as a husband fulfilling some duty- but as a man who knows he’s made a mistake.

The groomsman barely has time to saddle his horse before Jungkook swings into the saddle. The cold night air bites at his skin, but it’s nothing compared to the emptiness in the palace without her.

He rides hard.

He’s going to bring her home.

═══════

The warmth of your father’s manor is different from the one you left.

Here, the air doesn’t feel like it’s pressing down on you. The corridors smell faintly of cedar and fresh bread instead of cold stone. You can breathe without worrying about who’s watching.

For the first time in months, you let yourself sit without the weight of the crown. Wrapped in a thick blanket in your father’s private sitting room, you sip tea, listening to the muted hum of distant conversation.

You’re not healed. You know that. But for now, you’re home.

The knock on the front doors comes just as you set your cup down. Footsteps cross the marble foyer, and then- a voice you never thought you’d hear here.

“Is she here?”

Your blood runs cold.

Jisoo’s voice answers, careful but unmistakably surprised. “Jungkook.”

You freeze, every muscle locking in place.

“I need to see her,” he says- no hesitation, no preamble.

Before you can even decide whether to stand or run, he’s inside. His eyes find you across the room in an instant. And then he’s moving- past Jisoo, past the threshold, crossing the space between you like nothing else exists. He’s in front of you before you can even get to your feet.

Jungkook drops to his knees, the movement sharp and sudden, his hands coming up to cradle your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on. His eyes search yours- not for anger, not for forgiveness, but for proof you’re real.

“Y/N-”

You shove his hands away, the blanket slipping from your shoulders. “Don’t.”

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. Then Jisoo, sensing the air between you, murmurs something to your father and slips from the room. The door shuts behind them, leaving only the two of you.

Your voice is low, but cutting. “You don’t get to come here, after what you said, and pretend it never happened.”

He doesn’t argue. He just looks at you- truly looks- as though you’ve hung the stars and he’s only just realizing it.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “For all of it. For the letter. For what I said after. For every time I made you feel unwanted.”

You fold your arms, holding your ground.

“I didn’t know I was falling for you,” he continues, “until it was already happening.”

You scoff. “Falling for me?”

“The winter gala,” he says, and you can hear the truth in his voice. “You walked into that room and the whole court bent toward you, even when I was furious. The garden- when you fell, I’ve never been that afraid in my life. Your wit, the way you see through people at council. The luncheon- the way you touched my hand under the table like you knew exactly what it meant. And after… when we were together, it wasn’t just anger or duty anymore. For the first time, I felt like I was with you, not just my wife.”

He swallows hard. “And the quieter things. Dinners where you laughed with the servants and made them forget you were royalty. The way you read late at night, biting your lip when you turn the page. The way you hum when you think no one’s listening.”

Your breath catches, but you mask it with a shake of your head. “Words are easy, Jungkook. You’ve had six months to show me I matter and you didn’t. Why should I believe you now?”

His jaw tightens. “Because I’m standing here, asking you to come home.”

You meet his gaze, steady and unflinching. “No. Not until you prove it.”

The silence that follows is heavy, but you don’t look away. For the first time since you’ve known him, he nods- not in dismissal, but in acceptance.

“I will.”

═══════

jungkook’s pov:

The court is already buzzing when Jungkook walks into the great hall. Ministers in rich silks murmur over parchment, their jeweled rings catching the light. They fall silent when they see what he’s carrying.

An envelope. Old. Unsealed.

He walks to the center of the room, past the council table, past the throne. The letter-the one he wrote to Jisoo six months ago-  feels like it weighs more than steel in his hand.

Without preamble, he sets it atop the silver brazier meant for burning old decrees.

“This letter,” he says, his voice carrying easily in the vaulted hall, “is a lie I let live too long.”

The ministers glance at one another.

He strikes a match and drops it onto the parchment. Flame curls the edges, swallowing the words, until nothing remains but black ash.

“I have one queen,” he continues. “Not simply a wife to fulfill politics, not a placeholder for another. Y/N is my queen- in title, in duty, and in my heart.”

Murmurs ripple through the chamber.

“She is the woman who has stood beside me when I gave her no reason to. Who has shown strength where others expected silence. Who has matched me in wit, in will, and in fire.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “And I love her.”

The last of the letter collapses into ash.

He turns to the royal scribe. “Send word to her father’s court. Let it be known across both kingdoms.”

═══════

The day is uneventful until the envoy arrives.

The royal messenger steps into your father’s receiving room, his cloak still dusted with travel, the sealed scroll in his hand gleaming with Jungkook’s crest.

“For Her Highness, the Princess Consort,” he says, bowing as he offers it.

Your father watches you break the seal.

The parchment is brief but formal- the kind of statement meant to be read in public squares and whispered over in taverns:

A letter burned. Your name spoken in the great hall. You, named not only wife, but queen. And the final line, in Jungkook’s unmistakable hand: I love you.

Your fingers tighten on the parchment. You can hear the pounding of your own heart.

“Seems he’s made his choice,” your father says quietly.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Not yet.

You’re still staring at the proclamation when Jisoo slips into your room.

“So… he burned it?” she says, perching lightly on the edge of your bed.

You nod, the parchment still in your lap. “In front of everyone. Declared me his queen. Said he loves me.”

Jisoo studies your face. “And you don’t believe him?”

“I want to,” you admit, your voice low. “But wanting to and trusting are two different things.”

Jisoo’s expression softens. “You’ve always been braver than you think, Y/N. Go see him. Make him prove it in person.”

The next day, you do.

The journey back to his kingdom feels shorter this time, though your heart is heavier with each mile.

When the carriage pulls into the palace courtyard, you expect the usual line of attendants and guards. You don’t expect him- standing at the base of the steps, dressed simply, holding a bouquet of deep red roses.

The door opens, and the early Spring air rushes in.

He looks up at you, something unguarded in his eyes. “Welcome home, Y/N.”

You step down from the carriage, the scent of the roses reaching you before his hands do.

For a moment, neither of you moves. Then he offers them to you. You take the roses, the petals velvety against your fingers.

“They’re beautiful,” you say, your voice careful.

“They’re not enough,” Jungkook replies.

You blink up at him. “Then why give them to me?”

“Because I needed something in my hands when I saw you,” he admits. “Otherwise I might not have been able to keep from-” He stops himself, his jaw flexing. “-from saying too much, too soon.”

The words catch you off guard.

An attendant moves to take your luggage, but Jungkook waves them off. “I’ll walk her.”

You glance at him, then at the long climb up the palace steps. “You don’t usually play porter.”

“I don’t usually try to win back my wife,” he says, matter-of-fact.

Inside, the corridors are quieter than usual. He walks beside you, matching your pace, and doesn’t speak again until you reach your chambers.

“I know words won’t be enough,” he says, stopping at the threshold. “So I’ll show you.”

“How?” you ask, wary but curious.

“By being the man you deserve,” he answers without hesitation. “By giving you reason to believe me every day, not just when it’s convenient for me. By making sure you never have to doubt you are my queen- in every way that matters.”

You search his face, looking for cracks in the resolve. But his gaze holds steady.

“Then start proving it,” you say finally, stepping into the room.

Before the door closes, you hear him say softly, “I already am.”

═══════

The council chamber feels different this morning.

The air isn’t thick with the weight of being tolerated- it hums with the quiet acknowledgment of your place at the table. The ministers rise when you enter, bowing not out of obligation, but something closer to respect.

Jungkook takes his seat at the head of the table. You take yours at his right but for the first time, you don’t feel like you’re in his shadow.

A dispute over the naval fleet’s funding takes center stage. Two ministers argue over whether to cut costs or invest in new shipbuilding.

You listen. And when their voices climb over each other, you speak.

“Cutting costs now will cost us more later,” you say, your tone firm but measured. “If we invest in the fleet, we secure our trade routes. That’s more revenue in the long term- and more security for our allies.”

All eyes shift to you.

One minister hesitates. “But, Your Highness-”

“She’s right,” Jungkook cuts in smoothly, his gaze steady on you. “The Princess’s proposal is sound. It will be implemented.”

You allow yourself a small smile, meeting his eyes.

The discussion moves on, but the shift lingers- ministers asking for your opinion, valuing it, weighing it as they would his. And each time you speak, Jungkook listens. Not with the detached patience of before, but with intent, his attention fixed on you as though no other voice in the room matters.

By the end of the session, the room feels different again. Not because you’ve changed, but because they’ve started to see you as you’ve always been.

A queen in the room.

═══════

The council chamber has long since emptied, but the weight of the day lingers in your shoulders.

You find him in his office, the golden light of late afternoon spilling over the maps and scrolls spread across his desk. He looks up when you enter, his expression softening almost imperceptibly.

“You were remarkable today,” Jungkook says, leaning back in his chair. “The fleet’s commanders will be sending you wine for that decision.”

You smile faintly but don’t sit. Instead, you step closer, your skirts whispering over the polished floor. “I need to ask you something.”

His gaze sharpens. “Anything.”

You stop a few feet from him, folding your hands in front of you. “What do you see in me,” you ask slowly, “that you never saw in Jisoo?”

The room stills.

He blinks once, as if he’s not sure he heard you right. “Why are you asking me that now?”

“Because,” you say, keeping your voice even, “you’ve told me you love me. You’ve burned your letter. You’ve defended me in court. But there’s still a part of me that wonders if you love me for me, or because I became what you needed.”

He rises from the chair, closing the distance until he’s standing right in front of you. “You think I’d confuse the two?”

“I think,” you answer, meeting his eyes, “that I deserve to know the difference.”

For a moment, neither of you speak. The only sound is the quiet ticking of the clock on the mantle, marking each second between you.

And then he nods once- slow, deliberate. “Alright. I’ll tell you.”

He doesn’t look away when he speaks.

“When I thought of Jisoo,” Jungkook begins, “I saw… calm. The kind of quiet the court praises. She was gentle, and she fit the image of a queen in everyone’s mind, including mine. But it was a dream I built out of fragments. I didn’t know her. I had a single conversation with her.”

He takes another step closer. “And when I married you… I told myself it was only politics. But then the reality of you started undoing me.”

Your breath catches, but you don’t interrupt.

“The winter gala,” he says softly. “You walked in wearing that wine-red gown, and the entire court turned toward you- not because of your title, but because you owned the room. And I hated how much I noticed. The garden, when you fell-  I’ve been in battles where men were dying around me, and I wasn’t as scared as I was in that moment.”

His voice lowers. “Your wit in council. The way you don’t back down, even when I’ve given you every reason to. That day you outmaneuvered Lord Jimin with a single look and a sharper tongue- I wanted to kiss you in front of everyone.”

You swallow hard, your heart pounding.

“And the luncheon,” he continues. “When you touched my hand under the table, I thought it was nothing. But afterwards… when I had you in my arms, when you let me in completely- it wasn’t anger, or duty, or proving a point. It was you. Just you. And I realized I’d never had that with anyone before.”

He exhales slowly. “You don’t just fit the image of a queen. You are one. And I see you, Y/N- not the crown, not the alliance, not my title beside yours. Just you. And I love what I see.”

He runs a hand through his hair, almost like he’s searching for the right words. “I think I was in love with you before I even understood it. Before I let myself admit it. Every time you challenged me, every time you made me see the world differently, it was another thread pulling me toward you. And now… now I can’t imagine a world where you’re not mine.”

The silence between you is different now- not the sharp-edged kind that’s filled your marriage, but something warmer. Something that pulls you toward him instead of pushing you away.

When he reaches for you, it’s not rushed. His hands frame your face gently, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. His kiss is unhurried, deep, and you taste the truth of everything he’s just said in the way his mouth moves against yours.

You let him guide you back toward the bed, but this time there’s no battle for control- only the steady pull of his hands and the unspoken promise in his touch. Every glance, every brush of his fingers is a question, and you answer without hesitation, giving him all of you.

When his lips trail down your throat, you feel the weight of his love in the way he lingers, his mouth pressing gentle kisses, his nose brushing your skin like he’s breathing you in.

Clothing falls away slowly- not torn, but removed like it’s precious. He studies every inch of revealed skin with eyes that are soft and heavy with want, his hands tracing you as though he’s committing each curve to memory.

He eases you back onto the bed, kneeling between your thighs, and lowers himself until his breath ghosts over your core. The first kiss he presses there is slow, deliberate, making you gasp. “You’re so beautiful here,” he murmurs, before his tongue drags through your folds.

The first wave comes quickly- his mouth seals over your clit, tongue flicking just right while two fingers slide inside you, curling until you’re gasping his name. He hums, the sound sending shivers through you as you clench around him, hips rocking helplessly.

He doesn’t let you come down. His mouth never leaves you, his fingers easing out only to be replaced by the wet slide of his tongue dipping inside you, tasting everything you give him. You whimper, overstimulated already, but his hands pin your hips to the mattress, holding you there until the second orgasm crashes over you- sharper this time, your thighs trembling around his head.

When you sag against the bed, panting, he kisses your inner thigh, his voice low and reverent. “One more for me, love.”

You can barely shake your head before his mouth is back on your clit, slower this time, coaxing instead of demanding. His fingers return, pumping deep and steady while his tongue traces lazy circles. The build is excruciatingly tender, your body tightening until you spill over again, crying out and clinging to him like you might drown without him.

Only then does he finally come up to you, his mouth finding yours, letting you taste yourself on his lips. “Perfect,” he whispers, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face. “You’re perfect.”

He lines himself up and pushes into you with a long, steady thrust, the head of his cock stretching you inch by inch until he’s buried fully inside. Your lips part in a shuddering gasp, your body still fluttering from the last climax, the aftershocks wrapping around him and drawing a deep groan from his chest.

He stills there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard like he’s savoring every second of being inside you. “God, you feel incredible,” he murmurs, his voice breaking. “I love you so much.”

His hips begin to move- slow at first, dragging all the way out before pressing back into the hilt, making you feel every inch. Each thrust is deep and deliberate, his hand finding yours between your bodies and lacing your fingers together like he’s anchoring himself.

He kisses you through it, the kind of kisses that steal your breath- soft one moment, hungry the next. His free hand strokes your cheek, tucks your hair back, touches you like you’re fragile and the most precious thing he’s ever held.

“You take me so well,” he breathes against your lips. “Every time… every time you feel like home.”

The words make your chest ache in the best way, your hips rising to meet his as the rhythm builds. He shifts slightly, angling his thrusts until the head of his cock brushes that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. His thumb finds your clit again, stroking in slow, perfect circles that have you gasping into his mouth.

“Come with me,” he whispers, his voice almost desperate. “Please… I need to feel you.”

It hits you fast, your body clenching hard around him as your climax rips through you. He follows instantly, his hips stuttering as he spills deep inside, groaning your name into the crook of your neck. He keeps moving, slow and gentle now, riding out every aftershock until you’re both trembling and breathless.

When it’s over, he stays inside you, his chest pressed to yours, his hand still laced with yours. Finally, he eases out, tucks himself back in, and gathers you against him. His lips brush your temple in a soft, lingering kiss.

“I love you,” he murmurs again, quieter now, like the words are meant just for you.

You close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart under your ear, and for the first time since you married him, you let yourself believe it.

═══════

Four months pass, and the court is no longer divided over you.

You’ve stood in the council chamber beside Jungkook, your voice carrying as much weight as his. You’ve walked the gardens with visiting dignitaries, negotiated trade proposals, and heard the people’s petitions in the great hall. Every step, every decision, every glance exchanged with him has been watched- and now, no one doubts.

Today is the day it becomes official.

The great hall is a sea of color, banners of both your kingdoms and his draped from the vaulted ceiling. Sunlight pours through stained glass, scattering jewels of light across the marble floor. Nobles, ministers, and foreign rulers fill the room, their eyes on the dais where two thrones sit side by side.

Jungkook is already there, dressed in ceremonial black and gold, a crown resting lightly on his head. He turns when you enter, and the faint smile that touches his lips is for you alone.

The High Chancellor’s voice rings out, carrying over the hush. “By the will of the Crown and the grace of Almighty God, let it be known throughout this realm and beyond its borders: Princess consort Y/N, beloved daughter of the realm and consort to His Majesty the King, having been found worthy in faith, in honor, and in steadfast devotion, is this day anointed and crowned.

From henceforth she shall be known as Her Most Gracious Majesty, Y/N, Queen Consort of this Kingdom, Guardian of the Crown’s dignity, and sworn companion to the Sovereign.

May her counsel be wise, her heart steadfast, and her reign beside His Majesty bring peace, prosperity, and glory to the realm.

Long live the Queen!”

You step forward, and the crown- lighter than you imagined, yet impossibly heavy with meaning- is placed upon your head.

When you rise, Jungkook takes your hand in front of the entire court, his grip warm and steady. The cheers that follow echo through the hall, the sound of a kingdom bearing witness.

You glance at him, your heart steady and certain.

Once, his heart was elsewhere. Now, it beats for me alone.

═══════

LINK TO REQUEST ♡ MASTERLIST ♡ a03

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These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

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Posted: 08/15/2025

Your mouth parts, a gasp slipping past your lips as Jin coos, “smile for the camera, Pretty.” And then he’s bottoming out. His cock splits you in half, his plump tip smooching your cervix with a filthy kiss. His precum spills a few wads onto your spongey walls, and your eyes roll to the back of your head. “There we go, so pretty - hah - so wet gushing on my cock.”

Jin’s got you sprawled out in front of the fireplace, your legs spread wide to get the perfect view of your pussy slurping his cock deeper with each stroke Seokjin gives. He’s got the phone recording each lewd squelch your pretty cunt makes each time he fills you balls deep, and your eyes roll, catching the lights you strung up with Jin only hours ago in the living room. A tree sits in the far corner, a couple of presents underneath it already, and he groans as your cunt squeezes him tighter.

“Feels so good, Jin! Oh fuck, right there, r-right there!” You whimper, and your hand presses into his lower stomach, feeling the way his muscles flex with each roll of his hips. Your mouth waters, drool forming at the edge of your lips as your orgasm draws near. Your tongue felt heavy, your mind melting as he abused the sweet spot inside you with every heavy smack of his cock sliding deep inside you.

And through it all, even with a shaky hand, Jin captured every whine, moan, and filthy squeeze of your pussy with his camera. The lens caught the light sheen of your sweet slick coating every inch of his cock as he dragged his length almost completely out before bullying back inside your gummy walls. It caught the way your eyelashes flutter, feeling every ridge and curve of his cock drag along your sweet spots, filling you to your limit and making your lungs shake for air.

“Right there? It feels good right there, Baby?” Jin’s jaw clenches, his teeth gritting as he drags you to meet each one of his nasty thrusts. You feel so good around him, so warm, so wet, sucking him in deeper. “You gonna cum for me? Show me exactly how good you feel.”

He’s fucked every little thought from your pretty little head. You nod, dumbly, the muscles in your thighs quivering as the heat in your stomach warms. Your head shakes, the pleasure becoming too much to handle, and when Jin moves his large hand from pressing your thigh up to your chest to then rub your puffy clit to his thrusts? You cry out his name, sobbing as you’re pulled over the edge.

Your cunt slurps messily around his thick girth, slobbering your juices down his cock in waves. Your eyes roll, mouth dropping as he keeps fucking you, fucking you through your orgasm as he coos in your ear. “Good girl - make a mess, let me see that face you make as you try and milk my cock, wanna get it all on camera, make it a Christmas movie all for me."

A/N: As always, comments, kudos, and interactions with me are greatly appreciated!

my bts mstrlst - svt mstrlst

Introducing you to your new step-father that summer meant also introducing you to his children. Biologically, he had two - Kim Taehyung and Kim Ari. At that time, Ari was already in college in Europe, studying fashion, a subject you never knew existed. Taehyung had graduated High school the year prior. 

The kicker was that of a certain boy by the name of Jeon Jungkook, an adopted son from a previous marriage.

“Though my wife and I didn’t work out, I adopted Jungkook when he was around 8.” your step-father stated at dinner.

You pondered just how that worked - Jungkook living with his adopted father instead of his mother. Where was his own biological father that he’d rather steer clear from both parents and remain with someone else entirely?

You never questioned either of them aloud, however.

Jungkook and you were the same age, though attending different schools. You were shocked to find out how wealthy this man was. He could afford private school tuition and even offered to send you to the same one Jungkook attended - you declined the offer. It took a month into your senior year for your mother to remove you from your well-liked public school, and put you right into private school alongside Jungkook.

You’ve tried your best to like it. However, the uniform skirt pissed you off. The lack of friends you had irritated you to no end that you were forced to sit with Jungkook and his friends. 

Literally. 

The boy would wait after your classes and force you to sit with a group of his friends you couldn’t care less about. You’re positive it was because his father had threatened to take away the brand new Porsche he got for him if he ignored you. Yet, day after day Jungkook would drag you to a table full of boys all his age where the two of you would eat. You were glad to not be a part of any of their conversations as they truly didn’t interest you. 

At first glance, Jungkook looks like the typical senior boy. Handsome face, nice smile and even nicer body as he was athletic. His appearance could be misconstrued as a toal fuck boy or a nice guy - and you learned that it all depended on what he felt like that day. At this moment, he was a nice guy. A few days prior, the fuck boy in him had him completely ignoring Laura; the girl he snuck into the home while your mother and his father were out on a date. 

Jungkook was also the person who’d take you to and from school. You learned at this private academy, there were no school buses - only chauffeurs and privileged students driving their own expensive cars. Jungkook being one of them.

Jungkook enjoyed feeling the wind in his hair as he drove, music blasting through the speakers. He drove as if the streets were his, dashing between cars and going from one lane to another.

“Can you slow down?” you asked him one day - months of dealing with your heart racing outside your chest.

“Tell me,” Jungkook turned down the music but didn’t turn to you. “why are you so incredibly boring?”

Your eyes widened at his words.

“You don’t do anything. You don’t even try to make friends-”

“I have friends!” you hissed back. “I just don’t care for the pretentious-”

“And I’m bored.” Jungkook interrupted, turning the music back up to further mess with you. For a moment, you’re silent, eyes wide and mouth agape. This was probably the most you’ve spoken to him, and even now you and him weren’t on good terms.

“How about you prove you aren’t boring then, sis?” Jungkook hollered over his music. The word “sis” comes out teasingly that it caused your nose to scrunch up. “We’re having a study session tonight. Come with me.”

You cross your arms. “How is studying not boring?”

Jungkook glances your way just as he switches lanes. His dark eyes are enough to tell you that you weren’t understanding anything. 

“Oh…” you trailed off, arms falling to your sides. There wasn’t going to be any studying. You suppose it was just a front to not get caught doing anything else. “I don’t-”

“Bo-” Jungkook began. “ring . Stay home alone on a Friday night for all I care. Mingyu was expecting to see you, though.”

Your brows knit together and Jungkook notices that now he has your attention. Mingyu was one of Jungkook’s friends who you were unfortunate to surround yourself with at lunch. You spoke little, only “hi’s” and “bye’s”. 

“He thinks you’re cute. He’s never going to shoot his shot first. You’re supposed to be off limits.” 

Jungkook turned down the long familiar private road to where the estate was. 

“Off limits for what?” you scoffed. Your mind immediately wandered negatively. Off limits because you weren’t like them. You weren’t born into money like they were, and even now that your mom has married into it, you were still a fish out of water.

“As friends, we’re not supposed to get involved with siblings. It’s messy.” Jungkook shakes his head matter-of-factly. “You’re a different case, however. You aren’t technically my sibling. We just met.”

Jungkook turned his eyes towards you once more, this time his stare lingering. “So you’re technically not off limits to anyone.”

The study session consisted of familiar faces. The majority of them were Jungkook’s friends you’ve sat with at lunch, while others were friends of friends, all lingering around each other in the large estate - all the while you kept to yourself mostly.

Jungkook was just as surprised as you were when you met him just when he was about to leave. He noticed the nervous look on your face when you asked him if you were dressed correct for the occasion. It caused him to snicker before motioning to his own casual wear. The untrained eye wouldn’t notice the nearly $600 pair of shoes he wore and designer clothing brand that’s considered “quiet luxury”.

“You’re all alone here.”

You recognize the voice that stands besides you. It’s Mingyu who’s holding out a red cup to you, one in his other hand that he sips on. You glance down at the cup and then back up at the dark haired boy.

“It’s nothing strong.” Mingyu offers a smile. “But if you’d like, I can get you something else. We have juice-”

“It’s fine.” you interrupt, your body warming up as you take the cup. You glance behind Mingyu to find Jungkook amongst the gathering of people. He’s drinking from his own red cup, his eyes watching the two of you.

The last thing you needed was for Jungkook to call you boring again.

“You don’t talk much.” Mingyu notes. “I suppose it doesn’t help that Kook left you, huh?”

You place the brim of the cup to your lips. “Y-yeah.” you murmur. You can smell the alcohol mixed with whatever juice he mixed with it. “I’m the odd one out.”

You take a sip and surprisingly, it doesn’t taste bad. You’re glad that Mingyu hadn’t lied about the taste. 

The next few hours are a blur as you and Mingyu talked and continued to drink. The room grew hotter. You became more relaxed, laughing heartily. You aren’t even sure when you and Mingyu ended elsewhere until your mind suddenly snapped back into reality of your naked body against his own.

“You’re very pretty, Y/N.” you hear him say, wet mouth against the nape of your neck. “I always thought so…”

Just as you and Mingyu had drank until your minds were spinning, so had everyone else. As the get together dragged on, people had dispersed. Those who stayed were already dozing off on different parts of the home - Jungkook recalls the time he got so wasted that he slept in the lawn because the house was far too humid to be comfortable.

Jungkook isn’t sure why he decides to follow you and Mingyu. It’s obvious what is bound to happen. For hours, you occupied yourself with his friend that he understood Mingyu’s feelings towards you were mutual.

Jungkook understands that it’s wrong and a complete invasion of privacy. His friend is so intoxicated that he doesn’t realize that the door is open a crack; just enough for Jungkook to look inside. He watches it all - the way Mingyu and you make out until clothing is scattered. He watches the way his friend’s hand touches your bare skin, his lips kissing upon it.

Jungkook is fully aware that this is wrong, but he cannot help but watch. He blames you, he thinks, because just as he was about to turn away and never bring this up to anyone, you get on top of Mingyu. Your back is facing him, smooth and arched. He’s unsure why it captivates him the way it does. 

Jungkook is frozen watching you, his own step-sister. The same girl he’s called boring just to tease you. The girl who doesn’t bother to make friends or do anything until now. Your hips rise and fall as Mingyu’s hands settle onto your waist, gripping tightly. Moans surround the room, yours a bit higher than his. He’s never thought about your sexlife until now and if he had, he’d assumed you were the type to wait. 

Jungkook knows this is wrong, but he cannot help the way his cock feels as he watches you right now. It’s hard in his pants, twitching each time you grind your hips against Mingyu, his friend hasn’t stopped moaning since you mounded him. 

“You feel so good~” you gasp. It’s as if Jungkook’s view of you has lifted, his eyes unblinking as he watches you. He swallowed the lump in his throat, his heart racing in his chest. He blames his own intoxication when his hands slide into his pants and grips his cock. He’s fully aware that this is wrong - and pathetic. But the way your ass looks from here is what continues to drive him crazy.

When Jungkook cums right in his pants is when his mind snaps back to reality. He finds the nearest bathroom and vomits everything into the toilet, managing to avoid stepping over a few drunken acquaintances.

What Jungkook proceeds to do next could be deemed as selfish, but what does being a selfless person get you in life? He learned from his (adoptive) father that if you wanted something in life, you had to take it - no matter the costs or the length in time.

Mingyu is his friend - one of Jungkook’s closest friends. He wants all of his friends to have what's best for them. At first, he thought he wouldn’t care about his friends dating you. There wasn’t a reason to be.

Now, though, Jungkook fears that he cannot get you out of his mind. His mind often rings with your sweet moans and sudden gasps. The way your hips grinds with such pleasurable need that has his mouth salivating whenever the picture pops into his mind. Not only was it pathetic to be hung on a single person, but utterly prohibited.

But why, Jungkook thinks, would it be prohibited? Sure, your mother was married to his father. But, not his biological father. Even so, you and he had just met nearly a year ago. You and he were soon to be out into the real world, going to universities like Taehyung and Ari were. It would be weird if his attraction towards you were aimed at Ari, someone he considered to be his true sister. But for you….

Of course, Jungkook understands that ruining what you and Mingyu were becoming was selfish. However, if he didn’t get it out of his system, it would continue to boil inside him until he could no longer contain himself. He was tired of watching you walk around the home like nothing had happened between you and his friend. Hell, even when he asked Mingyu himself, he had lied to his face. “We just talked and made out a little,” he recalls.

That meant that what Mingyu felt was genuine. He didn’t see you as a random hookup that he spoke about freely and that alone was dangerous. It meant that Jungkook couldn’t have you.

“Before it gets too serious,” Jungkook told his friend one night. “you should stop pursuing Y/N. She’s…”

Jungkook doesn’t say anything further for a moment. He can feel Mingyu’s eyes staring right into him, his mouth agape ready to argue. They had this conversation months ago and Jungkook had stated that it was fine. It wasn’t fine anymore, he thinks. He cannot continue to watch the way you smile at his friend, a flirty look in your eyes. At home, he could hear you talking to him over the phone and even when he was out with his friends, you were always in Mingyu’s phone, which left his friend distracted.

No, Jungkook couldn’t allow this to continue. Maybe after he had a taste of you, he pondered, then maybe.

“She’s like a sister to me.” Jungkook continued. “Besides, you already said you were going out of the country to study.”

Mingyu blinked. “Yeah but…she could come with me?” he knitted his brows. “Or I can stay-”

“Why would you put your life on hold for someone you just met, gyu?” Jungkook scoffed. “I’m telling you this as your friend. Let it go…if later on down the line you two rekindle then it’s meant to be, right?”

You never thought you’d be in this position. You’ve become one of the girls you once took pity on. You were now the girl that had hooked up with someone and was let down. Mingyu had let you down as easily as he could but it still didn’t stop your feelings from being hurt.

You didn’t give Mingyu the satisfaction of ghosting you. You avoided him at all costs. You no longer sat with Jungkook or his friends and instead decided that eating alone with your airpods was just fine until Jungkook made his appearance beside you. At first, he was silent, never speaking about the obvious elephant in the room.

Then-

“Peer pressure?” Jungkook questions you one night. He lifts the alcohol bottle for you to view. “I’m sick of you sulking.”

“I’m not sulking.” you scoff, turning your attention back to your laptop. “I’m doing homework.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes. “Bo-” he begins and you automatically sigh. “ring. What did I say about you being cooped up on a Friday night?”

You snicker. “The last time I went out with you on a Friday night I got my time wasted.” 

Jungkook leans against the wall. “I’m sorry about that.” 

Your eyes snap back to Jungkook. You’ve never heard him apologize to you before. You gently close your laptop, your body warming. “For…what?” you murmur.

For ruining your bubbling relationship, but Jungkook couldn’t admit to that. 

“For Mingyu.” Jungkook nods. “He’s my friend, after all, and I was the one to encourage him to go after you. If I would’ve known he was going to have cold feet…” he trails off.

You shrug one shoulder, leaning back against the couch. “It’s not your fault.” you say. “Where are you going?”

“Kickback. We’re only a few weeks away before we're done with this shit, aren’t we?” Jungkook chuckles. “Then, the summer is ours.”

“Before we end up right back for college?” you snicker, a small grin on your lips.

“Y/N,” Jungkook bounces away from the wall to make his way closer to you. “college parties are way better. Besides, no curfews,” Jungkook seats himself on the arm of the couch. He has no discard for possibly damaging it. “no stealing liquor from the cellar.” he says, jiggling the bottle in his hand. “It’s perfect. Now get up. Wear something hot to show Mingyu that you aren’t bothered by him.”

Jungkook offers a smile - wear something hot for him and him alone, he thinks.

“If you feel tired, just go upstairs to my room.” you tell Ana - more like yell - over the loud music that’s booming throughout the estate. 

Ana, of course, isn’t listening fully. She’s already 5 shots in and she’s feeling the party entirely. You allow her to drag you towards the kitchen where there’s already a row of shots displayed. 

By the time you got out of the shower, Jungkook had told you that there was a change in plans. You’re positive it had something to do with the text you’ve received from your mother that told you she and your step-father wouldn’t be returning until Sunday.

Obviously, to Jungkook, that meant whatever kickback - you now know that is just a codename for a party - he was attending could now happen in the comfort of his own home. 

You peer down at the row of shots - Mystery shots is what Taehyung calls it. 

Taehyung was someone you were not expecting to see so soon. He rarely visits home and when he does, it’s usually only for dinners. Now, however, you see just how vibrant he is. Maybe this is what college was about, you think.

It’s a game to Taehyung to see who could guess what shot they’re taking. He throws money at whoever could guess it, the majority of them far too tipsy to even conjure up the correct words.

Ana grabs one light and dark liquid and shoves one your way. “You’re not drunk enough for me.” she says with a laugh. She begins to dance, twirling and spinning along with the music that you couldn't help but find her carefree attitude funny.

Ana and you had been friends since your freshman year of high school when she sat besides you in class. She was talkative, telling you every and anything - by the end of the day, you knew that her parents were getting a divorce because her father had cheated and gotten his mistress pregnant.

Needless to say, it was the start of a friendship. One that you told her that could lead up to your college years. Though you hoped you and she could attend the same, now that you no longer depended on financial aid to get you by, you’re sure that wasn’t going to be the case. 

It was Jungkook who persuaded you to invite Ana. Not because you didn’t want her there, but because he knew that if you were going to let loose tonight, your carefree friend had to be there. He’s positive that you’ve learned your lesson from the last time - a lesson he needed you to unlearn if he wanted to be in Mingyu’s position. So if a costly uber ride is what he had to pay for to get your friend who lived an hour away to come, then so be it.

With Ana coming only meant that she brought her wardrobe, insisting that you needed to look as hot as she knew you could. 

“What are you doing?” Taehyung asks Jungkook. He notices his brother’s eyes lingering for far too long in a certain direction. A direction he doesn’t have to follow.

The night drags on. You and Ana are both more than tipsy along with the majority of everyone here. Taehyung had given out enough cash to pay Ana’s mothers rent for the next 4 months - pocket change is what he calls it - due to the drinking game. 

“I know that look in your eye.” Taehyung continues. He’s holding a water bottle in his hand and he takes a sip, something he hasn’t seen anyone do here yet. He tells himself that in due time, they’ll learn to chase their liquor with water and not be drunken fools. “However, I do not know who that look is for.”

Jungkook turns his eyes away from you - and Ana - to look at Taehyung. The older man furrows a single brow. He knows the younger boy enough that sometimes, words don't need to be spoken.

“I see.” Taehyung hums. “Who wants to play hide and seek?”

“What?” someone calls out drunkenly. 

“I do!” Ana says, raising her hand. She’s no longer distracted by the intense game of beer pong. “It’ll be fun.”

“Are we not too old?” you ask her, voice slurred. 

“No!” she squeals.

There were only a few players. Taehyung set the rules - hide, and if he finds you that’s another 3 shots. You aren’t sure you could handle one shot, let alone three.

You lose Ana quickly as she decides to take this game seriously. You ditched your heels long ago, your feet dragging along the cool floors. Upstairs is off limits to guests and seeing as you weren’t one, your drunken mind tells you that it’s the perfect place to hide.

And maybe stay for the remainder of the night if slumber overtook you. The thought of sleeping now was more than appetizing.

“Are you cheating?”

You yelp as you turn the corner at the top of the steps. Jungkook is in front of you. You notice he’s lazily holding a water bottle in his right hand.

“What?” you shake your head. “No, I’m-” you swallow. “If I'm cheating then so are you!”

Jungkook snickers. “I am.” he says, nonchalant. “Tae knows all my hiding spots by now. He’ll force me to take 5 just to fuck with me.”

“You fuckers better be hiding well!” Taehyung calls out, somehow louder than the music. 

“He’ll never suspect we’ll be hiding up here, right?” Jungkook murmurs, coming closer. “Let’s go to your room.”

It doesn’t strike you as odd, so you nod. Upon entering your room, you turn the lights on, but dim them enough so it isn’t too bright to irritate you . 

Jungkook closes the door behind him, locking it quietly. He watches you flop onto your bed and let out a sigh. The music from inside here is muffled, the door vibrates softly from the bass.

“Ana dressed you up nicely.” Jungkook states, now at the foot of your bed. Your skirt is short and stops at your mid-thigh. He recalls Ana calling it gorilla grip, stating that it wouldn’t rise up no matter what you did. Your top is tight, hugging your breast in a way he finds all too appealing. 

“For no reason.” you say. You turn to lay on your back now, comfortably against your pillows. “Mingyu didn’t come.”

Jungkook tilts his head. He wouldn’t tell you it’s because he didn’t invite him. 

“He’ll see the pictures in someone's story.” Jungkook shrugs. “Besides, it isn’t a waste, right? You had fun.”

“Yeah.” you admit. “I did. I’m going to have a headache tomorrow morning for sure.” you laugh. “I don’t know how you do this every week.”

“It’s okay to have fun, Y/N.” Jungkook takes a seat on your bed, watching you. Lazily, he places the water bottle beside him. “Ana’s having the time of her life right now.”

Knowing Ana, right about now she was either hiding somewhere no one could find her or somewhere so obvious. There wasn’t an inbetween. 

“How are you feeling?” 

You let out a breath. “Alright.” you respond. You hadn’t thought about Mingyu the entire night like you thought you would’ve. Before Ana had forced drinks down your throat, you were so anxious about potentially coming face to face with Mingyu that you couldn’t focus on anything else. It took her intoxicating you to actually let loose and forget about him.

“This is probably the drunkest I've seen you.” Jungook chuckles. He lays down besides you, peering up at the ceiling before turning to face you. “You weren’t this drunk at the last kickback.”

You swallow. Jungkook notices the way your eyes advert away, avoiding his gaze. You didn’t want to talk about the last party and the way you’ve stupidly given in to Mingyu. You felt foolish to believe his words of him actually liking you. 

“I wasn’t aware you noticed.” you snicker. You can finally face Jungkook as the mood lightens, your own self-loathing subsiding. “You left me as soon as we walked in.”

“I kept my eye on you the entire night.” Jungkook quips. 

You stare at Jungkook. He stares back. You swallow, your eyes squinting a bit. “Wha…what?”

“I kept my eye on you,” Jungkook repeats his sentence, his tone lowering to a mere whisper. “the entire night.”

Your body burns. Surely Jungkook didn’t mean that, right? There was no way he knew about you and Mingyu - he would’ve said something about it by now. Teased you, at least. Though you and Mingyu aren’t on the best terms, you believed him when he said he hadn’t told Jungkook about that night.

“Does that upset you?”

You blink a few times to get out of your head. “Does what upset me?”

“Does it upset you that I watched?”

Your body stiffens just as Jungkook says it. Your eyes widen slightly, your ears pop as if you’re hearing for the first time. You bite the inside of your cheek. 

“I didn’t mean to at first. I wanted to find you and make sure no one’s done anything to you…”

Jungkook comes closer to you, a hand laying onto your exposed arm. He can feel the goosebumps on your skin. 

“…the door was cracked and that’s when I saw-“

“Please stop.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Your hands form into firsts, your nails digging into the delicate skin of your palms. This moment was humiliating now knowing that Jungkook was there. That not only had he caught you and his friend, but he watched. 

“Would you be upset if I told you I liked watching you?”

Your eyes snap open this time. You jolt upwards, peering down at Jungkook. He appears far too relaxed right now . Maybe he was just drunkenly spewing thoughts he would otherwise conceal. 

“You…shouldn’t say those things.”

“Why not?” Jungkook questions. “I did like watching you. You looked…different. Relaxed. Pleasured. It’s a beautiful sight to see.”

You weren’t yelling or telling him to get out. You didn’t appear disgusted by his voyeur ways, just shocked. It encourages Jungkook to climb on top of you, his knees on either side of your legs. 

“I liked watching the way your hips grinded." Jungkook murmurs. His hands roam upwards so shamelessly, stopping just underneath your breast. “The way you moaned and begged for more.” 

“You-“

Jungkook’s hand grips your breasts, his eyes flickering to you in a way that’s testing your reaction. 

“-can’t do this!” you yelp. Your hands place themselves onto Jungkook’s arm, going to push him away. 

“Why not?” Jungkook doesn’t move. “Besides the obvious reason.”

Your heart is beating fast, your eyes wide and full of shock. “W-What other reason would there be?” you hiss.

Jungkook hums. His hands go to squeeze your breast, the bra you’re wearing does not allow him to feel them like he wants to, but it was enough for now. “What was it about Mingyu?”

Jungkook leans closer to you as his right hand roams upwards, past your collarbone and towards your neck. The alcoholic smell on him is faint and you can smell the citrusy aroma of his cologne now that he’s closer. 

Your palms dashes to his chest in an attempt to stop him from coming even closer, the sudden closeness causing your head to spin. Your heart continues to leap and just outside the door, you remember that there’s a party going on. 

“There wasn’t anything, was it?” Jungkook murmurs. His fingers tap at your neck as goosebumps form. Suddenly, he cups your chin and juts your head towards him. “He’s just the first person to give you the attention you wanted.”

“That’s not true.” you retort rather weakly. Even you couldn’t sound confident in your rebuttal. Deep down, you thought so yourself.

“Would you be upset if I kissed you?” Jungkook questions. “Would you push me away?”

You inhale. Unbeknownst to you, your hands grip onto Jungkook’s shirt as you process his words.

“It would be fun.” Jungkook leans a bit closer, not yet touching your lips. His nose glides across yours. “You and I in here doing something we aren’t supposed to while they look for us out there.”

“Kook,” you sigh out.

You shouldn’t be here, nor should you have allowed Jungkook to do this. You could push him away at any given moment, but instead you choose to lay idle as he does what he wants. A part of you tells you that you did want this - that Jungkook was yet another person who was showing you the attention you wanted.

“Stop being so boring, Y/N.” Jungkook presses his lips to yours, more hungrily than even he anticipated. His mind flashes with moments of you and Mingyu, only it was him at the receiving end of it.

Your throat vibrates when you feel Jungkook just his hips forward, deepening the kiss. His hold on your chin tightens, assuring you don’t pull yourself away. You hadn’t, however, and slowly you feel yourself give into him, your once widened eyes slowly softening. 

“Feel’s good, right?” Jungkook murmurs against your lips before capturing them again. He ruts his hips towards you once more and it’s evident that he wants more.

“What if-”

“Stop.” Jungkook lets go of your chin this time, allowing his lips to replace his fingers as he peppers light kisses. “We’re just having fun, Y/N. Don’t think too much into it.”

Just having fun. 

Your brain keeps repeating Jungkook’s words over and over again. 

Just having fun.

You let out a slow breath when Jungkook’s lips reach your neck. A hand gently grasps your thigh, tugging it so Jungkook could pull them apart. The new position has your body warming, slight embarrassment flowing through you.

This was wrong, sure, but it’s fun - right? It was just you and Jungkook. The door was closed and, unbeknownst to you, locked. No one would ever think to look for the both of you up here. Everyone was drunk and having their own fun - including you and Jungkook.

“You smell good.” Jungkook groans against your neck. His hips buckled once more.  This time you couldn’t help but gasp at the feel of him. “You always do, though.”

“Stop smelling me.” you hiss, though you aren’t annoyed; not like you would’ve been prior. “...creep.”

You hear Jungkook laugh, his breath hitting your neck. More goosebumps form. He lifts himself to face you, his dark eyes scanning your face for a moment. 

You blink a few times, your eyebrows furrowing slowly at how long Jungkook peers at you. Being in this position already is nerve wrecking, but then you add the way Jungkook stares at you, his face unreadable. You always thought he was handsome, such boyish looks that had you flushing upon first meeting him. 

“Stop staring at me!” you whisper-hiss, already embarrassed enough to be in this position.

Jungkook blinks a few times. “Can’t I not find you pretty?” he hisses back. “You’re going to ruin the mood with your attitude, you know?” “You’re only saying that now.” you roll your eyes. “If you weren’t a pervert watching me-”

“It wasn’t like you were being quiet, either. If it wasn’t me, it could’ve been anyone.” Jungkook shots, shutting you right up. “Besiiiides, I always found you pretty.”

Jungkook holds eye contact as his hands snake their way underneath the shirt you wore, feeling your soft flesh against his hands. He watches the way your eyes flutter nervously as he reaches closer and closer to your covered breasts. 

Jungkook wasn’t lying when he said he found you pretty. More cute, if anything. The way you always followed the rules just told him that you were used to being your mothers main focus. Now, you had more than enough free time on your hands like the rest of them did and free time meant you could do anything without getting caught.

Attending “studying sessions” that had you tipsy and fucking was once of them.

“How much fun are you looking to have?” 

It’s you that breaks the silence first just as Jungkook’s hands grips your breast for a second time. It’s a question that caught him off guard, but he’s more intrigued.

“The way you act, I’m scared to tell you what I want to do.” Jungkook teases. This time, his hand rises upwards, dark eyes focusing on your reaction when he gently tugs at your bra strap. “You’re not gonna act boring now are you?”

Your heart is beating so fast, Jungkook can feel it. 

“You’re calling me boring but you haven’t done anything to entertain me.” you say boldly. It causes the boy’s eyes to widen a bit, a smirk forming onto his lips at your response. 

It’s then Jungkook remembers his water bottle that doesn’t have water in it. It’s discarded a few feet away from him and quickly, he grasps it. He opens it and gulps, the harsh alcohol going down easily. He then holds it out for you to take.