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⸝⸝ ⟡ filmrku roll: guess my skz bias: hard edition. i need to stop doing smau txts and start writing. *the nct jisung fic in my drafts screams* once again, requests open <3 taglist: @heartfullofswords @the-firstfruit

You glanced up at him, catching the excitement in his expression. He lived for moments like this—connecting, networking, floating effortlessly through rooms filled with people who mattered. And you loved seeing him like this, loved knowing how easily he fit into this world.

But right now? You weren’t in the mood to entertain small talk.

“You go ahead,” you said, offering a small smile. “I’ll wait here.”

Chris hesitated for a fraction of a second, his fingers grazing your side like he was debating whether to push. But he didn’t. Instead, he gave your waist one last squeeze before slipping away, weaving through the crowd with an ease that came naturally to him.

You swirled the champagne in your glass, watching from a distance as Chris greeted the man with an easy smile, his shoulders relaxed, his charm effortless. He was always like this at events—engaging, magnetic, impossible to ignore.

And neither was she.

Standing just a little too close to the man Chris was talking to, her arm looped loosely through his, yet her gaze was fixed elsewhere. Fixed on Chris.

You noticed it immediately—the way her lashes fluttered as she watched him, the way her lips curved, not in polite acknowledgment but something softer, something indulgent. She was interested. Not in the man beside her, the one she was presumably here with, but in yours.

The realization settled over you like ice water, sharp and immediate. You’d seen this before—too many times, in too many rooms just like this. Women who thought their status or their beauty somehow made them untouchable, that their interest was a gift, not an intrusion.

She wasn’t even trying to be discreet about it.

You stayed quiet, simply watching, your expression unreadable as Chris continued his conversation, seemingly oblivious. He laughed at something the man said, dimples flashing, and you didn’t miss the way her lips parted slightly, like she was already imagining what it would be like to taste that smile.

Bold.

Your fingers curled around the stem of your glass, the cool surface grounding you. You weren’t the type to make a scene, weren’t the type to claw at Chris’s arm like a warning. Your confidence ran deeper than that.

Chris, as if sensing your gaze, glanced over his shoulder then, his expression softening when he saw you. His eyes lingered, and for a moment, the entire party seemed to fade into background noise.

Then, just as quickly, he was saying his goodbyes, excusing himself from the conversation. You didn’t miss the way she watched him go, her lips pressing together like she was debating something.

Too late.

Chris was already making his way back to you, his attention exactly where it should be. Where it had always been.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low as he slipped an arm around your waist again, reclaiming the space that had never been hers to take.

You let out a quiet hum, lifting your glass to your lips, your gaze flickering past him for only a second—long enough to see her still watching, her expression carefully composed but not nearly careful enough.

Chris followed your gaze, and something in his expression shifted. Understanding dawned, slow and steady, before amusement danced in his eyes. He huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head as he turned back to you.

“You know,” he murmured, leaning in so only you could hear, “you don’t have to pretend you’re not annoyed.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Who said I was annoyed?”

Chris grinned, giving your waist a squeeze. “You’ve got that look,” he teased, voice full of knowing. “The one where you’re pretending not to care, but you’re already making up ways to subtly ruin her night.”

You exhaled a soft laugh, finally turning your full attention back to him. “She was looking at you like she wanted to take a bite.”

Chris let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he pulled back just enough to look at you properly. “You do realize that was his wife, right?”

You barely blinked, lifting your glass to your lips. “And?”

Chris grinned. “And maybe she was just being friendly.”

You arched a brow, unimpressed. “Chris. She was practically undressing you with her eyes.”

His dimples flashed as he grinned wider, but before he could say anything, you tilted your head, considering. “Or,” you mused, voice dripping with amusement, “maybe they’re into that sort of thing.”

Chris choked.

You watched with no small amount of satisfaction as a flush crept up his neck, his usual effortless confidence flickering for just a second. “What—” He cleared his throat, shifting slightly. “You think—”

You shrugged, all faux nonchalance. “Wouldn’t be the first time a couple tried to recruit you.”

Chris groaned, tipping his head back dramatically. “Jesus. Don’t remind me.”

You smirked behind your champagne glass, watching as he rubbed a hand down his face like he was trying to physically erase the memory.

“What was it that one guy said to you? Something about how he and his girl would ‘love to explore your energy’?”

Chris visibly shuddered. “I am begging you to never repeat that sentence again.”

You laughed, letting your fingers trail along the nape of his neck. His skin was warm, the heat creeping up from his collar, and you couldn’t resist the way he reacted to you, how easy it was to pull him in when you wanted to.

You glanced over his shoulder, catching sight of her again. She was still watching—her gaze dipping once more, as if mapping out his body, as if picturing all the ways she might get closer. Bold, but ultimately useless.

Chris was already here, with you.

You decided to prove the point.

With deliberate slowness, you let your hand slide lower, fingers pressing into the small of his back as you leaned into him, your lips grazing just beneath his ear.

“You know,” you murmured, voice soft enough that only he could hear, “if I was annoyed, I’d have a much better way of handling it than ruining her night.”

Chris inhaled sharply, and you felt the way his body tensed under your touch. His grip flexed on your waist before settling firm, almost possessive. “Yeah?” he muttered, voice lower now, rougher.

You let your lips brush the edge of his jaw, just for a second, just enough. “Mmhmm.”

Chris exhaled slowly, his hand shifting—sliding down, fingers pressing into your hip in a way that felt like both a warning and a plea

His fingers dug into your hip, just enough to make his point. “Careful,” he murmured, voice rough at the edges. “You keep this up, and we’re leaving this party early.”

You smirked, entirely unbothered by the threat. “What a shame that would be,” you mused, dragging your fingers just barely under the hem of his blazer. “Missing out on all this networking.”

Chris exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip flexing again—like he was reminding himself where you were, who was watching. But his eyes darkened, and you knew he wasn’t entirely in control of himself anymore.

You had him.

His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and his fingers slid just a little lower, his palm pressing flush against the curve of your hip. His body shifted, subtly angling you away from the rest of the room, from prying eyes, but you caught it—the way she was still watching, her expression unreadable, her lips pressed into a careful line.

You smiled. Slow. Sweet. Possessive in a way that didn’t require theatrics.

And then, just to seal it, you leaned up, brushing your lips against the shell of Chris’s ear, making damn sure she saw the way he shivered.

“Baby,” he muttered, like a warning, like a plea.

You pressed your smile against his jaw. “Mmhmm?”

Chris exhaled through his nose again, steadying himself, and when he finally pulled back to look at you, his eyes burned. His amusement was still there, but now it was tinged with something else, something hotter.

“I’m getting you another drink,” he said, his voice low, steady. But his fingers lingered on your waist, like he didn’t actually want to step away.

You tilted your head, gaze steady. “I don’t need another drink.”

Chris huffed out something that was almost a laugh, but his fingers flexed against your waist like he was hanging onto his last shred of composure. His jaw tightened, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, and then he shook his head, exhaling sharply through his nose.

“No,” he said, voice rough. “You definitely do.”

You arched a brow, lips twitching. “Oh? And why’s that?”

Chris ran a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose as he took another step away. “Because,” he said, voice rougher than before, “if I stand here for one more second, I’m gonna forget we’re at a party.”

You smirked, watching the tension in his shoulders, the way he practically forced himself to step back. He needed the space—needed to pull himself together, to break the spell you’d so effortlessly cast over him.

Chris was disciplined, always the one in control, always the level-headed leader who could charm his way through any situation. But right now? Right now, his composure was cracking at the edges, and you loved knowing you were the reason why.

He cleared his throat, dragging a hand down his face before glancing toward the bar like it was some kind of lifeline. “I’ll be right back,” he muttered, already turning.

You didn’t stop him. You didn’t need to. Because the second he put even a step of distance between you, he hesitated—just for a fraction of a second—before shaking his head, like he was trying to clear you from his system.

You didn’t look away.

Not at first.

No, you let her stare, let her sit with it, let her marinate in the realization that whatever fleeting fantasy she’d entertained—whatever sliver of hope she’d foolishly clung to—had never stood a chance. Because this? This wasn’t a maybe. This wasn’t an opening.

Chris had already made his choice.

So you lifted your glass that Chris had just handed you, slow and deliberate, meeting her gaze with something just a touch too sweet, just a shade too knowing. And then—because you could—you raised it in a silent toast.

A petty, razor-sharp little acknowledgment.

I see you.

Her expression barely flickered, but you caught it—the subtle shift, the way her fingers curled slightly at her side, the way her lips pressed together in something that wasn’t quite a smile. She didn’t like being caught. Didn’t like that you knew exactly what she had been thinking.

Didn’t like that she had lost before she’d even started.

You took a slow sip of your champagne, savoring the moment, before finally, lazily, turning your attention away. Because that was the thing, wasn’t it? She didn’t matter enough to keep looking at.

Chris did.

And Chris? He was watching the entire thing unfold, his gaze flicking between the two of you, amusement flickering beneath something darker.

"You’re insufferable," he murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear.

You tilted your head, all innocence. "What ever do you mean?"

Chris let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head, but you saw the way his fingers flexed around the glass in his hand, saw the way his jaw tightened as he leaned in, voice just for you.

"That was mean."

You shrugged, unfazed. "That was mercy."

Chris huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head, but the way his fingers curled around your waist said he wasn’t entirely unaffected. His grip was firm—just shy of possessive, like he needed to ground himself in your presence, like he needed to remind himself that no amount of fleeting attention from anyone else could touch what was his.

"You’re a piece of work, you know that?" he murmured, eyes still dancing with amusement.

You smiled, slow and sweet. "And yet, here you are."

Chris exhaled sharply through his nose, his dimples flashing as he tipped his glass to his lips. "Yeah," he admitted, voice low, warm. "Here I am."

And that was it, wasn’t it?

You didn’t need to stake your claim, didn’t need to sink your claws into him in some desperate display of ownership. Because Chris wasn’t looking at anyone else. He wasn’t thinking about anyone else.

And the way his hand slid lower, fingers pressing into the small of your back like he couldn’t help himself? The way his eyes softened, darkened, like you were the only thing keeping him tethered in a room full of noise and flashing lights?

That said everything.

So you let the moment settle between you, let the warmth of the champagne hum through your veins as Chris traced absentminded circles against your hip, his fingers slow, lazy.

His hand slid lower, a warning, a promise, before he took a slow step back, eyes still locked onto yours. "We should go," he murmured, voice rough. "Before I forget how to behave."

You hummed, pretending to consider it, even as your body leaned into his touch like it already knew the answer. “That bad, huh?”

Chris let out a low chuckle, his fingers tightening against your waist, his breath fanning warm against your cheek as he dipped closer—just close enough to make your pulse stutter. “You have no idea.”

You knew exactly what was running through his head, how tightly he was holding the last threads of his composure, how close he was to losing the game he always played so well.

So you tipped your chin up, gaze steady, letting your lips just barely graze his jaw as you murmured, “Then what are we still doing here?”

Chris exhaled sharply, like he was physically restraining himself, before shaking his head with a breathy laugh. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, already slipping his hand into yours, already leading you through the crowd with a singular purpose.

felix should have warned you before introducing you to his group. instead, he had only grinned the entire drive over, one hand lazily drumming against the steering wheel while saying things like “just don’t let chan scare you off.” as if that could have prepared you for what would happen.

but you understood the second you walked in. the room shifted around him. conversations paused when he spoke. people looked at him before making decisions. even sitting back against the couch with one arm slung over the backrest, chan carried himself like he owned the place and everyone inside it.

and apparently, everyone let him.

your first impression of him settled quickly: arrogant. controlling. the kind of man who expected obedience simply because he existed.

his first impression of you formed just as fast. too observant.

he noticed the way your eyes tracked everything, the way you watched interactions instead of trying to force yourself into them. most people met him and got nervous. eager to please. careful with their words.

you didn’t. worse, you looked at him like something didn't sit right.

felix introduced you with an easy grin, entirely unaware of the tension that sparked the moment chan’s gaze landed on you.

chan leaned back slightly, eyes dragging over you once before he gave a curt nod. “heard a lot about you.” you smiled politely but your tone sounded anything but. “ditto.”

a few people in the room choked on their drinks. felix looked between the two of you like he’d just realised he accidentally lit a match near gasoline.

chan's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. and that was the beginning of it.

after that, it became a pattern, predictable in the most irritating way possible. every time you showed up, chan noticed immediately.

it didn’t matter if he was mid-conversation, or across the room pretending not to pay attention, the second you walked in, his focus shifted. like some invisible thread pulled tight between you.

you noticed it too. the way his eyes found you first. always. and somehow, every single interaction between the two of you turned into a fight.

“we’re ordering from rossi’s,” chan announced one night from the kitchen, barely glancing up from his phone. “rossi’s is awful,” you said immediately.

a silence fell over the room. han muttered, “oh, here we go.” chan looked up slowly. “awful?”

“their pasta tastes microwaved.”

“it’s italian. one of the only italian places around here."

“that doesn’t automatically make it good.”

he stared at you for a second too long before scoffing softly. “you always this difficult?”

you leaned against the counter. “you always this bossy?”

his mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile.

that should’ve warned you. because after that, he started seeking you out. deliberately.

if you sat somewhere, suddenly chan needed that exact spot. if you disagreed with something, he’d argue just to keep you talking longer. if someone else interrupted your banter, he looked annoyed by it.

and the worst part? you kept engaging. every single time.

“move,” he told you one evening when you stole his usual seat on the couch. you looked up from your drink. “there are six other places to sit.”

“that’s my spot.”

you scoffed, “sounds made up.” the room went quiet again. felix was already grinning into his drink.

chan stepped closer, towering over the couch while you refused to move even an inch. “you enjoy testing me.”

“you enjoy acting like a fucking dictator.”

“someone has to keep order around here.”

you snorted. “order? how dramatic."

his eyes narrowed. yours sparkled with amusement.

and there it was again, that awful little pull between irritation and entertainment that neither of you seemed capable of escaping.

because no matter how much chan acted annoyed by you, he kept looking for reasons to provoke you. he’d throw comments your way from across the room just to watch you snap back.

he learned exactly what got reactions out of you. the fastest way to make you glare. the quickest way to make you roll your eyes. the comments that made your lips twitch because you were trying not to laugh.

and god, he loved when you laughed. especially if it was usually at his expense.

“you know,” you said one night after he interrupted somebody for the fifth time, “normal people let others finish speaking.”

“normal people have useful things to say.”

you groaned in annoyance, “see? this is exactly why i can’t stand you.”

“funny." he drawled, eyes fixed on you over the rim of his drink, “why do you keep talking to me then?"

your stomach flipped annoyingly hard at that. because he was right. you looked away before anyone noticed the heat crawling into your face.

but later that night, while everyone else talked around him, you caught chan watching you from the other side of the room, completely focused, making it feel far more dangerous than the arguing ever had.

chan realised something was wrong the first time you followed him without actually being there.

he was at the studio, headphones hanging around his neck while he stared blankly at the unfinished track glowing on the monitor in front of him. one hand tapped impatiently against the desk. the bass loop repeated. and repeated. and repeated.

all because his brain kept replaying something stupid you’d said three nights ago. “you always act like you’re in charge even when nobody asked you to be.”

he could still hear the smugness in your voice. could still picture the look on your face when you’d said it.

“for fuck’s sake,” he muttered under his breath, dragging both hands over his face. it was ridiculous. you were ridiculous. annoying. argumentative. impossible.

so why the hell was he thinking about you while trying to work? even worse, why did the thought of you make his chest tighten strangely?

he shoved the feeling away immediately. hatred. obviously. that had to be what this was.

except hatred usually didn’t make his pulse jump every time his phone lit up with a message in the group chat, secretly hoping it was you.

hatred shouldn't make his cock hard. and it definitely shouldn't make his thoughts slip to you when he was jerking off.

hatred shouldn’t have made him notice your absence the second he walked into felix’s apartment friday night.

he asked about you before he could stop himself. felix looked up so fast it was almost suspicious. “damn,” he said slowly. “you didn’t even say hi first.”

chan frowned immediately. “i was just asking.” felix smirked at that, “sure you were.”

he ignored the grin spreading across felix’s face and scanned the room again anyway. you weren’t there. and suddenly, the night felt off. quieter, less entertaining. he hated that most of all.

and once he noticed it, he couldn’t stop noticing it. every room he entered, his eyes searched for you automatically. every conversation felt slightly duller when you weren’t interrupting him halfway through it. every joke landed flatter when it wasn’t making you roll your eyes.

it got worse after that. at the gym, he caught himself thinking about the way you looked at him whenever you argued, so... unimpressed. like you enjoyed challenging him just as much as he enjoyed provoking you.

this was the first time he felt the pressing need to jerk off. to the thought of you.

he rushed home from the gym, cock already half-hard in his pants. had been for the past hour. even an ice-cold shower did nothing.

he dropped his gym back to the floor, making his way to his room immediately, dropping onto his bed. he ran his hands over his face, grabbing his hair.

"fuck you." he said into the empty room before grabbing his hard on through his shorts, squeezing it.

he didn't want to do it, jerking off to you. his pride, his ego, screamed at him to stop. to not do this with you on his mind. he grabbed his phone, unlocking it with one hand while his other slipped into his pants.

porn should do it. watching any other chick, hearing her moans instead of your fucking laugh in his mind. porn used to be his remedy when his mind wouldn't shut up about you. but right now it did nothing. he only saw you. only heard you.

he groaned in frustration, closing the tab on his phone, forcing his hand to stop working his cock. it twitched desperately in his fist, demanding more.

he wanted to text you. to tell you to stop invading his thoughts. tell you how much he hated you. for being so fucking mouthy. for making it impossible for him to jerk off properly. to demand you to do something about it. but he knew you'd only mock him for it.

his thumb moved on its own as it opened his photo gallery. he didn't notice what he was searching for until he found pictures of the last time you hung out with the group.

he loved the shirt you were wearing back then. loved how it made your tits look. fuck. suddenly he was thinking about your tits, wondering what they'd feel like in his hands. he imagined you arching your back, leaning into the touch as he grabbed them, squeezed them, pinched your nipples until you were whimpering.

his hand started moving on his cock again without him realising. his mind was too far gone. he thought about swirling his tongue around your nipples, sucking on them, wondering what your moans would sound like.

but he didn't only want to suck your nipples. he wanted to suck the soft flesh surrounding them. sucking, biting until it left a mark. right on your precious tit. he'd cover you in them, leaving marks all over you. fuck, you'd look so beautiful when he was done with you.

he noticed his fist jerking his cock only when he groaned involuntarily, his eyes fixated on the screen, on the picture of you. he wanted you. needed you. so bad it made his balls tighten.

he felt his orgasm approaching. fuck no, he couldn't cum to the thought of you. no matter how many times he thought of you while jerking off, he always managed to distract himself enough, think of anything but you when he found his release.

but right now he couldn't stop. couldn't stop imagining leaving his marks on you. he wanted to spank you until your butt cheeks were all red and covered in his handprints. finally making you realise who was in fucking charge.

the thought of you surrendering to him, to having his way with you, finally made him come undone. he gave his cock a few more strokes, tearing his gaze away from his phone, head thrown back against the pillow. and he blew his fucking load to the thought of you, whispering your name into the dark room.

after that, chan started gravitating towards you unconsciously. if you were in the kitchen, suddenly he needed a drink. if you were outside, he somehow ended up outside too. if you sat on the couch, he’d lean against the wall closest to you without even realising it. and then there was the hugging thing.

god, he hated the hugging thing. you hugged everyone. felix. the other members. friends arriving. friends leaving. everyone except him.

the first time he noticed it, irritation flared so fast it startled him. the second time, it became impossible not to watch.

you’d grin at somebody, arms wrapping around them casually while chan stood nearby pretending not to care. pretending not to notice. pretending he didn’t immediately wonder what it would feel like if you touched him like that. if your tits pressed against him. your scent surrounding him.

it got even worse when someone else made you laugh. especially men.

one night, seungmin had you nearly doubled over at the kitchen counter, laughing so hard you grabbed his arm for balance.

chan felt something ugly twist in his chest. before he even realised what he was doing, he crossed the room. “what’s so funny?” he asked flatly.

your laughter faded slightly as you looked up at him.“nothing you’d enjoy.”

“try me.”

"you don’t have a sense of humor.”

seungmin laughed awkwardly before quickly excusing himself the second chan looked at him.

coward.

you narrowed your eyes immediately. “did you just scare him off?”

“if he got scared that easily, that’s his problem.”

“you’re unbelievable.”

“then stop talking to me.” he said quietly, stepping closer.

the words settled heavily between you. your expression flickered for half a second. and christ, that was another problem entirely.

because lately, every time you looked at him, he forgot for a moment that this was supposed to be hatred at all.

a few days later, a heavy summer storm hit the city. and it had gotten bad fast.

rain hammered against the streets hard enough to blur the city lights, thunder rumbling low and heavy overhead while you hurried towards the studio building with your jacket pulled uselessly over your head. you and felix had made plans to go out for dinner after the studio tonight.

by the time security let you upstairs after recognising you as “one of felix’s people,” you were completely soaked. your shoes squeaked against the floor as you pushed open the studio door with an exhausted sigh already forming, only for it to die immediately when you saw who was inside.

chan sat alone in the swivel chair in front of the mixing desk, one arm resting against the armrest while music played quietly through the speakers.

of course. you sighed dramatically. “you’ve got to be kidding me.”

he glanced over his shoulder lazily. “nice to see you too.”

“where’s felix?”

“not here, obviously.”

you rolled your eyes, already pulling your phone out.“helpful as always.”

“i try.” but when chan turned fully in the chair, whatever sarcastic response he’d been about to make stopped short.

his eyes dragged over you slowly. rainwater clung to your clothes, your shirt damp enough to stick to your skin, droplets still sliding down your neck and disappearing beneath the fabric. his dick twitched. for once, chan looked genuinely speechless.

your stomach flipped annoyingly at the expression on his face. “take a picture,” you muttered.

his jaw tightened immediately, like he’d just been caught doing something illegal. before he could answer, your phone buzzed.

felix: « storm’s too bad. roads are fucked. can’t make it tonight sorry 😭»

you stared at the message in disbelief. “you’re joking.”

“what?”

“felix bailed.”

chan snorted softly. “smartest thing he’s done all week.”

and then the power cut out. the room dropped into darkness instantly. you jumped hard enough to knock your knee against the couch beside you. “shit—”

a laugh echoed through the dark. “you scared of a little darkness?”

“absolutely not.”

“you literally jumped just now.”

a flashlight flicked on a second later, illuminating the room dimly from below as chan leaned back in his chair, looking entirely too entertained by your suffering. the lighting made him look unfairly attractive. which only irritated you further.

“what, no candles around?” you asked dryly. “could make this whole thing a little cosier.”

his brows lifted. “this is a fucking studio.”

“and?”

“not exactly a place that calls for romance.”

you snorted. “pity. you probably bang a lot of chicks here considering you’re basically married to the studio. could’ve at least provided them with ambiance.”

chan barked out a laugh at that. an actual laugh. "trust me,” he said, eyes glinting in the flashlight glow, “i don’t need romance for that.”

“oh, i’m sure your personality alone does all the heavy lifting.”

“you saying i’m charming?”

“i’m saying you’re bossy. probably sucking up to people if you want something.”

he shook his head slowly, still staring at you in that intense way that always made your heartbeat feel uneven.

outside, thunder cracked loudly enough to rattle the windows. you crossed your arms instinctively, suppressing a shiver.

unfortunately, chan noticed immediately. his eyes narrowed slightly as another tremor ran through you. “you’re freezing.”

“i’m fine.”

“you’re shaking.”

“wow,” you deadpanned, “your observational skills are incredible.”

he rolled his eyes before reaching behind him blindly, grabbing a black sweater from the couch and tossing it towards you.

it hit your chest. you looked down at it suspiciously. then back at him. “…you own sweaters? wow. didn't expect that with you always running around in your stupid tank tops." you loved the stupid tank tops.

“hilarious.”

you held the sweater between two fingers. “this thing probably reeks of ego.”

“put the fucking hoodie on.”

you snorted softly, still not moving. “i think i’d rather suffer.”

“christ,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “stop being so fucking stubborn.”

“make me.” the words slipped out too naturally. too easily. and the second they did, the room changed.

chan went still. the flashlight from his phone cast shadows across his face as his eyes locked onto yours with dangerous intensity.

your pulse skipped. his gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before lifting again. slowly. oh, he knew exactly how to make you less stubborn.

“careful,” he said quietly. your breath caught despite yourself.

but instead of backing down, you tilted your head slightly. “or what?”

his eyes darkened slightly at that. the storm outside seemed louder suddenly, rain hammering against the windows while the studio sat in near darkness around you.

chan leaned back slowly in the chair, one hand still holding his phone loosely against his thigh. “you really don’t know when to stop talking.”

you clutched the sweater against your chest. “you say that like you aren’t the one constantly starting arguments with me.”

“because you make it easy.”

“or maybe you’re obsessed with hearing yourself speak.”

he laughed quietly under his breath. “see?” he murmured. “there it is.”

“what?”

“that mouth.”

heat crept annoyingly up your neck. you tried to ignore it. “you mean the one that hurts your feelings every other day?” you said sweetly.

“please.” his gaze dragged over you again, slow enough to make your stomach tighten. “if anything, i think you enjoy getting my attention.”

you scoffed immediately. “you’re unbelievable.”

“you came here soaked out of your mind during a storm.”

“to see felix.”

“sure.”

“god, your ego is exhausting.”

“and yet you ended up alone with me.”

the words landed heavier than they should have. you hated that your heartbeat reacted instantly. and chan noticed, your flushed face making him way more aroused than it should.

his eyes narrowed slightly, like he was studying every tiny shift in your expression.

“you know what your problem is?” you said, mostly to regain control of the conversation.

“enlighten me.”

“you think everybody wants you.”

one corner of his mouth pulled upward. “you saying you don’t?”

your breath caught for half a second. just enough. his expression changed immediately the moment he noticed. to satisfaction? or interest? something far more dangerous underneath both.

“wow,” he said softly. “that almost sounded convincing.” you glared at him. “you’re insufferable.”

“and you’re nervous.”

“i’m cold.”

“right.” his voice dipped lower on the word. you hated the way it affected you. hated the way the flashlight glow caught against his jaw, the way his eyes stayed fixed on you like he was trying to peel apart every reaction you had.

outside, thunder cracked again. you instinctively stepped closer to him. not close enough to touch. but close enough for him to notice.

a mistake. because chan's gaze dropped briefly to your bare legs before lifting back to your face.

“put the fucking sweater on,” he said quietly this time. “why? worried about me?”

his eyes held yours. “more than i should be.”

the room went painfully still after that. your pulse stumbled hard enough to make you angry.

you ended up leaving the studio an hour later once the rain calmed enough to be manageable again. not before chan practically shoved the sweater at you a second time after catching you trying to hand it back. “put it the fuck on,” he said flatly.

“wow. so caring.”

“don’t flatter yourself.”

you rolled your eyes, but you still wore it out into the storm. and annoyingly enough, by the time you got home, you realised it smelled exactly like him.

cedar wood and clean laundry. you hated that.

hated it even more when you caught yourself pulling the sleeves over your hands and burying your face into the fabric for half a second while kicking your shoes off near the door.

“oh, this is bad,” you muttered to yourself immediately. because now your apartment smelled faintly like chan too.

meanwhile, back at the studio, chan sat alone in the chair staring at his phone like it had personally offended him. the power had returned twenty minutes ago. music played softly through the speakers again. but he hadn’t gotten any work done since you left.

his mind kept replaying the way you looked wearing his sweater. sleeves hanging past your hands.

your hair still slightly damp from the rain.

fuck.

he scrubbed a hand over his face aggressively. this was getting ridiculous. you were annoying. stubborn. mouthy. constantly arguing with him.

he did not fucking care whether you got home safe. so why was he still staring at your contact like a man possessed? his thumb hovered over the keyboard. stopped. started again. stopped.

don’t text her. seriously. don’t. you’d never let him live it down.

he tossed the phone onto the desk. picked it back up thirty seconds later. “for fuck’s sake,” he muttered.

before he could overthink it again, his fingers moved.

chan: « got home okay? »

he stared at the message the second it sent, immediate regret settling in. what the hell was wrong with him? his phone buzzed less than a minute later. and despite himself, his heart kicked hard against his ribs.

« no actually. died halfway there. »

his mouth twitched instantly. god. there it was again. that stupid rush every time you answered him.

« tragic. hope my hoodie survived though. »

you snorted softly to yourself while curling further into your couch.

« barely. still reeks of your fucking ego. »

he leaned back in the chair, smiling before he could stop himself, like an idiot.

« you still wearing it? »

your eyes narrowed at the message.

« why? you miss it? »

three dots appeared almost immediately. disappeared. appeared again. you stared at your screen way too intently.

« maybe i just don’t trust you with my clothes. »

heat crept into your face annoyingly fast.

« relax. i’m not trying to steal your precious hoodie. »

« already did. »

your stomach flipped. you hated how much you liked this version of him. because somehow, over text, the banter felt even more entertaining. like all his attention narrowed directly onto you. you bit your lip before typing back.

« you this annoying with everyone or am i special? »

this time, his reply took longer. far longer. chan stared at the message for a while, jaw tightening slightly because the answer came too easily.

you’re the only person who talks back.

you’re the only one i think about this much.

you’re the only one who gets under my skin.

instead, he typed:

« don’t let it get to your head. »

a couple days later, you found yourself back at the studio again. mostly because felix had begged you to bring him lunch after claiming he was “seconds away from starving to death.” dramatic.

you sat cross-legged on the couch while felix inhaled noodles beside you, rambling about some artist they'd been working with while music played quietly through the speakers.

you were halfway through making fun of him for nearly setting the break room microwave on fire earlier when the studio door opened.

and immediately, your attention shifted. chan walked in wearing all black, headphones hanging around his neck, one hand pushing through his hair tiredly before his eyes landed on you.

his expression barely changed. but his heartbeat did. fast enough to irritate him instantly. because there you were again, sitting comfortably in his space like you belonged there now. laughing, talking, wearing that exact expression that always made him want to argue with you just to keep your attention on him longer.

“look who decided to show up,” you said casually.

“look who keeps invading my studio.”

felix looked between the two of you with immediate interest.

chan dropped into the chair across from you before his eyes narrowed slightly. “did you bring my hoodie?” you blinked innocently. “no.” his brows lifted. “no?”

“that’s what i said.”

“you keeping it now?”

you snorted softly. “maybe i like it.”

his gaze flickered over you slowly. "should i be worried?”

“depends,” you said lightly. “you emotionally attached to it?”

“not usually.”

felix looked absolutely delighted. “jesus christ,” he whispered to himself.

you ignored him. mostly because chan was still staring at you with that infuriatingly focused expression that made you feel overly aware of yourself.

“i can go get it right now if you’re gonna be dramatic about it,” you said.

the smart response would’ve been no. he knew that. he should’ve said: don’t bother. it’s just a hoodie. bring it whenever.

instead, his mouth betrayed him. “go ahead.”

you stared at him for a second before laughing in disbelief. “you are such a fucking pain in the ass.”

“you took my hoodie.”

“you told me to wear it!"

“didn’t say permanently.”

you narrowed your eyes at him while felix openly watched the exchange like live entertainment. “see?” you muttered. “this is exactly what i mean. you always need things your way.”

“and you always pretend you don’t like giving me a hard time.”

“i could think of a million things i'd rather do.”

“sure.” god, that smug look on his face made you want to throw something at him.

instead, you leaned back against the couch dramatically. “well, too bad. i’m not going home right now just because you snapped your fingers.”

his jaw twitched slightly. “fine,” he said after a second. “i’ll pick it up tonight after the studio.”

your heart stumbled instantly, hard enough to genuinely piss you off. because suddenly all you could think about was chan standing inside your apartment. wearing that look, talking to you in that low voice, being alone with you again.

you forced yourself to stay casual. “fine.” but the word came out thinner than you intended.

his eyes stayed on you for one extra second too long before the corner of his mouth tilted upward slightly, satisfied. like he’d already figured out exactly what that idea did to you too.

a little after eight, your phone buzzed. you stared at the notification longer than necessary.

« address. »

your thumbs hovered over the keyboard while your heartbeat steadily picked up speed. this was a bad idea. letting chan into your apartment, alone, at night, after whatever the hell had been happening between you lately, felt objectively stupid.

his hoodie sat freshly washed and perfectly folded on your desk like evidence of a problem you refused to acknowledge. you should’ve just brought it to the studio earlier.

after another minute of overthinking, you sent him your address anyway. the three dots appeared almost immediately.

« be there in thirty. »

your stomach flipped. “this is so fucking stupid,” you muttered to yourself. and yet you still fixed your hair before he arrived. fucking pathetic.

exactly thirty minutes later, there was a knock at your door. of course he was punctual. you had no idea why the smallest thing about him annoyed you this much.

you grabbed the hoodie quickly before opening the door just enough to shove it towards him immediately. “here. now leave.”

chan looked down at the folded sweater in your hands before slowly lifting his eyes back to your face. “cute welcome.”

“you came for the hoodie. here it is."

instead of taking it right away, he leaned one arm against the doorframe casually. his gaze stayed fixed on you while he finally took the sweater from your hands. and then he noticed it. the scent. your detergent.

his fingers tightened slightly around the fabric. fuck. he hated how much he liked it. hated the immediate thought that crossed his mind.

you narrowed your eyes. “why are you looking at it like that?”

“nothing.”

“you’re literally glaring at your own hoodie.”

“i’m thinking.”

“dangerous hobby for someone like you.”

his mouth twitched. there it was again. that tiny almost-smile that only ever seemed to appear around you. “you washed it.”

“obviously.”

“didn’t think you had it in you.”

you scoffed immediately. “god, you’re annoying.”

“you say that every time you see me.”

“because it remains true every time i see you.”

he laughed quietly under his breath before his eyes drifted past you briefly into your apartment. “you gonna make me stand out here all night?”

“that was actually the plan.”

“rude.”

“you'll survive.” but despite the sarcasm, you stepped aside anyway.

the second chan walked past you, the atmosphere shifted. you shut the door quickly behind him before you could overthink the fact that you were now alone with him again.

his eyes landed on you again almost immediately. “you nervous?” he asked suddenly. you blinked. “what?”

“you keep fidgeting.” you immediately stopped moving out of spite. “you’re imagining things.”

“am i?”

“yes.”

he hummed softly, unconvinced. “interesting.”

“what is?”

“you only get defensive when i’m right.”

“and you only talk this much when you want attention.” his brows lifted slightly. "you think i want your attention?”

you laughed once in disbelief. “please. you practically orbit around me at this point.”

that hit harder than intended. you could tell immediately by the way his expression shifted.

chan stepped closer slowly, enough to make your pulse spike.

“careful,” he said quietly. “you’re sounding very confident for someone whose heart is racing right now.”

your breath caught. “you’re insufferable.”

“you already said that.”

“because you keep proving it.”

“then tell me why,” he murmured, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth, “you still let me in?"

the tension snapped tighter instantly.

“don’t flatter yourself,” you said, though your voice came out weaker than intended. “you came here for a hoodie.”

“right.” the way he said it made heat spread low in your stomach. because suddenly it very much did not feel like this was about the hoodie anymore.

the room felt unbearably small now. every sarcastic comment, every lingering glance, every argument between you two over the past weeks suddenly sat heavy in the air between you.

chan stayed close. close enough that you could see the tension in his jaw every time you opened your mouth again. which, naturally, only made you want to push him further.

“you know,” you said lightly, even though your pulse was completely betraying you now, “for someone who supposedly can’t stand me, you spend an awful lot of time in my personal space.”

his eyes narrowed. “you think this is me trying to be close to you?”

“i think you’re obsessed with annoying me.”

a humourless laugh left him. “trust me,” he murmured, “if i wanted to annoy you, you’d know.”

your stomach tightened hard at the tone of his voice. but you still crossed your arms stubbornly. “wow. terrifying.”

chan couldn't help but stare at your arms crossed over your tits. those goddamn tits. “you should be scared.”

“of what?”

his gaze locked onto yours completely. “of how much i’m trying not to lose my patience with you right now.”

the words hit like a physical thing, your breath catching slightly. his expression darkened. “there it is,” he said quietly. you swallowed once. “there’s what?”

“that look.”

“what look?”

“the one you get when you stop pretending you hate this.”

heat flooded your face instantly. “you’re delusional.”

“am i?” he stepped even closer. your back nearly brushed the edge of the counter behind you now. every instinct screamed at you to move. you didn’t. because despite the tension winding painfully tight in your chest, despite how impossible he was, you wanted him close.

“you talk too much,” chan muttered suddenly, eyes fixed on your mouth now instead of your eyes.

you scoffed softly, though it came out shakier than intended. “yet you’re always listening.”

“that’s the problem.” your heartbeat stumbled at his low voice. “do you have any idea,” he said slowly, “how fucking badly i want to shut that smart mouth of yours?”

silence crashed between you. your breath came shallow now. because suddenly all the tension between you two finally had a name. and judging by the way chan looked at you, he’d stopped trying to deny it entirely.

you should’ve stepped away. should’ve said something sarcastic. something sharp. something safe.

instead, your eyes flicked briefly to his lips before you whispered, far too softly: “what’s keeping you then?”

that was it. whatever restraint chan had left snapped instantly. his hand caught your jaw almost desperately before he crashed his mouth against yours. like he’d been holding himself back for weeks and finally lost the fight.

the kiss was all heat and frustration and ruined patience. you kissed him back immediately, fingers gripping the front of his shirt as his other hand braced against the counter beside you.

and god, chan kissed exactly how he argued: intense and demanding. like he tried to be in control even in the heat of the moment.

a quiet sound caught in his throat when you pulled him closer, like he couldn’t quite believe this was finally happening either.

his forehead pressed briefly against yours when he pulled back just enough to breathe, both of you visibly affected now. and then the idiot actually muttered: “still think i’m annoying?”

you let out a breathless laugh despite yourself. “the most annoying."

his mouth curved against yours again. “yeah,” he murmured, already kissing you again, “but you kiss me anyway?"

you snorted against his lips. "just trying to see whether your ego is justified."

a dark chuckle escaped chan's throat, his hands gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him, his erection pressing against your lower belly.

"think you can impress me with a hard cock?" chan's hands twitched at that. he wanted to smack that smug expression of your face so badly. wanted to make you shut that goddamn mouth of yours.

instead, he inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. "watch it." he said through gritted teeth, trying to hold onto his last bit of self control.

"or what?" you replied confidently, looking up at him, smiling way too sweetly. chan's breaths came out heavier, his hips grinding against you instinctively.

"or i will show you exactly what this cock is capable of doing to you. and spoiler alert, you're not gonna like it."

you snorted at that. actually snorted, right in his face. "yeah? think you're gonna break me, channie?" the soft nickname on your lips were his complete undoing. his cock twitched, you felt it through the fabric. he placed his hands on the counter on either side of you, pulling back but caging you in. he could no longer be this close to you, he had to get his cock away from you. because he was about to snap.

"you have no idea what you're doing to me." he spoke, voice rough. a smug expression crossed your face, you leaned forward, breath hot against his ear as you whispered, "what if i know exactly what i'm doing to you?"

his hand shot up, grabbing your hair so hard it hurt, tilting your head back. you couldn't help yourself but moan out, legs clenching together. chan smirked, grip tightening in your hair, "you fucking like that? being manhandled? where's your fucking smugness now?"

you stared at him, hating how your body betrayed you. "fuck you, chan." you muttered. but that only encouraged him. he knew he had you.

"that the only comeback you can think of?" he mocked, his other hand now grabbing your jaw, holding your head in place. he pressed his body against you again. "c'mon, put that smart mouth to work. i dare you."

but you remained silent, breaths coming out in puffs as you tried to calm your racing heart. "where did your attitude go, hm?" he asked, pushing his leg between yours. he pressed his thigh against your core, making your breath hitch, looking at you with mocking eyes.

"you asked me if i think i can break you? yes, i can. tell me to stop and i will leave right through that door. but if you say yes to this, i will make sure you forget your own fucking name."

he waited. patiently. for any answer. for a simple yes or no. you blinked up at him, mind racing, until you finally nodded your head confidently. "is that a yes?" he asked, tone still mocking. "use your fucking words." his tone was commanding as ever. but he needed to hear it, needed your verbal consent.

"yes—" you choked out. and after that, all hell broke loose.

a low sound escaped chan's throat, his grip on your hair tightening, yanking your away from the counter and towards the couch. it hurt, the way he was handling you. he pushed you towards the sofa, finally letting go of your hair. "undress." he said, standing tall in front of you, arms crossed as he watched you. "i'm not gonna ask again."

your fingers trembled slightly as you started undressing yourself, eyes never leaving his. "for fuck's sake." chan muttered, clearly impatient. he smacked your hands away, basically ripping your clothes away. his hands roamed over your body, feeling your warm skin against his fingertips. you felt better than he could have ever imagined. he groaned, his mouth suddenly back on yours. the kiss was laced with desperation as his hands grabbed your tits, squeezing them through your bra before taking it off with skilled fingers. "fucking perfect." he muttered more to himself than you.

he pinched your nipples hard, needing to know how you react to it. you hissed, biting your lip, gaining a smirk from chan.

he pushed you down on the couch, standing tall in front of you. his thumb traced over your lower lip. "open." he grabbed your hair, tilting your head back. "tongue out." your jaw clenched slightly, not wanting to obey him, wanting to challenge him. but when his grip in your hair tightened painfully, you opened your mouth, sticking your tongue out. chan leaned forward, spitting into your mouth before sliding two fingers along your tongue. he moved them further into your mouth, his cock twitching in his pants.

"i'm gonna show you how to put that smart mouth of yours to good use, yeah?" he muttered as he started sliding his fingers in and out of you. you wrapped your lips around them, looking up at him. he pulled your hair harder, tilting your head further, retrieving his fingers from between your lips and smacking your cheek hard. "fucking answer when i'm talking to you."

your breath caught in your throat, eyes watering the slightest bit. "well right now, you're all big words and no fucking action." your snappy response earned you another slap against your cheek, coating it with your saliva that was still on his fingers.

"you fucking bitch." chan just shook his head, unable to believe that you still had the audacity to talk back. he yanked your hair. hard. moving you to lie on your back, head on the armrest of the couch. he pulled you further until your head was hanging over the edge.

he was already working on his pants, pulling them down, freeing his cock, right over your face. he gave it a few strokes, watching you. he didn't waste another second, tapping it against your lips. you smelled him, the saltiness of his precum coating his tip.

he didn't push in, not yet. he smeared his precum over your lips. "tap my thigh three times in a row if it gets too much. understand?" he asked, growing more impatient by the minute. you nodded. fucking nodded. "words, sweetheart." he said through gritted teeth.

"i understand." you said.

"good girl."

"don't fucking call me that. i'm not your good girl."

chan only grinned at that. "you'd rather i keep insulting you?"

"i'd rather you finally put that cock to use." you snapped back. he smacked your tit, making you flinch. "yeah, i fucking should. shut that goddamn mouth of yours for once."

and with that, he pushed his cock past your lips, his hips snapping involuntarily, shoving his length down your throat. "fuck—" he cursed loudly, watching your throat, how it took shape of his length. "holy—"

you immediately gagged around him, not having expected him to just shove his entire length in with no further warning.

and he fucking kept it there, making you choke, cutting off your air supply. you tapped his thigh three times, and he immediately pulled back, realising that he got caught in the moment. you immediately took a deep breath, coughing.

"you want to be treated like a fucking whore, then fucking take it like one."

"you're a fucking asshole, bang chan, you know that?"

a dark chuckle erupted from somewhere deep inside him. "yet you still take my fucking cock like you're my own personal slut." and before you could say anything, he rammed his cock back into your mouth, deep down your throat.

his hips moved in quick little thrusts, fucking your mouth till you couldn't breathe, pulling back to let you get some oxygen before repeating his movements. his hand reached for your throat, squeezing it, feeling the pressure of his own hand around his cock buried deep down.

you choked. hard. your body started jolting until he finally pulled out, a long strip of saliva still connecting your mouth to his cock.

"you're trying to fucking choke me to death?" your voice sounded hoarse, your throat so raw it hurt to talk. chan just grinned down at you, his fingers smearing your own saliva all over your pretty lips. you caught his finger, biting it.

"fuck! you bitch!" chan called in surprise, withdrawing his hand, connecting it to your cheek with a hard smack. and of all possible things you could have done, you fucking moaned at his action. "you're un-fucking-believable." chan muttered through gritted teeth.

"on your hands and knees." he ordered, voice way too calm for the storm inside him. you snorted. "don't fucking boss me around like that."

chan was losing his patience. he grabbed you, handled your body with a strength that left you breathless as he flipped you over on your stomach. "don't make me tie you the fuck up."

you snorted again. fuck, it drove him wild. he wanted to punish you for fucking breathing. "be my guest. i don't own any ropes."

a slow, wicked grin spread on chan's face. "oh, trust me. i can get very creative." and with that, his hands left you and you heard him wander off. you turned your head to the side, watching him waltz around your apartment like he fucking owned the place.

"what the fuck are you doing?" you snapped, already shuffling to get up.

"if you dare move even a fucking inch, i'm gonna spank your ass till it's burning red." your breath hitched at his words. but that still didn't stop you from rising to your feet and following him. who did he even think he was?

you found him in your bedroom, picking up a belt that was stored neatly in one of your drawers. he looked ridiculous. going through your stuff, half naked, his stupid cock still glistening with your saliva.

you stood there, butt naked, crossing your arms over your chest. "stop fucking going through my stuff."

"why? hiding something you don't want me to find?"

you snorted, "no. just don't like fucking assholes going through my things."

he walked past your bed, opening the drawer of your nightstand. "oh my god! you have no fucking respect!"

you knew what he would find. and you couldn't care less. he held up your pink vibrator a few seconds later, grinning like he found a precious treasure. "cute." he muttered.

"oh wow, blame a girl for owning a goddamn vibrator."

chan turned around, standing in front of you, vibrator in one hand, belt in the other. "you get yourself off with this thing?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"yes." you replied confidently but couldn't suppress the soft flush spreading from your neck to your face. chan grin only widened. his eyes travelled past you, landing on a light scarf hanging over the back of your desk chair. "perfect." he muttered, walking past you to grab it. "remember how i told you not to fucking move?"

you rolled your eyes, "remember how i told you not to boss me around?"

chan came up behind you. you could feel the heat radiating from his body. he threw the vibrator and the scarf on the bed. your eyes followed the items. "you know, that scarf is actually my favourite, if you ruin it—"

"don't care." he cut you off, grabbing your wrists, yanking them behind your back harshly. he tied the belt around them, making you gasp.

"and the only thing i plan on ruining," he moved his hands up your arms, fingertips ghosting over the skin, giving you goosebumps. "is you."

his lips connected to your shoulders, leaving a few kisses till he reached your neck. his arms snaked around you from behind, pulling you flush against him, his cock hard against your butt. he bit your neck hard, making you hiss, before sucking the flesh, making sure to leave a fucking mark.

he pulled back slightly, watching the skin change colour, grinning in satisfaction, before repeating it a little further up. your ass ground against his cock, making him suck your skin harder.

"fuck, you like getting marked like a fucking whore?" he whispered against your skin, his hands squeezing your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples, making you moan. "chan—"

you moaning his name like that was his complete undoing. he needed more. needed more of you moaning his name, screaming it.

he grabbed the small vibrator from the bed, turning it on and guiding it over your hardened nipples. you pressed yourself harder against him, soft moans now constantly leaving your lips. he started grinding his hard cock against you, moving the vibrator down to your cunt, running it over your clit lazily. you arched your back, your hips starting to move against the toy. "chan, please—" you couldn't suppress the soft whimper, no idea where the sudden needy tone came from. but it made him lose his mind.

he threw you on your bed, yanking your ass up before you could even gather yourself, your hands still tied tightly behind your back.

he started wrapping your scarf around your thighs in figure 8s, tying them together. once he was done, he took a step back, admiring the view. you turned your head to the side, pressed against the mattress, ass in the air. you tried to get a glimpse of him. he stood there, swallowing hard, just... watching you.

"you're a fucking weirdo, bang chan."

his eyes didn't move away from your bare core, "shut up or i will gag you." he said as his eyes finally met yours. he moved closer to the bed, leaning forward, brushing a few loose strands of hair out of your face. "if anything gets too much, you use the word 'red' and i will stop immediately, okay?" you blinked at him a few times. the fact that he still ...cared, despite the hatred, despite you riling him up constantly, made something warm settle in your chest. "okay."

his hand started caressing your butt cheeks, way too softly. the serious expression on his face was replaced by a smirk. and then he smacked you. hard. you couldn't move, hands tied together, thighs tied together. all you could do was flinch.

"you should learn to fucking listen. if i tell you not to move, you don't fucking move." another smack. you opened your mouth, wanting to protest. he cut you off with another deliberate slap. "don't you fucking dare talking back right now." he said, making you grin. fucking grin.

"god—" he shook his head, his next smack making you wince from the sting. and then his finger just entered you with no fucking warning. you moaned out loud in surprise, moving back against his touch.

chan let out a dark chuckle. "you're so fucking desperate, it's pathetic." he said, his finger moving in and out of you with ease. "so fucking wet."

his free hand slapped your ass again, so hard it left a handprint. he added a second finger, curling them inside you, making you moan involuntarily. "fuck, chan—"

his cock twitched at you moaning his name again. fuck, that did things to him. "again." he muttered, teeth clenched, trying to keep any bit of self-control. "moan my fucking name again." he pumped his fingers faster, curling them at just the right spot, his name leaving your lips in soft moans, driving him insane.

he dropped to his knees, pulling his fingers out of you and burying his face into your cunt. "fuck!" you cried out, body jolting forwards. he grabbed your hips harshly, holding you in place as he fed on you like a man starved.

"tastes so fucking good." he groaned against you, his tongue swirling around your clit a couple of times before licking up to your entrance, pushing inside you. he reached for the vibrator again, turning it on, bringing it to your clit, while his tongue moved in and out of your hole.

you ground your cunt against him, moaning shamelessly as you felt your orgasm build up. "chan—" you moaned and he knew. he wanted to deny you the orgasm, wanted to edge you, to make you feel as desperate as you always made him feel. but he couldn't. not when you were moaning so sweetly. not when your cunt was grinding against his face so desperately.

your legs started trembling and he threw the vibrator away. it scattered on the floor somewhere as chan grabbed your hips harder, fingers digging into you so hard, they'd leave bruises. he held you in place, burying his face deeper inside you.

"just fucking come on my face already." he murmured into you, big hands moving to your ass, squeezing the cheeks harshly.

you tried to hold back your orgasm, not wanting him to feel even the slightest amount of pride for making you come. and he noticed. noticed the way you tried to hold back.

"for fuck's sake!" he groaned, pushing two fingers back inside you, curling them right where you needed them, making you cry out.

"stop being so fucking stubborn." his fingers pumped into you relentlessly, hitting your g-spot again and again, making you see stars, head spinning. until you finally could no longer hold back. with one last flick of his tongue over your clit, you came undone. he guided you through your orgasm and you could feel his fucking grin against your cunt.

"that's it." he murmured, clearly satisfied with himself. "just shut the fuck up." you snapped. bad idea. he smacked your cunt so hard, it made you lose balance, collapsing onto the mattress. with your legs and hands still tied, you couldn't lift yourself up, legs still shaking from the intensity of your orgasm.

chan just chuckled darkly behind you, giving his cock a few pumps, watching you being completely at his mercy. he's been dreaming about this, fantasising about it. his eyes wander over your body, spotting every goddamn mark he left. bites, hickeys, fingerprints. he loved it. but he needed more.

he reached forward, grabbing your hair and yanking you back. his breath was hot against your ear, his cock pressing against your ass. "i'm gonna fuck you now, yeah? fill that pretty little cunt. mark you properly."

he gave you a few seconds to protest, but you didn't. you were still catching your breath, body still trembling. he let go of your hair, starting to undress himself. you didn't want to look. you knew he was handsome as fuck, didn't need a proof of that. but you couldn't help turning your head, watching him over your shoulder. fuck.

"stop staring." he said, not even looking up as he neatly placed his clothes over the chair at your desk. your eyes traced his toned body, all the way to his perfect ass. goddamnit.

"don't fucking flatter yourself." you snorted, but your words lacked any bite. chan ignored it, standing behind you, cock fucking throbbing and all. "ass up." he ordered. you struggled against the restraints, trying to move back onto your knees.

"fucking pathetic." chan murmured as he gripped your hips and pulled you up. his hands sprawled over your butt cheeks, squeezing them. you hissed. they still hurt from earlier.

chan just watched you for a while, with you getting impatient. "stop staring." you repeated the words he just threw at you, grinning to yourself. his hands flinched against your butt cheeks, ready to smack the shit out of you, but he took a deep breath instead.

he spit down on his cock, using one hand to spread his saliva over it, before pushing inside you with no further warning. "fuck!" you cried out, jolting forwards. "godfuckingdamnit chan!"

you were so fucking wet, he just slid right in, all the way. he gritted his teeth, trying not to think too much about how fucking good you actually feel. trying not to think about how he actually, finally, has his cock buried inside your fucking cunt. trying not to think about— fuck. his cock twitched inside you, realising how your walls are clamping down on him.

it pissed him off. how good you felt. how warm you were. how fucking wet. how much he wanted you, even though he finally had you.

he grabbed your hair, wrapping it around his hand, yanking you back forcefully, his cock buried to the hilt. he yanked until you were pressed against his chest. "i'm not gonna last long if you keep clenching your fucking walls around me."

your soft moans turned into a snort. "who's pathetic now? you haven't even fucked me properly, channie."

he lost it at the sweet nickname on your lips. his free hand smacked your ass. hard. grabbing your hips. the grip in your hair tightened as he started moving. his hips snapping brutally, each thrust into your sensitive cunt making you whimper.

"you drive me fucking insane." he murmured against your neck before biting down hard, making you cry out in surprise. he groaned against your skin, keeping a steady rhythm. you cried out his name again, and again, making his head spin.

he let go of your hair, forcing you to fall onto the mattress, grabbing your hips, fucking deeper into you. his pace brutal and intense. until your legs could no longer hold you up. they shook so violently, you collapsed onto the mattress.

but he didn't stop. he adjusted to the changed angle within seconds, pushing your hips further down, hips slamming against you, fucking you into the mattress. he moved one hand between your shoulder blades, the other staying on your hip, almost his entire weight holding you down.

"chan—" everything was overwhelming and the familiar knot started tightening in your stomach. his cock rubbed against that sweet spot deep inside you, making your walls clench violently around him as you came hard.

chan cursed under his breath, your orgasm triggering his own. his thrusts become sloppy, desperate to fill your cunt with his load. desperate to fucking breed you.

with a guttural groan, he stilled deep inside you. his arms shook slightly as he emptied himself into you. you felt it, his thick load warm inside you. "fuck, that's it." he murmured almost inaudible, his hips doing small micro thrusts.

he removed his hands from you, placing them on the mattress beside you. but he didn't pull out. not yet. he reached for the belt around your hands, undoing it, freeing you.

you were both breathless, panting heavily. chan's hand reached for your face, swiping some loose strands away. "you okay?"

your body was sore. you were hyper aware of every mark he left on you, your skin burning. but you nodded. the intensity of both your orgasms was enough to make up for the soreness.

he pulled out slowly, sitting back, watching you. your legs were still tied together, looking absolutely perfect to him.

when his cum started dripping out of you, his eyes widened, addicted to the view. "fuck," he groaned, fingers catching the thick liquid, smearing it over your cunt. when more started dripping out, he groaned.

he collected every drop, pushing two fingers inside you. "chan?!" you called out in surprise, but his name died on your lips, turning into a moan. his mind was fucking gone, as he started fucking his cum right back into you with his fingers.

"fucking appreciate the load i gave you." he said, voice dark. he smacked your ass, fingers pumping in and out of you, pushing his cum back inside.

"don't lose a single fucking drop or i'll have to fill you up again."

and right then, fucking his seed back into your cunt, having you whimper at his touch, moan his name with a broken voice, one thing became perfectly clear to him. that he didn't want this to be a one time thing. already too obsessed with the way your body reacts to his.

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The sun hung high in the cloudless sky, casting a golden glow over the city. A gentle breeze drifted through the streets, the warmth of the morning wrapped around you like a comforting embrace, just the right kind of day that practically demanded an escape from the ordinary. And what better way to spend it than sprawled out on a checkered blanket, a basket full of food beside you, and your ever-so-enthusiastic boyfriend, Jungkook, grinning at you like this was the best idea in the world?

That’s right. It was picnic day. After a gruelling week at work, all you wanted was to stay in bed, sleep until the afternoon, have a late lunch, and then (ideally) go right back to sleep. But Jungkook, being the ever-optimistic, early-rising, productivity-loving man that he was, thought weekends were best spent on morning picnic dates at whatever random park he had decided on that week.

There was nothing you hated more than disappointing your sweet boyfriend, so cancelling the picnic dates altogether wasn’t an option. After extensive negotiations (read: you groggily whining while he laughed and refused to budge), you managed to compromise—morning breakfast dates became brunch dates. Because let’s be real, every extra second of sleep counts.

On the way to your picnic, you were stopped by a teenage boy, probably 17 or 18, who practically shoved a clipboard into your faces. With the practised enthusiasm of a seasoned salesman, he introduced himself, flashing a grin as he extended a hand in greeting. Then came the pitch.

“Donations for a local animal shelter,” he announced, voice laced with urgency. A shelter you had never heard of.

“The puppies and bunnies are all sick, sir, and the kittens are underfed,” he continued, his face contorting with the sheer heartbreak of it all. The kind of expression that would probably work on unsuspecting souls. Jungkook, being Jungkook, was already pulling out his wallet. And you were having none of it.

Before he could hand over a single bill, you yanked the wallet straight out of his hands. Jungkook blinked at you, stunned.

“Did you even check if it’s a real shelter?” you asked, unimpressed.

Jungkook glanced at the boy, then back at you. “Looks pretty real to me.” You sighed, taking a look at the "official website" the scammer eagerly pulled up on his phone. One glance was all it took.

“That’s a Wix template, you dumbass,” you deadpanned, shooting Jungkook a look. And to drive your point home, you dialled the actual shelter’s number. A moment of silence.

Then, like clockwork, the boy’s phone started ringing. The scammer stiffened, eyes wide with panic. And then, without as much as another word, he bolted down the street before you could report him to someone.

Jungkook pouted, stuffing his wallet back into his pocket. You rolled your eyes. “I can’t believe you almost fell for that.”

“One of these days,” he muttered, crossing his arms, “you’re gonna stop me from donating to a real shelter.” You snorted, nudging his shoulder as you started walking again. “Yeah, well, until that day comes, I’ll keep saving you from getting scammed by guys who probably spent five minutes on Google slapping together a fake charity.”

Jungkook huffed, kicking a loose pebble down the sidewalk. “He had a clipboard. People with clipboards always seem legit.”

“Oh, right, because clipboards are the universal sign of trustworthiness,” you deadpanned. “Next time, I’ll be sure to scam you with one myself.”

He shot you a playful glare. “I’d see through you in a second.” You smirked. “Would you, though?”

Jungkook opened his mouth, then shut it again, squinting at you like he wasn’t entirely convinced. You just grinned, patting his arm. “Exactly.”

You sit cross-legged on the checkered blanket, arms crossed, watching as Jungkook digs through the picnic basket like a child on Christmas morning. He’s practically vibrating with excitement, pulling out sandwiches, fruit, and what looks like an obnoxiously yellow thermos you don’t remember packing.

You squint. “Did you sneak in banana milk?”

Jungkook pauses, looking entirely unrepentant. “No.” You stare. He stares back. The thermos stares between you, the undeniable evidence of his crime.

Finally, he grins. “Okay, maybe.”

You let out a slow exhale, reaching for one of the sandwiches while he happily pours himself a cup of his beloved banana milk.

“I don’t get how you function sometimes,” you mutter, unwrapping your food.

“I function beautifully,” he corrects, flashing you a smile that’s far too bright for someone who just lied to your face. “You’re just too grumpy to appreciate it.”

You roll your eyes. “Right. Because nothing screams ‘functioning adult’ like getting scammed five minutes before a picnic.” Jungkook gasps dramatically, clutching his chest. “I was being charitable!”

“You were being a prime target,” you deadpan. He huffs dramatically, taking an exaggerated bite of his sandwich as if it’s the ultimate form of protest. Cheeks puffed out like a bunny, he mumbles through his mouthful, “You stress too much.”

You raise a brow. “I wonder why.” He ignores your sarcasm, swallowing before continuing, “Maybe if you—” He suddenly stops, mid-thought, his eyes lighting up with a spark of mischief.

Oh no. You’ve seen that look before. It never leads to anything good.

"You should feed me."

You nearly choke on your drink. Coughing, you set your cup down with a thud and blink at him. “What?” Jungkook leans forward, resting his chin in his palm with the most infuriatingly smug expression. “You know,” he drawls, wiggling his eyebrows, “since you like taking care of me so much.”

You stare at him, unamused. Then, without breaking eye contact, you take the smallest, most unimpressive bite of your sandwich—just to spite him.

Jungkook groans, slumping back. “You’re no fun.”

“You knew that when you fell in love with me.”

His lips curve into something thoughtful, eyes flickering over your face like he’s considering something. Then, in one swift motion, he reaches over and swipes a strawberry from your plate, popping it into his mouth before you can react.

You gasp. “Jungkook!”

He grins, entirely unapologetic. “Yeah, but I like a challenge.” Without hesitation, you swat his hand, aiming for another grab. He yelps, laughing too hard for someone who just got smacked, dodging your next attempt with the reflexes of a seasoned strawberry thief.

"Unbelievable," you mutter, shaking your head. "A menace to society."

Jungkook only grins wider. "And yet, you still love me."

And just like that, it’s the both of you, bickering, teasing, him being too soft, and you pretending you don’t secretly like it. Despite everything, you’re glad he dragged you here. Because for all his nonsense, for all the chaos he brings into your life, Jungkook makes the world a little brighter.

You hated Monday mornings with a burning passion. If you walked into work and saw someone being all cheerful and optimistic, you’d have the overwhelming urge to dump ice-cold coffee over their head, just to make their day as miserable as yours. Of course, you wouldn’t actually act on that particular intrusive thought. Not unless you had a sudden desire to get fired.

Every day, it was the same soul-sucking routine. Log into your computer, answer emails, prepare for meetings, and trudge through an endless list of mind-numbing tasks that make you question all your life choices. You were staring blankly at your screen, fingers moving mechanically as you typed up a report when your phone buzzed.

Kook 🐰💜 [11:10 AM]: Miss me yet?

Your fingers pause on the keyboard. Buzz.

Kook 🐰💜[11:10 AM]: Or are you too busy being all serious and grumpy at work? Kook 🐰💜[11:11 AM]: Bet you’re smiling right now, though.

You bite your lip. You are not smiling. Absolutely not.

“Okay, what is that face?”

Jimin’s voice cuts through your concentration like a knife. You snap your head up to find him leaning against your desk, arms crossed, a knowing smirk already in place.

“There is no face,” you say quickly, locking your phone screen and shoving it away. Jimin gasps dramatically. “Oh my God, it’s him, isn’t it?”

You groan, rubbing your temples. “I swear to—”

“Ohhh, it totally is!” Jimin snatches your phone before you can react, scrolling through the notifications like he has every right to be nosy.

If there’s one person who never lets you live in peace, it’s Jimin. Coworker, best friend, professional pain in your ass, he’s all of the above, wrapped in a smug little package. You first met him when you started this job, and somehow, between the forced team projects, shared complaints about the boss, and mutual hatred for monday mornings, you ended up stuck with him for life. Not that you’d ever admit you’re grateful for it.

Unfortunately, he knows it anyway.

“Jimin, I will end you.”

But it’s too late. He’s already grinning like the devil himself. “Look at you. Getting all giddy over a text. My, my, how the mighty have fallen.”

“I’m not giddy.”

“Oh, you absolutely are.” He mimics your earlier expression, clutching his phone to his chest with a dreamy sigh. “Oh, Jungkook, my sweet precious sunshine, text me more. I can’t possibly get through this workday without knowing you’re thinking about me.”

You throw a stapler at him.

He dodges effortlessly, laughing. “Relax, lover girl. It’s cute. Gross, but cute.” You huff, snatching your phone back. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” Jimin plops down in the chair next to you, still smirking. “Now tell me, what’s golden boy up to?”

You hesitate. But your phone buzzes again.

Kook 🐰💜 [11:13 AM]: Hey. Don’t overwork yourself. I’ll call you later, okay?

You stare at the screen for a moment, fingers hovering over the keyboard before you eventually settle on a simple reply.

You [11:14 AM: Okay.

…Okay, maybe you are smiling a little.

Jimin sees it immediately. And you already know you’re never going to hear the end of it.

The moment you step into the break room—finally free from Jimin’s relentless smirking, you let out a breath and pull out your phone, scrolling through your recent calls before dialling Jungkook. It barely rings twice before he picks up, his voice warm and teasing, like he already knew you’d call.

“Hey, baby,” he greets smoothly, amusement lacing his tone. “Miss me already?”

You roll your eyes, setting your lunchbox on the table with a thud. “In your dreams, Jeon.”

Flipping open the lid, the rich, savoury aroma of bibimbap immediately washes over you. The vibrant colors of the ingredients are neatly arranged, looking almost too perfect to eat—almost. You can tell Jungkook took his time making it, carefully placing each topping exactly where it should be, ensuring it looked as good as it tasted.

Your heart does something traitorous in your chest, but you ignore it. Jungkook chuckles at your silence, clearly pleased with himself. “I assume this is your way of telling me my cooking is amazing?”

“Not even close,” you say, grabbing your chopsticks. “Jimin wouldn’t shut up about you, so I figured I’d call and annoy you instead.” A deep, rumbling laugh comes through the speaker, the sound sending warmth curling through your stomach. “Mhm. Sure, love. You could’ve just admitted you wanted to hear my voice.”

Your eye twitches. “That’s not—”

“Shh, no need to be shy. I won’t judge.” You groan, tilting your head back against the chair, but the small smile tugging at your lips betrays you. He’s impossible, and worse, he knows it.

“Whatever,” you mutter. “What are you doing this weekend?”

“Mmm.” There’s some shuffling on his end, followed by the faint rustling of sheets like he’s lying down and getting comfortable. “I was thinking… instead of our usual park picnic, you could come with me to get my sleeve reworked.” That makes you pause, chopsticks hovering mid-air. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice a little more casual. “It’s been a while, and I wanna touch up some parts. Maybe add something new.”

You lean back in your chair, considering it. You’ve seen his tattoos up close plenty of times—traced them absentmindedly, let your fingers follow the inked lines whenever he had an arm wrapped around you. There’s something mesmerizing about them, the way they flow seamlessly over his skin, each design an intricate part of him.

You definitely wouldn’t mind watching the process.

“That’s fine with me,” you say after a beat. Then, under your breath, you mumble, “But if the artist messes up, I’m fighting them.” Jungkook snorts. “Of course you will.” His voice takes on that teasing lilt that makes you want to reach through the phone and flick his forehead. “You’re so cute when you get all protective.”

Your face heats up instantly. “Oh my god, eat your lunch.”

“I will. But only if you say you love me first.” You nearly choke. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” His grin is obvious, even through the phone. “Say it, and I’ll go eat.” You huff, glancing around the empty break room just to make sure no one’s around. Then, in the lowest possible whisper, you mumble, “…Love you.”

A beat of silence.

And then, even quieter, “Love your bibimbap too.”

Jungkook hums, unreasonably satisfied. “Love you too, baby. Now go eat before Jimin catches you blushing.” Your eyes widen, and you hang up immediately.

Unfortunately, when you turn around, Jimin is standing in the doorway, arms crossed, looking far too smug for your liking.

“So,” he drawls, tilting his head. “How’s Jungkook?” You groan, slamming your head onto the table. You are never going to live this down.

Jimin’s laughter echoes in the room, pure evil.

Jungkook’s apartment is the kind of place that makes it dangerously easy to never leave. It’s cozy with warm lighting, soft blankets draped over the couch, and the faint scent of vanilla and fabric softener lingering in the air. You tell yourself that’s the main reason you always find yourself here instead of your own place, but, if you were being completely honest, there are a few other factors at play.

For one, his snack collection is legendary. His kitchen cabinets are stocked with an endless supply of goodies, including a lifetime’s worth of Twinkies, your weakness. And then there’s Jungkook himself, but you’re not about to admit that. Especially not to him.

Curled up on his couch, you lazily flip through his Netflix, eyes scanning titles without really registering any of them. The ambient noise of the apartment, the hum of the heater, the occasional rustling of pages from Jungkook’s workspace, only adds to the drowsy comfort settling over you. Just as you’re about to give up on finding something to watch, Jungkook suddenly plops down beside you, sketchbook in hand.

The cushion dips under his weight, and you barely manage to suppress a startled flinch. He doesn’t say anything at first, just leans back against the couch with a content sigh, flipping the sketchbook open across his lap. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, curiosity piqued despite yourself. "Okay," he says, grinning as he settles beside you on the couch. His fingers drum against the edge of his sketchbook before he flips it open, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. "Wanna see what I’ve been working on?"

You nod, humming in interest. "Mhm. Sure."

The moment the pages spread out before you, your breath catches. Intricate designs fill the book, some half-finished, others shaded to perfection. There are fine, precise lines, bold strokes, and an almost obsessive attention to detail in every drawing. You can tell he's poured hours into this, into crafting something that isn’t just art but a reflection of himself.

"Damn," you murmur, fingertips tracing lightly over the paper. "You did all these?" Jungkook grins, his dimples making an appearance. "Yup," he says, clearly pleased with your reaction.

You take your time flipping through the pages. There’s a sketch of a skeletal hand doing the rock on sign, a detailed microphone showcasing his love for music, lyrics from his favorite songs inked in elegant script, and the word Bulletproof scrawled in a graffiti style, right beneath it, a note written in his unmistakable handwriting: cover-up for eye tattoo. And then, sitting proudly in between these edgy, personal pieces, is a woozy face emoji.

You huff out a small laugh. His tattoo ideas range from deeply meaningful to outright ridiculous.

But then you pause. Nestled between his designs is a rework of his tiger lily tattoo—his birth flower. But entwined around it, curling gracefully between the petals, is another flower. Chrysanthemums.

Your birth flower.

The realization sinks in, slow and warm. Jungkook goes still beside you, barely breathing. You don’t miss the way his fingers twitch, or the way his ears turn bright red when he realizes that you understood. Then, like a man caught in the act he snatches the sketchbook away, snapping it shut so fast you barely have time to process it.

"Aha—! Anyway—" He clears his throat, ears burning. "That one wasn’t, uh—I wasn’t supposed to show you that yet."

Your lips twitch. "Mhm. Jeon, I see what you did there."

"What?" he says too quickly. "It’s just, you know, it looked nice with the lilies." His voice cracks. You arch a brow. "Looks nice? That’s all?" Jungkook nods a little too fast. "Yeah. No big deal."

You don’t believe him for a second.

So, naturally, you lean in, lowering your voice just enough to watch him squirm."You sure about that, baby?"

Jungkook.exe has stopped working.

With a groan, he buries his burning face into your shoulder, mumbling something incoherent against your sweater. You laugh, warmth blooming in your chest, fingers threading absentmindedly through his hair. Yeah. No big deal.

The weekend sun was just beginning to climb when Jungkook pulled up outside your place, the low hum of his car engine a familiar sound by now. You barely had time to lock your door before he leaned over, effortlessly pushing the passenger door open with that usual bright grin of his. “Morning, baby,” he greeted, fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. Without missing a beat, he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss against your cheek—warm, lingering just a second longer than necessary. “You sleep well?”

You slid into the seat, closing the door behind you with a huff, eyes narrowing at him. “No, because someone was blowing up my phone with memes and ‘fun facts’ about toxic tattoo inks at two in the morning.” Jungkook had the audacity to look proud. “I just thought you should know! What if they use cheap ink, huh? Gotta protect this masterpiece.” He gestured vaguely at his arm, where his tattoos peeked out from under the sleeve of his shirt.

You sighed, clicking your seatbelt into place. “Just drive.”

As he shifted gears and pulled onto the road, you let your gaze wander around the car, taking in the familiar scent of his cologne, the faint hum of the engine, and the steady rhythm of the music playing low through the speakers. His hand, warm and absentminded, found its usual place on your thigh like it belonged there, thumb tracing gentle patterns against your skin. It was peaceful. The kind of easy, comfortable silence that only came from knowing someone so well.

But then, something caught your attention.

Your eyes drifted to the backseat, where his sketchbook sat, slightly ajar as if hastily tossed there. A few loose sheets stuck out from the pages, filled with the intricate designs you’d seen before. You reached for it instinctively, but before you could grab it, the scenery outside made you pause.

“...Wait.” Your brows furrowed as you looked out the window. The streets weren’t familiar, the route different from what you expected. You turned back to him. “This isn’t the way to your usual place.” Jungkook hummed, like he’d been waiting for you to notice. “We’re trying a new one today.”

You turned to him, suspicious. “Why?”

His grin widened, full of mischief. “Jin got a job there.” That took you a second to process. “Seokjin?”

“My cousin, yeah.” Jungkook drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, glancing at you briefly before turning his attention back to the road. “He’s a receptionist now. Lured me in with staff discounts.” You scoffed, shaking your head. “So, let me get this straight—he got a job there yesterday, and today you’re already showing up to cash in?” Jungkook gasped, all faux offense, clutching his chest as if you’d just wounded him. “I would never use my dear cousin like that.”

You gave him a deadpan look.

His lips twitched, the act crumbling instantly. “…Okay, maybe a little,” he admitted, flashing you a boyish grin. “But hey, cheaper tattoos, and I get to support my hyung? Win-win.” You rolled your eyes, unable to stop the amused smile pulling at your lips. “Does he even know we’re coming?”

“He does,” Jungkook replied, his grin not fading. “He actually told me to wait for him before I get started with the consultation.” 

And that’s how you and Jungkook ended up stuck in the lobby of the tattoo shop, waiting for over thirty minutes for Jin to show up.

Jungkook exhaled loudly, rolling his shoulders before pulling out his phone and dialing Jin for the sixth time. His other hand absentmindedly tugged you closer by the wrist, a small, unconscious habit of his whenever he was growing impatient. “Jin said he’d be here soon,” he muttered, eyes flickering to the entrance yet again, as if willing his cousin to walk through the door. “Told me to get comfy and wait.”

You smirked, shifting slightly in your seat. “He did? So, naturally, he’s gonna be late.” Jungkook groaned, tilting his head back against the couch. “He promised, okay? Swore he wouldn’t ditch me this time.”

“That’s cute.” You patted his thigh mockingly. “You still believe him.” Jungkook shot you a halfhearted glare before flicking his gaze to the empty reception area for what had to be the hundredth time. His foot bounced impatiently against the floor, but before he could make another complaint, the sound of a door opening drew both of your attention.

A woman with sleek, silver-dyed hair emerged from one of the back rooms, her sharp gaze scanning the lobby before landing directly on Jungkook. Her expression immediately shifted into a perfected customer-service smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She crossed her arms, tilting her head slightly. “What are you here for?”

“Sleeve rework,” he replied casually, rolling his shoulder as if to emphasize the ink beneath his sleeve. “You’re the one getting the sleeve reworked?” she asked smoothly, completely ignoring your presence. “Seokjin’s cousin, right?

Jungkook nodded, his own expression polite but confused. “Yeah, but he isn’t here yet. Jin told me to wai—”

“Oh,” she cut in, her lips curving just slightly, a little too knowing. “Well, that’s okay. I’m sure he would’ve referred you to me anyway. I could start taking care of you now.”

Something about the way she said it made your jaw clench.

Jungkook, oblivious as ever, only hummed. “Uh, I mean… I guess we could start the consultation?”

You didn’t like the way she was looking at him.

As she moved closer, the glow of the overhead light caught on her name tag—Nari. The name meant nothing to you, but something about her demeanor put you on edge.

Jungkook settled into the chair, stretching his arm out as Nari prepped her station. You remained seated across from him, phone in hand, pretending to scroll while keeping a close eye on the exchange. Nari pulled on a pair of gloves, her movements fluid and practiced as she leaned in, examining Jungkook’s inked skin. “Your ink is solid,” she murmured, fingers ghosting over the intricate designs. “Whoever did this knew what they were doing.”

Jungkook grinned, clearly pleased with the compliment. “Yeah, my old artist was great. Just wanted some refinements, you know?”

“Mm,” Nari hummed in agreement, grabbing a marker to outline a few areas. Her gaze lingered on his arm longer than necessary, her lips curving slightly. “You’re adding new work too, right?”

Jungkook nodded. “Yeah, just some floral details around the tiger lily.”

That was supposed to be the end of it. But then Nari tilted her head, eyes flickering up to his face before dropping back to his arm, and subtly, but not subtly enough she licked her lips.

“I love doing florals on guys,” she said, voice dipping into something softer. “There’s just something about the contrast, you know?”

Your grip on your phone tightened. Jungkook, completely unaware of the shift in tone, simply lifted his arm to show her the faded edges. “Yeah, I wanted to add some chrysanthe—”

Before he could even finish, Nari reached out, fingers wrapping around his arm, her touch lingering.

“Oh, your skin is so nice,” she murmured, smoothing her fingers over the defined muscle as if she were admiring it rather than prepping it for work. Your eye twitched.

Jungkook blinked, a little startled by the comment but still too polite to pull away. “Uh… thanks?” Nari only smiled, nails grazing his forearm ever so slightly as she adjusted his position. “Good canvas makes all the difference.”

You swore you could hear your patience snapping like a twig. Jungkook looked slightly uncomfortable but still handed over his sketchbook, flipping to the page with his design. “This is what I had in mind for the rework,” he said, tapping the paper.

Nari barely glanced at the intricate details before tilting her head, her gaze flickering back to him instead. “You drew this yourself?”

Jungkook nodded. “Yeah.”

“Wow,” she hummed, leaning in slightly, the corner of her lips quirking up. “That’s impressive. Not many clients walk in with this level of detail.” From where you sat, you rested your chin on your hand, unimpressed.

Jungkook offered a small, polite smile. “I just like having a clear idea before I commit.” Nari's smirk deepened. “That’s really attractive,” she mused, fingers skimming the edge of the sketchbook instead of actually turning the page. “A guy who’s artistic and decisive? Rare find.”

You blinked. What.

Jungkook cleared his throat, shifting in his seat like he wasn’t quite sure how to respond. “Uh… thanks?” Nari finally flipped to the next page—though at this point, it felt more like a courtesy than genuine interest. “And you did all of these?”

Jungkook nodded again. “Mhm.”

“That’s insane,” she gushed, dragging her fingers over the lines like they were worth framing. “You could easily be a tattoo artist yourself.” Jungkook chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t think I have the patience for it.”

“That’s a shame,” Nari sighed, her fingers lingering a little too long on the sketchbook. “With hands like yours, I bet you’d be amazing at it.”

Your expression went flat. Jungkook just coughed into his fist, visibly flustered. “Uh—”

You snapped before you could stop yourself. “If you’re done with the consultation, I think you should get started with the sketching.” Your voice was even, but the words were clipped. “Unless this is just a fan club meeting now.”

That made Nari pause.

Jungkook turned to you, lips twitching as if he was trying not to laugh. Nari dared to send you a sharp glare, like you had just interrupted something sacred. But she grabbed a fineliner anyway, her movements slow and deliberate, as if making a point.

You didn’t waver. Arms crossed, you kept your gaze locked on her hands, watching every unnecessary adjustment she made—each one turning into soft, lingering touches against Jungkook’s skin. It was infuriating, the way her fingers skimmed his arm like she had every right to.

And then she bit her lip.

A coy smile played at the edges of her mouth, subtle but unmistakable. Jungkook, completely oblivious as always, remained relaxed in the chair, only wincing slightly when the cold surface of the fineliner pressed against his skin.

You were far from relaxed.

Shifting in your seat, you clenched your jaw, fingers curling against your arms. Maybe—maybe—she was just a touchy person. Maybe you were overanalyzing this. Maybe it was nothing.

“So,” Nari began, her voice light and conversational, “do all your tattoos have a meaning?” Jungkook, still staring at the ceiling like this was any other consultation, nodded. “Most of them, yeah.”

“What about this one?” She tapped the tiger lily, her fingertips trailing over the ink just a little too leisurely. Jungkook smiled, unaware of the way your patience was fraying. “That one represents passion, confidence… all that stuff. It’s also my birth flower”

Nari hummed, like she was committing that information to memory. “And the chrysanthemums?”

At this, Jungkook hesitated. For the first time, he flicked his gaze toward you, something unreadable passing through his eyes. Your posture stiffened, waiting. He cleared his throat. “They mean a lot to me.”

Nari tilted her head, expectant.

You leaned forward, expectant.

But Jungkook just chuckled lightly before answering, “They’re my girlfriend’s birth flower.” His tone was proud, almost smug, as if relishing the chance to say it out loud. A smirk tugged at your lips. That should be enough to shut this down, enough for her to finally get the message—

Except Nari barely reacted.

If anything, she just hummed again, dragging her eyes across his arm like she hadn’t even heard him. “Hm. Bet they’d look really pretty on you,” she mused, her tone as sweet as syrup. Then, without missing a beat, she added, “Then again, I bet a lot of things do.”

Your head snapped up. Jungkook tensed slightly but played it off with an awkward laugh. “Uh… thanks?”

Oh, hell no.

Maybe it was the way she said it. The way her voice dripped with something just a little too sweet, like she wasn’t just appreciating his tattoos but the person wearing them. Maybe it was the fact that her fingers were still lightly dragging along his forearm, slow and deliberate, like she had every right to touch him like that. Or maybe—just maybe—it was the fact that Jungkook, ever polite, ever oblivious, wasn’t saying anything to stop her. Either way, your patience is officially gone.

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees, voice smooth but sharp enough to cut. “So, is this your usual customer service?” you asked, tilting your head. “Or is my boyfriend just getting the VIP treatment?”

Nari barely spared you a glance. “Oh, don’t worry. I take very good care of my clients.” Your smile was saccharine, all teeth. “I bet you do.”

Jungkook shifted, fingers gripping the armrest as if bracing himself. “Baby—” You ignored him. “I thought professionalism was a basic requirement for tattoo artists. But I guess it’s optional here, huh?”

Nari’s smirk twitched, but she held her ground. “I’m just making conversation.”

“Right.” You nodded slowly, voice dripping with faux understanding. “Because flirting with your client while his girlfriend is sitting right here is so normal.”

Jungkook, bless his clueless heart, looked between the two of you like he’d just walked into a battlefield with no armor. His lips parted—he should say something, anything, should try to calm you down before things escalated, but the words never came.

Because truth be told, seeing you like this, so protective and so fierce was kind of hot.

Nari’s eyes narrowed, her confidence flickering just a little. “I wasn’t flirting.” You let out a mock gasp, pressing a hand over your chest in exaggerated horror. “Oh, my bad.” Your tone was syrupy, dripping with fake innocence. “I must have misheard when you basically drooled over my boyfriend while I was sitting right here.”

Nari let out a sharp huff, her irritation finally surfacing. She set the fineliner down with a little too much force, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and condescension. “Look, do you want me to finish this or not?”

You opened your mouth, already armed with a sharp retort—

“No.”

Jungkook’s voice cut through the air, calm but unwavering.

Nari blinked. “What?”

Jungkook rolled his shoulder back as he sat up straighter, his usual easygoing expression replaced with something unreadable. “I’ll get it done somewhere else.”

She scoffed, crossing her arms. “Seriously? Just because she’s insecure?”

Oh. That did it. A slow, burning heat unfurled in your chest. The audacity, the sheer nerve to say something like that when she had been the one crossing every possible line. You barely registered standing up, only aware of the way your pulse pounded in your ears as you took a step forward.

“Excuse me?”

But before you could let loose, Jungkook was already moving. His hand found yours, his grip warm and steady as he gently pulled you back. “Let’s go,” he murmured, his voice low but insistent. Nari rolled her eyes, leaning back in her chair like she couldn’t care less. “Your loss.” Jungkook didn’t bother responding. He just grabbed his jacket, intertwined his fingers with yours, and led you out of the shop without a single backward glance.

The second the door shut behind you, the tension that had been coiling in your muscles finally snapped.

“I swear—” you started, still fuming, but Jungkook sighed, squeezing your hand in his. “I know, baby,” he said, his voice softer now, the warmth of it cutting right through your frustration. “I know.”

You exhaled sharply. “She was touching you.” Jungkook let out a low chuckle, rubbing his temple. “I literally had no idea she was flirting.”

“You never do.”

That earned you a grin. Jungkook tilted his head slightly, leaning down just enough that his nose nearly brushed yours. His eyes locked onto yours with a familiar fondness. “But you do.” His voice was teasing, but there was something else there too. Something softer. Something that made your breath catch, just a little.

You scowled, but he just wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close. “Jealous?” he teased. You scoffed. 

His smile turned fond. “Cute.” You smacked his chest. “Shut up.” 

Jungkook barely flinched at the hit, his grin only widening. He tightened his hold around your waist, pulling you in until there was hardly any space left between you. “That’s not a no,” he murmured, his voice dipping just enough to make your stomach flutter. You narrowed your eyes, tilting your chin up defiantly. “I wasn’t jealous.”

Jungkook hummed, unconvinced. His fingers skimmed over the small of your back, the touch light but deliberate. “Mhm. Sure.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “She was unprofessional.”

“True.”

“And disrespectful.”

“Very.”

“And her eyeliner was uneven.”

Jungkook snorted, finally breaking into a full laugh. “Okay, now you’re just being mean.” You shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but the way he was looking at you, like you were the most amusing thing in the world made your face heat up. His laughter faded into something softer, something unbearably fond. “You know you’re cute when you’re all worked up, right?”

You scowled, jabbing a finger into his chest. “I said shut up.” Jungkook grinned, catching your hand with ease before lacing his fingers through yours. “Make me.”

Your breath hitched. His gaze flickered to your lips for the briefest second, and suddenly, the air between you shifted—

“You guys done with the tattoo already?”

A loud, familiar voice shattered the moment like glass hitting the pavement.

Both you and Jungkook turned your heads in unison, only to find Jin standing a few feet away, looking between the two of you with an expression far too amused for your liking. Jungkook groaned, running a hand down his face. “Hyung, seriously?”

Jin blinked. “What? I was just asking.” His gaze flickered over Jungkook’s arm, eyes narrowing as he took in the faint ink lines still marking his skin—the rough sketch of the tattoo, untouched by the needle. His brows furrowed.

“Wait. You didn’t actually get it done?”

Jungkook huffed, crossing his arms. “No. Because the tattooo artist was too busy flirting with me.”

Jin’s face twisted in confusion. “Huh?”

You, still somewhat bristling from the whole ordeal, rolled your eyes. “She was all over him. Barely even looked at his designs before trying to eye-fuck him.” JIn’s jaw dropped. “Wait, are you serious?”

Jungkook nodded, his expression flat. “Dead serious.” Jin winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Damn. I had no idea she was like that.”

At least he had the decency to look sorry. 

Jin sighed, rubbing his temple dramatically. “Alright, fine. Since I unknowingly threw you both into the lion’s den, I owe you.” He clapped his hands together. “Lunch is on me.” Jungkook raised a brow. “You? Paying for food? Willingly?”

Jin scoffed. “I can be generous, you know.”

You snorted. “That’s new.”

Jin ignored you. “Come on, let’s eat. My treat. Think of it as compensation for the mess I accidentally dropped you into.”

Jungkook hummed, pretending to consider. “I mean… if you’re paying, I’m definitely ordering the most expensive thing on the menu.”

Jin rolled his eyes. “As if you wouldn’t do that anyway.”

Jungkook just grinned. “True.”

You laughed, your earlier irritation melting away. “Alright, fine. You’re forgiven. But only if I get to pick the place.” Jin groaned. “Why do I feel like I’m about to regret this?” Jungkook laced his fingers through yours, his thumb brushing against your skin. “Because you probably will.”

Jin sighed but motioned for you both to follow. “Hurry up before I change my mind.” With that, the three of you headed off, leaving the unpleasant encounter behind in favor of good food.

Nari leaned against the counter, arms folded tight as she glared out the shop’s large window. Outside, you stood near the curb, your gaze fixed on Jungkook and Jin as they chatted. You weren’t speaking, just watching with that quiet, unreadable expression. But somehow, that made Nari even angrier.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered under her breath.

“What is?”

The question came lazily from the man who had just strolled up beside her. He shook out his wrists after finishing with his last client, pulling off his gloves and tossing them into the trash. His attention remained casual, uninterested until Nari gestured toward the window with a sharp tilt of her chin.

“Her.”

His eyes followed her gaze. His posture was still loose, still easygoing until he saw you. For the briefest moment, his entire body went rigid. His casual demeanor cracked, just slightly, before he smoothed it over with a slow smirk.

“Huh.”

Nari, oblivious to the shift, let out a scoff. “She threw a whole fit because I was being nice to her boyfriend. Completely embarrassed me in front of him and acted all possessive, like I was some kind of threat.” She tapped her nails against the counter, still glaring at you through the window. “And now, thanks to her little tantrum, he refuses to get his tattoo done here.”

The man hummed, tilting his head. “Jealous girlfriend type, huh?”

“Exactly.” Nari huffed before turning to him with a slow, calculating smile. “You’re good at handling people, right?” He lifted a brow. “Depends on what you mean by ‘handling.’”

She leaned in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Do you think you could… I don’t know, do something about her? Save Jungkook from her?” For a moment, he didn’t respond. His gaze flicked back toward the window, settling this time on Jungkook himself.

And just like that, his smirk thinned.

Jungkook stood beside Jin, hands in his pockets, his head tilted slightly as he listened to whatever Jin was rambling about. But every so often, his attention shifted to you. The way his fingers brushed absently over your back, the way his expression softened whenever he glanced your way, like keeping you close was second nature.

The man’s fingers curled into a fist. “Figures,” he muttered under his breath.

Nari frowned. “You know him?” A sharp exhale. A shake of his head. “Not personally. But I know of him.”

She perked up at that, her curiosity piqued. “Oh?”

His tongue ran over his teeth, jaw working as he leaned against the counter. When he spoke again, his smirk had returned but there was nothing amused about it. “Let’s just say… I have unfinished business with her.”

Nari blinked at that, lips parting slightly as she took in the underlying venom in his tone. Then, as if catching on, she let out a slow, delighted hum. “Well then,” she murmured, turning back to the window, watching you through narrowed eyes. “Wouldn’t it be fun to mess with her a little?”

His gaze never left you. He watched as Jungkook reached out, tugging the sleeve of your jacket into place with an unconscious sort of familiarity, the kind that spoke of years spent together.

The kind of familiarity that should have been his.

The corner of his lips lifted, the smirk sharpening into something colder. “Oh, sweetheart.” His voice was smooth and teasing, laced with something far more sinister.

“I’d love to.”

You groggily blink your eyes open, immediately regretting it as the soft glow of the morning filters through your curtains. Too bright. Too early. Too… awake. You bury your face into your pillow, grumbling incoherently, unwilling to leave the comforting warmth of your bed. It’s Sunday. A day meant for sleeping in, doing absolutely nothing, and ignoring all responsibilities.

Then, you feel it—the weight of an arm loosely draped over your waist, the warmth seeping through your thin shirt. Your sleep-addled brain takes a moment to process before it clicks. Jungkook.

Right. He stayed over last night.

A sleepy sigh escapes your lips as you shift slightly, pressing closer to his warmth. His scent lingers on your sheets, wrapping around you like a second blanket. You peek up, still half-asleep, and catch the sight of him lying beside you, propped up on one elbow, his phone held in his free hand. The soft glow of the screen illuminates his face, casting delicate shadows over his sharp jawline. He’s already awake, completely engrossed in whatever he’s scrolling through.

Too awake for your liking.

“Five more minutes,” you mumble sleepily, voice muffled against the pillow. Your words slur together, more of a plea than a statement, as you instinctively nuzzle into Jungkook’s chest, seeking warmth.

A deep chuckle rumbles from him, low and fond, the kind that makes your heart squeeze without permission. His arm tightens around you in response, fingers lazily tracing light circles against your back. “Five more minutes? Baby, you said that like… an hour ago.”

You don’t respond, only snuggling deeper into his embrace, fully intent on ignoring him. Jungkook exhales dramatically, an exaggerated, put-upon sigh. “You’re gonna sleep the whole day away.”

“That’s the plan.”

“You’re literally wasting the morning.”

“Mm,” you hum noncommittally. “Not wasting if I’m warm and comfortable.” Jungkook pokes your cheek, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he tries to stir you. “C’mon, let’s go out. We could get breakfast, maybe go on a walk—”

“No.” You blindly swat his hand away.

Jungkook groans, flopping onto his back in frustration. “Why did I fall for someone lazier than me?” You crack one eye open, just enough to see his pout. Smirking, you shift slightly and mumble into the pillow, “Because I’m cute.”

Jungkook huffs. “…I mean, yeah, but that’s not the point.”

Jungkook finally manages to wrangle you out of bed—a feat that takes a ridiculous amount of whining, bribing, and sheer force of will. He practically drags you across the apartment, his grip firm around your wrist, ignoring every single one of your grumbles and half-hearted protests.

“You are,” you mumble as he steers you into the kitchen, “the absolute worst.” Jungkook snorts, already rummaging through the cabinets for coffee beans. “Oh, I’m sorry. Was I supposed to let you rot in bed for eternity?”

“Yes.”

Jungkook ignores you, expertly working the coffee machine like a man on a mission. You slump against the counter, still half-asleep, head lolling dramatically to the side as you watch him move around like an overly energetic golden retriever. Then, your phone buzzes on the counter. You lazily glance at the screen, skimming the weather forecast—

Rain incoming.

Your spine straightens, sleepiness vanishing in an instant as you whip your phone up to show Jungkook, shoving the screen in his face with an almost evil sort of glee. “Oh no~” you sing-song, tone dripping with faux disappointment. “Looks like we can’t go out.”

Jungkook’s brows furrow as he squints at the screen, reading the forecast. His expression quickly morphs from mild confusion to full-blown horror. “…It wasn’t supposed to rain today,” he says slowly, almost like he can will the reality away.

“Guess we have to stay in.” You sigh dramatically, clutching your chest like it pains you. “Damn. What a shame.”

Jungkook groans, slumping against the counter like his entire soul has left his body. His dreams of a fun, eventful day were shattered. “You’re lying,” he accuses weakly. “This is a personal attack.”

You shake your head, voice dripping with fake sympathy. “I don’t control the weather, baby.”

Jungkook glares. “But if you could, you’d make it rain every day, wouldn’t you?” A smirk tugs at your lips. “Absolutely.”

Jungkook throws his head back with a dramatic, suffering groan, sliding down the counter like a man defeated. You watch him in amusement, lifting the coffee cup he had just made for himself and taking a slow, satisfied sip. The moment the taste hits your tongue, Jungkook’s entire body snaps upright.

He watches, utterly betrayed, as you lower the cup with a pleased hum.

“…Did you just steal my coffee?”

You blink at him, all innocence. “You made this for me, didn’t you?”

Jungkook scoffs, expression scandalized. “No! I made it for me!”

You shrug, taking another sip as you meet his glare with zero remorse. “Tastes great, babe. Thanks.”

Jungkook clutches his chest like you’ve personally wounded him. “You’re the actual worst.”

“And yet,” you hum, leaning against the counter with a satisfied smirk, “here you are, hopelessly in love with me.”

Jungkook stares at you for a long second, lips pursed. Then, without warning, he lunges. You yelp as he wraps his arms around your waist, lifting you with ridiculous ease and tossing you over his shoulder.

“JUNGKOOK—”

“NOPE,” he interrupts, already marching towards the living room. “If I can’t have fun outside, I’m gonna make you suffer with me inside.” You kick your feet uselessly, fists pounding against his back as he effortlessly carries you away. “Put me down, you muscle bunny!”

Jungkook only laughs, completely unfazed, before spinning on his heel and tossing you onto the couch like you weigh nothing. You land with a soft ‘oof,’ bouncing slightly against the cushions as he flops down beside you, stretching out like a starfish. “You are so dramatic,” you grumble, attempting to shove him away with your foot.

Jungkook just grins, easily catching your ankle and tugging you closer instead. “And yet, you love me anyway.”

You huff, too lazy to argue.

Before you can protest further, he shifts, rolling onto his side and resting his head comfortably on your lap. His eyes flutter shut almost instantly, his breath evening out as he settles in like he belongs there. At first, you stiffen, but as the seconds pass, your fingers instinctively weave through his soft, dark hair. You barely even realize you’re doing it, the motion coming as naturally as breathing.

Jungkook hums at the feeling, half-conscious, but content. His face is completely relaxed and unguarded in a way that makes your chest ache. He looked so soft like this. So warm. So… safe. And something deep inside you just melts.

Your fingers slow, combing gently through the strands, nails lightly scratching his scalp. A soft scowl tugs at your lips. Because this? This is a version of Jungkook you’d fight the entire world to protect.

Jungkook must feel your gaze because, after a moment, he cracks one eye open and peeks up at you. “You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice still laced with sleep. You blink, quickly masking your expression with a huff. To cover up the warmth creeping up your neck, you flick his forehead. “Just making sure you’re still breathing.”

Jungkook snickers, stretching lazily. “Aww, are you worried about me?”

You cross your arms, unimpressed. “Obviously. You’re fragile.”

Jungkook immediately bursts out laughing, full-bodied and carefree, his entire frame shaking against your lap. “Me? Fragile? Baby, I could bench press you.”

You roll your eyes, completely unfazed. “Yeah, well, I could stab someone for you.”

Jungkook’s laughter dies instantly. His eyes widen slightly, blinking up at you as if processing your words. Then, ever so slowly, a grin spreads across his face.

“…Okay, that’s really hot.”

You scoff, flicking his forehead again. “Pervert.”

Jungkook just smirks, completely shameless. “What can I say? I like my girlfriend a little unhinged.” You roll your eyes, but before you can retort, a deep rumble of thunder echoes outside.

Jungkook groans, throwing an arm over his face. “Great. So we really are stuck inside all day.”

You don’t even bother hiding your glee. “Tragic.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Jungkook shifts, burying his face into your stomach like a sulking puppy. You try to shove him off, but he only clings harder, grumbling nonsense against your his hoodie.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur, fingers idly threading through his hair again. Eventually, he shifts, lifting his head to look at you properly. His expression softens laced with something so fond it makes your breath hitch. He doesn’t say anything. Just laces his fingers through yours, absentmindedly tracing patterns against your palm.

Then, suddenly there's a sharp poke to your side and you jolt with a squawk, trying to wiggle away. “Jungkook!” He grins, eyes twinkling with mischief. “If we’re staying in, we should do something.”

You glare at him, still half-prepared to smack him upside the head. “Like what?”

His smirk deepens. “You know exactly what.” For a second, you just stare at him. He stares back.Then, without breaking eye contact—he grabs the game controllers.

Jungkook’s sunshine boyfriend energy disappears the second the race countdown starts. Gone is the sweet, cuddly man who had been wrapped around you like a koala just minutes ago, now, he’s leaning forward, brows furrowed, fully in the zone.

“Loser does the dishes in both apartments,” he announces, rolling his shoulders like he’s prepping for war. You scoff, cracking your knuckles for dramatic effect. “You’re about to regret that.”

The moment Lakitu drops the starting light, Jungkook launches forward like he’s been possessed by the spirit of every pro gamer ever. Meanwhile, you barely get past the first turn without slamming into the barrier. You spam every single item box you can get your hands on, determined to take him down with sheer pettiness if not skill.

Then there’s a miracle. Jungkook is just about to cross the finish line when you hit him with a perfectly timed blue shell.

BOOM.

His character spirals into the air, crashing down just inches from victory. You zoom past him at the last second.

“IN YOUR FACE, JEON.” You throw your arms up like you just won an Olympic gold medal. Jungkook stares at the screen in stunned silence. Then, slowly he turns to you. You suddenly get the feeling you’ve made a terrible mistake.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, cracking his knuckles. “No more playing nice.”

The next race starts and you get absolutely destroyed.

Jungkook goes full demon mode, drifting around corners with terrifying precision, dodging every single attack like he can see the future. He launches red shells, banana peels, lightning bolts— you don’t even know how he’s getting this many power-ups.

It’s a massacre. One round. Two rounds. Three. You lose every single one. By the end, your controller is nearly embedded into your palm from how tightly you’re gripping it. Jungkook, on the other hand, is lounging back against the couch, arms stretched behind his head, smug as hell.

He tilts his head, smirking. “Do you yield?”

You scowl. “I hope you step on a Lego.”

Jungkook just laughs, grabbing your wrist and yanking you into his lap before you can escape. The controllers are discarded, forgotten as you end up tangled together on the couch. His arms snake around your waist, holding you in place as you halfheartedly struggle.

Then—he boops your nose.

You blink. Once. Twice. Then groan, flopping dramatically against his chest. “I take back every nice thing I’ve ever said about you.”

Jungkook only hums, smug and unbothered. “Even though you lost, I still think you’re the cutest.”

You smack his arm. “I will actually fight you.”

“Mm. As long as it’s not in Mario Kart, I like my chances.”

Jungkook’s phone buzzes against the coffee table, the vibration cutting through the comfortable silence. He lazily reaches for it, glancing at the screen. His brows knit together for a second before his face smooths over into a grin.

“Oh, my mom’s planning a family dinner. She wants you to come.”

You, mid-sip of your newly-made coffee, nearly choke.

“…Huh?”

Jungkook tilts his head, amused. “What? You act like this is the first time she’s invited you.”

You pause, tapping your fingers against the cup. His family liked you. You knew that. His mom always sent you home with extra food whenever you visited, and his dad made it a point to tease Jungkook about “finally settling down” whenever you were around. Jungkook leans closer, watching you expectantly. “So? You’ll come?”

You exhale dramatically, pretending to be deep in thought. “…Maybe.”

Jungkook narrows his eyes. “Maybe?”

You smirk. “I’ll go on one condition.”

He leans in even more, suspicious. “What?”

You set your cup down with a slow, deliberate motion. Then you look him dead in the eye. “…Admit that I’m better at games.”

Jungkook snorts. “Not happening.”

You grin. “Then I’m not coming.”

Jungkook blinks. Then, before you can react, he pounces.

“YOU’RE COMING.”

“JUNGKOOK—”

You barely have time to throw your drink onto the table before he tackles you down onto the couch, arms caging you in as he buries his face into your neck. His weight presses you into the cushions, his laughter muffled against your skin.

“You little brat,” he mutters, nuzzling into you. You squirm, but he’s relentless, peppering lazy kisses against your jaw just to distract you.

“Say you’ll come,” he murmurs, voice laced with amusement.

“Say I’m better.”

Jungkook grins against your neck. “Hmm. How about this—you come to dinner, and I’ll let you win next time.” You gasp, shoving at his chest. “Let me win?!”

His laughter shakes both of you, but he doesn’t budge. “I’m trying to be generous, baby.”

“Jungkook, I swear—”

The argument quickly devolves into a mess of tangled limbs and laughter, neither of you backing down. Jungkook is still half on top of you, his arms lazily wrapped around your waist, completely unwilling to let you escape. His warmth seeps into you, making it harder to even think about moving. You sigh, dramatically slumping against the couch cushions. “Fine. I’ll go to dinner.”

Jungkook’s head snaps up instantly. “Really?”

You roll your eyes, poking his cheek. “Yeah, yeah. But I’m expecting VIP treatment.”

Jungkook grins, wide and bright, before leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. “Deal.”

Outside, the rain picks up, sheets of water blurring the world beyond the glass. The streetlights flicker, their glow reflecting off the puddles collecting on the pavement. But just beyond the window, Neither of you notice the figure standing on the balcony of the building across the street a dark silhouette barely visible through the downpour.

He watches. He waits.

The overhead lights in your office cast a dim, sterile glow, humming softly in the near silence. The usual buzz of the workplace has long since faded, leaving only the occasional click of your keyboard and the distant sound of the air conditioning whirring. You rub your tired eyes, exhaustion settling deep in your bones as you scroll through the last few emails of the day.

Just as you’re about to tackle the next document in your never-ending pile, your phone vibrates against your desk, the soft buzz cutting through the quiet. You glance at the screen, and a familiar name lights up:

Kook 🐰💜 [6:15 PM]: Still working? Kook 🐰💜 [6:15 PM]: Come over after work?

A small smile tugs at your lips despite the fatigue weighing on you. You reach for your phone, letting your gaze drift to the towering stack of documents beside you before sighing. There’s no way you’re finishing up anytime soon. With a resigned exhale, you type out a response.

You [6:16 PM]: Working overtime. I’ll text when I’m done.

His reply comes almost instantly, as if he’d been waiting for your response.

Kook 🐰💜 [6:16 PM]: It’s late. Want me to pick you up?

Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a second before you shake your head, rolling your eyes fondly. It wasn’t like you weren’t capable of getting home on your own. The walk to your apartment was barely ten minutes, and you’d done it countless times before without issue. You hated the idea of relying too much on someone else, even if that someone was Jungkook. He was always eager to drop everything for you, to take on your burdens like they were his own, and while a part of you adored that about him, another part resisted it. You never wanted to feel like you needed saving. You could handle yourself.

You [6:16 PM]: I’m fine. My apartment’s nearby, remember?

There’s a brief pause before his next message comes through.

Kook 🐰💜[6:18 PM]: At least text me when you’re home.

You bite back a smile, shaking your head.

You [6:18 PM]: Yes, yes, Mr. Protective. 

A second later, your screen lights up again with a message that’s nothing but a row of emojis. You let out a soft chuckle, shaking your head as you set your phone down. Stretching your arms over your head, you glance back at the unfinished work in front of you. The night is far from over, and exhaustion lingers in your limbs, but you push through.

Two hours later, the office is nearly deserted. Rows of empty desks stretch out before you, their monitors dark, abandoned by coworkers who were lucky enough to call it a day. Somewhere in the distance, the faint murmur of a janitor echoes through the halls, a quiet reminder that you’re not entirely alone. Still, the stillness feels heavy, pressing against your shoulders as you rub your tired eyes and blink at your laptop screen.

“Still here?”

The familiar voice startles you, pulling you from your work-induced daze. You look up to see Jimin standing by your desk, a bag slung over his shoulder and an amused expression on his face.

You let out a sigh, leaning back in your chair. “Unfortunately.”

He crosses his arms, leaning casually against the cubicle wall. “Overtime?”

“Yeah.” You stretch your stiff fingers before clicking through your files. “Trying to get ahead of things since I’m taking a day off for Jungkook’s family dinner.”

Jimin raises a brow, clearly holding back a smirk. “You? Taking a day off? Who are you, and what have you done with my workaholic friend?”

You snort, rolling your eyes. “It’s one day, Park.”

“Still. Didn’t think you’d willingly take time off for a boyfriend’s family event.”

You shrug, shifting your attention back to your laptop. “I’m being a supportive partner. And also avoiding Jungkook’s pout if I don’t go.”

Jimin chuckles. “Yeah, that tracks.” He checks his watch, then nods toward the exit. “Well, it’s already past eight. I can drop you off—my car’s in the basement.”

You pause for half a second, tempted. It would be easy, safe. A quick ride home without having to walk through the dark streets alone. But something in you resists. You’ve always prided yourself on being independent, on handling things yourself. You weren’t about to start needing an escort home like some helpless protagonist in a thriller movie. Besides, your apartment wasn’t far, and you could take care of yourself just fine.

You shake your head. “I’ve still got work left. Need to refine a client presentation before tomorrow.”

Jimin frowns, clearly debating whether to push the issue. “You sure? I don’t mind waiting.”

You give him a small, reassuring smile. “Go home, Jimin. I’ll be fine.”

He hesitates for a moment longer before exhaling in defeat. “Alright. Text me when you get home, yeah?”

“I will.”

Satisfied, he ruffles your hair in a way that makes you swat at him, laughing as he dodges your weak attempt at retaliation. “Night, workaholic,” he teases before heading out, his footsteps fading down the hall.

And just like that, you’re alone again, the dim glow of your laptop screen casting long shadows across your desk. 

It’s nearing eleven o'clock by the time you finally leave the office, exhaustion pressing down on your shoulders like a weight you can’t shake. The automatic doors slide shut behind you, sealing the building in eerie silence. Outside, the streets stretch before you, quieter than usual, the world dipped in shades of silver and black under the dim glow of the streetlights.

The scent of rain lingers in the air, damp and heavy, even though the drizzle had stopped hours ago. The pavement glistens under the flickering glow of streetlights, reflecting the distorted shapes of the empty road ahead. A chilly breeze whispers through the deserted streets, curling around your skin like invisible fingers. You shiver, tugging your coat tighter around you, telling yourself it’s just the cold. You exhale slowly, watching your breath fog in the night air, and begin your walk home. It’s not far—barely a ten-minute walk. You’ve done this route countless times before. It should feel familiar. Safe.

But tonight… something feels off.

At first, it’s just a small shift in the air, a faint prickle at the back of your neck that strange, creeping sensation of being watched. It crawls up your spine, makes the hair on your arms stand on end.

You shake it off, adjusting the strap of your bag. You’re just tired. Paranoid. That’s all. The streets are always eerie this late of course they are. There’s no one around, just the distant hum of traffic blocks away, the occasional flicker of a neon sign from a closed shop. But then when you’re halfway home, just as you pass the turn near the old bookstore you hear it.

A faint, subtle sound, a footstep, echoes just a second too late after your own. Your breath catches in your throat as you freeze, and the sound stops too. The silence is suffocating, pressing in from all sides. Slowly, so painfully slowly, you turn to glance behind you. 

Nothing.

Just an empty sidewalk, stretched too long and too dark behind you. The streetlights buzz faintly, their glow flickering, casting strange, distorted shadows on the wet pavement. Your own heartbeat pounds against your ribs, a heavy drumbeat in the stillness. You swallow, trying to shake the feeling creeping under your skin. You’re imagining things. You have to be. The city is full of noises like cars in the distance, leaves rustling, a stray cat darting between alleyways. That’s all it is.

Still… your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag as you push forward, steps quicker now. But the feeling doesn’t go away. It lingers. Pressing against your skin like static, buzzing at the edge of your awareness. You’re not alone.

You almost pull out your phone. Almost. Jungkook would pick up in an instant and he’d tell you to stay on the line, that he was coming to get you. But you don’t.

Because what would you even say? Hey, I think I’m being followed, but I’m not sure, and I don’t want to sound like an idiot? No way. Jungkook would freak out, and you weren’t about to send him into a panic over something that was probably nothing. So instead, you pick up your pace, each step sharper, more urgent. The streetlights above seem dimmer now, their glow barely cutting through the shadows pooling at the edges of the road.

Your building is just a few turns away. You make it past the first one, then the second. Then you hear it again—not just a sound this time, but a shift, a presence. Someone is there. Your heart hammers as you whip around faster this time. 

Nothing.

Your own shadow stretches long on the pavement, its shape warping under the flickering lights. The alleyway to your right is yawning and dark, a gaping mouth of blackness that seems to pull at the edges of your vision. Your pulse is a thunderous roar in your ears.

You’re not imagining this. This is real.

And now, your body knows it too and every instinct is screaming at you to move. So you do.

You rush forward, walking as fast as you can without breaking into a sprint. Your breath quickens, your fingers curling into fists, every nerve in your body on high alert. Just a little further. Just one more turn.

And then finally your apartment building comes into view, looming in the darkness like a beacon. Relief crashes over you so forcefully that you nearly stumble. You don’t turn around again. You don’t want to know if someone is standing there. Watching.

You force yourself to stay calm as you punch in the building’s entry code with unsteady fingers, stepping inside the safety of the lobby. The door shuts behind you with a heavy click, locking out the night.

You practically rush inside, the cool air of the lobby offering little comfort as your fingers tremble over the keypad. Your breath is shallow, coming in uneven gasps as you punch in your passcode. The numbers blur slightly in your vision, whether from exhaustion or the lingering tension clawing at your mind, you’re not sure. The beep of the lock disengaging feels deafening in the stillness. You push the door open, stepping inside so quickly that you nearly stumble over your own feet. The door swings shut behind you with a soft but final click, sealing you in the safety of your apartment. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

For a moment, you just stand there, listening. Nothing but the hum of your refrigerator, the faint creak of the building settling, and the sound of your own breathing, ragged and uneven in the silence. You don’t stop moving until every lock is in place.

Click. Click. Click.

Each one echoes louder than it should, like an affirmation that you are, in fact, secure. That no one followed you. That no one is outside, waiting. Still, the unease gnaws at you, refusing to settle. So, you make your rounds. Checking. Double-checking. Triple-checking.

You pull the curtains shut, firmly, ensuring no sliver of the outside world can seep in. You check the windows next, pressing your fingers against the glass, as if expecting to feel warmth from another presence, a breath on the other side. But there’s nothing. No shadow moving in the darkness, no faint imprint of something or someone having been there.

Finally, with a deep breath, you force yourself to move, shedding your coat, kicking off your shoes with sluggish movements. The exhaustion from the long day crashes down on you all at once, dull and heavy. Your limbs feel leaden as you shuffle toward your bedroom, every step slower than the last.

The warmth of your bed is almost enough to chase away the unease, the mattress soft, inviting and safe a stark contrast to the cold anxiety curling at the edges of your consciousness. You exhale, forcing yourself to relax, letting your body sink into the familiar comfort of your sheets.

But even as your eyes grow heavy, your mind refuses to let go completely. That nagging sense of being watched still lingers. Faint but present. And just before sleep claims you, a final thought slithers through your mind.

What if you weren’t imagining it? What if someone was still out there? Watching. Waiting.

Jungkook drives with effortless ease, one hand lazily gripping the steering wheel while the other taps against the radio in rhythm with the song playing softly through the speakers. The hum of the engine blends with the melody, filling the quiet space between you, neither of you needing to speak. The road stretches ahead, endless and open, disappearing into the horizon. A faint trace of salt lingers in the air, creeping in through the half-open window, a quiet reminder that you’re getting closer to Busan.

You sit in the passenger seat, your gaze flickering between the blur of passing scenery and the man beside you. The steady motion of the car, the warmth of the moment, it all feels oddly soothing. After days of unease, of tension wound so tightly in your body that even sleep felt like a battle, you finally feel yourself exhale.

“Can’t believe you actually agreed to take a day off for me,” Jungkook teases, his grin nothing short of triumphant as he spares you a glance. “Is this what love does to people?”

You roll your eyes, but the small smile tugging at your lips betrays you. “One time, Jeon. Don’t get used to it.”

Jungkook chuckles, shaking his head like he doesn’t believe you for a second. His smile spreads wide, bright enough to make your chest ache with something unspoken. He reaches over without hesitation, his fingers giving your knee a playful squeeze before returning to the wheel. The touch is fleeting but warm, grounding in a way you hadn’t realized you needed.

You should tell him.

The past few days have been unbearable due to the creeping paranoia, the feeling of eyes tracing your every move and the subtle shifts in your apartment that made your skin crawl. It’s like living with a shadow just out of reach, something you can’t see but can feel pressing in from the edges. You don’t scare easily, but this has been different.

Your fingers twitch against your lap. One word. That’s all it would take. Jungkook would listen like he always does. He’d furrow his brows, tilt his head in that concerned way he does, and tell you not to brush it off. He’d probably get all worked up, insist on staying over, refuse to let you out of his sight.

And yet, looking at him now being so carefree, his bunny-like smile tugging at his lips as he taps his fingers against the beat makes you hesitate. He’s happy. Peaceful. This moment is untouched by the weight sitting on your chest, and for once, you don’t want to taint something good.

So you take a slow breath, forcing yourself to relax against the seat. You tell yourself it’s fine. That you’re just being paranoid. That if anything truly happens, you’ll deal with it.

You exhaled slowly, willing yourself to stay in the present, to focus on the soft hum of the radio, the rhythmic tap of Jungkook’s fingers against the steering wheel. But the memory pulled at you, dragging you under before you could stop it—

You had come home after another long day at work. Your shoulders were aching from hours spent hunched over your desk. You had barely registered the familiar scent of your apartment as you pushed the door open, the soft creak echoing into the stillness inside.

Everything had looked normal at first.

Your shoes sat neatly by the entrance, exactly where you had left them. The kitchen counter was cluttered with the remnants of that morning’s rushed breakfast.

But the air had felt… different. Slightly off. As if someone had been there. Your heartbeat had stumbled, picking up speed before you could rationalize it. You had told yourself it was nothing. Just the exhaustion making you paranoid.

And yet, as you had stepped further inside, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. The sound was the first thing that struck you. Cheerful, repetitive, out of place.

Your TV was on.

Not just on but playing Mario Kart. The character selection screen looped in the background, the upbeat jingle clashing against the heavy silence that filled your apartment. You hadn’t touched your console in days. Not since you and Jungkook played together last Sunday. Your pulse quickened.

Your eyes flickered to the couch. It had been moved just slightly. Barely an inch out of place, but enough for you to notice.

A slow, creeping unease settled into your bones as you stepped further inside, your movements cautious. Your apartment wasn’t large. There weren’t many places for someone to hide. And yet, your skin prickled with the overwhelming sensation that something or someone had been here.

Your breath hitched as your gaze fell on your bedroom door, slightly ajar. You had closed it that morning. You were sure of it. With measured steps, you pushed the door open fully. And that’s when you saw it.

Your bed—completely in ruins. The sheets were tangled, pillows tossed carelessly, the once-smooth blankets now bunched in the center as if someone had been lying there. Your stomach twisted with unease because this morning, just before leaving for work, you had made your bed. Yet now, the sheets were rumpled, disturbed in a way that sent a chill crawling up your spine. Someone had been here.

Your pulse thundered in your ears as you took a shaky step back, your eyes darting around the room. Everything looked normal aside from the bed, the couch and the TV but the air felt wrong. Tainted. Like someone had occupied this space in your absence.

Your mind raced as you checked the locks. Still in place. No broken windows. No signs of forced entry.

So how— Your breath hitched as a thought struck you. With trembling fingers, you grabbed your phone and immediately dialed Jungkook. He picked up after a few rings, his voice slightly breathless, like he had been running. “Hey, baby. Everything okay?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, gripping the phone tightly. “Yeah,” you lied, forcing your voice to stay steady. “Where are you right now?”

"Still at the clinic," he answered easily. "Was assisting with a surgery on a Pomeranian. Poor guy had a blockage so it took longer than expected." Your stomach dropped.

If Jungkook wasn’t here… then who was?

Your fingers curled around your phone, knuckles whitening as you fought to keep your breathing even. “Got it,” you said, trying to sound casual. “Just checking.” There was a pause. Then, Jungkook’s tone softened. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah.” Another lie. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Before he could press further, you ended the call.

The only sound left was the distant loop of Mario Kart, mocking you.

The weight of the memory lingered, suffocating, but the warmth of the car, the low hum of the radio, and Jungkook’s familiar presence slowly pulled you back. You blinked, staring at him.

Jungkook was happily rambling about his mom’s cooking, hands moving animatedly as he drove. “—and she always makes extra, like extra extra, because she knows I eat a lot. But now she’s even more excited since you’re coming—oh! She even tried making those cookies you love—”

His voice was light, full of an excitement you didn’t want to taint. A small part of you wanted to tell him. But another part, the part that didn’t want to see that deep crease of concern on his forehead, didn’t want to take away his peace, told you to keep it to yourself. For now.

You turned your head, looking out the window, watching the scenery blur past. You didn’t notice the way Jungkook’s eyes flickered toward you, his brows knitting together for just a moment before he forced his usual smile back onto his face.

Jungkook pulled into the driveway, parking with practiced ease. You had been here more times than you could count, yet there was always something comforting about stepping into his childhood home like the faint scent of home-cooked meals wafting through the air and the familiar sight of the wind chime swaying gently by the door.  

Jungkook turned to you with a grin, one hand still resting on the steering wheel. “Mom probably made enough food to feed a small army.”  

You chuckled, already knowing that was true. “She always does.”  

Before you could even step out of the car, the front door swung open, revealing his mom waving enthusiastically. “You’re finally here! Hurry, come in before the food gets cold!” His mom pulled you into a hug the second you stepped inside, squeezing you tight.

“You’ve lost weight,” she huffed, pulling back just enough to inspect you with a critical eye. “Are you eating properly?”

Jungkook groaned beside you, already exasperated. “She’s fine, Mom.”

You laughed, but before you could respond, his dad stepped forward with a warm smile, offering a firm handshake. “It’s good to see you again,” he said, his voice as steady and kind as ever.

“It’s good to see you too, Mr. Jeon,” you replied politely. “Mrs. Jeon, thank you for having me—”

Before you could finish, his mom smacked your arm lightly, her expression scandalized. “Yah! How many times do I have to tell you? It’s Mom and Dad.”

Your face heated instantly. “R-Right. Sorry… Mom.”

Jungkook snickered under his breath at your obvious embarrassment, and his mom beamed, clearly pleased. “That’s better,” she said, linking her arm with yours as she led you further inside. “You’re family, sweetheart. No need for formalities.”

The house smelled incredible of rich simmering broth and freshly cooked rice. The warmth of it all settled deep in your chest, making you realize just how much you had missed this. As you stepped into the living room, your gaze landed on a few baby toys scattered near the couch, a soft blanket draped over the armrest. Before you could ask, his mom sighed.

“Junghyun and his wife wanted to come with the twins, but the girls were too fussy today.”

Jungkook pouted dramatically, crossing his arms. “I still haven’t met my nieces.”

His mom shook her head, unimpressed. “You could visit them, you know.”

“I will,” Jungkook mumbled, already defeated. “Just… eventually.”

The dining table was packed with dishes his mom had gone all out, as always. Various side dishes, steaming hot soup, perfectly grilled meat, and a mountain of rice sat invitingly before you. It was a feast, one you had grown familiar with over the years, yet it never failed to impress you. Before you could even reach for anything, Jungkook was already piling food onto your plate, stacking it with precision. “Eat,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You know the rules.”

His mom beamed, clearly pleased. “At least someone in this house listens to me.”

You chuckled, picking up your chopsticks, but the moment was shattered when your phone lit up beside your plate, vibrating with an insistent ping. You glanced down, your stomach twisting into a knot.

Your pulse quickened. The messages came one after the other.

Unknown [1:10 PM]: You think you can stay safe by staying away from here? Unknown [1:10 PM]: You think he’s gonna save you? Unknown [1:10 PM]: I am always watching you, doll.

Your breath hitched. Cold fingers of unease crawled up your spine, but you forced yourself to stay composed. Your hands thankfully didn’t shake as you turned your phone upside down and set it to silent. Jungkook had noticed. His gaze flickered to the screen before you flipped it over, his brows knitting together in quiet concern. He looked like he wanted to ask, but you didn’t give him the chance.

The vibration had caught his parents’ attention too. “Oh dear, is that work?” his mom asked, concern lacing her voice.

“Yeah,” you lied smoothly, forcing a small smile. “Just some messages I need to deal with later.”

You weren’t sure if Jungkook believed you, but he didn’t press. Instead, he reached out under the table, squeezing your knee reassuringly before focusing back on his food. You tried to do the same, pushing down the paranoia clawing at your chest.

Dinner flowed with easy conversation. His parents asked about your work, laughing when Jungkook grumbled about how much time it took away from him. They also teased him relentlessly about how attached he was to you.

“Three years, and he still acts like you’re going to disappear if he looks away,” his dad joked, shaking his head fondly.

You snickered, nudging Jungkook’s foot under the table.

But Jungkook just shrugged, completely unbothered. “Can you blame me?” he said simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Dinner continued with warmth and laughter, his parents seamlessly shifting the conversation to Jungkook’s studies.

“So, how’s school going?” his dad asked, scooping some more rice onto his plate. “Third year already, huh? Feels like just yesterday you were running around pretending to be a zookeeper.” Jungkook groaned. “Dad.”

His mom chuckled. “What? You were obsessed with animals. You even tried to ‘rescue’ the neighbor’s cat by sneaking it into your room.”

You gasped dramatically, turning to Jungkook. “Wait, I didn’t know about this!”

Jungkook sighed, shoving a bite of food into his mouth like he could physically escape the conversation. “That was years ago.”

His dad laughed. “And now look at you, halfway to becoming a real vet.”

“Not halfway,” Jungkook corrected between bites. “But yeah, it’s been tough. Classes are intense, and the practicals are even harder. Two days ago, I had to assist with a surgery, and let’s just say I wasn’t prepared for how long it would take.”

His mom’s eyes softened with pride. “You’ll be amazing, sweetheart. You’ve always had such a big heart for animals.”

Jungkook ducked his head, ears tinged pink. You smiled, nudging his foot under the table again. “She’s right, you know. You’re going to be an incredible vet.”

Jungkook glanced at you, his bunny-like smile appearing for just a second before he returned to his food. But the warmth of the moment did little to push away the unease creeping up your spine. The phone lay silent beside your plate, but you couldn’t shake the eerie feeling.

Just as the conversation was settling into a warm, familiar rhythm, the front door slammed open with the force of a small explosion.

“The prodigal son returns!”

Jungkook groaned, not even bothering to look. “Why. Are. You. Here.”

Jin strutted in like he was making a grand entrance at an award show, tossing his jacket onto the couch with an unnecessary flourish. “Heard there was food,” he announced before turning to you with a smirk. “And obviously, I had to make sure my dear cousin hasn’t scared you off yet.”

Jungkook scoffed. “You scared me off first.”

Jin ignored him completely, already making a beeline for the dining table. His mom, unfazed by the theatrics, clapped her hands together. “Oh, perfect timing! Sit, eat.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Jin said cheerfully, dropping into the seat beside you. He grabbed a pair of chopsticks like a warrior unsheathing his sword, ready for battle.

“So,” he drawled, nudging you playfully. “Three years and you still haven’t run for the hills? Impressive.”

You smirked, taking a sip of your drink. “I’ve considered it.”

Jungkook gasped dramatically, clutching his chest like you had personally stabbed him. “Betrayal! In my own home!”

“Technically, it’s our home,” his mom corrected.

“Exactly!” Jin said, pointing his chopsticks at Jungkook before shoving a mouthful of rice into his mouth. Jungkook’s dad, ever the composed one, leaned back in his chair and regarded Jin with an amused shake of his head. “So, how’s the tattoo shop? Are you still working reception?”

Jin waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, that? I quit.”

Jungkook’s mom sighed, as if she had already seen this coming.

Jungkook’s dad pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jin, you just started that job.”

“Yeah, and I just quit that job,” Jin said brightly. “But don’t worry—I’ve moved on to better things.”

Jungkook raised a brow. “Should I even ask?”

“I now work at a pastry shop.” Jin declared, as if he had just announced a groundbreaking scientific discovery.

Jungkook blinked. “You?”

“Yes, me.”

Jungkook’s dad sighed. “Jin, you have to start thinking about stability. You can’t keep jumping from one job to another like this.”

Jin only laughed, waving him off like the thought of responsibility was a foreign concept. “Oh, please. Stability is boring. I get bored too fast—I need thrill, excitement, the rush of something new.”

“You sell croissants,” Jungkook deadpanned.

“And I do it with flair,” Jin shot back, popping a piece of fried chicken into his mouth. “Speaking of which, I brought some samples! The head baker said they were too ‘experimental’ for customers, but I figured you guys would appreciate my artistic vision.” He reached into his coat pocket because of course he carried pastries in his coat pocket and plopped two small, questionably green muffins onto the table.

Jungkook recoiled. “What is that?”

Jin grinned. “Matcha and kimchi fusion.”

Jungkook’s dad sighed again. His mom simply patted Jin’s hand, as if she had long since accepted his chaotic ways. Jin wipes his hands dramatically after placing down his abomination of a pastry creation, then immediately turns to you with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“So,” he starts, leaning in with the air of someone about to cause chaos. “On a scale of one to dear god, someone save me, how difficult is he to live with?”

You barely have time to react before he fires off another.

“Any plans to upgrade from ‘boyfriend’ status?” Jin asks, voice dripping with faux innocence.

Jungkook chokes so hard on his food that you have to thump his back. His mom gasps in concern, while his dad just continues eating like this is any other Thursday night.

Jin smirks in triumph. “Ah, so is there a wedding?”

Jungkook, still recovering, glares murderously. “You are so not invited to the wedding—”

Jin claps his hands together. “Confirmed!”

Jungkook doesn’t hesitate. He grabs a spoonful of rice and hurls it straight at Jin. Jin dodges like a seasoned warrior. “Oh, it’s war now.”

A second later, a piece of kimchi smacks Jungkook right in the cheek. Jungkook gapes at Jin. “You did not—”

“Oh, I did.” Jin wiggles his eyebrows before launching another attack. What starts as a petty sibling squabble escalates into all-out warfare. Jungkook lobs a dumpling; Jin retaliates with a piece of radish. Rice goes flying. You duck just in time to avoid getting hit by a rogue piece of tofu.

“Jeon Jungkook!” his mom shrieks, voice cutting through the chaos like a knife. “Kim Seokjin!”

They both freeze mid-throw, like guilty kids caught red-handed.

His dad sighs, a long and tired sigh, the kind that speaks of years of dealing with this exact scenario. He calmly reaches for his drink. “Can we please have one dinner without someone launching food across the table?”

Jungkook and Jin exchange glances.

Then, as if telepathically synchronized, they both lift their chopsticks and point at each other. “He started it.”

You snort. His mom groans. His dad sips his tea in silent resignation.

The night air is crisp, carrying the distant hum of crickets and the occasional rustling of leaves in the trees that line Jungkook’s backyard. The stars above twinkle through gaps in the branches, their light soft and distant. Out here, away from the city’s chaos, everything feels quieter like the world has shrunk to just the two of you. Jungkook slips an arm around your waist, pulling you close. “Sorry about him.”

You chuckle, leaning into his warmth. “I like him. He makes things interesting.”

“Interesting until he’s grilling you.”

“True,” you admit, grinning. “But I can handle him.”

Jungkook huffs a quiet laugh, resting his chin atop your head. You exhale, letting your eyes flutter shut for a moment, savoring the security of his presence. It’s moments like these that make you forget the paranoia and the unease clawing at the edges of your mind.

But it never truly leaves.

The feeling of being watched. The weight of unseen eyes crawling over your skin. The messages you’ve ignored all night. They all linger in your mind. You glance up at Jungkook. He’s still smiling, talking about how his mom packed you extra leftovers. “She thinks you don’t eat enough,” he says fondly, shaking his head.

You should tell him.

The words sit heavy on your tongue, pressing against your teeth. One sentence, and it would all be out in the open.

But you don’t.

Instead, you nod, forcing a small laugh. “She really doesn’t take no for an answer, huh?”

“Never,” Jungkook confirms, squeezing your waist. His touch is warm, grounding. But even that warmth doesn’t reach the cold pit in your stomach.

“Jungkook!” His dad’s voice calls from inside. “Come here for a second.”

Jungkook groans, reluctant to move. “Stay here, I’ll be back,” he murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before disappearing inside.

The moment he’s gone, the silence presses in. You hesitate before pulling out your phone, unlocking it with a swipe of your thumb. The notifications are still there, messages from Unknown piled up like unanswered warnings.

The last one catches your eye.

Unknown [1:10 PM]: I am always watching you, doll.

Your breath stutters.

The phone suddenly feels heavy in your hands, like a weight dragging you down into something inescapable.

No.

Your pulse pounds in your ears, drowning out the gentle chirping of crickets, drowning out reason. A suffocating sense of dread settles in your chest as you stare at the word, doll. There was only one person who ever called you that.

Only one voice that had whispered it against your skin, had laughed it into your ear, had let it drip from his tongue like a slow poison.

Kim Taehyung.

The room was thick with the stench of alcohol and sweat, the air heavy with cigarette smoke that coiled toward the ceiling in lazy spirals. Dim lighting flickered from a dying bulb, casting long, distorted shadows across the stained walls.

Taehyung sat slouched in a tattered armchair, his body sinking into the worn-out fabric. His limbs felt like lead, the weight of intoxication pressing down on him, making his movements sluggish, his thoughts hazy. A half-empty bottle dangled loosely from his fingers, the condensation dripping onto his jeans, but he barely noticed.

Around him, his friends were strewn across the room in various states of intoxication, some laughing at nothing, their voices slurred and senseless, while others lay sprawled out, lost to the world. Taehyung exhaled a slow, heavy breath. Everything felt distant and detached until a stray thought cut through the fog: you.

His lazy smirk faltered. His fingers twitched against the armrest, tightening before relaxing again. His vision blurred at the edges, but the memories were sharp. Unwelcome. Unrelenting. His jaw clenched. He willed himself to push it away, drown it in the haze, let the high carry him somewhere else. But it never worked.

It never did when it came to you. His body was here, slouched in a torn armchair, but his mind was somewhere else. Three years ago.

"I don’t love you anymore."

The scent of espresso and warm pastries was suffocating. The quiet hum of conversation around them felt like static in his ears. But none of it fucking mattered. Not when you were sitting across from him, staring at him like he was nothing.

The words barely registered at first. His mind lagged behind reality like a glitching tape, playing back a version of events where this wasn’t happening.

"What?" His voice was sharp, disbelieving. "What the fuck did you just say?"

Your gaze didn’t waver. "I said I don’t love you."

The words cut. They didn’t hit all at once they sank in slowly, like a blade sliding between ribs.

Taehyung laughed. "Bullshit."

He leaned forward, jaw tight, fingers curling into the edge of the table. "You’re being dramatic. You always do this shit when you want attention."

Your expression didn’t change, but something about it made his stomach turn. You weren’t crying. You weren’t shaking. There was no hesitation or guilt or any of the things he had relied on to keep you in line. This wasn’t like before.

Your voice was flat. "You ruined this, Tae. You ruined me."

His laugh was louder this time, bitter and sharp. "Oh, so I’m the villain now? After everything I did for you?"

"Everything you did to me."

His breath stuttered.

And then you kept going. You fucking kept going.

"You controlled me. You isolated me. You made me feel like I was insane every time I called you out on your bullshit."

His hands curled into fists. "Oh, fuck off—"

"You threatened me, Tae. You threw shit. You punched walls, grabbed me so fucking hard I had bruises for days. And every time, you’d crawl back, begging, saying you didn’t mean it—"

His teeth clenched, fury bubbling beneath his skin. "Because I didn’t!"

"You dangled your own life over my head like a leash."

His blood turned cold, the first sliver of panic slicing through the rage that had consumed him moments ago. He wasn’t winning. The realization struck hard. His grip tightened on the table, nails digging into the cheap wood as if he was bracing for impact. You weren’t supposed to fucking say that. You weren’t supposed to know.

He forced a laugh, but it came out desperate. "And what, you're suddenly a fucking therapist? Psychoanalyzing me like I’m some fucking monster?"

Your voice was quiet, but it sliced straight through him.

"I don’t need to psychoanalyze you, Taehyung. I lived through you."

The air left his lungs. His vision blurred at the edges, rage and panic clashing, drowning him.

All of a sudden, ‘his’ name fell from your lips like a gunshot.

Jungkook? That pathetic little nerd? The one he used to shove into lockers, humiliate just for the fun of it? The same one who flinched if someone raised their voice too loud?

He let out a breathy, disbelieving laugh, but there was nothing funny about this. His hands shook from the effort of holding himself back.

"So that’s what you’ve been doing, huh?" His voice was sharp, venomous. "Nursing him back to health after I fucked him up?"

You exhaled, shaking your head, unimpressed.

Then, he snapped. "You fucked him, didn’t you?"

He spat the words like a curse, like they burned his tongue. Even as he said it, he knew you wouldn’t. You were a self-righteous bitch with all your morals, your bullshit standards. You wouldn’t dare. But the thought of it, the idea of you with him made his head spin, made his vision go dark at the edges.

His voice dropped to a hiss. "That little fucking loser? You let him touch you? You let him—"

His hands ached. He wanted to grab you, to shake you, to make you look at him.

"He’s a pussy, doll." His voice cracked, something wild and desperate bleeding through. "He won’t take care of you like I did."

You scoffed, expression unreadable. "You never took care of me, Tae."

"What the fuck does he have that I don’t?" His voice rose, teetering between fury and desperation. "Tell me."

You just stared at him, and that look—that fucking look—

It was over.

It was fucking over.

Panic clawed at his ribs, lodged itself in his throat, made his vision blur and his hands shake. So he did what he always did when he lost control.

"I’ll kill myself if you leave me."

The words came out fast and sharp, a desperate lifeline thrown into the storm. It had always worked before, always made you hesitate, always made you stay. But this time, you simply exhaled a breath of relief, as if you had finally broken free.

And then, for the first time, you smiled.

"Look at you." Your voice was soft. Almost pitying. "Still trying to manipulate me."

Something inside him snapped.

His vision blurred, his body moved and the next thing he knew, the coffee cup on the table was in pieces, shattered porcelain scattering across the floor.

The café had gone silent.

The whole fucking world had gone silent.

You stood, your chair scraping against the tile. Unbothered.

You walked away. No hesitation. No tears. No fucking remorse.

And for the first time, Taehyung had nothing.

Nothing left to say. Nothing left to hold onto.

The cigarette burned down to the filter, searing his fingers. He didn’t flinch. Taehyung’s jaw clenched, knuckles turning white as his fists curled against the armrest. The high didn’t feel so numbing anymore, just agitating. His skin felt too tight, his thoughts too sharp, too loud.

For almost a year, he had drowned you out with drugs, alcohol, distractions, anything to blur the edges of what you had done to him. To make himself forget the way you walked away without looking back. But the moment he saw you again it all came rushing back.

The obsession. The hunger. The need to undo it all.

You thought you walked away for good?

No. You were always his. Even when you hated him. Even when you ran. And now he was going to take back what was his.

One way or another.

After returning from Busan, you stayed over at Jungkook’s place.

You didn’t want to sleep alone. Not after the messages. The number was blocked now. You hadn’t received anything since. But still… you didn’t feel comfortable going back home yet.

Jungkook hadn’t questioned it. He just smiled and let you in, happy to have you around. But the more time you spent with him, the harder it became to ignore the guilt settling in your chest.

Because Jungkook didn’t know.

You hadn’t told him about the messages. About the unease creeping up your spine every time your phone vibrated. About the name that had resurfaced in the form of a single word:

“Doll.”

It shouldn’t have meant anything. Anyone could use that word. It was common, impersonal.

But not to you.

Not when you could still hear his voice saying it. Not when you remembered how it had dripped from Taehyung’s lips sometimes sweet, sometimes cruel.

“Be good for me, doll.” “You know I only act like this because I love you, doll.” “You’re nothing without me, doll.”

The thought alone made your stomach churn. You weren’t even sure if it was him. Maybe it was just paranoia. Maybe it was just a coincidence.

Yeah. It had to be. So you pushed it down, shoved it into the corners of your mind where you didn’t have to look at it. You told yourself you were keeping this from Jungkook to protect him.

But now, as you sit at your office desk, your mind is miles away from the reports in front of you. You tap your pen against the surface, gaze unfocused.

You don’t notice Jimin watching you from across the room until he finally speaks.

“Everything okay between you and Jungkook?”

You blink, snapping out of your daze. “What?”

Jimin leans against your desk, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “You seem off. Thought maybe you two had a fight or something.”

You force a small laugh, shaking your head. “No, nothing like that. Everything’s fine.”

Jimin doesn’t look convinced. His sharp gaze lingers for a second too long, like he’s waiting for you to crack. But he doesn’t press.

And you’re grateful for that.

Lunchtime rolls around when you finally check your phone.

The morning had been filled with client meetings, thankful for the welcome distraction. For a few hours, you managed to keep your mind from spiraling. But the moment your screen lights up with a string of unread messages from an unknown number, reality crashes back in.

Your stomach plummets.

Unknown [10:28 AM]: Did you really think blocking me would make me disappear, doll? Unknown [10:28 AM]: How cute. Almost as cute as you playing house with your little pet. Unknown [10:29 AM]: Speaking of pets… your boyfriend’s been working so hard. Diligently studying to save all those poor, dying animals. Unknown [10:30 AM]: How pathetic. Unknown [10:31 AM]: Wanna see?

Your breath catches.

The next message has three images attached. With shaking fingers, you tap them open.

First image: Jungkook in class, focused, scribbling down notes. Second image: Him in the lab, sleeves rolled up, handling equipment with practiced ease. Third image: Now. Jungkook at lunch, head slightly tilted as he listens to someone, chopsticks resting in his hand.

Your blood turns to ice as your vision tunnels, the world narrowing to a single horrifying realization—Jungkook is right there. Someone… no, not just anyone. It has to be Taehyung. He is near. He is watching. And if he is close enough to take these photos, then he is close enough to do something worse. Your phone nearly slips from your grip as pure, heart-stopping terror crashes into you. Jungkook is in danger. The first message was sent almost an hour ago, which means Taehyung has been near him this whole time. Watching him. Stalking him.

Your first instinct is to call the cops. Your fingers hover over the dial pad, heart hammering until your screen lights up again. As if he had been waiting for you to see his messages.

Unknown [12:01 PM]: I know what you’re thinking, doll. Unknown [12:01 PM]: Call the cops, and I’ll slit your pretty boyfriend’s throat right where he sits.

Your breath locks in your chest, hands trembling so violently you almost drop your phone.

No. No, no, no.

You don’t think you just move.

You bolt out of your office, barely registering Jimin calling after you. His voice is distant, but you can’t stop. You don’t have time. You race to your car, hands fumbling with the keys as you throw yourself into the driver’s seat. The second the engine roars to life, you’re speeding down the street, ignoring every traffic rule, every red light.

There’s only one thought pounding in your skull, louder than the frantic beat of your heart—

Get to Jungkook. Now.

You pull up to Jungkook’s university, barely throwing the car into park before shoving the door open. Your legs feel unsteady as you rush out, breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. Your hands tremble as you fumble with your phone, fingers slipping as you dial Jungkook’s number again and again. No answer. You try once more, the ringing tone stretching unbearably before it goes to voicemail.

The campus is alive with movement students chatting, laughing and going about their day, blissfully unaware of the sheer terror gripping you. You push through the crowd, scanning faces wildly, your heart pounding against your ribs. Where is Jungkook?

People glance at you, their whispers buzzing at the edge of your hearing, but you don’t care. You try his number again. Still nothing.

A sickening thought slithers into your mind— What if Taehyung already got to him? What if you’re too late?

Finally, your eyes land on him.

Jungkook stands in the courtyard, laughing with a couple of friends, completely oblivious to the danger shadowing him. The world around you blurs as relief crashes over you like a tidal wave.

Alive. Unharmed.

Your knees almost buckle, the tension in your body unravelling just enough for you to let out a sharp, shaky exhale. Your breath stutters as the panic begins to subside, but the urgency still thrums beneath your skin. Then Jungkook sees you.

His laughter dies mid-sentence, his brows knitting together in concern as his eyes rake over your disheveled form. His friends glance at you curiously, but Jungkook is already moving toward you.

"Y/N?" His voice is gentle but urgent. "What’s wrong?"

You shake your head quickly, forcing a weak, unconvincing smile. "It’s nothing," you say, voice tight. "But we need to leave. Now."

Jungkook blinks, his confusion evident. "What? I have an afternoon lecture."

You tighten your grip on his wrist, desperation seeping into your voice. "Jungkook, please. We need to go home."

His brows draw together, concern deepening in his soft gaze. "Why?" His voice remains gentle, but there's a quiet insistence beneath it. "What’s going on?"

When you don’t answer, Jungkook exhales softly before taking your hand, leading you away from the courtyard and into a quieter corner. His touch is firm but never forceful.

"Y/N, talk to me." His voice is barely above a whisper, but there’s an edge of worry to it. "What’s wrong?" His dark eyes search yours, trying to unravel the truth you refuse to say.

You swallow, avoiding his gaze. "It’s nothing, I swear—"

His jaw tightens, his fingers twitching at his sides. "That’s not true."

Jungkook doesn’t raise his voice, but the frustration is clear. He takes a slow step closer, his warmth now suffocating. "You’ve been acting different for weeks. Distant. Jumpy. And now you show up here looking like you’ve seen a ghost and expect me to just go along with it?"

You flinch at the quiet intensity in his words, but still, you don’t answer. Jungkook’s voice rises just a little, but the hurt in it is undeniable. “Do you not trust me?”

You bite your lip, guilt pressing down on your chest like a heavy weight. “Of course I do, Jungkook, it’s just—”

“Then tell me.” His fingers rake through his hair, his brows drawn together, frustration flickering in his dark eyes. But his voice stays soft, laced with something almost pleading.

“I’m not a child, Y/N.”

The words land harder than you expect, sinking deep. Silence stretches between you, thick with unspoken truths and the weight of his quiet disappointment. You know you should tell him. You should warn him. But… you can’t.

Jungkook exhales slowly, his jaw tightening as he watches you struggle with whatever it is you’re refusing to say. His frustration is evident, but his voice remains gentle, laced with quiet insistence.

“I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s going on,” he says firmly. “If you won’t, I’ll just stay here.”

Your stomach drops. No. He can’t stay here. Not when you know Taehyung is watching. “Jungkook, please,” you whisper, gripping his wrist tighter.

“Then tell me, Y/N.” His gaze softens, but the unwavering determination in his eyes sends a surge of panic through you. You have no choice. You have to tell him something—anything—just to get him to listen.

“Someone’s been watching you,” you admit in a rush, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know who, but it’s not safe.”

Jungkook stiffens. His expression shifts from frustration to shock, then to something unreadable. “Watching me?” he echoes. “Y/N, what—why wouldn’t you tell me earlier?”

You look away, guilt gnawing at you. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s still skeptical, still confused, but he can see the genuine fear in your eyes. And that alone is enough to make him give in.

“Alright,” he finally murmurs. “Let’s go.”

Relief washes over you, but just as you think you’ve convinced him to leave, your phone vibrates. It's another message.

Unknown [12:17 PM]: Ah, there you are, doll. So desperate to save your boyfriend? Cute. But I’m not done playing yet.

Your breath hitches.

Taehyung is watching you right now. Your fingers tighten around your phone as your eyes dart around the campus, paranoia seeping into your every movement.

Jungkook immediately catches the way your face drains of all color. His fingers gently close around your wrist before you can react, his other hand swiftly taking your phone from your grip.

“Jungkook, wait—”

But it’s too late. His eyes scan the message, and you feel his entire body go still. His brows knit together, his lips parting slightly as he rereads the words, processing the threat laced between them.

“Who…” His voice is quiet at first, controlled. Then, a little sharper. “Who the hell is this?”

You swallow hard, panic clawing at your chest. You should’ve been more careful. But now there’s no avoiding it. Jungkook looks up at you, eyes searching. “Y/N,” he says softly, but there’s an undeniable firmness in his tone. “Tell me.”

You take a shaky breath, forcing the words out before you can hesitate.

“I… I think it’s Taehyung.”

Jungkook blinks. For a moment, he just stares at you like you’ve said something completely incomprehensible. Then, he shakes his head, a disbelieving scoff leaving his lips.

“Taehyung?” He lets out a breath, his brows furrowing. “No. That’s impossible. We haven’t seen him in years.”

You can see the way his mind is racing, trying to rationalize it, trying to convince himself that it can’t be true. But then piece by piece it all starts to click. The way you’ve been acting. The paranoia. The half-truths. Everything makes sense now.

Jungkook’s expression shifts, his grip tightening slightly around your phone. He looks at you again, this time with quiet intensity. “Tell me everything.”

You take a deep, unsteady breath and finally let it all out. Every message. Every chilling threat. The way Taehyung has been watching, lurking in the shadows, getting closer and closer. How you’ve been living in constant fear, too terrified to sleep, too paranoid to breathe. How you blocked him, but he always found a way back. The photos of Jungkook the proof showing that Taehyung has been near him all along.

Jungkook doesn’t say a word. He just listens. His hands slowly curl into fists at his sides, his jaw tightening, but his eyes stay locked on you, soft and unwavering. By the time you finish, your throat is tight, and your vision blurs slightly. You blink rapidly, forcing back the tears threatening to spill. You quickly wipe at your eyes before Jungkook can notice.

But he does.

Without a word, he steps forward and wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his warmth. You freeze for a second, startled, but then you let yourself sink into the embrace. His arms are strong and steady, anchoring you as if he’s shielding you from everything that’s been haunting you.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice softer than ever. “You don’t have to hold it in, Y/N.”

Your breath shudders. “I-I’m fine,” you whisper, even though your grip on his hoodie tightens. Jungkook shakes his head slightly. “No, you’re not. And that’s okay.” His hand runs up and down your back in slow, soothing motions. “You don’t always have to be strong on your own.”

Something in you cracks at his words. A single tear slips down your cheek, and this time, you don’t wipe it away. Jungkook holds you tighter, his voice firm but gentle. “You should’ve told me sooner.”

“I know,” you whisper. “I was scared.”

“I get that.” He exhales, resting his chin lightly on top of your head. “But you’re not alone in this. I’m here now. And I won’t let him hurt you.”

When you finally pull away, his hands stay on your shoulders, grounding you. Now, you have to decide.

Go to the police? It’s the logical choice, but Taehyung already made it clear what would happen if you did. Jungkook’s life isn’t something you’re willing to gamble with. Confront Taehyung yourself? It’s reckless, dangerous, and probably a mistake. But part of you feels like it’s the only way to put an end to this.

Jungkook watches your face carefully, reading the thoughts swirling in your head. Then, his jaw tightens, his voice steady but firm. “If you think I’m letting you do this alone, you’re out of your mind.”

For the first time in weeks, the suffocating loneliness eases because no matter what happens next, Jungkook is with you. Suddenly your phone vibrates again.

Unknown [12:51 PM]: Such a heartwarming moment. But how far will he go to protect you?

And then another message. A photo.

It’s a picture of you and Jungkook. Right now. 

He’s still here.

"Y/N?" Jungkook’s voice is soft but sharp with concern. "What is it?"

You turn the phone toward him, and the moment he sees the message, his entire body stiffens. His jaw clenches, fingers curling into fists. His voice is low but firm when he speaks.

"We’re leaving. Now."

You don’t argue.

Jungkook grabs your wrist, pulling you through the crowd of students, his grip tight but reassuring. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears as you scan the area frantically, eyes darting from face to face.

But you don’t see him. He could be anywhere.

Jungkook doesn’t slow down until you reach his car. He unlocks it in a rush, practically shoving you inside before slamming the door shut behind him. His hands grip the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles turning white. Only when he locks the doors and exhales a shaky breath does he turn to look at you.

"He’s here, Y/N." His voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it.

You swallow hard, gripping your phone. "I know."

Jungkook starts the car. "We’re going home. Then we figure out our next move." You nod, but the unease lingers.

Because Taehyung isn’t done playing yet.

Jungkook paces the length of his living room, fingers running through his hair in frustration. You sit on the couch, gripping your phone tightly, going over every possible option. Jungkook is still talking, still trying to come up with a solid plan but his voice fades into the background as your eyes remain glued to your phone screen.

Unknown [1:37 PM]: Come alone. Midnight. Your apartment. Unknown [1:37 PM]: Don’t make me repeat myself, doll.

Your grip on the phone tightens. Your pulse roars in your ears. If Jungkook sees this, there’s no way he’ll let you go. He’ll insist on coming with you. And that’s exactly what Taehyung wants, a reason to hurt him. Swallowing hard, you quickly lock your phone and shove it into your pocket before Jungkook notices.

“Y/N?”

You snap back to reality to find Jungkook watching you carefully. “Yeah?”

“I was saying…” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe we should stay at a hotel tonight. Just in case. I don’t want you anywhere near that apartment if Taehyung’s been watching you.”

Your stomach churns with guilt, but you shake your head. “No. I think we should just stay and act normal. If we start running now, he’ll know we’re scared.”

Jungkook’s eyes darken. “We are scared, Y/N.”

You force a small, tired smile. “But we can’t let him know that.”

He exhales, clearly frustrated but unable to argue. “Fine. But I’m not letting you out of my sight.” You nod, pretending to agree.

But deep down, you already know that the moment Jungkook falls asleep tonight, you’re leaving. 

Alone.

It’s a little past midnight when you finally slip out of Jungkook’s apartment.

You hesitate at the door, glancing back at his sleeping form. Even in the dim glow of the bedside lamp, you can see the tension on his face. He had been restless for hours, his body stiff with unease, as if sensing that something was wrong.

You had pretended to fall asleep just so he could relax. It worked eventually. But now, as you step out into the cold night, a bitter weight settles in your chest.

Jungkook would never forgive you for this.

But this is the only way.

You move quickly, keeping to the shadows as you make your way to your apartment. The streets are eerily quiet, the distant hum of the city muffled by the pounding of your heart. Every step you take feels heavier like you're walking toward something inevitable.

Suddenly you hear a  second set of footsteps.

You don’t have time to react before a hand clamps over your mouth, muffling your startled gasp.

Before you can struggle, an arm wraps around your waist in a vice-like grip, dragging you off the sidewalk. The world tilts as you're yanked into a dark alleyway. Your pulse hammers against your ribs as you thrash against the hold, but it’s uselessm his grip is unyielding, effortlessly strong.

A low, deep chuckle brushes against your ear, sending a sickening shiver down your spine.

"Took you long enough, doll."

Taehyung had grown impatient waiting for you to show up. Without warning, he forcefully turns you to face him, his grip unrelenting. The sudden contact sends a jolt of fear through you, and seeing him again after all these years feels like being doused in ice water.

Time has changed him, but not enough. His face is still achingly familiar from the sharp jawline, the tattoos that snake up the expanse of his neck to the piercing eyes that burn with something much darker. 

A part of you always knew this day would come. You had told yourself that the way Taehyung left without so much as hurting you was too good to be true, but maybe, just maybe he had realised he was in the wrong and disappeared into the past like a bad dream. But now, standing here with his breath hot against your skin, you realize how foolish you were to think he’d ever let you go.

"You thought I wouldn’t come back for you?" he whispers against your ear, his voice sickeningly soft.

Your breath stutters. You try to shove him away, but he’s faster amd stronger. His grip tightens as he forces you back, slamming you against the cold, unforgiving brick wall of the alley. The impact knocks the air from your lungs, and before you can recover, his fingers press into your jaw, tilting your face up toward him.

The streetlamp above casts a sliver of light over him, illuminating the twisted smile on his lips.

"I gave you everything, and you threw me away for him?"

Resentment drips from every word, his voice cracking with something raw.

"I should’ve taught you a lesson years ago."

Your heart hammers in your chest, panic locking your limbs in place. But before you can even react—

A force rips Taehyung away from you, sending him crashing onto the pavement with a brutal thud.

Jungkook stands over him, breath uneven, fists still clenched from the impact. His usual softness is nowhere to be found—his expression is cold, lethal.

“You thought I wouldn’t notice?” His voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it that makes the air feel heavier.

Taehyung chuckles darkly. “I knew you’d come running.”

Jungkook doesn’t take the bait. His eyes flick to you, scanning for any sign of injury, before settling back on Taehyung with something dangerously close to disgust.

“You don’t get to lay a hand on her,” Jungkook says, his voice steady. “Not now. Not ever.”

Taehyung chuckles again, pushing himself up with an air of arrogance. He rolls his shoulders, cracking his knuckles as if this is all a joke to him.

"You?" He scoffs, eyes glinting with amusement. "Defending her?" His gaze flickers to you, sharp and accusing. "I bet she never even told you what she did to me."

Jungkook doesn’t flinch nor does he hesitate. His voice is calm, unwavering. "She didn’t do anything." He steps forward, eyes locked onto Taehyung like he’s daring him to try again. "I know she’s mine. And I know you’re just a lying, manipulative piece of shit."

Taehyung's smirk vanishes.

In a flash, he lunges.

Jungkook barely dodges, twisting to the side just in time, but Taehyung is relentless. He moves fast, and Jungkook isn’t a fighter he doesn’t have brute force or years of experience throwing punches. But what he does have is speed, quick reflexes and the sheer, unshakable will to protect you.

A fist catches Jungkook’s side, making him stagger back, but he barely registers the pain before Taehyung moves toward you again.

And that’s when Jungkook stops thinking.

His hand finds a broken pipe lying in the dirt. In one swift motion, he grips it tight and swings, slamming it straight into Taehyung’s stomach.

A sharp gasp rips from Taehyung’s throat as he doubles over, coughing violently. But he’s not down. Not yet.

Jungkook doesn’t wait. He reaches for you, his fingers wrapping firmly around your wrist. His eyes meet yours, urgent and fierce.

"Run."

The pounding of your footsteps echoes against the pavement, your lungs burning as you push yourself to keep running. The night air is thick, every breath heavy with exhaustion and fear.

Behind you, Taehyung is gaining. His ragged breaths cut through the silence, his footsteps unrelenting.

“You think you can run from me?” His voice is sharp, twisted with amusement and fury. A metallic glint catches the dim streetlights indicating he has a knife now.

Panic seizes your chest.

Jungkook’s grip tightens around your wrist. He doesn’t slow, doesn’t hesitate just yanks you sharply to the side. Your vision blurs as he drags you toward a dark, skeletal structure.

A construction site.

You stumble into the half-built building, weaving through stacks of bricks and steel beams. The scent of dust and concrete fills your lungs as you press yourself into the shadows, trying to quiet your frantic breathing.

Jungkook releases you only to crouch down, scanning the ground. His fingers curl around a rusted wrench, heavy in his grip. It’s not much, but it’s something.

“Stay behind me,” he whispers, his voice steady despite the fear you know he must be feeling. Your heart slams against your ribs. Your thoughts are spiralling. You should have been more careful, quieter when slipping out of the house. You can't believe you're the reason Jungkook is in danger, that he is the one standing between you and the threat. It should be you protecting him, not the other way around.

The footsteps slow. Taehyung has followed you inside.

A chilling silence settles over the space.

Then, a low chuckle.

“You can’t hide forever.” His voice is laced with amusement, the scrape of his knife dragging along metal making you flinch. “Come on, Jungkook. You really think you can protect her?”

Jungkook doesn’t move, his stance solid, wrench gripped tightly, shoulders squared. The tension is suffocating, every second stretching unbearably. You don’t dare breathe. Then Taehyung moves. The knife slices through the air.

Jungkook barely dodges, instinct driving his body before his mind catches up. The blade misses him by inches, but there’s no time to think, theres no time to breath, only react.

With everything he has, he swings the wrench. It connects hard against Taehyung’s wrist.

The knife clatters to the ground.

But Jungkook doesn’t stop this time.

His fist collides with Taehyung’s jaw, the impact ringing in the empty construction site. The force of it sends Taehyung staggering back, his body slamming against a stack of bricks. He’s weak now, unsteady, but still smiling like he’s enjoying this.

And then, in a last, desperate attempt, he speaks.

“You really think you’ve changed, Jungkook?” Taehyung breathes, voice laced with mockery. He spits blood onto the dust-covered ground, laughing through the pain. “You’re still the same pathetic kid I used to toy with. Weak. Spineless.”

Jungkook’s breath hitches.

“You’ll never be enough for her.”

The words land heavier than any punch ever could. For a split second, Jungkook falters. The old wounds, the taunts, the bruises, and the humiliation come rushing back. The memories claw at the edges of his mind, threatening to pull him under.

He remembers the way they used to laugh at him, the cruelty in their voices, the way they looked at him like he was nothing. Like he would always be nothing. He was the loser, the punching bag, the boy who never fought back. Every insult had carved itself into his skin, every shove had left something deeper than just bruises. They made him believe it. That he was worthless. That he would never be enough.

And then there was you. You. The only light in the darkness, the only person who had ever looked at him without disgust. He fell so hard, so helplessly in love with you, even though you belonged to Taehyung. It was cruel, really. The way fate played its hand. You were Taehyung’s girlfriend, yet you were the only one who saw Jungkook. The only one who stood up for him when Taehyung and his gang pushed him down. When he was at his lowest, you were there, offering kindness.

But how could you have chosen him? Him? A pathetic loser who had spent years as the butt of every joke, the weakling who was too afraid to fight back. He hears the echoes of their laughter, the mocking whispers that still live inside his head. Maybe they were right. Maybe he really is nothing. Maybe you made a mistake choosing him.

Taehyung’s voice is smooth and insidious, wrapping around him like a noose. The doubt, the shame, the years of self-hatred it all pulls him under, dragging him back to a place he swore he’d never return to. His fists loosen at his sides, his body feels too heavy, like he’s sinking into the past, like he's losing himself all over again.

But then—you.

You, standing behind him. The warmth of your presence, the unwavering belief in your eyes. The way you never once hesitated to love him, to choose him. His heart pounds against his ribs, pushing away the suffocating weight of the past.

No. No.

He is not that boy anymore. He is not weak. And he will not let Taehyung twist his mind, not when he has you to protect.

The hesitation vanishes as Jungkook moves, striking once, then again, each blow fueled by something raw, something deeper than anger—something desperate. His jaw is clenched, muscles taut, as if he is holding back years of something buried deep inside, something he never let himself feel until now. You have never seen him like this. Then another hit. And another.

His knuckles split, blood dripping onto the cold concrete, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. Not until Taehyung stops moving.

The only sound left is Jungkook’s ragged breathing. His chest heaves, his hands shaking.

His eyes, dark and unfocused, burn with an intensity you have never seen before. It is not just fear, nor is it just anger. It is something far more terrifying in its certainty, something that does not waver, something that does not break. It is an unrelenting, all-consuming protectiveness, the kind that leaves no room for hesitation, no space for doubt. And the most haunting part of it all—you know he did it for you.

“Jungkook.”

Your voice is sof t but it cuts through the chaos like a blade.

He freezes.

His chest rises and falls in uneven bursts, his knuckles raw and bloodied. His grip on the wrench trembles, muscles locked so tightly you wonder if he even hears you.

Then he looks at you, and in that moment, something inside him fractures. The fury that had burned so fiercely in his eyes splinters, crumbling into something far more fragile: fear. But it is not fear for himself. It is for you. For what could have happened. For what he almost became.

You take a step closer, carefully, like you’re approaching a wounded animal. His breathing is ragged, his body strung so tight it might snap. But he doesn’t move away when you reach for him.

Fingers brushing against his wrist, you gently pry the wrench from his grip. His hand is still trembling when it slips from his grasp, clattering onto the ground.

“It’s over,” you whisper, your voice steady even as your own hands shake. “I’m okay.”

Jungkook swallows hard, his throat working around unspoken words. The wail of sirens cuts through the heavy silence, distant but growing closer. Someone must have heard the commotion and called the police.

Taehyung groans from where he lies sprawled on the ground, too weak to move, too beaten to fight. But you barely spare him a glance.

Jungkook exhales shakily, his entire body trembling with the aftermath of it all. His fists are still clenched, his knuckles still bleeding, but his eyes are different now.

They are not just the eyes of your sweet, oblivious boyfriend anymore.

He steps closer, hesitant, hands hovering over your arms, your waist, checking, searching, needing to convince himself that you’re still here. That you’re real.

“I could’ve lost you,” he breathes, his voice rough, breaking at the edges.

The weight of his words settles deep in your chest.

You reach up, cupping his face, your thumb skimming over the small cut on his cheek. He flinches at the touch, but not from pain he just wasn’t expecting something so gentle.

“But you didn’t,” you murmur.

Jungkook’s breath shudders out of him. His lashes flutter shut for a second, his jaw tightening like he’s holding something in, something overwhelming, something too big to put into words.

Then, in a voice so quiet, so broken, it almost shatters you

“I was so scared.”

And just like that, everything collapses.

The rage, the adrenaline, the fear everything he had forced himself to carry, to bury, it all crumbles in one breath.

You don’t hesitate. You pull him into you, arms wrapping around him, and he clings back just as tightly. His grip is almost desperate, his fingers pressing into your back like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go.

Then, suddenly, he tilts his head down, capturing your lips in his.

The kiss is not careful. It’s not soft.

It’s raw. Desperate. Heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid.

His lips press against yours with an urgency that steals your breath, like he’s trying to pour everything he feels into this moment. His hands tighten around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, as if he wants to lose himself in you, in the feeling of you alive and warm in his arms.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, anchoring him to you, and he sighs into your mouth—a broken, trembling sound that sends a shiver down your spine.

When you finally pull back, foreheads pressed together, Jungkook’s breath is warm against your skin, uneven and ragged.

He’s still shaking.

And you hold him tighter, letting him feel it all.

The flashing red and blue lights spill across the pavement as the police cars screech to a stop.

Jungkook pulls away just enough to look at you, his hands still cradling your waist, like he’s reluctant to break contact. His eyes search yours, and for the first time since this nightmare began, you see something unshakable in them.

Taehyung’s screams cut through the air as he thrashes against the officers, his wrists locked in cold steel. His voice is hoarse, spewing empty threats, venom dripping from every syllable—

“This isn’t over!” he snarls. “You think you can take her from me?”

Jungkook doesn’t react. He doesn’t even spare Taehyung a glance.

Instead, he lifts a hand, brushing his fingers lightly against your cheek, grounding himself in the fact that you’re safe.

His voice, when he finally speaks, is low, steady. A quiet promise.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you again.”

And for the first time you believe him.

Because this isn’t the same Jungkook who was oblivious, who used to let things slide, the one who always saw the good in people even when they didn’t deserve it.

This is the Jungkook who stood his ground.

The Jungkook who fought for you.

And if the world ever tried to take you away from him again, he wouldn’t hesitate.

The park is quiet, bathed in the soft glow of late morning light. Birds flit between the branches, their songs blending with the gentle rustling of leaves. A cool breeze brushes against your skin, carrying the scent of freshly baked pastries from the open basket beside you.  

Jungkook sits across from you on the checkered picnic blanket, absently poking at his croissant with a fork. His knuckles are bandaged and a faint bruise lingers on his cheek just below the strip of medical tape.  

You watch him, waiting.  

He hasn’t said much about it. But the way he holds himself now, shoulders squared just a little more, gaze a little steadier it feels different.  

“You know,” you start, plucking a strawberry from the fruit bowl and tossing it into your mouth. “For once, I wasn’t the one saving your ass.”  

Jungkook snorts, shaking his head. “Don’t remind me,” he mutters, but there’s a small, lopsided smile tugging at his lips. “I’m still getting used to it.”  

“You should be proud,” you tell him, shifting onto your knees so you’re closer. “Not just because you fought. But because you didn’t let him win.” 

Jungkook exhales, rolling his jaw like he’s still processing the weight of it. “I used to think…” He hesitates, gaze flickering down to his hands. “That I’d never be the kind of guy who could protect someone. That I’d always be the loser who let things slide.”  

You reach out, fingers curling over his bandaged knuckles, squeezing gently. “You were never a loser, Jungkook.”  

You trace a light touch over the bruise on his cheek. “And if you’re measuring strength by how many fights you win, you’re missing the point.”  

Jungkook’s lips twitch, his fingers tightening around yours. “Oh yeah? And what’s the point, then?”  

“That you were strong even before this,” you murmur. “You didn’t need to throw a punch to prove that. But I think… you finally see it now, don’t you?”  

He doesn’t answer right away, but the tension in his shoulders eases. Then, with a soft chuckle, he tilts his head and smirks. “So what you’re saying is… you’re swooning over me right now.”  

You roll your eyes, but your laugh gives you away. “Unbelievable. One heroic moment and your ego skyrockets.”  

“What can I say?” He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “I’m basically a knight in shining armor now.”  

You groan. “You’re literally covered in bandages, Jungkook.”  

“Battle scars,” he corrects smugly.  

“You are so—”  

He cuts you off with a kiss.  

His lips taste like the strawberries you were just eating, but there’s something else too, something warmer. The quiet relief of knowing you’re here. That you’re safe. That you chose him, again and again.  

When you finally pull away, Jungkook rests his forehead against yours, exhaling quietly. “I wouldn’t hesitate,” he murmurs. “If it ever happens again. If the world ever tries to take you away from me.”  

Your heart clenches. You press a kiss to his bruised cheek, whispering against his skin. “I know.”  

For a while, you just sit there, basking in the quiet hum of the park, in the way his fingers stay laced with yours. The past still lingers, but it doesn’t hold you down.  

You’re here together.  

And for now, that’s all that matters.

taglist: @iamstilljk @juikmon @smoljimjim @11thenightwemet11 @namelesskeid @theboyzhelicopter @cristinamajadera @talyaaas-blog @nbjch05 @subgoogie @jjkookiee346 @gogogith @lectrice-ios @ziyaexe @mellyyyyyyx @dna-black-and-blue @sparklycheesecakenacho @pelicanpizza @whoa-jo @dillydandydaisy @somehowukook @tititania @purplelanterns @koodollylvr @honeeybunneey @jenniebyrubies @vantelover1306 @mar-lo-pap @whoreformarlenemckinnon @xumyboo @bumblebee041019 @gaebestie @coquitting @ecomidnight @fancypeacepersona @lizzy23-02 @rpwprpwprpwprw @starlight-1010 @piggaloaf @inkdrinkershadowsinger @satisfied18

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So he tries being rational about it. He tells himself he’s just attached to you because you’re comforting, because you’re familiar, because you’ve been there too long to lose now. But then he catches himself waiting for your replies during busy days, rereading messages when he’s stressed, thinking about how badly he wants your attention specifically, and suddenly the situation feels impossible to ignore.

The actual confession would be messy in a very Chan way. Not dramatic, not smooth, just honest in a way that sounds almost accidental. He’d start talking about something completely unrelated before admitting he thinks he relies on you too much. Then that would turn into him admitting he wants to tell you everything first, good or bad. Then eventually he’d just stop trying to soften it and admit he likes you in a way that stopped feeling friendly a long time ago. The scary part about Chan is that when he’s sincere, he’s really sincere. No joking, no teasing, no leader persona. Just this exhausted honesty that makes it obvious he’s been carrying the feelings alone for a while.

୨୧ — Lee Know

Minho would hate the fact that he likes you. Not because there’s something wrong with you, but because he values control over himself more than anything, and suddenly he’s reacting emotionally to stupid things that shouldn’t matter. You reply late and he’s irritated for the rest of the evening. You cancel plans and he acts indifferent while internally feeling genuinely disappointed. Someone flirts with you in front of him and suddenly he’s quieter than usual, sharper around the edges. The worst part is that he’d realize how obvious he’s becoming before you do. Minho is very aware of himself, which means every soft look, every unnecessary favor, every moment where he gives in too easily around you would make him feel exposed.

Unlike Chan, Minho wouldn’t slowly open up emotionally. He’d get more sarcastic instead. More teasing. More annoying on purpose because it’s easier to provoke reactions from you than admit he actually cares what you think of him. But eventually even he gets tired of himself. Tired of acting irritated every time someone assumes you’re dating because secretly he wishes they were right. So one day he’d just say it very plainly. No buildup. No awkward speech. He’d admit that being around you stopped feeling casual for him a while ago, and now every time you treat him like “just a friend,” it annoys him more than it should. And then he’d look away immediately after saying it because despite how composed he acts, vulnerability still embarrasses him badly.

୨୧ — Seo Changbin

Changbin wouldn’t realize he’s in love with you through emotional introspection. He’d realize because everyone around him is sick of hearing your name. He talks about you constantly without noticing it. Every conversation somehow circles back to you. Someone mentions food? You’d like this place. Someone sends him a song? It reminds him of you. Someone asks about his day? Somehow you’re involved in the story. The members would catch on embarrassingly fast, but Changbin would genuinely think he’s acting normal until someone points out that he smiles differently whenever you text him.

What makes Changbin different is that he wouldn’t become quieter around you after catching feelings — he’d become worse. Louder, clingier, more attention-seeking. He’d want your reactions all the time because your approval starts affecting him too much. Compliments from you would stay in his head for days. If you laugh at one of his jokes, he suddenly becomes the funniest person alive. And when he finally confesses, it wouldn’t come from careful planning. It would happen because he accidentally says something too honest and can’t take it back afterward. He’d probably admit that you’ve become the first person he wants to share things with, and then realize halfway through talking how serious he sounds. The difference with Changbin is that once the truth is out, he wouldn’t really hold back anymore. There’s no cool distance with him. If he loves someone, it’s obvious, overwhelming, and impossible to miss.

୨୧ — Hwang Hyunjin

Hyunjin would fall in love with the details of you before he even notices you as a whole. The expressions you make when you’re annoyed. The way your voice changes when you’re tired. The specific things that make you laugh. He’s observant in a very dangerous way, especially with people he cares about, so once he starts paying attention to you too much, the feelings become unavoidable. But unlike Changbin, Hyunjin wouldn’t express it openly at first. He’d internalize everything. Romanticize everything. Conversations with you would replay in his head later while he’s alone, and suddenly he’s wondering why one specific look from you ruined his entire mood for the day.

The problem with Hyunjin is that he feels things deeply but hates looking emotionally exposed. So instead of confessing quickly, he’d spend months trapped in his own head trying to decide whether the friendship is worth risking. He’d analyze every interaction, every touch, every possibility that maybe you feel the same way too. And when he finally confesses, it wouldn’t sound casual at all because Hyunjin isn’t capable of being emotionally casual with people he truly loves. He’d say it carefully, almost quietly, like he’s admitting something he’s been hiding from himself too. Not in an exaggerated poetic way — just painfully sincere. Like someone finally admitting they’re tired of pretending their feelings are smaller than they really are.

୨୧ — Han Jisung

Jisung would become unbearably obvious after realizing he likes you, but he’d also somehow stay in denial at the same time. One day he’s treating you normally, and the next he’s suddenly hyperaware of everything you do. Your attention starts affecting him in embarrassing ways. If you praise him, he’s energetic for the rest of the day. If you seem distracted around him, he overthinks it for hours. He’d start acting weirdly nervous too, which would confuse you because Jisung is usually comfortable around you. Suddenly he’s talking too fast, interrupting himself, getting flustered when you compliment him back.

What separates Jisung from the others is that his feelings would make him genuinely restless. He wouldn’t know how to sit with them quietly. He’d try distracting himself, joking through it, pretending nothing changed, but eventually the pressure gets to him. And his confession wouldn’t be smooth at all because once Jisung gets emotional, he starts rambling uncontrollably. He’d probably confess by accident during a conversation that had nothing to do with romance, then immediately keep talking because silence makes him panic. Half the confession would just be him exposing himself unintentionally — admitting how long he’s liked you, how obvious everyone else apparently thought he was being, how annoying it is that you affect his mood so much. And honestly, the sincerity would hit harder because of how unplanned it sounds.

୨୧ — Lee Felix

Felix would treat you gently long before he realizes he’s in love with you. That’s why the shift would take him so long to notice. He already cares deeply about people naturally, so at first he wouldn’t understand why you specifically feel different. But eventually he’d notice that his entire day revolves around whether you seem okay or not. Your mood affects him immediately. If you’re stressed, he’s worried. If you seem distant, he starts wondering if he did something wrong. He’d become emotionally attached in a very quiet, steady way that sneaks up on him completely.

Unlike the others, Felix wouldn’t fight the feelings once he recognizes them. He’d be scared of confessing, yes, but not ashamed of loving you. There’s something very emotionally straightforward about him when it comes to caring for people. So when he eventually tells you, it would sound incredibly genuine because he wouldn’t try making himself seem cooler or less vulnerable than he actually is. He’d admit that loving you stopped feeling avoidable a while ago. That being around you became the safest part of his life without him noticing when it happened. And the thing about Felix is that when he speaks sincerely, people believe him immediately because nothing about him feels performative.

୨୧ — Kim Seungmin

Seungmin would notice the change slowly, and honestly, he’d resent it at first. Not because he dislikes you, but because he’s the type to keep his emotions under control, and suddenly you’re ruining that without even trying. He’d catch himself checking his phone too often waiting for your messages, replaying conversations in his head while pretending he’s above things like that. The annoying part is that he’d still act completely normal outwardly. Same teasing, same dry comments, same unimpressed expression whenever you say something ridiculous. If anything, he’d tease you more after developing feelings because it gives him something to hide behind.

But Seungmin’s problem is that he’s too attentive for his own good. Once he cares about someone romantically, he notices everything. He’d remember offhand comments you made months ago. He’d pick up on your moods before you say anything. He’d quietly start adjusting himself around you in ways you wouldn’t notice immediately, like staying awake longer because he knows that’s when you usually want to talk, or saving certain stories because he specifically wants to tell you later. And the confession itself would be surprisingly calm. No panic, no dramatic emotional breakdown. Just Seungmin finally getting tired of pretending his feelings aren’t obvious. He’d probably admit it during an ordinary conversation, almost casually, except his voice would sound more careful than usual. He’d tell you that somewhere along the way, you stopped feeling easy to be around because now every interaction means too much to him. And afterward he’d immediately try acting like he didn’t just completely change the friendship, even though you’d be able to tell he’s nervous from how quiet he suddenly gets.

୨୧ — Yang Jeongin

Jeongin would handle having feelings for you terribly, mostly because he wouldn’t know what to do with himself afterward. He’s expressive by nature, so hiding emotions has never really been his strength. The moment he realizes he likes you, everyone around him would probably figure it out too because suddenly he’s reacting to everything you do. If you give him attention, he’s in a good mood for hours. If you seem closer to someone else, he gets visibly irritated even while insisting he’s fine. And because he’s younger emotionally than some of the others, the jealousy would genuinely catch him off guard. He’d hate realizing how much your attention matters to him.

— leaves little reminders of himself around the apartment without realizing it. books stacked beside the bed. hoodies over chairs. half-finished notes in his handwriting tucked into random places :(

— the type to stand in the kitchen late at night talking to you about absolutely everything before he leaves. music, life, fears, dumb observations, future plans. conversations with him always somehow feel endless

— buys you books before tour starts because “you’ll think of me when you read this part”

— definitely writes things in the margins too :( underlined sentences that reminded him of you or tiny “this is us” notes beside paragraphs

— starts sleeping closer to you before leaving. one arm heavy across your waist while he reads until he falls asleep halfway through the page

— acts composed the morning he leaves but keeps pausing before walking out the door like his body physically doesn’t want to go yet

during tour boyfriend!namjoon :(

— sends you long paragraphs at random hours because something reminded him of you and suddenly he has a lot to say

— the type to send pictures of ordinary things instead of glamorous tour stuff. a museum he visited. rainy sidewalks. coffee cups. trees he passed during walks :(

— facetimes you while sitting on hotel floors surrounded by his open laptop, unfinished lyrics, and clothes he still hasn’t unpacked properly

— likes hearing about your day in detail. not just “it was good.” he wants the small parts too. what you ate. what annoyed you. what made you laugh

— sometimes goes quiet after concerts because the adrenaline crash makes him miss home harder than usual

— admits he misses sleeping beside you more than he expected :( says hotel rooms always feel too cold and unfamiliar no matter how nice they are 

— sends voice notes while walking alone at night coming from the gym after schedules. low sleepy voice mixed with city sounds in the background

— keeps one of your sweaters draped over hotel chairs during tours because it makes unfamiliar rooms feel a little softer somehow

— when he can’t sleep he rereads old conversations between you two instead of texting because he knows you’re probably asleep

after tour boyfriend!namjoon :)

— coming home with him feels grounding :) like the entire apartment relaxes the second he walks back into it

— stands in the doorway for a second after getting home just looking around quietly before smiling to himself like “okay. i’m back”

— absolutely the type to pull you into the kitchen while he makes coffee in the morning just so he can stand there talking to you sleepily while sunlight comes through the windows

— domestic routines become sacred to him after tour :) museum dates. grocery shopping together. sitting on opposite ends of the couch reading while your feet touch

— gets soft seeing all your little habits again. the way you organize things. the mugs you always use. hearing you moving around in the mornings

— spends the first few nights back tangled up beside you talking until late because there’s too much he wanted to tell you in person

— honestly looks happiest doing the most boring things with you :) game nights, watering plants together, sitting quietly while music plays from the tv in the apartment

— after tour he loves you in an even steadier way. calmer. deeper. like every time he comes home to you he remembers what parts of life actually matter most

He looked beautiful in the soft, ugly parking-lot lighting. Which was unfair.

Cap low over his forehead. Sleeves pushed to his elbows. Hair messy from wind and seawater. His smile was there, touched with the kind of tired happiness that comes after a day well spent. 

He’d only had one drink hours ago and switched to water after, but the day had been long – sun, swimming, driving, making sure everyone was where they needed to be, checking maps, checking reservations, checking on members, checking on you every ten minutes like you might evaporate.

You stepped closer. “Baby.”

His head lifted immediately. “Hm?”

“Let me drive.”

His eyebrows rose. “You wanna drive?”

“You're tired. And I'm sober too.”

“It’s okay. I can do it.” 

“I know that you can,” you said softly. “But you don’t need to. You’re tired.”

“I’m fine.”

“You just tried to unlock the car with the house key.”

Chan let out a soft laugh, head dropping for a second, and you saw it then: the real exhaustion under the playful refusal. The kind he always ignored.

You reached for his wrist.

His fingers turned instinctively, fingers sliding through yours like they belonged there.

Your voice dropped so only he could hear.

“Chris.”

That did it. It always did.

His eyes flicked to yours.

You reached up, face leaning in towards his, and smoothed a thumb under one of his eyes. “You’ve been taking care of everyone all day. Please let me take care of you for twenty minutes.”

Something in his expression shifted.

Small. Barely there.

That look he only got when you slipped past the leader everyone knew and spoke to the man underneath it all. 

He glanced down at your joined hands, thumb brushing once over your knuckles. Then he sighed through a smile and leaned his forehead against yours. 

From the backseat, Felix made a scandalized little sound. “They’re being cute again.” 

“They can do that any other time,” Han whined. “I wanna fall into bed.” 

Chan huffed a laugh through his nose and pulled back.

“You sure?”

“Mhm.”

“You know the route?”

You nodded and held out your hand.

After a second, he dropped the keys into your palm. 

“Okay.”

You smiled and tipped your head towards the passenger side. “Go on then.”

Chan blinked at you once, clearly too tired to argue, then shuffled around the front of the car without protest. 

As he turned, you gave him a light, friendly smack on the butt. 

He stopped mid-step and turned back, scandalized. “Hey.” 

“Passenger princes don’t talk back, baby,” you said sweetly, opening the driver’s door. 

Chan shook his head under his breath, smiling now despite himself, and slid into the passenger seat. 

You settled behind the wheel, adjusting the seat back from where Chan had it too far for your comfort. His cologne lingered in the fabric, mixed with salt air and the faint scent of sunscreen. 

From the backseat, Han gasped dramatically. “She’s driving?” 

“Oh, you’ll survive,” you said, fixing the rearview mirror until Han's face appeared in it. “If not, you’re also welcome to walk back.” 

He slumped lower in his seat, arms folding across his chest in exaggerated sulkiness. “ ‘was just saying, your driving is kind of scary.” 

“You don’t even have a license,” you said, starting the engine. “Seatbelt, Jisung.” 

“That’s why my opinion is pure,” Han said, reaching for the seatbelt with a pout. “Unbiased. Untainted by experience.” 

Felix laughed so hard he immediately yawned afterward, eyes watering. 

Chan’s mouth twitched, trying not to smile.

–––––

Five minutes later, Han was dead aleep.

The road curved dark and quiet along the coast, the sea only visible in flashes between trees.

Chan sat in the passenger seat with the chair leaned farther back than he ever let himself do. 

But he kept looking at you.

Every time you glanced over, his eyes were already there.

He had one arm folded across his middle, the other tucked between you on the center console where his fingers occasionally squeezed yours. Not out of nervousness, but out of habit.

The boys in the back had gone from loud to silent with shocking speed. 

Han was asleep first, cheek smushed against Felix’s shoulder, mouth slightly open. 

Felix lasted another three songs before his head tipped sideways onto Han’s hair. 

You glanced in the rearview mirror and nearly laughed.

“Look.”

Chan turned his head. 

His smile came slow and helpless.

“They always act tough,” he said quietly, “then become babies after one drink.”

You smiled as well. “You gonna carry them inside later?”

“The hell I will.”

You hummed innocently. “But they’re your babies.”

“They’re adults,” he said at once. “Heavy adults. They just happen to complain a lot and expect to be pampered.” 

“You raised them that way.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

He gave a soft scoff but didn’t argue harder than that. 

Sleep was already pulling at him now, loosening every sharp edge. Without the need to steer, navigate, count heads, answer questions, make decisions, remind people to hydrate, remember where everyone left their bags—

There was nothing left for him to hold up.

No leader face.

No responsibility voice.

Just your boyfriend, warm, happy and slowly falling asleep in the passenger seat. 

His thumb traced over your knuckles once. Twice.

“You’re staring,” you murmured.

“I’m appreciating.” 

“You should rest those eyes, not look at me.”

“Can’t help it. You look really pretty when you drive.” 

You laughed under your breath. “That’s the sleep talking, babe.” 

“No.” His eyes were half closed, voice low and certain. “Been thinking it for ten minutes.” 

“Shouldn’t you be resting?”

He leaned his head back against the headrest. “Can’t.”

“Why?”

“Like looking at you.”

You stopped at a red light. The intersection was empty, traffic signal glowing red over the quiet road.

You looked over at him again. 

He was already looking at you.

Slowly, he lifted his free hand.

His fingers brushed your cheek first, palm settling there gently like he wanted to hold your face for a second before anything else. His thumb swept once across your cheekbone, slow and absentminded. 

Then, he leaned across the console and kissed you.

Soft.

Unhurried.

Sleepy in the sweetest way. 

You froze for half a heartbeat before kissing him back, one hand tightening on the wheel, the other moving to rest on his shoulder.

He was warm, lips slow and gentle on yours.

As he pulled away, your stomach flipped so hard it made you forget where you were. 

When you opened your eyes, it took you a second to remember the car, the road, the sleeping passengers.

You turned your head.

Han was still dead asleep against Felix, entirely unaware of the world. 

Felix hadn’t moved at all, breathing deep, arms wrapped around his folded jacket like a stuffed animal. 

You let out a slow breath and looked back at Chan. 

Who looked impossibly soft like this.

Hoodie half-zipped. Curls messy beneath his cap. Lips parted slightly with sleepiness.

And his eyes – so full of love – it made something in your chest ache.

“Tired?” you asked softly. 

“No.”

“Close your eyes.”

“Can’t.”

“Why?”

“Need to make sure everyone gets home safe.”

Your chest ached in that familiar way.

Even now.

Even here.

Even with his members unconscious in the back and the day finally over, he was still holding the invisible strings of everyone else’s comfort.

You reached over and squeezed his arm.

“I’ve got them,” you said. Then softer, “I’ve got you too.”

He went very still.

Then exhaled like he’d been waiting all day to.

When the light changed, you gave him one last smile before turning back to the road and easing the car forward. 

“You’re cute,” he mumbled after a minute. 

“You’re delirious.”

“Probably.”

“You happy?” you asked.

“Mhm.”

“Why?”

He leaned his head against the window, still watching you.

“My girlfriend’s driving me home~”

You snorted. “That’s all it takes?”

“She’s pretty.”

“Christopher.”

“She smells nice too.”

“You’re half-asleep.” 

“I’m in love.”

The words came so simply, so sleep-heavy and sincere, that your chest tightened.

You squeezed his hand.

“Go to sleep.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He squeezed your hand back once, then his grip loosened as sleep began pulling him under, yet still holding onto your hand like he didn’t know how not to.

INDULGENCE | JJK pt.02

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You shouldn't have come straight from church. The scent of incense still clung to your hair. The white dress brushed your knees modestly, sleeves soft against your wrists pure, untouched, obedient. You looked like you belonged under stained glass, not beneath flickering neon. The club doors opened and heat swallowed you whole. Music pulsed through the floor. Lights cut through the dark like blades. Bodies moved without shame, without prayer, without apology.

And there you were. White in a room full of sin.

"Y/N!"

Hana's voice carried over the bass as she waved you over from the VIP booth. She looked you up and down the moment you reached them. Her smile widened. Then her nose scrunched.

"Oh my God," she laughed, grabbing the fabric of your sleeve between her fingers. "You came dressed like the Virgin Mary." The table erupted in laughter. You slid into the booth anyway, smoothing your dress calmly. "I just came from church."

"We know," one of the others snorted. "We can see that." Hana leaned closer, lowering her voice teasingly. "Did you at least pray for our sins too?" You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. The waiter arrived. Hana ordered shots before you could object.

"You're engaged," she reminded you, lifting a brow. "You're basically almost married. Isn't this your last chance to do something stupid?" You took the glass when it was pushed toward you. The liquid burned on the way down.

"I don't do stupid," you replied softly.

Hana tilted her head. "That's the problem." Another drink came. Then another. The music grew louder. Or maybe your thoughts did.

They teased you about your father, about his church donations, his charity galas, his polished speeches about morality while negotiating business deals behind closed doors.

"Saint by day. Shark by night," someone joked.

"And you," Hana added, nudging you, "are his perfect little angel." You smiled again. That soft, trained smile. But inside, something twisted.

You were tired of being perfect. Tired of white dresses and folded hands. Tired of pretending the engagement didn't feel like a contract. Like ownership.

"Just once," Hana said, leaning in conspiratorially. "Do something rebellious. Something no one would expect from you." Your fingers tightened slightly around your glass. Rebellious. The word felt heavy. Because rebellion in your world wasn't just sneaking out. It wasn't drinking. It wasn't dancing.

"Hana," Kevin suddenly cut in, pointing at her with lazy curiosity, "didn't you say you went to Jessi's birthday last week?"

Hana paused mid-sip, eyes widening. "Oh my God," she laughed, nearly choking on her drink. "I completely forgot to tell you guys. That got everyone's attention. She set her glass down dramatically, lowering her voice even though the music swallowed half her words.

"It wasn't just a party. It was private. Invitation-only. Jessi rented out the top floor of this hotel and-" she grinned wickedly, "-she hired entertainment."

Minseo raised a brow. "Entertainment?"

Hana nodded slowly. "Sexy men. Like... unreal. They looked like celebrities."

"P*rnstars, you mean?" Minseo snorted, leaning back against the booth.

Hana snapped her fingers. "Exactly." The table erupted into laughter and whistles.

"They weren't just guys," Hana boasted, her eyes wide and glassy. "They were art. Jessi was in the middle of it all, just... completely unraveled. It was filthy, it was loud, and it was the best night of my life. I think I'm still sore."

Kevin let out a low whistle. "That's insane."

"She didn't care who judged her," Hana added, shrugging. "It was her birthday. She said if men can do stupid bachelor parties, she can have her own version."

Minseo laughed. "Iconic." You didn't laugh. You just listened.

Jessi. Sweet, soft-spoken Jessi from university. You pictured her in some dim hotel suite, music low, strangers' hands on her waist while she threw her head back without worrying who would find out. No fear. No guilt. No consequences.

"Apparently she was the boldest one there," Hana went on. "Completely fearless. Filthy, honestly. But in a fun way." The word lingered in the air. Filthy. You glanced down at your white dress. Your entire life had been curated to look untouched. Clean. Holy. Even your engagement had been arranged like a contract sealed with polite smiles and handshakes. You were meant to walk down an aisle pure and grateful.

And Jessi? She hired men whose faces probably lived on hidden tabs and late-night searches. Men who belonged to fantasy, not family dinners. "Can you imagine?" Hana said, nudging you. "You at a party like that?" The group burst out laughing at the thought.

"Y/N would faint before the first song starts," Kevin teased.

"She'd start reciting Bible verses," Minseo added dramatically. You forced a smile. But something unfamiliar flickered in your chest. Not embarrassment. Curiosity. What would it feel like to not care? To not measure every action against your father's reputation? Against the church's whispers? Against a fiancé you barely knew?

Hana tilted her head at you, studying your expression more carefully now. "You're thinking about it," she said softly.

You looked away, lifting your drink to your lips.

When Hana grabbed your phone, the intrusion felt like a physical violation, but the website she flicked through a dark, sleek interface of profiles and unapologetic desires lingered in your mind even after you snatched the device back.

"Look," Hana said, her tone softening but her eyes remaining sharp. "Just one night. No strings. No Bible verses. Just skin, breath, and forgetting who you're supposed to be. I know a guy. Or use an app. But do something before you wither away."

You looked at the group, at Kevin's smirk and Minseo's expectant gaze. The 'Good Girl' armor you had worn for years suddenly felt too tight, suffocating the pulse that was now thrumming in your throat.

"Fine," you whispered, the word tasting like copper.

"What was that?" Kevin leaned in, cupping his ear.

"I said fine," you said louder, your grip tightening until the glass threatened to shatter. "I'll do it. Arrange it, Hana. Or I'll find someone myself. But I'm done being the punchline."

-------

The rain began to smear the neon lights of the city into bleeding streaks of oil and light as you slammed your car door shut. Your chest was heaving, the air in the vehicle tasting like leather and the bitter copper of adrenaline.

Hana's 'perfect guy' was currently buried face-first in a stranger's neck at the VIP bar, his hands roaming over her with a practiced, hollow hunger. If you hadn't seen the photo Hana sent, the sharp jawline, the specific silver ring you would have walked right into his trap. You would have let that mouth, currently slick with another woman's saliva, touch yours. You would have let his skin, probably already layered in the sweat and scents of a dozen club flings, press against your own.

The thought made your stomach roll. You weren't just a 'Good Girl'; you were a woman with a fiancé and a reputation, and the idea of being just another notch on a sticky club couch felt like a physical violation.

Your phone buzzed aggressively in the cup holder.

A text from him. "Where r u? I'm waiting near the booth." You didn't even give him the satisfaction of a block. You let the notification hang there, a rotting piece of digital trash.

Then, the other notifications started to bleed through. The website Hana had forced open was now a persistent, pulsating itch on your lock screen. It was a sewer of desperation and cheap thrills:

"Single MILF nearby... feeling lonely?"

"Daddy issues? I can fix that for a price."

You went to swipe them away, your thumb hovering over the 'Clear All' button, when one caught your eye. It wasn't loud. It wasn't colorful. It was just a black icon with two letters: JK.

"Lonely tonight? Mature men ready now."

You clicked it. You told yourself it was curiosity, but the way your heart hammered against your ribs told a different story. The profile picture was a masterclass in shadowed temptation, a glimpse of a broad, ink-covered shoulder, a hand with prominent veins gripping a glass of dark amber liquid, and a jawline so sharp it looked like it could draw blood.

You scrolled down, but the screen was a sea of blurred, tantalizing shapes.

A glimpse of a muscular torso arched in a dark room. The suggestion of a mouth pressed against a neck.

Captions that read: "Whatever you crave, I provide. No judgment. No names. Just the heat."

To see the truth behind the blur, you had to pay.

You stared at the 'Subscribe' button. Money was never the obstacle; your family's accounts were deep enough to buy the club you just fled. But this was different. This was paying for a fantasy, paying for a man who promised to be exactly what you needed, without the messy, cheating reality of the guy you just left behind.

You shifted the car into gear, the engine purring beneath you like a caged animal. You didn't need a club. You didn't need Hana's sloppy seconds. You needed something dark, something controlled, and something that would make you forget your fiancé's face for one long, filthy night.

You pulled out of the parking lot, your thumb hovering over the screen. You'd look at his 'content' when you got home. You'd see if JK was worth the investment or if he was just another lie wrapped in a pretty package.

-----

The silence of your bedroom was deafening, a sharp contrast to the pulsing chaos of the club you'd just escaped. You kicked off your heels, the silk sheets of your bed feeling like a cool, mocking caress against your skin.

With a trembling thumb, you hit Subscribe. The transaction cleared instantly, a drop of water in the ocean of your family's wealth and the digital veil lifted.

The blur vanished, replaced by high-definition sin. Your breath hitched. He wasn't just handsome; he was a visceral assault on the senses.

One photo showed him leaning against a stark white wall, shirtless and unbothered. His skin was a map of dark, intricate ink that disappeared beneath the waistband of low-slung black boxers. The fabric was strained, the heavy, unapologetic bulge casting a shadow that made your throat go dry.

Another shot was a close-up of his tatted hand, thick veins and scarred knuckles possessively gripping himself through the cotton, as if marking his own territory.

Then came the shower shot. His hair was slicked back, dripping diamonds of water down a chest that looked carved from marble. He was sitting on a velvet chair, legs spread wide, his boxers pulled down just far enough to reveal the deep, lethal carve of his V-line. It was a jagged invitation into the darkness.

He looked into the camera with a heavy-lidded gaze, his silver lip piercing catching the light as he pulled his lower lip between his teeth. It wasn't just a pose; it was a challenge.

Your phone vibrated, the haptic feedback buzzing against your palm like a heartbeat. A direct message popped up.

JK: "Hey, princess. I see you lurking. I'm glad you decided to pay the entry fee. The view is better from the inside, isn't it?"

Your heart thudded. Before you could even think of a reply, another message followed, dripping with a casual, expensive arrogance.

JK: "For the real show, check the link below. And if you want to talk... my inbox is always open. As long as your wallet is as heavy as your curiosity."

You clicked the link, expecting more suggestive teasers. Instead, the screen exploded into motion.

This wasn't just 'content.' These were professional, high-production scenes of raw, unbridled intimacy. You watched, paralyzed, as JK, the man who had just called you princess, commanded the screen. He was a force of nature, his tattooed body slick with sweat as he moved with a feral, rhythmic intensity.

He wasn't just a model; he was a pornstar. A top-tier, high-demand performer whose every groan and movement was documented for thousands of paying voyeurs.

You saw him dominant, his eyes darkened with a hunger that felt terrifyingly real, his hands pinning a woman's wrists above her head as he took what he wanted. He looked nothing like the polished men in your social circle. He looked like the end of your reputation and the beginning of the best mistake of your life.

------

The silence of your bedroom felt heavy, pressurized by the secrets you were suddenly keeping. Your fiancé's photo seemed to watch you with silent judgment, but the heat pooling in your lower stomach was louder than any conscience.

You stared at the empty text box, the cursor blinking like a taunting heartbeat.

You: Hi there.

The moment the message sent, you threw the phone face-down on the silk duvet as if it were a live grenade. What are you doing? you hissed to yourself, staring at the ceiling. You were a woman of status, a woman with a ring on her finger, and yet you were reaching out to a man who made a living out of every primal, unfiltered instinct you had been taught to suppress.

Bzzzt.

The vibration against the mattress made you jump. You hesitated, then crawled toward it.

JK: Just 'Hi'? A girl with a wallet like yours usually has more to say, Princess. Or are you just shy because you've been watching my videos?

Your face flushed a deep, stinging crimson. He was blunt. No pleasantries, no dancing around the fact that you'd just spent the last hour watching him ruin women on camera.

You: Maybe I'm just selective.

JK: I like selective. It makes it more fun when I finally get you to beg. Tell me... what are you wearing right now? Are you touching yourself while you think about what I did in that last clip? I bet you're soaking wet just imagining those tattoos against your skin.

The rawness of his words hit you like a physical blow. It was filthy, direct, and completely devoid of the 'gentlemanly' mask every man in your life wore. You felt a rebellious streak flare up. You didn't just want to be a fan; you wanted to be the one in control of the interaction.

You tapped the Tip button. $500. > You: Less talking. More showing.

There was a long pause. The "typing..." bubbles appeared and disappeared. You had caught him off guard. A man like him was used to being the predator, but you were playing a different game.

JK: $500 just for a greeting? You really are a spoiled little thing, aren't you? You want to see what that money buys you?

Bzzzt. A notification flashed: New Media Received.

You clicked it, your breath hitching in your throat. It was a mirror selfie, taken in a dimly lit bathroom. He was wearing nothing but a pair of thin, heather-grey sweatpants, the kind of fabric that hid absolutely nothing.

He was leaning against the counter, a bright red lollipop caught between his teeth, his lips slick and stained. But your eyes dropped lower. The grey fabric was stretched tight, a massive, unmistakable bulge straining against the seam, thick and heavy. You could see the distinct outline, the sheer weight of him demanding release.

JK: "Do you like the view, Princess? Or do I need to pull these down so you can see exactly how much you're affecting me? I haven't even started yet... and I'm already wondering how you'd taste."

You gripped the phone so hard your knuckles turned white. The Good Girl was gone; there was only the woman in the dark, staring at a digital god of sin and wondering just how much more it would cost to make him yours for the night.

You were about to type something reckless when the three dots appeared again. This time, his tone shifted. The raw, unfiltered heat was still there, but a sudden streak of professional caution cut through the filth.

JK: "Hold on, Princess. Before I slide these off and show you exactly what that $500 just bought... I need to know who I'm playing with. I've had too many eighteen-year-olds trying to play grown-up games, and I'm not interested in babysitting. I also get guys in my DMs thinking they can handle a man like me. I'm straight, I'm a Dom, and I like to know exactly whose mind I'm breaking."

He was drawing a line in the sand. He wasn't just a body; he was a man who took up space, demanded truth, and controlled the narrative.

JK: "So, tell me. How old are you? And what exactly am I looking at on the other side of this screen? Give me a reason to keep this video recording."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. You looked at the diamond engagement ring on your left hand, a symbol of a life that felt like a gilded cage. You weren't a girl. You were a woman, suffocating under the weight of expectations.

You: I'm 26, JK. And I'm definitely a woman. A woman who is tired of being told what she can and can't want.

The "typing" bubble was instant.

JK: "26... perfect. Prime. Old enough to know the damage I can do, and young enough to want it anyway. And a woman? Good. Because the things I want to say to you next... a man couldn't handle them."

Bzzzt. Another notification. New Video Attached (0:15).

You tapped it with shaking fingers. The lighting was low, the camera focused entirely on his waist down. He was still in the grey sweats, but his hand those large, tattooed fingers hooked into the waistband. You heard the low, gravelly sound of his voice, a dark rumble that vibrated through your phone's speakers.

"See this, Princess? This is what happens when you talk back to me."

Slowly, agonizingly, he began to peel the fabric down. The camera caught the deep ridges of his hip bones, the dark hair trailing down into the shadows, and then the release. The grey fabric dropped, and for a split second, you saw the raw, pulsing reality of him, thick and heavy, before he cut the feed.

JK: "That was just the teaser. If you want the full 10 minutes of me taking care of myself while I say your name... it's going to cost you more than $500. But I think you've got the taste for it now, don't you?"

-------

The cool air of the en-suite bathroom hit your flushed skin, but it couldn't chill the fire burning beneath the surface. Your hand was still trembling as you set the phone on the marble counter. The screen was dark now, but the ghost of JK's low, gravelly voice, moaning your name into the speaker as he took himself to the edge replayed on a loop in your mind.

You had actually done it. You had paid a stranger to ruin your composure, touching yourself to the rhythmic sound of a man who didn't even know what your face looked like. The Good Girl wasn't just cracked; she was shattered.

Next day, the transformation was complete. The disheveled woman on the silk sheets was buried under layers of designer silk and heirloom diamonds. You stood before the mirror, the heavy weight of your engagement ring back on your finger, looking every bit the pristine daughter of a political dynasty.

A high-stakes gala where business deals were signed in blood-red wine.

The silent, supportive fiancée to Kim Seokjin, a man whose ambition was as cold as the stone floors of the ballroom. You felt like a walking lie, the ghost of JK's tattoos still burned into your retinas.

As you stood in the grand foyer, flanked by your father's imposing presence and Seokjin's possessive hand on the small of your back, your clutch bag vibrated.

Buzz. Buzz.

You ignored it, keeping your chin high as you greeted a senator.

Buzz.

Under the pretense of checking the time, you stole a glance at the screen.

JK: "Princess. I'm feeling generous tonight... or maybe just restless. I'm available for your 'entertainment' for the next hour. Want to see what I can do with my hands when I'm thinking of you?"

The sheer audacity of the text, the filthiness of his offer sent while you were surrounded by the elite 'saints' of your world made your breath catch. He was a digital demon whispering in your ear while you played angel for the cameras.

You looked up at Seokjin. He was discussing quarterly projections, his face a mask of bored perfection. He didn't know the woman standing next to him had spent her afternoon watching a pornstar come undone. He didn't know that right now, in your purse, a man was offering to show you things that would make this entire ballroom faint.

You felt a surge of power. For the first time, you weren't the one being controlled.

You didn't reply. You didn't even unlock the phone. You let the notification hang there, unanswered. JK might be a god in his digital kingdom, but here, in the world of power and pearls, he was nothing but a distraction you had bought and paid for. You weren't going to give him your attention just because he asked for it.

You slid the phone back into your bag, the "typing" bubbles likely still flickering in the dark. You had a role to play, and for tonight, the only thing that mattered was the cold, calculated perfection of being Seokjin's future wife.

------

Jungkook tossed his phone onto the leather sofa, the screen dimming on the silence of your chat. He didn't pace; he didn't fret. At thirty-two, he had moved past the age of chasing validation. He was a man built of muscle, ink, and a decade of performative sin, and he knew exactly how the game was played.

He remembered being twenty young, hungry, and possessing a body that the industry wanted to colonize. Back then, the lights felt like a spotlight; later, they felt like a dissection. He had become a household name in the darkest corners of the internet, a titan of the screen who could command a room with a single look. But the reality had been a grind of faked moans, sterile sets, and the exhausting tax of staying aroused for a camera crew while burying his own soul.

He had walked away from the contracts and the forced chemistry, but he couldn't walk away from the reputation. He became his own master. He curated his past, uploading vault footage and shot-from-the-hip content to exclusive sites where the elite came to play.

He had seen it all. He had been the 'daddy' for broken girls, the secret thrill for bored socialites, and the wrecking ball for marriages that were already crumbling.

Then there was you. 'Princess.'

Most of his new subscribers were predictable, bratty teenagers using their parents' credit cards or lonely men hiding in the shadows. When you first started throwing hundreds of dollars at him for a simple greeting, he had pegged you as a bored kid with a trust fund. He had almost felt a flicker of annoyance; he wasn't a toy for children.

But then came the revelation. Twenty-six.

A woman. A grown woman with a voice that sounded like she was starving for something real, even through a text. That changed the math. You weren't just looking for a thrill; you were looking for a transformation. And as he stared out his window at the city skyline, he felt a predatory curiosity he hadn't felt in years. You were rich, you were mature, and you were currently ignoring him while you played your part in a world of high-society lies.

He liked a challenge. And he especially liked breaking good things to see what they were made of inside.

------

The drive home was conducted in the stifling, climate-controlled silence of Seokjin's silver sedan. The leather smelled of expensive citrus and ambition. Outside, the city blurred into a streak of grey, but inside, the tension was a physical weight. Your parents had stayed behind to finish a round of late-night networking, leaving you in the capable hands of your future.

Seokjin drove with a one-handed, effortless precision, the light from the streetlamps dancing off the sharp crease of his suit trousers.

"The merger looks solid," he began, his voice smooth and devoid of any real warmth. "Your father was impressed with the way you handled the Senator tonight. You looked the part. Dignified. Untouchable."

He didn't look at you as he spoke; he was already three steps ahead, calculating the next move on the chessboard of your lives.

"I've been meaning to talk to you about the timeline," he continued. "Once the wedding is finalized in June, I'll be moving our primary operations overseas. London, most likely. Maybe a stint in Singapore. It's the only way to truly scale the family brand."

He wasn't asking. He was informing you of your new itinerary. You were an asset to be moved, a piece of luggage wrapped in silk and diamonds. You nodded, your gaze fixed on the window, listening to him drone on about logistics and tax havens, while the ghost of a tattooed hand and a red lollipop burned in the back of your mind.

When the car pulled up to the gates of your family's estate, the engine cut with a quiet, expensive hum. Seokjin turned to you then, his expression softening just enough to be considered "affectionate" by his standards.

"You've been quiet tonight," he noted, reaching out to tuck a stray hair behind your ear. "Are you nervous about the move? Don't be. You'll have everything you need there. More than you have here."

"I'm just tired, Jin," you lied, the words feeling like ash.

"Get some rest, then," he said. He leaned in, his lips pressing against yours. It was a kiss that was perfectly practiced polite, dry, and entirely devoid of the hungry, visceral heat you had felt pulsing through your phone only hours ago. It was the kiss of a business partner sealing a deal, not a man claiming a woman.

"I'll call you tomorrow about the venue," he whispered against your mouth before pulling away.

You watched the red glow of his taillights disappear down the driveway. The house was silent, a hollow museum of your family's status. You walked inside, the click of your heels echoing on the marble floor.

The house was silent, your parents still tangled in the web of the party. You kicked off your heels in the foyer and retreated to your bedroom, the shadows of the large room feeling like a sanctuary. You reached into your clutch and pulled out your phone.

JK's last message was still there, glowing in the dark. 'Available for your entertainment.'

The contrast between Seokjin's sterile overseas transition and JK's raw, unapologetic filth was too much to ignore. You didn't just want a distraction; you wanted to burn the bridge between who you were and who you were supposed to be.

You: I need you to make me forget everything about tonight. Name your price. Whatever the amount, I'll pay it. Just... don't stop.

You didn't expect an immediate reply. It was late, and a man like him surely had other clients to attend to. But the notification popped up before you could even set the phone down.

JK: "Whatever the amount? Careful, Princess. You're talking to a man who knows exactly how to bleed a bank account dry. But money isn't what I'm craving right now."

Your heart skipped.

JK: "I've been watching your silence for the last three hours. You were somewhere, weren't you? $2,000 for a live call. Right now. No scripts. No filters. I want to see exactly where you are and what you're willing to do to earn my time."

He wasn't asking. He was demanding. And for the first time in your life, you found yourself reaching for the "Pay" button without a single second of hesitation.

The screen of your phone was a void of black, but your speakers were alive with the sound of his breathing low, steady, and dangerously calm. You sat on the edge of your bed, the silk of your dress pushed up to your hips, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. The thought of your face, the face of a a corporate bride-to-be appearing on his screen was a death sentence.

Then, his video feed flickered to life.

You gasped, the sound muffled by your hand. Jungkook was sprawled across a messy bed, the sheets a dark, tangled contrast to his glowing, tattooed skin. He was completely naked, one arm tucked behind his head, flexing the thick bicep covered in intricate ink. The camera angle was unapologetic, looking down the length of his hard, sculpted torso to where his heavy length lay resting against his thigh.

He leaned in closer, a dark, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Why, Princess? Are you scared of revealing yourself?" His voice was a gravelly vibration that seemed to pulse right between your legs. "Are you hiding a face I'd recognize? Or are you just shy because you know exactly what I'm going to make you do?"

"I'm not turning it on," you whispered, your voice trembling. "Just... do what I paid for."

Jungkook let out a low, dark chuckle that sent shivers down your spine. He didn't push further; he liked the power dynamic of the mystery. His free hand traveled down his chest, his thumb grazing his nipple before sliding down the ridges of his abs.

"Fine. Keep your secrets," he groaned, his eyes darkening as they stared into the blackness of your side of the call. "But if I can't see you, I need to hear you. I want to hear the fabric of that expensive dress rustling. I want to hear your breathing get ragged. Tell me, Princess... what do you want me to do to myself while I think about breaking you?"

"I want to see you play," you breathed, your own hand sliding tentatively beneath the lace of your underwear. "I want to see... everything."

"Direct. I like that," he said, his hand finally closing around himself. He started a slow, rhythmic slide, his head falling back against the pillow. "I'm imagining you right now. I bet you're sitting on the edge of that big, lonely bed, your legs spread for me. Spread them wider, Princess. Touch yourself."

-------

The video call became a fever dream of filth and friction. The sight of him, his veins popping in his forearms as his grip tightened, his jaw clenching with every upward stroke was a visceral assault.

"God, you're so loud in my ear," he hissed, his pace quickening, the sound of skin hitting skin echoing through the line. "Are you wet for me? Tell me how much you want this sticky, filthy mess all over you."

"Shut up," you gasped, your eyes rolling back as you reached your peak, the image of his tattooed body moving with feral intensity driving you over the edge. "Just... don't stop. Don't you dare stop."

"I'm not stopping until I hear you shatter," he growled, his voice dropping into a guttural roar as he watched the black screen, imagining the ruin he was causing in your high-society bedroom. "Give it to me, Princess. Tell me who you really belong to tonight."

You couldn't hold back anymore. The friction of your own fingers, the sight of his head lolling back as he reached his limit, and the sheer, forbidden thrill of the moment snapped something deep inside you. You let out a broken, high-pitched moan, your body arching off the bed as the first wave of a violent climax hit you.

"God... JK," you gasped, his name slipping out like a prayer and a sin all at once.

The sound of his name seemed to trigger the end for him. On the screen, his muscles corded, his veins bulging in his neck as his grip tightened into a final, desperate rhythm. His jaw locked, a low, animalistic growl vibrating from his chest as he finally came, the raw evidence of his release slicking his abdomen and his tattooed hand.

He stayed like that for a moment, chest heaving, his skin glistening with a film of sweat under the dim lights of his room. He looked utterly wrecked, a man who had just given everything to a black screen.

The silence that followed was deafening. You lay there, your dress ruined and hiked up around your waist, your breath coming in shallow hitches. The reality of what you had just done the sheer filth of it, the distance between this and the cold, sterile life Seokjin offered felt like a physical weight.

Jungkook finally opened his eyes, blinking slowly at the camera. He reached out, his thumb grazing the lens as if he were trying to touch the woman behind the darkness.

"You're a quiet one after the storm, aren't you?" he murmured, his voice honeyed and rough.

He didn't ask about your life. He didn't ask who you were or why you were hiding. To him, you were just a high-paying fantasy, a voice in the dark that needed him. He had no idea about the diamond ring sitting on your nightstand or the political merger that was currently dictating your future.

"Same time tomorrow?" he asked, a ghost of a smirk returning to his lips as he began to reach for a towel to clean himself up. "Or did I finally give you enough to keep you satisfied for a while?"

You didn't answer. You couldn't. With a trembling hand, you reached out and tapped the red 'End Call' button, plunging the room back into a cold, suffocating silence.

--------

The air in the cathedral was thick with the scent of aged frankincense and the heavy, suffocating weight of tradition. Sunlight filtered through the stained glass, casting vibrant hues of ruby and sapphire across your folded hands, but you felt none of the peace the priest was droning on about.

You were kneeling between your mother, who was draped in modest Chanel, and Seokjin, who looked like a saint carved from marble. His eyes were closed, his profile sharp and perfect. To the world, you were the picture of piety, the cherished daughter of a dynasty, preparing to enter a sacred union.

Inside, you were a riot of sin.

Your thighs ached from the tension of the previous night's call. Every time the choir hit a high note, you didn't think of angels; you thought of the way JK's voice had dropped into that guttural, animalistic growl when he watched you peak through the screen.

The small clutch purse on your lap vibrated.

It was a sharp, jagged intrusion into the silence. Your mother cut a sharp glance toward you, her perfectly arched brow twitching in warning. You offered a tight, apologetic smile and slipped your hand into the bag, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

You knew you shouldn't. Not here. Not in front of the altar. But the hunger was a physical itch you couldn't scratch.

You shielded the screen with your palm, the brightness biting into the dimness of the pew.

JK: Thinking about how you sounded last night.

JK: Bet you're being a good girl right now, aren't you? Sitting somewhere pretty, pretending you don't have a filthy mind.

A heat, sudden and violent, bloomed at the base of your throat. You shifted in the hard wooden pew, the wood creaking, a sound that felt like a scream in the silent church. Your mother cut a sharp, questioning look at you. You offered a tight, strained smile and looked down at your lap, your fingers trembling as another notification popped up.

It was an image.

You shouldn't have opened it. Not here. Not under the eyes of the saints. But curiosity was a hunger you couldn't starve.

The photo loaded. It was a mirror selfie, taken in what looked like a dimly lit bathroom. JK was wearing nothing but grey sweatpants hung dangerously low on his hips, his hand curled around the back of his neck to flex the heavy muscle of his shoulder. His hair was damp, falling over his eyes, and he was biting his lower lip, that same lip you had watched him wet with a red lollipop.

The caption read.

JK: I'm bored, Princess. Saturday feels too far away. Tell me what you're wearing. I want to know exactly what I have to take off you before I show you what $2,000 actually buys.

The unholy thoughts hit you like a physical blow. You could almost feel his tattooed fingers tracing the zipper of your dress, pulling it down to reveal the virginity you were planning to hand him like a sacrificial lamb. The irony was suffocating, here you were, surrounded by prayers for your soul, while your heart was racing for the man who promised to ruin it.

"Y/N," your mother whispered, her hand resting on your arm. Her touch felt like ice. "Are you alright? You're flushed. You're shaking."

"I... it's just the incense, Mother," you choked out, the lie tasting like ash. "It's a bit stifling in here."

You looked back at the phone one last time. The image of his sculpted torso, the V-line of his hips disappearing into the fabric of his pants, burned into your retinas. You felt a coil of heat tighten deep in your belly, a visceral ache that made the church feel like a cage.

You typed back with a daring you didn't know you possessed, your thumb hovering over the keys as the choir began to sing.

You: I'm in church, JK.

You: And you're making it very hard to pray.

A second later, his reply came, and you nearly dropped the phone.

JK: In church? Perfect.

JK: Kneel down for me then, Princess. Tell God I'm the one coming for you on Saturday. And tell him I don't plan on being gentle.

You snapped the clutch shut, the metallic click echoing too loudly in the hollow space. Your breath was ragged, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You looked up at the crucifix at the front of the hall, but all you saw was the dark, hungry gaze of a man who didn't care about your soul, only your body.

Saturday wasn't just a date. It was a countdown to a total eclipse of the life you had been forced to lead. And as the congregation stood for the final blessing, you realized you weren't praying for forgiveness. You were praying for the week to end.

--------

The air in the garden was thick with the scent of peonies and overpriced champagne. Everything, from the silk ribbons tied around the topiary to the macarons on the tiered trays, was a precise, aggressive shade of blush pink. It was beautiful, curated, and utterly exhausting.

Seokjin stood beside you, looking every bit the heir to an empire in a tailored cream suit that made his shoulders look impossibly broad. He held a glass of sparkling cider, his posture perfect, his smile appearing and disappearing with the mechanical precision of a shutter.

"A girl," he remarked, his voice low enough only for you to hear. "It's good for the family lineage. Softens the brand's image. My cousin, Hana, has always been savvy about these things."

You nodded, feeling the weight of the pink silk dress you'd been instructed to wear. "She looks happy, Jin. It's a celebration, not just a branding opportunity."

He chuckled, a dry, polite sound. "In this family, darling, they are one and the same."

Hana, glowing and draped in chiffon, glided over to you both. "Y/N! You look stunning. Pink really is your color," she chirped, kissing both of your cheeks. She leaned in closer, her eyes sparkling with a mix of genuine excitement and family expectation. "So, I hear the wedding is set for June. Just think, in a year or two, we could be throwing one of these for you and Jin. Can you imagine a little Seokjin running around?"

Your stomach did a slow, nauseating somersault. "We're just focusing on the merger, the wedding, right now, Hana," you managed to say, your smile feeling like it was held up by wires.

"Of course, of course," she winked. "But don't wait too long. We need to keep the dynasty strong."

As they descended into a conversation about offshore investments and the guest list for the upcoming charity gala, your mind drifted. The pink balloons began to look like blurred spots of light. You were bored no, you were suffocating. This was your life, a series of gender reveals, sterile conversations, and softening the brand.

As the afternoon wore on, the fun began. There were games involving guessing the baby's birth weight and advice cards for the new parents. You sat at a circular table with three other corporate wives who discussed nothing but interior designers and the local private school rankings.

Seokjin was a few yards away, locked in a deep conversation about tax-free zones with his uncle. He didn't look back at you once. He knew exactly where you were, exactly where he'd left you.

You picked at a pink cupcake, the frosting too sweet, your mind drifting. You looked at the pink ribbons tied around the trees and thought about how everything in your life was being pre-packaged. The color of the nursery, the city you'd live in, the man you'd wake up next to.

"Everything alright?"

You looked up to see Seokjin standing over you. He checked his watch, a habit he couldn't break even at a family party.

"I'm just a bit drained, Jin," you said, echoing the same lie you'd told him in the car. "The sun is a bit much."

"We'll leave after the final toast," he said, patting your hand. It wasn't a gesture of comfort; it was a promise of an end to the social obligation. "You've done well today. My aunt was very complimentary of your poise."

Poise. To him, you were a well-behaved pet.

As the "It's a Girl!" confetti cannons went off, showering the lawn in a blizzard of pink paper, you stood there clapping politely. The sight was objectively beautiful, but you felt nothing but a hollow ache for something messy, something unscripted, and something that didn't require a Pay button even if that was the only way you knew how to find it.

You followed Seokjin toward the car, your heels sinking into the manicured grass, a dignified bride-to-be who was secretly counting down the seconds until she could be alone in the dark.

--------

You stood before your full-length mirror, two dresses draped over the velvet chair behind you.

The red dress was a statement. It was bold, a "femme fatale" armor that screamed of the woman you were trying to become sensual, confident, and unapologetic. But as you held it up, it felt like a costume.

Then there was the white dress.

White was your signature. Your closet was a graveyard of ivory, cream, and pearl the color of purity, the color of a bride. Choosing the white silk slip dress felt like a deliberate act of sabotage. You wanted him to see you in the color of innocence just before you let him ruin it. You pulled the silk over your head, the fabric cool against your skin, sliding down your curves like a secret. No bra, just lace-trimmed stockings and the frantic thrum of your heart against your ribs.

The hotel was a discreet, high-end establishment on the edge of the city, the kind of place where the staff was paid for their silence. Your hands shook as you pressed the button for the penthouse floor.

When you reached the door, you hesitated. Your reflection in the polished brass of the room number looked like a stranger pale, wide-eyed, and desperate. You knocked, the sound muffled by the thick carpet of the hallway.

The door swung open almost instantly.

The camera hadn't done him justice. In person, Jungkook was an overwhelming physical presence. He was in a black silk button-down, the top three buttons undone to reveal a glimpse of the intricate, dark ink sprawling across his chest. His hair was pushed back, and the light caught the glint of the silver rings in his ears and the sharp, silver stud in his lip.

His dark eyes raked over you, slow and deliberate, moving from your trembling lips down to the hem of your white dress. He didn't look like a service you had paid for; he looked like a predator who had finally cornered his prey.

"You're late, Princess," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that settled deep in your bones. He stepped back, gesturing for you to enter. "And you're wearing white. Are you trying to remind me of what I'm taking from you tonight?"

The door clicked shut, sealing out the world and its expectations. The room was dim, lit only by the amber glow of the city skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

"I... I was nervous," you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. "I didn't know if I'd look the same to you in person."

Jungkook walked toward you, his movements fluid and predatory. He stopped inches away, the scent of expensive tobacco and something dark and masculine filling your senses. He reached out, his hand, covered in the intricate tattoos of a snake and a crown, sliding up your arm. The contrast of his ink against your pale, pristine skin was startling.

"You look better," he hissed, his thumb grazing your jawline before hooking into the corner of your mouth, tugging your lip down slightly. "The camera didn't show me how much you tremble when I touch you."

He didn't waste time with the polite, dry kisses. When his mouth crashed against yours, it was a claim. It tasted of hunger and heat. His lip piercing dragged against your skin, a sharp, metallic sensation that sent a jolt of pure electricity through your nerves.

The room felt smaller now that the door was shut, the air thick with the scent of his cologne and the dangerous, electric hum of his presence. You stood by the foot of the bed, your fingers fumbling with your clutch until you managed to pull out your phone. With a few frantic taps, you hit 'confirm.'

The $2,000 left your account, a digital sacrifice to the man standing before you.

"It's sent," you whispered, your voice thin.

Jungkook didn't even glance at his phone. He took a slow, deliberate step toward you, the silver rings in his ears catching the light. He looked at you not like a client, but like something he had finally hunted down.

"You think I care about the notification, Princess?" he murmured, stopping so close you could feel the heat radiating from his chest. "I've got plenty of money. But having the pristine, high-society bride-to-be standing in my room, shaking because she wants to be touched by a man like me? That feels like winning a trophy I wasn't supposed to have."

He reached out, his tattooed hand cupping your cheek, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip. "So, how do you want to start? You paid for the time. Tell me how you want me to ruin you."

"I... I don't know," you breathed, your heart hammering against your ribs. "I've never... I've never done this."

A low, dark chuckle vibrated in his chest. "You don't know? After all that talk on the phone?" He leaned down, his lip piercing cold against your ear as he whispered, "I like that. A blank slate."

He didn't wait for another word. He gripped your waist, his large hands sinking into the ivory silk of your dress, and guided you back until your knees hit the edge of the mattress. With a gentle shove, he sat you down and then eased you back until you were lying against the pillows, your dark hair splayed out like a halo.

Jungkook hovered over you for a second, his dark eyes raking over your body with a proprietary hunger. Then, he dropped to his knees between your legs. The movement was so sudden, so worshipful yet dominant, that you gasped.

He didn't look up. Instead, he gripped the hem of your white dress and slowly slid it upward. The silk bunched in his tattooed hands, revealing your trembling thighs, inch by inch, until the fabric was gathered at your hips.

He leaned in, pressing a searing, open-mouthed kiss to the soft skin of your inner knee. His breath was hot, sending a violent shiver straight to your core.

"I'm here to please you, and I'm getting paid a lot of money to do it right," he murmured against your skin, his voice muffled by your thigh. He moved higher, his tongue tracing a line toward the lace of your underwear, his nose brushing against the heat of you. He looked up then, his jaw sharp, his eyes hooded and dark. "Tell me what you want, Princess. Give me an order."

Your hands found the mess of his dark hair, your fingers curling into the strands. The dignified version of you was dead. The girl who belonged to Seokjin was gone.

"I want you," you choked out, your hips instinctively arching toward him. "Please... I just want you."

"Good girl," he growled, a jerkish, satisfied smirk pulling at his lips.

He stood up just long enough to shed his shirt, his muscular torso a map of dark ink and raw power in the dim light. He crawled over you, his weight a welcome pressure, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand.

"I'm going to be your favorite mistake," he promised, his mouth crashing onto yours with a visceral, filthy intensity that tasted of leather, metal, and the end of your innocence.

-------

Jungkook loomed over you, his eyes dark with a predatory focus as he pinned your wrists to the headboard with a single, tattooed hand.

"You're so tight," he rasped, his voice dropping into a guttural register. "Just looking at you like this... I can tell you've been holding your breath for years."

He didn't give you a chance to answer. His free hand traveled up your torso, the rough texture of his calloused palms dragging against the smooth silk of your dress until he reached your breasts. He didn't hesitate; he squeezed firmly, groaning at the soft, heavy weight of you in his hand. With a flick of his thumb, he caught your nipple through the thin fabric, rolling the sensitive peak until a sharp jolt of pleasure shot straight to your core.

You let out a broken moan, your head tossing back against the pillows. "JK... please..."

"Please what?" he taunted, his smirk returning, sharp and cruel in the best way. He leaned down, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear before he moved to your neck, sucking a dark mark into the skin. "Tell me exactly what you want me to do to these."

He didn't wait for your stuttered reply. He used his teeth to snag the neckline of your dress, pulling the white silk down until your breasts were bared to the cool air of the room. He stared at you for a long beat, his chest heaving. Then, he dipped his head, taking one aching peak into his mouth. The sensation was overwhelming, the wet heat of his tongue, the sharp scrape of his lip piercing, and the rhythmic suction as he nursed you like he was starving.

"God, you're so responsive," he hissed against your skin, moving to the other side, his hand sliding down to the damp lace between your thighs.

He began to play you like an instrument he'd spent a lifetime mastering. His fingers found your center, circling and dipping with a relentless, expert friction that had you sobbing his name. Every time you neared the edge, every time your breath hitched and your back arched, he would stop. He would pull his hand away, watching you crumble in frustration.

"Not yet," he whispered, his eyes burning into yours. "I want you so desperate that you'll forget your own name. I want you begging for the ruin."

He edged you again and again, his mouth never leaving your skin, his hands mapping every inch of your trembling body until you were a raw nerve, weeping and pleading for him to finish it.

Finally, he sat back, stripping off the rest of his clothes with a fluid, impatient grace. He looked like a god of ink and sin as he moved back between your knees. He positioned himself at your entrance, the blunt heat of him pressing against your virginity.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice thick.

You opened your eyes, blurred with tears of pleasure, to find him watching you with a terrifying intensity.

"This is the part you can't take back," he murmured, his hands sliding under your hips to tilt you up. "This belongs to me. Not the businessman. Not your father. Me."

With one slow, heavy thrust, he broke through.

A sharp gasp escaped your lips, your fingers digging into his biceps, tracing the ridges of the tattoos that covered his skin. It was a searing, full sensation, a stretching ache that quickly began to melt into a deep, thrumming heat. Jungkook stayed still for a moment, his forehead pressed to yours, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped.

"Breathe, Princess," he grounded out, his thumb catching a tear on your cheek. "Just breathe for me."

As the initial sting faded, replaced by a blossoming, primal hunger, he began to move. It wasn't the polite, measured rhythm of a gentleman. It was a hard, unapologetic pace that made the bed frame groan and your vision swim. Every thrust was a claim, the sound of skin hitting skin echoing in the quiet room.

You were lost in the friction, the silver glint of his piercings, and the way his name felt like the only word left in your vocabulary. As you spiraled toward a violent, soul-shattering peak, you realized you hadn't just paid for a night; you had paid to finally feel alive, even if it meant burning everything else to the ground.

---------

The room was silent, save for the hum of the air conditioning and the rustle of ruined silk. You felt heavy, your body aching in places you hadn't known existed, marked by a man who was now watching you from the shadows of the pillows.

You stood by the edge of the bed, your back turned to him as you stepped into your lace underwear. Your fingers trembled as you reached for the ivory dress on the floor. It was wrinkled, a far cry from the pristine garment you'd arrived in, much like yourself.

"Running away so soon, Princess?"

Jungkook's voice was a low, gravelly vibration. You glanced back. He was sitting up, completely naked, the sheets pooled at his waist. The morning light caught the sharp lines of his tattoos and the glint of his piercings. He looked devastatingly unbothered, his jaw shadowed by stubble, a dark lock of hair falling over his eyes.

"I have to go," you whispered, pulling the dress over your head. The silk felt cold against your sensitive skin. "This... tonight was... it was what I needed. But it's the last time we'll see each other."

A dry, dark chuckle escaped his throat. He reached for a pack of cigarettes on the nightstand, his movements fluid and predatory even in his stillness. "The last time? You paid two grand to have me break you open, and now you're acting like we just had a polite coffee."

"I'm serious, Jungkook," you said, finally turning to face him as you zipped the side of your dress. Your voice gained a desperate edge. "The merger is moving forward. My wedding to Seokjin is in June. I can't risk this. I can't risk you."

Jungkook paused, a lighter sparking in his hand. The flame illuminated the hard, jerkish tilt of his smirk. He took a slow drag, exhaling a cloud of grey smoke that curled around his head like a halo.

"Seokjin," he repeated the name like it was a bad joke. "The man who kisses you like he's signing a contract. You really think you can go back to that? After how loud you were screaming my name an hour ago?"

"I don't have a choice," you snapped, grabbing your clutch. "This was a distraction. A final act of rebellion. But on Monday, I go back to being the woman I'm supposed to be."

Jungkook stood up then, uncaring of his nudity, and walked toward you. He stopped just inches away, the scent of tobacco and sex clinging to him. He loomed over you, his presence suffocating. He didn't touch you, but the heat from his body made you want to melt right back into the sheets.

"June is a long way off, Princess," he murmured, leaning down so his lip piercing almost brushed your ear. "You've tasted what it's like to actually feel something. You think you can survive three months of silence with him? You'll be back. You'll get bored, or lonely, or just plain hungry for the way I make you hurt."

"I won't," you lied, stepping back toward the door. Your heart was thudding against your ribs, a frantic, rhythmic warning.

"We'll see," he said, his eyes darkening. The "care" he'd shown earlier was gone, replaced by a cold, possessive streak. He didn't like being told 'no.' He didn't like being a chapter that was closing.

You didn't say goodbye. You couldn't. You turned and walked out of the room, the click of your heels on the hotel carpet sounding like a funeral march.

Behind you, Jungkook didn't follow. He leaned against the doorframe, naked and etched in ink, taking another long drag of his cigarette. He watched your retreating back through the haze of smoke, a dark, knowing smile tugging at his mouth. He knew the truth you weren't ready to admit: you hadn't just bought a night of pleasure. You had bought a hunger that a man like Seokjin could never satisfy.

As the elevator doors closed, the last thing you saw was the red glow of his cigarette in the dim hallway, a small, burning warning of the fire you had started and couldn't put out.

-------

The days following that night were a blur of suffocating tradition. Jungkook had gone silent, a ghost in your digital world, and you tried to convince yourself that the $2,000 had finally bought you peace. You threw yourself back into the role of the perfect daughter, the Untouchable Princess of the Min political dynasty.

Tonight, you are at a gala for your father's re-election campaign. The ballroom is a cathedral of gold leaf and forced laughter. You are wearing a champagne-colored gown, modest, floor-length, and expensive. It feels like a shroud.

"You're doing well, Y/N," your father whispers as he steers you through a crowd of donors.

You offer a practiced, porcelain curve of your lips to a local Governor, nodding at the right intervals, while inside, you feel hollow. Your skin still feels the phantom heat of tattooed hands; your ears still ring with the sound of a voice that was anything but stable.

Miles away, in a dimly lit apartment that smells of stale smoke, Jungkook is slumped on a leather sofa. The only light in the room comes from three different monitors. One shows a live feed of the gala, a social media broadcast from a local news outlet.

He zooms in on your face. He watches the way you tilt your head, the way you hold your champagne glass with a poise that looks like it would shatter if he so much as whispered your name.

"Liars," he chuckles, the sound dark and jagged in the quiet room. "Every single one of you."

He reaches for his phone, scrolling through the private folder he has dedicated to you. He knows things Seokjin doesn't. He knows you hate the taste of the expensive truffles served at these events, preferring the street-food spicy rice cakes you used to sneak as a teenager. He knows your favorite color isn't the dignified white you wear for the public, but a deep, bruised violet.

He knows the exact shade your skin turns when you're pushed past your limit.

He stares at the screen, at the way your dress clings to the hips he claimed only nights ago. The memory of your first time, the way you gasped, the way you were so tight and terrified and then so utterly wrecked, hits him like a physical blow. He feels the familiar, heavy throb in his veins, a visceral hunger that the money didn't satisfy. It only made him want to own the soul behind the bank account.

He stands up, his hand moving to the waistband of his dark sweats. He doesn't just want you; he wants to haunt you in the middle of your perfect life.

Back at the gala, your clutch vibrates against your ribs.

You excuse yourself from a conversation about tax reform, retreating to a quiet alcove behind a velvet curtain. Your heart is already racing before you even see the screen. You know that vibration. It's the rhythm of a disaster.

You open the app. Your breath hitches.

It's a photo. Unapologetic. Raw. Filthy.

It's a close-up of him, his hand gripping the thick, straining bulge beneath the fabric of his pants. His tattooed knuckles are white from the pressure, and you can see the dark v-line of his hips. It is a violent intrusion of reality into your gilded cage.

Followed by a text:

JK: I see that fake smile you're giving everyone, Princess. It's pretty. But we both know what you look like when you're crying for me.

JK: I can't stop thinking about how you felt. How you tasted. I'm sitting here getting hard just watching you pretend for the cameras.

JK: You said it was the last time. But you haven't blocked me yet, have you? You're still holding onto the leash I put on you.

You lean your head against the cold marble wall, your eyes fluttering shut. The sound of the orchestra in the ballroom feels miles away. All you can feel is the phantom weight of him, and the terrifying realization that while you were trying to forget him, he was busy memorizing every way to destroy you.

You don't reply. You can't. But you don't delete the photo, either. You just stand there in your champagne silk, shivering in the heat of his obsession.

--------

The silence of your bedroom is stifling, a stark contrast to the thrumming energy of the gala you just fled. You don't even bother unzipping your dress; the champagne silk feels like a straitjacket as you pace the length of your hand-tufted rug. The glow of your phone is a jagged blade in the dark, cutting through the carefully constructed peace you've tried to build over the last forty-eight hours.

Your thumbs fly over the screen, fueled by a mixture of terror and a lingering, traitorous heat.

You: Stop sending me those. I have already made it clear that this needs to stop.

You hold your breath, watching the three dots dance. He's there. He's always there, lurking in the digital shadows of your life.

JK: But i thought this just started.

JK: Common Y/n you can't forget me just like that, I need a good farewell don't I?

JK: I have done everything you asked me to do for money.

The mention of the money makes your stomach flip. It was supposed to be a shield, a way to keep it a transaction. But in his hands, that paper trail has become a tether. He's reminding you that he knows your secrets, that he's seen the princess at her most vulnerable, and that he has the receipts to prove it.

You: What do u want now?

You sit on the edge of your bed, the same bed where you've spent the last two nights staring at the ceiling, haunted by the memory of his ink-covered skin. The reply comes instantly, as if he's been waiting for you to crack.

JK: Can we meet one last time please?

You stare at the word please. Coming from him, it doesn't feel like a request. It feels like a challenge. It feels like a predator offering a hand to the prey, knowing she's already halfway into his mouth.

You: I can't. Seokjin is coming over tomorrow for a formal dinner. My father is watching me. The security...

JK: I don't care about the security. And I definitely don't care about Seokjin.

JK: One last time, Princess. A real goodbye. No screens. No "Pay" buttons. Just us.

JK: Unless you're scared that if I touch you one more time, you'll realize you can't actually go through with that wedding in June.

The words burn. He's poking at the bruise, finding the exact spot where your resolve is weakest. You look at the vanity mirror, at the 'Untouchable Princess' reflected there, and then back at the phone. The obsession in his tone is palpable a dark, heavy weight that seems to pull you toward the screen.

He knows you. He's spent the last few days dissecting your life from afar, watching your polite smiles and your public purity, and he's decided he's not done being the one who stains it.

JK: I'll be at the old pier at midnight. The one near the warehouse district.

JK: Come alone. If you don't show up, I might just have to drop by that formal dinner tomorrow.

It's a threat wrapped in a plea, delivered with the jagged edge of a man who has decided that if he can't have you as a client, he'll have you as his captive audience.

“Kia kaha!”

“KIA KAHA!”

Stay strong, and the rest will follow.

Silver. Silver rings on long, dexterous fingers, silver necklace around the neck that held his head way too high, and silver tongue in his mouth home to all kinds of sins… 

Ask anyone who that guy was, and they would grunt his name due to their raging urge to either kill him or fuck him.

It wasn’t the sheer thrill of breaking the rules that drove Chris to the convoluted world of crime. He let himself ride the waves of his bad decisions to see where it would eventually take him. He ended up crashing his surfboard into the shores of opioids, and he liked it there. Simple as that. No tragic backstory or anything. 

Not only was he great at what he did, but he also possessed exquisite mastery over the arts of the tongue. He could walk right off anything just by talking his way out of it, which made him the singular common denominator unifying their rival clans. He had haters just because he existed, and rightfully so, to be frank.

“They got Jake.”

Now imagine the absolute field day the aforementioned bitter foes had when they heard the shit hit the fan for Crown Street.

Jake. The resident troublemaker aggressively looking up to his mentor and way too impatient for his own good. His sworn protégé. This was the umpteenth time an emergency meeting was taking place to come up with a strategy dedicated to saving his ass.

“What are our options? Give it to us straight,” boss man Oliver demanded from their lawyer.

“Jake has priors. This doesn’t look good,” Johnnie stated bluntly. “If he talks, this time around he’s getting locked up for at least ten years with no chance of parole, if not a life sentence.”

Chris held his head between his hands, utterly frustrated and internally cursing Jake’s ass off for not being more careful. For not being more patient. For having this stupid compulsion to prove himself.

To whom, bro, we all fucking know what you’re capable of!

“Is there nothing we can do?” Chris appealed emphatically. “I’m not gonna let the kid rot in that hellhole.”

Johnnie leaned back in his chair and looked him dead in his eyes, albeit with a defeated expression.

“Hypothetically speaking, if someone else with no priors on paper owns up to it, I can negotiate a deal for as little as five years.” 

“How the fuck is five years little?!” Oliver yelled while slamming his fist on the circular ebony table.

“Under these circumstances, it actually is. You’re lucky we’re not trying to dodge a death penalty here,” Johnnie declared. “All you gotta do is find someone to take the rep. Play nice, and they can get out on parole in a year or so.”

Fascinating thing, loyalty. Things that would never even pop up in your wildest dreams, it would make you do without blinking an eye. What was there to even think about when you knew someone’s fate was lying in your hands? 

Especially if that someone meant the world to you.

“I’ll confess to it.”

“Chris. No.”

“What’s the alternative, huh? He’ll get jumped before 3 p.m. on his first day,” Chris countered immediately. “Johnnie’s always had our back. If this is the lesser of the two evils, I’ll do it. He says I can be out in a year.”

“But what if you can’t?” Oliver implored him to see reason. “This is jail time we’re talking about, mate, not fucking community service.”

He didn’t even have to say anything. One look into his eyes, and Oliver knew what that meant. Once he set his mind to something, it was impossible to talk Chris out of it no matter how obvious the end result was. He was one of those people who had to experience things firsthand, either to brag an ‘I told you so’ or to finally acknowledge what a horrendous mistake he had made.

“You already know I’m well-versed in the arts of surviving, brother.”

That very sentence he formed ended up being the one he had to serve. Luckily for him, it at least had a full stop at the end although it ran on for several pages. He didn’t care. Anything to protect one of his own.

Stay strong.

Kia Kaha.

I will prevent disease whenever I can, for prevention is preferable to cure.

That was the oath you had taken. Well, you had to because apparently some guy named Hippocrates was extremely triggered by the concept of perjury some centuries ago. So either swear to it and make the unbreakable vow, or rip your fucking diploma in half. That piece of paper had cost you a whole lot of money with a good deal of your sanity in the process, so no, thank you very much.

It wasn’t the sheer nobility of the profession that drove you to become a doctor. If the design of the human body and mind had fascinated you this much, why not make a career out of getting super intrigued by the total length of an average adult human’s blood vessels? Out of all the places you could have picked, you took a job at a maximum security prison as the chief attending physician because, hey, multiple birds with one stone.

I will remember that I remain a member of society, with special obligations to all my fellow human beings, those sound of mind and body as well as the infirm.

Nobody told you to take on the challenge of serving the most ‘infirm’ crowd available, but you did it anyway. What better setting to practice your craft than a correctional facility after all?

“I’m leaving. Will you be home by dinner?”

“We’ll see.”

Not even a ‘Have a good first day, sweetheart’. Fuck that, not even a curt ‘Good luck’.

The awkward tension between you and your husband wasn’t always palpable enough to cut with a knife. Not that anything specific happened to cause that, but somewhere along the way, something indeed snapped, and you started growing apart day by day. Maybe it was the unbearable heaviness of the mundane, coloring your entire marriage in the bleakest shade of gray. The affection? Gone. The desire? Gone. You were nothing more than two roommates at this point because you didn’t feel like doing anything for him anymore. Why bother when it was one-sided? Why bother getting a gift for someone, imagining how happy it was going to make them when they couldn’t even care less? Why get upset when they didn’t react exactly in the way you pictured they would? No one put a gun to your head to get the said gift in the first place, which meant they didn’t owe you shit, did they?

When it was your spouse in question, it felt like he did. For wasting years of your life, trapping you in a loveless birdcage if not for anything else. Cue the unsolicited commentary and advice from the spectators of your life.

“Why do you keep doing this to yourself?”

“Get a divorce.”

“You can’t fix him. Just walk away.”

How fucking easy it was to tell someone to make a drastic change in their life in a split second… Would you stop drinking coffee just because someone told you to? Fuck no. You had to believe it wasn’t doing you any good anymore. Everyone’s tolerance to change was different, after all; some welcomed it with open arms, and some avoided it like the plague. In any case, only when you felt confident about your eventual decision, only when you felt ready, then and only then would you make the change. 

Because nobody was going to go through the consequences on your behalf if shit went south, nor were they going to take the blame for your prospective unhappiness with the outcome.

I will not be ashamed to say “I know not”...

It was fine. Your marital bed, which was empty most nights, was not your place of work. Breaking an oath within the confines of your suffocation was not going to harm anyone.

Other than yourself.

Inmate 8MS3HF92. 

That was Chris’ name for the past ten months. Nothing that could humanize him, merely letters and numbers. Another statistic to quote in recidivism reports maybe. 

The only time he would be reminded of his identity was when his prison family addressed him—they were the circle of people showing him the ins and outs of navigating the hell simulator with as little damage and as much profit as possible. To all the guards, to the warden, to everybody else, he was just ‘inmate’.

Not for long, though.

He had only one instruction. Do not beef no matter what and survive, and that was exactly what he had been doing. His itinerary was quite straightforward—he was going to endure this for two more months, go up against the parole committee, be super charming, then get the hell out. He was probably going to return here within his first hour as a free man for beating the shit out of Jake, though.

If he had the balls to press charges against his Yoda, that is.

Chris took particular, not to mention excessive pride in the way he operated. Getting your own hands dirty was for amateurs. If he wanted something, he would talk his way into it. If he detected a threat, he would orchestrate the subtlest of feuds to have someone else get rid of it on his behalf. Obviously, ‘on his behalf’ did not mean that you would do it in full awareness that this was in his best interests. He would pitch it to you in such a manner that you’d have no choice but to believe the threat was actually posed to you.

Prison was like a gangster’s LinkedIn. The most lucrative connections they could possibly have were right under his nose—of course he wasn’t going to waste the opportunity to bring in more business to Crown Street. After several rounds of meet and greets within his first month, he had successfully outlined the entire food chain and finally located where the drug ops ran from. Getting himself assigned to any other place was unequivocally out of the question.

“Work detail assignments. Fang, you’re working in the kitchen.”

What a pleasant surprise! Everybody, act shocked.

Smooth talking gets you only so far, of course. Put this man in a room full of his hardcore fans, and he would still manage to make a few enemies. That was both the curse and the blessing of being a charmer. If you didn’t annoy the fuck out of somebody for no reason, then you were doing it wrong.

…which was exactly why the closer his freedom date approached, the more intolerant his fatemates became. That was the tradition of this place. You’d go through the hazing when you were about to graduate, not during the first week of school.

“Fang. A word,” Andrei beckoned him towards the storage shelves right before lunch service.

It was of utmost importance for Chris to stay in the head honcho’s good graces until his hearing. The past ten months had been a very trying test of willpower for having to constantly repress the urge to jump this motherfucker, and patience was not exactly his strong suit. He wiped his hands on his apron and followed suit behind him.

“What’s up, boss?”

“We were expecting a little delivery from the commissary two days ago,” he snarled at him, piercing holes into his forehead with his ice-blue eyes. “What the fuck is up with that, pretty boy?”

“Yeah, about that,” Chris scratched his nape with a look feigning an apology like he was oh so sorry. “We’re experiencing a little hiccup. Should come in no later than Friday, though.”

“That’s not what we agreed upon.”

“I know, but I’m also leaning on other people here. I can’t exactly go out to personally bring in your heroin now, can I?”

Andrei cornered him against a wall and slammed both his hands on either side of him. As if Chris was some white-collar criminal only in here because his lawyer dropped the ball on his tax evasion case. Everybody with common sense would know it took a bit more than that to intimidate Fang.

“Your whore ass gets on my last fucking nerve, you know,” he flashed his half-rotten teeth. “Maybe your goddamn smug face needs some work done, huh?”

“If you think I need work done, you clearly haven’t looked in a mirror recently.”

So much for holding it together…

It was like a blackout that lasted for only two seconds. The words just jumped out of his lips before he could catch them in the air. The loud sound of glass crashing alerted the two guards on the floor, prompting them to dash towards the kitchen. 

“Break it off! Break it off now!!!”

Chris might have managed to dodge getting his throat ripped, but a large piece of glass still made its way to his chest area, cutting a wound open below his left collarbone. A couple of centimeters more to the south, and he would have secured an early parole in a goddamn pine box. He was immediately escorted to the infirmary to get patched up, which he found fucking hysterical. There couldn’t be anything more ironic than nursing someone back to health just so they could rot some more. He was anxiously shaking his legs while sitting on that gurney for someone to appear, washcloth still pressed on the bleeding wound and annoyed out of his mind.

“Yo doc, can we get this shit over with already?” he yelled towards the back of the room. “I kinda need to be somewhere right now.”

“Please excuse the tardiness to your schedule, Your Majesty. We’re a little shorthanded around here.”

Whoa…

Chris briefly wondered whether he actually died of blood loss on the kitchen floor because why the fuck else was he seeing an angel clad in white, not to mention in this soul-sucker den?

“Who the fuc—? I–I mean…”

“It’s fine, I’ve been called worse,” you responded without looking away from the incident report in your hands, then met his eyes at long last. “I’m the new chief attending physician. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Inmate 8MS3HF92 that got jumped in the kitchen.”

“Pretty name, huh? It’s French,” he quickly gathered his wits and grinned in response, “but they call me Fang for short.”

“Fang,” you snorted at the juvenile-sounding moniker. “Because you didn’t get your wisdom teeth out, or…?”

“It’s because you should let the sleeping wolves lie, beautiful.”

You knew what you were getting yourself into when you started working here, and your contract with Hippocrates included one thing in its essence: Help the sick and do no harm. In that particular moment, however, you crassly fistbumped him for blessing you with this Olympian eye candy shamelessly flirting with you for a change. Yes, this was an inmate in front of you, but all your suppressed urges could register was a pair of thick forearms adorned with bulging veins, long fingers pressing on his wound, and thighs spread wide almost invitingly. Telling you… To come closer… Then get on your knees… And then…

Well, if you were anywhere else but a prison, that is.

“Take it off, please.”

Chris felt a hard kick in his chest when you uttered those words, unable to register your request and just looking at you blankly with lips parted in surprise.

“Your top,” you pointed your pen at his wound, “so that I can examine the injury.”

“RIGHT! Of course.”

He removed the clothing as told, but never in your entire professional life did you have to contain something so primitive threatening to rear its head inside you. You bitchslapped your lizard brain pretty hard to remind yourself once again that this was a goddamn patient you had to attend to, not some man you were trying to pick up at a bar.

If only you knew that you weren’t actually alone in this struggle. 

Your perfume… It was November, but you smelled like summer. Chris didn’t have much to hold onto, but you smelled like hope. Your latex-clad hands were running all over his chest, and he didn’t give a fuck that it was on his wound. His touch starvation was at such dangerous levels that trying to control the erection growing between his legs was harder than refraining from murdering motherfuckers in this place. To top it all off, the angel before him looking like that? 

It was an enigma how he managed not to cum in his pants right then and there.

You finished stitching his wound in complete silence as he watched you with his lips slightly parted, and only when you informed him you were done was he able to come back to reality.

“Come back next week, okay?”

And once he managed to snap out of it, Chris instantly wore his other personality on his sleeve as a knee-jerk reaction.

“Say you’re gonna miss me, and I can come back tomorrow,” he smugly grinned. You eyed him from head to toe with brows furrowed in confusion.

“To get your stitches removed, Fang,” you scoffed. “You can go back to your easy bake oven now.”

So you weren’t easily charmed. No matter. He happened to fucking love the chase.

Chris left the infirmary that day with a stupid smile glued to his lips, full-on launching the crescent craters adorning his cheeks and secretly hoping you found dimples attractive in a man. 

One borrowed touch was all it took. He found himself counting down the days to get his stitches removed instead of his parole hearing. All of a sudden, the walls weren’t closing in on him as much anymore. His breathing was still a little irregular, but seemingly for different reasons rather than the humidity crawling in the stone walls.

He was having trouble sleeping no matter how much he forced himself to because his mind just wouldn’t shut up about you. If only… If only he could fall asleep, maybe he could see you one more time.

One day. Three days. Five days. And finally back to the infirmary again. 

God, if that didn’t feel longer than the time he had served thus far…

“Hey, doc!”

You looked up at the unusually chirpy voice that most certainly did not belong to the dismal backdrop of this place. It was the stitches man that looked more like a sculpture with a little chip on it.

“Feeling good today, are we?” you brightly smiled at him at the expense of giving him a mild heart attack while wearing your gloves to check the healing of his scar. “Did you get some good news?”

Chris actually had a snarky comment ready to go, but as soon as your hand brushed against his, he felt a sudden jolt and completely forgot what he was going to say.

“Fish tacos… for lunch.”

You couldn’t help but heartily laugh at the unexpected answer, effectively stopping his heart for about three seconds.

“I take it you’re very easy to please, Fang.”

Yes. Fucking yes. Just let me borrow your lips once, and I’ll die the happiest man.

As you got to work with a pair of tweezers to remove his stitches, Chris watched you completely awestruck as if he was appreciating a piece of fine art, right-click-saving everything he could observe about you into his mind. Your brows that creased whenever you were focused on something, your beautiful lips you licked every now and then, your hair that looked like it was made of pure silk, your skin that most certainly felt like velvet to the touch…

God, you’re like a queen.

“All done,” you smiled again, apparently adamant to kill him before he could even walk out of that door, and got up from the stool in front of him. “Don’t run around with scissors, okay?” 

“Thank you.” 

The gratitude was pretty much redundant since this was your job. You were literally on payroll to take care of people, but it still made your heart swell because the stitches man was the first person ever to thank you for your services.

“I uh… I’ll see you around. I guess…” he stared at his feet by the door somewhat abashed.

“I hope not. That would mean you injured yourself again,” you giggled and gently squeezed his shoulder. “Stay out of trouble.”

Oh, I don’t think so, my queen.

That night, Chris tossed and turned in his bed for what felt like hours to him. The first unprotected touch you shared without a layer of latex between his skin and yours burned like hell on his shoulder. If only… If only he could fall asleep, maybe he could see you one more time.

But he didn’t actually have to wait for that when you were all that he could see whenever he closed his eyes. So he did. He manifested you right next to him on his bed, and his hand moved inside his pants as if it had a mind of its own. 

There you were. Your attention completely on him, your tongue glazing your lips every now and then. Why were you licking them, though? Was it because you also felt your throat getting dry? Was it because you also wanted to press them against his?

Fuck, I’d kill to feel those lips on me.

Your face. The way the corners of your mouth curled when you smiled at him. The way you slightly squinted your eyes when you were focused. Was that what you looked like when you were turned on, too?

I want you. God, I want you bad.

Your poise. The way you carried yourself. Firm steps, determined voice, quite obviously not taking shit from anyone. Grace materialized. A literal queen. His queen that he wanted to dedicate his entire life to.

I wanna be the floor you walk on. Fucking step on me, christ!

Just your sheer beauty. The way you oozed sexiness without revealing any piece of skin. The way you moved. The way you knew exactly what you were doing. Did you also know what exactly pleased you? Did you know all the things he was willing to do just to please you?

“FUCK!”

Chris didn’t even care about the hefty mess he made on himself as he arched on that god-awful mattress. The convulsions rippling throughout his body as he came were a different kind of intense. Up until that moment in his life, he had climaxed infinity times either with the assistance of third parties or all by himself, sometimes manifesting as an unimpressive shiver and some other times mind-numbingly hard.

But not once, never once, did it feel like surrendering his soul to someone.

If it is given me to save a life, all thanks. But it may also be within my power to take a life; this awesome responsibility must be faced with great humbleness and awareness of my own frailty. 

Above all, I must not play at God.

Chris wasn’t aware of what the Hippocratic oath entailed, nor did he have to take it. Ergo, he was free to ‘play at god’ all he wanted whenever the fuck he saw fit. Like when he overheard the Irish circle indulging in a little locker room talk as he was watching TV with his own entourage.

“Have you seen the doctor chick yet?”

“Complete cumdump material. You just know she likes it dirty, sassy-ass bitch.”

Every time Chris felt the onset of a rampage coming on, his mind would switch to autopilot and give him a singular command—fucking remove yourself from the environment if you want to see that parole committee. Yet the loud, sleazy waves of laughter blasting right behind him triggered him so hard that it took the willpower of a temple full of monks not to scatter this O’Connell lowlife’s brains out. God knows he came this fucking close to doing it, and he actually would if he wasn’t repeating the same thing to himself over and over again like a lunatic’s mantra.

Hold it. For her.

For her.

For her.

For her.

For her.

For her.

He could live with burning his parole chances, but not with not seeing you for an entire month if he went to the hole. He clenched his teeth to the brink of cracking them to put a leash around his urges and jumped to his feet.

“Where are you going?” Noah asked him.

“To hit the weights, mate. I’ll catch you later.”

Technically, he didn’t lie. He was indeed going to the gym, but not necessarily because his body craved that post-workout dopamine release. It was two in the afternoon, which meant someone was in the middle of some deadlifting.

“Paco!” he opened his arms like he was greeting a friend coming back from active duty. “There’s my main man.” 

“What’s good, Fang?”

“Can’t complain. Can’t complain,” he walked behind the bench. “Here, let me spot you.”

Chris lent a hand with the presses as if that was the sole purpose of his visit all along and put the weights back in their place once Paco’s loud grunt punctuated the set. He offered a towel to the man sweating like he had been doing soilwork under the scorching sun, then kneeled beside him, speaking in a hushed tone like he was about to reveal top-secret information.

“Listen, you know you’re my brother, right?”

“Damn straight, man. Ride or die.”

“Something came to my attention, so I thought I’d let you know,” Chris glanced over the gym door and turned his attention back to Paco again. “You and I both know the guards didn’t just have an epiphany one day with all that sawdust they have for a brain. Someone ratted you out about the phone thing.”

“And if I find out which son of a bitch…” Paco almost ripped the towel to shreds, but when he saw the knowing grin on Chris’ face, his fury suddenly vanished. “No shit, you know.”

Chris slowly nodded.

“You didn’t hear it from me, but a little bird told me O’Connell cut a deal with the guards,” he tsked in disapproval. “Shit, we all believed it, but turns out he let them beat the shit out of him in exchange for keeping the phone for himself.”

“That MOTHERFUCKER…”

…and score. Now all he needed to do was pour some gas on the fire and start roasting his marshmallows over the magnificent arson he had just committed.

“Everyone is talking on the DL that he is out to colonize your outside resources, mate. I’d put a burner on his ass before he could even plan to do something if I were you,” Chris placed his hand on Paco’s shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. “You know where to go to take back what’s yours. Find me if you need anything, yeah?”

“I owe you one, bro. I won’t forget this.”

Poof! That easy. It was astounding how none of these dumbasses knew how to burn sugar as brain fuel, so nobody ever questioned anything. In Chris’ defense, it took a lot of actual snitching for the ploys to work. Trust needed to be earned first; respect naturally followed. Now he could just sit back, relax, and watch the altercations unfold as the tension between the parties escalated through the roof. 

Because he never got his own hands dirty. And now that this little wrinkle was ironed out, he could channel all his attention to the only thing that mattered.

You.

Chris’ only chance of catching a glimpse of you was to come to you in the infirmary. It wasn’t the fucking yard—of course the guards would never let him leave the wing unless he absolutely needed medical attention, so he needed to get a little creative to put on successful performances. If that meant cutting open some wounds to get some stitches, so be it. If it took standing in front of the ventilation grates right after a freezing-ass shower, so be it. You were worth risking pneumonia, infections, even fucking death. If you’d smile at him just once, he was going to be cured and reach immortality anyway.

“Does it hurt when I press here?” you gently sank your fingertips into his chest after listening to his breathing.

“I can’t tell. Do it again.”

“You realize this is a medical examination, Fang, not foreplay.”

“Says you,” Chris mischievously smiled. “You’re very much getting to second base with me right now.”

You applied pressure to the area right under his jawline sharper than your scalpels to check for swelling, then grabbed a throat swab for a strep test.

“Open wide.”

“Shouldn’t I be telling you that?”

“Bang…”

“Yeesh! Pulling out the government name and everything,” he raised his hands in surrender. “Don’t be mad, I’ll behave.”

You got your sample for a throat culture and went back to the back of the room to properly label it. Chris sat there in silence for some time and spoke with a soft voice that almost didn’t belong to him.

“I don’t know why the fuck you care this much, but I’m grateful that you do, you know?”

“It’s my job to care,” you responded without looking at him.

“I know, but…” he trailed off and took a moment to find the proper words. “Nobody else ever cared about me unless I was useful to them. You’re the first.”

Unless your eyes were deceiving you, when you looked up at him, you saw something glinting in his gaze in a faint shade of pink, terribly reminiscent of yearning. It was just a glance. It was nothing. It didn’t mean anything.

But it still made something thump really hard in your chest.

He slowly got up to his feet, approached you with careful steps, and placed a chaste kiss on your cheek, releasing one butterfly after another in the pit of your stomach with each second he lingered there.

“I owe you my life,” he gently brushed his fingers on your skin before heading back to his wing again. “Thought you should know.”

This was Chris’ third time in the infirmary within a span of two weeks. How the heck this man even functioned in a cartel while hurting himself this much was appalling, really. 

Maybe he didn’t, and that was what landed his ass in prison in the first place.

“What is it this time, Fang? Tripped on a flat surface?”

“I figured you’d like to see your favorite inmate,” his face lit up like a Christmas tree at your sight. “Is that so bad?”

“Yeah, that’s not a thing, and don’t say that ever again,” you furrowed your brows, mildly nauseated. “What do you have for me today?”

Chris spread his legs wide to show you the cut on his inner thigh, blood oozing from it now dried.

“I wasn’t being careful with the knives during kitchen duty. Gotta be fast to feed so many people on time and whatnot.”

You put on your latex gloves, the supply of which was frequently used for Chris nowadays, and examined the wound closely.

“Looks like a clean cut, but you’ll need stitches again,” you observed, then retorted while preparing the suture. “Just bring a pattern or something next time so I can tattoo it on you. At least it’ll look pretty. Drop your pants.”

Chris was tremendously lucky you were facing away from him as he gulped that thickly, experiencing a sudden case of cottonmouth. He knew the remedy to that was hidden between your lips, of course, but that was neither here nor there, and certainly not to be brought up right that second. On any other Tuesday, he was the most shameless motherfucker that ever walked this earth, but at that moment, he was somehow feeling extremely self-conscious about putting himself on display for you.

His rabid heartbeat was about to choke him to death.

You pulled a stool right in front of him to get to work, your instruments neatly placed on the surface right next to you. When you locked your eyes on your target, you got momentarily furious at yourself for wondering whether his thighs were always this sculpted or if he shaped them out during his time here. Heaving a deep sigh, you penetrated his skin with a needle to proceed with stitching his wound, but that wasn’t when he hissed. 

That sharp inhale manifested itself when you placed your hand on his inner thigh.

“Am I hurting you?” you looked up at him questioningly.

“Nothing I can’t endure.”

Fucking RICH!

Of course he was going to lie his ass off. He wasn’t about to confess to your fucking beautiful face how he was barely enduring the lack of your lips on his on a daily basis. How it made him go so crazy that he was constantly on the brink of killing someone. How that contact just now went straight to the synapse connected to his X-rated inner mind theater and prompted a chain reaction reaching all the way down to his cock. One slip, and you were going to notice it. You were not supposed to notice it. Not yet. Not yet. NOT before he laid the groundwork first!

“A little pussy of you to gasp at a little needle when you’re in a fucking prison, don’t you think?” you broke into a taunting smirk.

“You usually swear this much?” he chortled in slight surprise at your commentary.

“Helps you gangstas check yourselves around me,” you replied with a firm voice, your eyes still glued to his thigh. “Doesn’t seem to work on you that much, though. You keep showing up here like this is a restaurant.”

“So what? Is it a crime to want to be tended to?” he responded with a knowing grin. “I like it when you take care of me. I don’t think that’s grounds for violating my parole chances.”

Like you were the one to talk. You wished you could help the smile he elicited out of you as if you were two people flirting over drinks at the aforementioned restaurant.

Fucking charmer.

“Don’t you think we got a little more than a Hippocratic relationship going on here, doc?”

His words landed like a nuclear bomb in your office, and Chris noticed that pause in your movements even though it didn’t take any longer than two nanoseconds. A sign. The sign he had been looking for all this time. To prove to himself he wasn’t delusional. It was true, wasn’t it? It was true, and this was the indisputable evidence.

“You shudder when you touch me,” he turned it up a notch.

“Bang, stop.”

“Exactly. I make your heart stop, don’t I?” he scooted just the tiniest bit closer. “You know it’s true.”

His voice turned deeper all of a sudden like he was trying to get a message across. It didn’t matter whether that message was in a glass bottle floating its way into obscurity without a proper address attached to it. Extremely lucky for him and to your endless misfortune, however, it indeed made its way to the intended addressee.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, but I’m married,” you looked away in panic.

His face dropped ever so slightly, barely noticeable to the naked eye. 

You were… 

Married?

But… But that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Otherwise, why would you spend all this time with him, alone for that matter, running your hands all over him and getting fucking goosebumps because of it? Your playing house thing was just a formality, wasn’t it? You had only stated an unprompted fact. Like how it was Tuesday and the weather was bleak and there was tapioca pudding for lunch. That wasn’t an invitation for him to make himself scarce. Otherwise you would tell him to. Otherwise you would yell at him. Otherwise you would strike him in the face instead of getting heart palpitations like what the FUCK?!

“Doesn’t take a genius to conclude it’s not a disgustingly happy one,” he commented in a stoic voice, completely contrary to the violently raging storm inside him turning everything to dust. “Is it because he works so late? Doesn’t cherish you like you should be?”

“It’s none of your business.”

He continued examining your face while you kept stitching him up as if the answer was written there somewhere. Because it was. It always was. 

Nothing told the truth like someone’s averted eyes.

“Or is it because he’s out a little too much? He doesn’t come home for dinner anymore?”

Fuck.

You involuntarily flinched. Of course you did—everyone would when you pressed salt on the wound.

“So that’s why,” he tilted his head and continued, more pleased than he should have been. “Why do you even put up with that when he’s out fucking someone, calling her all sorts of vile things? Do you still let him go down on you with that mouth when he comes home?”

“Maybe it worked out for the best that I don’t need to worry about anyone going down on me with that mouth,” you hysterically laughed in response and handed him the antiseptic, trying to brush away the interrogation over your failing marriage. “Hold this.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It fucking means you need to know the taste of something to crave it. Christ,” you mumbled through your clenched teeth, then heaved a deep sigh to calm yourself. “This should heal nicely.”

His eyes widened upon your words as if you had just told him he was getting out the next day. 

“Wait, so you… Like, you’ve never…”

As you were putting your instruments away, you put on an applause-worthy performance, acting like you weren’t even slightly aware of your face burning up to the tip of your ears. Chris, on the other hand, was trapped between feeling somewhat endeared versus some type of weird relief.

And extremely turned on thinking about the noises he would have you make if he dropped to his knees for you right about now.

“Fuck me, you really don’t know what it’s like to get your pussy licked, do you?” he started laughing in earnest.

As much as you were annoyed out of your mind, you didn’t answer and returned to the stool to clean around the wound in silence since nothing intelligible was going to come out of your mouth anyway. So what if no one ever went down on you? What was so funny about it? It most certainly didn’t warrant mocking to the extent of bullying. Would you throw a maniacal laughing fit right at his stupidly gorgeous face if he told you he never got his dick sucked? Where the fuck were his manners? What were you even doing looking for manners from an inmate?

Yet even though his question was rhetorical, he kept pressing for a reaction out of you.

“It’s fucking phenomenal. Nothing quite like it,” he continued his verbal torture. “Especially when you have someone eating your pussy like they’re gonna fucking die if you don’t cum in their mouth. It takes a woman like you to work up that kind of appetite.”

“How would you know how it feels?” you loudly scoffed to ignore the buzzing sensation below your waist. “Do you have a secret clit I don’t know about?”

“I fucking wish, but I have references instead,” he discreetly licked his lips. “They would tell you all about the first-degree murders I committed with my tongue. I can give you their numbers if you wanna confirm.”

He was adamantly painting you this tantalizing picture and forcing you to look at it, infesting your mind with the image of himself between your legs. Slowly killing you with curiosity so that you would snap and find out for yourself if it was really the kind of infernal experience he was making it out to be.

And unfortunately for you, it was fucking working.

“But you’re not terribly upset with me, are you?” he faked a pout which quickly turned into a smirk again. “Because this doesn’t bother you as much as you believe it should.”

You were wondering whether Chris had somehow managed to install wires in your mind, shamelessly narrating your own thoughts back at you. Your heart almost stopped when he touched the stray strands of hair right in the intersection of your nape and your ear.

“See? Why else would you close your eyes when I touch you?”

He placed his hand on your cheek, concerningly warm to the touch courtesy of his relentless flustering attempts. You knew what your rational reaction was supposed to be, and you were desperately looking for the whereabouts of your sanity to fucking act on it, but…

But…

You found yourself leaning into his touch instead, not a shred of courage present in your soul to open your eyes and look at him. You heard a soft rustling sound, then a source of heat approaching your way, and then…

A kiss.

So soft but unbearably intense. So warm but sending jolts down your spine. So tender but lethally passionate. Asking for permission to stay a while longer, begging you to please please not send him away, and it was gaining speed like a plane was about to take off with his fingers getting tangled in your hair. His tongue clashing with yours, your lips consuming his, pairs of hands trying to find their way to the other’s face.

If you didn’t take the last exit right about now, you were fucking doomed.

“No!” you pulled away from him hurriedly as if someone had electrocuted you, panting hard to catch your breath. “Go. We’re done here.” 

“Are we?” he flashed an unconvinced smile.

“You don’t have to come in every time you sneeze. Just… Grow a pair and learn to be fucking careful,” you quickly made your way to your desk to occupy yourself with filling out patient forms.

“I would hold that thought if I were you,” he got up to his feet to make his way back. “This is a prison after all. The only place worse than here would be the third circle of hell.” 

Right before he left, he stopped right behind your chair, leaned in, and breathily whispered.

“When I come in to get my stitches removed,” he placed the softest of kisses on your ear, “we’ll pick this up where we left off.”

Chris was perfectly aware playing doctor with you was not a sustainable plan at all. He had to find a way to position himself around you strategically so he wouldn’t have to remind you of his existence every five minutes. 

And he had to do it fast before he inflicted fucking permanent damage on himself.

“An idea, boss,” he nonchalantly uttered one night, bouncing a ball against the cell wall. “Don’t you think it would be more lucrative if I was in the infirmary instead? It’s literally the stash of this entire fucking prison. Kitchen just ain’t it anymore.” 

“That’s out of the blue,” Noah creased his brows. “Where did that come from?”

“Out of the blue? Have you missed the memo on our feud with the Vices? They want my ass on sight,” he turned serious all of a sudden. “If I’m out of the wing, at least I won’t have to constantly look over my shoulder. It’s either this or I’ll have to hide in the hole, and I’d like to avoid solitary if I can, thank you very much.”

Chris liked to think that he was smarter than most, if not all people, but there was something he wasn’t quite able to conceal from Noah, a family man to two beautiful girls. He could read anyone like the damn book in his hands, and Chris should have known those hawk-like observational skills were a byproduct of being a father, not a veteran gangbanger.

“And you swear this has nothing to do with the doctor lady?” 

He continued with his reading as if he hadn’t said what he just said, stunning Chris hard enough to lose the ability to form coherent sentences.

“It’s… I’m… N–Not rea—”

“Fang,” he immediately stopped Chris before he could even attempt what was sure to be a convincing argument. “Fake it to whoever the fuck else you want. Not to one of your own.”

Chris briefly contemplated whether there was any chance at all that he didn’t have to confess to it. He was either going to get ruthlessly mocked for being so stupidly vulnerable, or get a good beating for having too much time on his hands to waste on teenage crushes. What was even the point of denial anyway? Noah had already caught on to his less-than-pure motives. 

His fingers inadvertently touched the wolf tattoo on his inner left arm, and he heaved a sigh so filled with yearning that it colored the stone walls into an even bleaker shade of gray.

“She seeped through me, mate,” he sighed with a broken smile. “She lives under my skin like a fucking tattoo.”

But that night, Chris learned that when you shared a moment of honesty with decent men, sometimes all you got in return was a comforting pat on the shoulder.

“Looks like you grabbed the tiger by the tail this time, brother,” Noah solemnly spoke while pointing at his ink. “Or in your case, a goddamn wolf.”

The guards’ voices echoed in the narrow hallways to announce lights out. As Chris clasped his hands under his nape to spend yet another night staring at the ceiling, Noah put his book under the tremendously uncomfortable pillow and got under the sheets.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” he whispered to his right once the guards passed by, “but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Fucking seriously?!”

“I said don’t get your hopes up,” a loud hiss bounced off the walls. “Try to get some sleep.”

“You know I can’t.”

“Insomnia going strong?”

“When did it ever not?”

“You never know,” Noah turned to his side and pulled his blanket up. “Maybe you should try counting doctors so she’ll come visit you in your dreams.”

Chris wished it worked that way, but even the slightest possibility of seeing you was enough to curl his lips into a smile.

“Fang? What are you doing here?”

It had been a while since you last saw Chris, which meant some banter exchange over whatever klutzery he dabbled in this time was long overdue. Much to your surprise, however, he not only looked very much in one piece for once but also responded with an uncharacteristically straight face.

“Shift in work detail. I’ll be working here from now on.”

No dimple charms cranked up to the maximum. No attempt to aggressively hit on you. A paranoid thought crept up in your head, debating whether someone saw you during… that, and he got reprimanded for it. Otherwise, why would he abruptly distance himself from you?

Why did the stench of disappointment raid the room all of a sudden?

“Doing what?” you kept an equally ‘professional’ composure.

“Helping you?” he shrugged. “Did you forget the day we first met?” 

He was referring to your annoyed greeting when he visited your royal chambers for the first time, and his heart melted a little when you averted your eyes from him. Maybe you’d never stopped thinking about it either. You called him Your Majesty that day, and Chris kept replaying those words in his mind all day, every day ever since then. It wasn’t… It wasn’t what you said but how you said it. Just the thought of being your king, living his life to serve his queen, loving her, cherishing her, pleasing her, and protecting her from all harm in the world…

If only you knew how much he was willing to give up just for a shred of that…

“How you snapped at me because you were shorthanded around here?” he jogged your memory. “Just dump whatever menial labor and paperwork you have on me. I know how to read.”

His originally planned maneuver was to be less aggressive in his advances towards you. He’d figured just being close to you would be enough to keep him pacified for the time being, and he could work his way up from there. Find that rift in your defenses to slowly pour himself into you. Sure, it could take some time, but he was willing to wait it out so that he cou—

Day 3 of breathing the same air as you, and he was on the brink of having to check into a fucking psych ward already.

It was as if you owned the leash to his rotten soul, and he was getting antsier by the minute that someone was going to notice his biggest weakness was carelessly walking around out in the open like that. He had never felt like this before about anything or anyone, having trouble breathing because of some invisible weight constantly pressing on his chest. He didn’t doubt his affection for you for one second, but the more he saw you, the more he heard your voice, the more he was exposed to you in some way, the more the one emotion he didn’t know he could feel started flowing through the cracks of that stone he had for a heart.

The unmitigated shame of how ferociously he was lusting after you. 

One look at you, and he was about to faint. One whiff of your scent, and he was pushed to the limits of his self-restraint. He was thoroughly consumed with the urge to kiss you, to touch you, to hold you in his arms, to taste the salt on your skin… God, he would fucking die if you moaned his name. He would lose whatever remained of his sanity if you said you wanted him back. He knew you deserved pure-white love, and he could never give you that with all the stains he bore, but he could rewrite everything you thought you knew about euphoria. He could make you soar to the heights you never thought were possible. He could love you so hard that you would hear his devotion to you coursing through your veins. He could if you let him.

And he could swear he felt it the day he kissed you. He could feel in his heart of hearts that you wanted to.

If you weren’t the slightest bit interested in him, then you should have immediately pulled out the rejection card, but you didn’t. You didn’t. You kissed him back. For quite a bit. If that didn’t mean your marital status didn’t mean jack shit to you, then what did? Why would it even matter when you were so obviously unhappy anyway? He could make you happy. 

He could make you so happy if you let him.

Five days. Seven days. Nine days. Veiled glances. Stolen touches. Your scent in passerby winds. Craving. Denying. Pretending. Yearning. 

Yearning. 

Yearning.

He forced it to the absolute limit of his patience. Honest. 

But a man in love was just the politically correct way to say a deranged maniac.

“Need a hand with that?” he made his way to the desk you were standing in front of.

“Felt lonely by the file cabinet?” you quipped with a little smirk as you kept labeling documents. 

“Yes.”

You just wanted to bounce snark off of each other to end the tiring day on a somewhat lighthearted note, however lighthearted it could be in a place like this, but the unexpected solemnity in his voice caught you off guard. You stopped trying to cram a piece of paper in a sheet protector and looked at him. 

Chris had been too quiet lately. His eyes were clouded with something akin to sorrow, and it didn’t suit him at all. The only thing fit for that face was crescent moons and the dimples that chipped away at his dangerousness.

Your chest was about to collapse for how hard invisible hands were wringing your heart.

“Did… something happen?” you quietly asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re a bit aloof,” you channeled your attention to the papers again. “Like… there’s something wrong.”

“No, everything’s fine.”

You knew he was lying, but you weren’t sure why. Was it just because he didn’t feel like talking to you, or was he…?

He wasn’t trying to shelter you from worrying or anything, was he?

“Are you expecting any visitors?” you attempted to change the topic. “It’s visiting day tomorrow.”

“Not really.”

“Not even your colleagues are coming to see you?” 

“I think you’d also agree that would be playing tic-tac-toe with landmines,” he spoke with an utterly straight face, heaving a longing sigh right after. “It’s not like I can ask for a conjugal visit with my standing, so…”

It felt like you shoved a finger in a socket when he suddenly brought it up. Did that…? Did that mean…?

“You… have a girlfriend outside?” your lips rendered the question before you could press ‘abort’.

“Would you be jealous if I did?” he responded with another question mark, eyes glued to the papers in his hand, but he was so damn amused that he couldn’t help his devilish smile.

“Tsch, why would I be?” you sneered, horribly failing to veil your interest in that minuscule piece of information. “You said you can’t ask for it with your standing, so I assumed there is someone you could ask for if your standing was good.”

When he finally looked up, Chris saw just how deep the creases were between your brows, shoving paper after paper into sheet protectors. Your jaw was slightly clenched, your nostrils were flared, and you were exhaling a bit too loudly from your nose.

Oh, god, you were jealous.

You were jealous. 

Of him!

He was so happy that he thought he was going to die from heart failure right then and there.

“Or I’m just saying shit to test your reaction,” he uttered in a voice filled with the mirth you were used to. 

Only when you saw how smugly he was grinning to himself did you realize how busted you were. You suddenly felt the need to drink a gallon of water all by yourself to put out the fire your embarrassment set on your cheeks.

Why were you this disturbed by the mental image of him with another woman anyway?

“Would you come to the visiting days if we were married?” he nonchalantly asked.

“Who wouldn’t visit their loved ones?” you put on a fantastically convincing performance through your small panic fit.

“Would you ask for a conjugal visit with me?” he continued his questioning, hands still busy with sorting out documents like this was some regular conversation topic over tea, but his smile was slowly fading.

Even a man of his composure had his limits because he was a goddamn human being. A human being with needs taking over his sanity. He wanted to be held. He wanted to be kissed. He wanted to hear sweet nothings in his ear from the woman who committed arson on his soul.

He wanted to be the first to know her taste and keep going until he passed out from fatigue.

“Well, uh… Er erhm, it’s–it’s important for the family ties to—” 

“Fuck the family ties,” he interrupted, visibly annoyed. “I’m asking if you would want to be with me.”

You finally locked eyes. That gaze held so much meaning that you were concerned he was going to hear how you were whimpering inside.

“Yes, I would,” you answered with calm resolve.

“Would you…?”

He took a moment to look for the right words, staring at the papers again. He was turning into this gigantic puppy right before you with how nervous he was, and it was tightening your chest even more.

“Would you miss me enough to…” he acted like how thickly he swallowed was no big deal at all, “...want to touch me?”

Your blood pressure hit berserk levels, but at the same time just why the fuck was he this endearing?

“It’s… only n–natural that… I would miss my husband,” you shrugged it off. “I mean, wouldn’t you want to sleep with me?”

Chris stole a glance from the clock on the wall to call his time of death.

Were you even aware what kind of a fucked up sentence you had just formed?! Him. Sleeping with you. Wouldn’t he want to sleep with… with you? You needed to stop. You needed to fucking cut it out before he dropped to his knees and beg you to crawl into his ribcage.

“You can earn up to forty hours here on good behavior,” he spoke with odd tranquility as if your sheer beauty alone wasn’t burying him alive. “But if we’re alone in the same room for that long, I assure you we’re not sleeping.”

We’re not. Not “we wouldn’t”, he said we’re not. Like you weren’t even talking hypothetically anymore. Like you were actually in that private room with him.

Even a gallon of water couldn’t save you now because the fire had jumped to the highway of your body, and your embarrassment was rapidly morphing into shame. Even shame wasn’t enough to contain this insanity possessing you, mind and heart alike, because something always always burned much more brightly and fiercely than that.

Lust.

“It may not be forty hours, but we’re still alone in the same room for that long, don’t you think?” you carefully stacked the sheet protectors into the red folder in front of you and loudly locked the clip. “Every day, for that matter.”

The chill that licked his spine when he held your gaze made him shudder. Your eyes had fully darkened, and you were looking at him almost daringly. You weren’t smiling, but the way your tongue discreetly swiped across your lips was simply diabolical. You weren’t touching him, but you were choking him to death. You weren’t kissing him, but you were taking his breath away.

He was about to go clinically insane if he hadn’t already.

“Are you…” he narrowed his eyes, fully aware he might be taking his last breath any minute now, “trying to tell me something?”

“No, nothing,” you shrugged, feigning ignorance. 

Oh, please. He knew you meant something. He knew you meant exactly that, but it was driving him up a wall that you just wouldn’t confirm it.

“If we’re not sleeping, then what?” you asked as casually as you could manage, pulling up a new sheet protector. “Do you wanna play checkers or something instead?” 

You sly little minx…

He knew full well that you were trying to get him to say things to you. You weren’t looking at him, just filing away with your attention fully on the documents in your hands, and this was the first time Chris felt jealous of goddamn paper. You were still faintly smiling, though. Why were you smiling? Why were you smiling if your intention was not to drive him crazy, huh? 

God, he was trying. He was really trying to control his urges, but you… 

You were fucking enabling him. 

“Oh, I want to play alright.”

He put down the papers in his hands and slowly walked behind you. Your eyes followed him as he moved, your breath hitching in your throat. You really should have been sitting down instead of standing because your knees were about to give way any second now.

“But being away from you that long, locked up in here… I’m a literal caged animal, you know,” he stood right behind you and put his hands on the desk, trapping your body under him. “I’m so touch-starved, it’s killing me.”

He gently touched the strands of stray hairs on your nape again, knowing damn well what it did to you. Your eyes fluttered close feeling his body that close to you. Close enough to forfeit all control over your reins.

You would kill to feel him closer than your veins.

“Touch me once, and you’ll be lucky if I don’t rip your clothes off,” he whispered into your ear, his voice slowly changing colors as he kept talking. “I’m that feral over you.”

You were getting so wet that the weak ass support your morals were standing on was about to collapse. One move, and you would be resting your head on his shoulder, perfectly putting your neck on display for him to kiss.

“It’s cute that you think I won’t rip your clothes off first,” you reciprocated his serve.

He let out a heavy exhale, growing a lot more excited than he’d be able to control. He had no idea where that courage came from, but… No, actually he did. It came from you flirting back. It came from how you couldn’t keep your eyes open when he was close to you. 

It came from the fact that he knew you belonged with him, and you fucking knew it, too.

He put his hands on your waist, subtly pressing himself against you. You almost let out a moan when you felt how huge he was on your ass. Maybe you didn’t need to be locked up within stone walls to feel how touch-starved you also were. You were touch-starved every minute of every day, wishing the man you were developing dangerous cravings for would just jump the gun, when even the one you were legally bound to wouldn’t. You tried talking yourself out of it. You tried so hard, but him…

Him…

“I’d be offended if you didn’t,” he placed a chaste kiss on your neck, “but what kind of a man am I if I don’t take care of my girl first?”

My girl. Take care of. Words you had never heard before. Words you had never heard even in hypothetical contexts, and he was declaring them into your ear like they were martial law.

“She spends all those nights alone in our bed. Touching herself, thinking of the nights I devoured her. Maybe more than once on the nights she misses me a little too much,” he ran his hands up your sides, dangerous enough to make your heart stop. “Which is why, when I finally get in bed with her again, she orders, and I do. That’s why I exist. Anything she wants.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

You imagined it. You imagined missing Chris in your bed. You imagined curling up in his remaining clothes to still feel his scent on the tip of your nose. You imagined cumming to that scent. You imagined sending your cum-soaked panties to him as a souvenir. Maybe he could cum on it and send it back to you, and that would be how you wrote love letters to each other.

You imagined a man crazy enough to go to prison for you and asked you to wait for him, but you didn’t have to imagine being in love with him.

“What if all I want is just to tease you?” you leaned into him a measure so you could properly feel his hardness. “Can you handle not getting your release in your caged animal state?”

“If it pleases you,” he reached for your chest and cupped your breasts, “who the fuck am I to say no?”

The breath you let out was so sharp, there was no way you could plead ignorance anymore. He knew you wanted him. You knew you wanted him. And you wanted him to hold you tighter. Harder.

In a chokehold.

“But aren’t you frustrated?” you asked him in a whisper.

Still heavily breathing down your neck, his hands slid down again, this time all the way under the skirt of your dress. Fuck, your thighs were so soft. It was fine if you didn’t let him do anything else; he could make do with just kissing them for hours.

“Frustrate me more if you like it,” he spoke in whispers, but each word came out like a threatening hiss, each one written with kisses on your neck. “I have a thing for that.”

You couldn’t help how hard you swallowed.

His hands were sliding up your thighs now, exploring the neighborhood of the castle he actually wanted to reside in. Every time he got a bit too close to your pussy, you were clenching so hard that he could feel it right on his tip as if you were both naked.

You wanted him, too, he knew. You wanted him, too, and he was forcing himself to remember how to be a gentleman about it because all he could think of was how he wanted you in the worst ways.

“You’re… okay with only taking care of me?” you slightly turned your head to your left.

“Okay with it?” he chuckled, melting you with the caramel notes of his subdued laughter. “You’re my fucking everything. That’s the sole purpose of my entire life.”

You were in complete disbelief over what his mere words were inducing in you, appalled that you would even consider something like this. This beautiful demon with that silver tongue of his… You were trying. You were trying to remind yourself that there were obligations that you needed to fulfill. Professional ones. Marital ones. Both of which were draining the fucking life out of you.

Both of which were making it next to impossible to resist him. 

“Then what if…?” you gulped, breathing unstable. “What if all I want you to do is…?”

He knew exactly what you meant just from the way you couldn’t verbalize it. You were giving him a terrible case of cuteness aggression, making him want to drown you in kisses.

“Then that’s all I’ll do for those forty hours,” he promised, tone nonchalant but intent heavier than your own wedding vows. “I’ll spend it all eating your pussy.”

“Chris…”

Chris. You called him Chris. Not Fang. Not inmate. The one thing, the only thing that he was being deprived of just so he would forget he was a human.

“This is all your fault,” he finally dared to cross the line, very very gently caressing your pussy no matter how hidden it was from him under layers of fabric. “You have this… grip on me.”

And he had this grip on you. 

The softest kisses on your neck. Kisses on your cheek. You were ending his life even though all you did was just exist, and he was afraid to open his eyes and look at you.

“I told you to let the sleeping wolves lie, but what do you do instead?” he pressed his head on your shoulder. “You walk into the den barefoot. You lie down right next to the wolf itself.”

“Then why doesn’t it kill me?” 

He smiled to himself, placing a very soft kiss on your temple as if his intentions were as pure as they could ever be. 

“Loyalty,” he sighed in defeat. “To its master.”

His whispers in your ear felt like they were blasting from loudspeakers, sending an immediate shockwave to your core. Even a woman of your poise had her limits because you were a human being after all. A human being with needs that weren’t catered to for what seemed like forever taking over her sanity, and if you didn’t take the last exit right about now, you were fucking doomed.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he reached for the waistband of your underwear, “but you need to say it first.”

The exit was collapsing along with all your defenses against him. You were just headed towards the cliff you were going to drive off of. You knew you were.

But you stopped caring.

“Chris…”

Chris. You called him Chris. Not Fang. Not inmate. The only thing reminding him that he was a man, but if he couldn’t breathe the same air as the woman he would burn this world down for, he was nothing.

“Say it,” he caressed the soft flesh of your mound, unable to move an inch more. “Say it, and I’m yours.”

Fuck the exit. 

You slammed on the gas pedal with all your might and drove past it, leaving a trail of dust clouds behind you. 

You turned around and dove right into his lips headfirst. He immediately grabbed your waist and sat you down on the desk, kissing every piece of bare skin within his line of sight. You wrapped your legs around his waist, holding onto him tight. He was burning up under your touch. He dragged the bust of your dress down and kissed all over your chest, filling his lungs with as much of your sweet scent as he could. God, how much he had longed for this. This. This. This was the very thing, the only thing that kept him alive. 

“Touch me, Chris.”

JUST WHAT THE HELL WAS YOUR PROBLEM, HUH?!

You grabbed his hand and placed it on your thighs again, asking him to make a move. His eyes widened in disbelief, still unsure if he was allowed to do what he was losing his damn mind over, but when you made him grope you hard, he finally took the fucking hint. He spread your legs as wide as he could and dropped to his knees, groaning like he was in pain just because he was this close to the meaning of his life.

Everything had boiled down to this moment.

He hooked his fingers behind your underwear and slid it to the side, repeating to himself over and over again that he was not a goddamn animal as he stared at your mouthwatering wetness. But maybe he was a little. Weren’t all human beings animals after all? Animals ruled by their instincts. And his instincts were goading him into claiming you for himself for the longest damn time. No, not to own you. Just to mark you. So that he’d know who to eviscerate if they dared to breathe the same fucking air as you.

He buried his head between your legs, and your entire life flashed before your eyes.

A ball of pure fire had formed in your loins, and with each lick on your soaked folds, a chunk of it was being cannonballed into your veins. You were spiking a lethal fever with acute onset lust, delirious with the intensity of the pleasure this man was inducing in your body. Those full, gorgeous lips wrapped around your clit, lazily sucking on you, obscene sounds bouncing off the stone walls every time he slurped on your cunt… It was impossible to stay sane. It was impossible to go on with your life as the woman you were five minutes ago. You put one hand on his head, caressing his hair as he worked his magic, and with each loving stroke, Chris was falling irretrievably in love with you.

You wanted to wreck this prison to the ground when the siren went off in the distance signaling headcount. 

He immediately jumped to his feet, as frustrated as you were for not being able to give you your happy ending, and helped you fix yourself in case a guard would drop by your office. 

“Looks like you got your wish, but I dare you to frustrate me more next time,” he stole a kiss from your lips and made his way back extremely reluctantly. “You owe me forty hours, and I’m gonna collect every… single… one.”

He might not have seen the ending of the movie, but Chris was still on cloud nine that he was there to catch the trailers. He skipped dinner that evening so that your taste on his tongue wouldn’t be laced with anything else, but with every passing hour, his euphoric high was receding, leaving that void to be filled with something else. Something ugly.

Something urgent.

“Hey, I gotta ask you something,” Chris approached Jack after dinner, “but Noah cannot know about it, deal?”

“Is everything okay, mate?” Jack looked at his former bunkmate with concern.

“Does Liv still do custom work?”

Jack’s face changed all of a sudden, half-surprised, half-entertained.

“Bullet or blade?” he grinned.

“Yes,” Chris replied curtly, compulsively checking the gate for Noah. “I have a job for her, but it’s not a message. She has to make it look like an accident.”

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