Matilda

-> Under His Name | KTH pt.01

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The room is filled with voices before you even step inside. Sharp. Accusing. Cold. You stand in the center, spine straight, hands clenched at your sides as Park Seung-min and his family sit opposite you and your parents. Their expressions are no longer polite, no longer restrained by formality.

They look at you like you are a stain.

"This marriage is over," Seung-min says flatly. The words fall heavy but instead of breaking you, they loosen something tight in your chest.

"Because of you," his mother adds, eyes blazing. "Do you know what you've done? We lost an entire business arrangement because of that article." You lift your chin. You already know the answer.

Seung-min laughs bitterly. "You really think I chose you out of affection?" he says. "I agreed because Kim Taehyung assured us of protection. Of influence." Your heart stills.

"But now?" he continues, voice sharp with humiliation. "You humiliated him. You dragged his name through the mud. And in doing so, you ruined us."

His father scoffs. "A woman who brings destruction instead of obedience has no place in a respectable household." You say nothing.

You don't need to.

"I will not marry a woman who bites the hand that feeds her," Seung-min adds. "Especially one who believes she can challenge men above her." The engagement is declared broken just like that no hesitation, no remorse snd yet, beneath the weight of their scorn, you feel something unexpected.

Relief. Freedom.

You return home in silence. Your father does not.

The moment the doors close, his disappointment crashes down on you. "I am done," he says, voice trembling with stress and exhaustion. "Do you hear me? Done with your behavior. Done cleaning up after your recklessness."

"You cost us allies," he continues. "Stability. Respect."

You look at him, eyes steady. "I saved myself."

"That is not your place," he snaps. "You think happiness comes from rebellion?"

"I think misery comes from silence," you reply quietly.

He turns away, rubbing his temples. "I don't know what will become of you."

------

The room is heavy with smoke and silence. Taehyung sits back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, eyes scanning the freshly published report laid neatly on his desk. The headline screams clarification, fabrication, false allegations. Page after page is filled with counter-evidence documents, witnesses, signatures carefully arranged to dismantle the journal that once threatened him.

A narrative rewritten. It claims the accusations were exaggerated. That the exposé was nothing more than a calculated attempt to bring down a man of power. And slowly, inevitably, the blame shifts.

To you.

A "misguided young woman."

"A radical mind."

"A daughter acting beyond her station."

Taehyung's lips curve faintly.

Across from him, Shin Jaehyun sits rigidly, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles have gone pale. The proud attorney looks smaller here, reduced to a father begging for mercy.

"I ask you," Shin says hoarsely, bowing his head, "please forgive my daughter. She is young. She acted without understanding the consequences." Taehyung does not respond immediately. He lifts his glass instead, taking a slow sip, eyes never leaving the page.

Forgive?

He has never been a man who forgives. Nor one who forgets.

"She was warned," Taehyung says calmly. "Repeatedly." He finally looks up. "And yet she chose to provoke." Shin swallows.

Taehyung sets the glass down with a soft click. "I heard Park's son broke off the marriage." Shin's shoulders stiffen.

"A pity," Taehyung continues casually. "I wonder..." His gaze sharpens. "If there will be any man willing to marry her now." The words sink in slowly, poison wrapped in politeness.

"What are you implying?" Shin asks cautiously.

Taehyung leans forward. "I will marry her, Mr. Shin." The sentence lands like a blade.

Shin shoots up from his seat. "I'll never let that happen." Taehyung does not flinch.

"Then," he says coolly, "watch your daughter suffer." Shin's breath stutters.

"The public will turn on her," Taehyung continues, voice even, merciless. "They already are. They will shame her. Question her character. Her credibility." His eyes darken. "And they will not spare you either." Shin's face drains of color.

"You will lose your standing," Taehyung adds. "Your cases. Your position. Everything you worked for." Silence crashes down.

"This ends," Taehyung says, standing at last, towering over him, "only one way."

------

The dress feels heavier than it should. White silk, chosen by him, rests against your skin like a sentence already passed. You stand before the altar, fingers trembling slightly as they clutch the fabric, trying to ground yourself in a body that feels distant, unreal.

There are not many people.

No grand celebration. No music loud enough to drown the truth. Taehyung wanted it this way quiet, controlled, unquestionable. A wedding that looked respectable from the outside, stripped of witnesses who might read too much into your eyes.

You still cannot understand how your father agreed.

You had fought. Pleaded. Broken down. You had begged him to see reason, to see you. But watching him crumble under pressure, watching his name dragged, his work threatened, his pride crushed you broke too and so you agreed.

Because somehow, this became your fault. Because the world decided a powerful man's sins were forgettable and a woman's defiance was unforgivable.

Across from you stands Kim Taehyung. He meets your gaze calmly, almost bored. This man already married, already feared now claims you like a victory earned. Your stomach twists with disgust. This was never about justice. Never about correction.

This was ego. The vows are spoken.

Your voice sounds distant even to you, like someone else is saying the words. His voice is steady, firm, unshaken. When the officiant nods, signaling the final ritual, Taehyung reaches forward and lifts your veil.

The room holds its breath.

He leans in.

You turn your head away. A murmur ripples faintly but it dies the moment his hands come up, gripping your cheeks tightly, forcing you to face him. His fingers are firm, unyielding. You are close enough now to see it clearly.

There is no love in his eyes. No warmth. Only control. His lips brush near yours not a kiss, not quite. A warning disguised as intimacy.

"This will not end well for you," he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear. "I'll make sure you regret everything you did." You say nothing. Your hands tighten around your dress, knuckles white, nails biting into your palms. You refuse to give him the satisfaction of fear. You will not beg.

Lady Seo Hae-in is not here.

Of course she isn't.

No woman would willingly watch her husband take another bride especially after giving him loyalty, silence, devotion. Her absence screams louder than any protest ever could.

The ceremony ends.

-------

The house is exactly as you remember it vast, cold, disciplined into silence. You stand in the center of it still dressed as a bride, white silk brushing the dark floors like a mockery. The walls do not welcome you. They observe. This is not a home. It is territory.

Taehyung stands a few steps away, loosening the buttons of his coat with unhurried fingers, as if nothing significant has happened today. As if a life hasn't been uprooted and dragged into his grasp. The quiet finally breaks inside you.

"You must be feeling very pleased," you say, your voice trembling despite yourself. "You ruined my life. And now you pretend nothing happened." Your breath shakes. "You disgust me." He does not look at you.

That indifference stings more than words.

"You are such an-"

The sound is sharp. Final. Pain explodes across your cheek before you can even process it. Your head snaps to the side, the taste of iron blooming in your mouth. Before you can recover, his hand fists in your hair, yanking it back brutally.

You gasp as he forces your face up to his.

You are shorter. Your neck strains. Tears burn your eyes from the sudden pain, your scalp screaming as your head is held at an unnatural angle. His face is inches away now, close enough for you to feel his breath, steady and cold.

"I have had enough," he says quietly. His eyes are darker than you remember. Empty of mercy.

"Do not forget where you are," he continues. "This is my house." His grip tightens. "And you are my wife now." The words feel like chains locking into place.

"You will behave," he says flatly. "Or this will not end well for you." Then, softer more dangerous. "This is only the beginning."

He releases you suddenly, too roughly. You stumble back, barely keeping your footing. Tears spill freely now, blurring the room, your chest tight with humiliation and rage.

As you look around through your tears, you see her. Seo Hae-in stands near the corridor, hands folded tightly, her expression unreadable. When your eyes meet, she looks away immediately, like someone who has learned survival through silence.

"Take her to her room," Taehyung orders without turning back. Hae-in hesitates only a second before stepping forward. She does not touch you at first. She simply gestures for you to follow. You do. As you pass him, you throw one last glare over your shoulder raw, defiant, burning with everything you cannot say.

Taehyung is already walking away, disappearing into another wing of the house as though you are no longer worth his attention.

The doors swallow him whole.

------

The door shuts behind you with a dull, final sound. You lock it. The room is dim, unfamiliar too neat, too controlled, like everything else in this house. The wedding gown still clings to you, heavy and unforgiving. You stumble toward the bed and collapse onto it, the fabric pooling around you like a shroud.

And then it all comes apart.

You cry until your chest aches. Until your throat burns. Until tears soak into the pillow and there is nothing left but dry sobs and exhaustion. You stare at the ceiling, eyes swollen, vision blurred, wondering how your life twisted into this shape.

Never, not once had you imagined marrying a man like him. A man who looked at you as though you were something to be owned. Corrected. Broken. Time passes, but you do not move.

A knock sounds at the door soft, careful.

"My lady," a maid calls gently from the other side. "Master requests your presence for dinner." The words make your stomach turn. Dinner. As if this is a household. As if this is normal. You do not answer.

You remain where you are, lying still, staring into nothing.

Another pause. Another cautious breath from behind the door.

"My lady...?"

Something sharp rises in your chest anger, bitterness, fatigue woven together so tightly you can barely breathe. You sit up suddenly, voice cracking as it spills out, loud enough to echo against the walls.

"I don't want to have that food," you snap.

"Tell him to fuck off."

Silence follows.

Thick. Stunned.

You fall back onto the bed, heart pounding, breath uneven. You know the words will reach him. You know there will be consequences.

-------

The lock clicks. Not softly, deliberately.

You jolt upright, breath catching as the door creaks open on its own accord. The candlelight trembles, shadows stretching long across the floor, and then you see him.

Taehyung.

He stands there as though he owns the very air in the room which, you realize bitterly, he believes he does. His expression is calm, almost amused, as if your suffering is nothing more than an interesting interruption to his night.

“I should really appreciate your audacity,” he says coolly, shutting the door behind him.

You say nothing. You only glare, eyes burning, jaw clenched, hatred bare and unhidden.

He takes a few slow steps forward, boots echoing against the floor. “It is our wedding night,” he continues, voice low, almost mocking. “I thought I might be a little… kind to you.”

He stops beside the bed.

“But you don’t deserve that, Y/n.”

Your heart pounds as he leans closer, his presence suffocating. “Let us see,” he adds softly, “how many days you manage without food.”

Before you can pull away, his fingers seize your chin, forcing your face upward. His grip is firm unyielding.

“Such a pretty face,” he murmurs, eyes cold as steel. “Gone to waste because of that mouth.”

Pain sparks where his fingers dig in.

“Let go of me!” You shove at his chest with all the strength you have.

He stumbles back a step, more surprised than hurt.

“I hate you,” you spit, voice shaking but fierce.

His expression darkens not with anger, but something worse. Possession.

“That,” he says slowly, straightening himself, “is not what a wife should say to her husband.”

He turns away as if you no longer matter, walking toward the door with infuriating calm.

“You will not step out of this room,” he says over his shoulder. “And you will not be fed.”

The lock turns.

Panic slams into you.

“No!” You rush forward, grabbing at the door as he opens it just enough to slip through. “You can’t do this to me! You can’t lock me in here, Kim Taehyung!”

The door shuts.

The lock snaps into place.

His footsteps fade down the corridor, steady and unhurried, leaving behind silence, candlelight, and a room that suddenly feels far too small.

You slide down against the door, fists pounding weakly against the wood, your voice breaking as the truth settles in.

-------

Hae-in steps into Taehyung’s chamber quietly, the heavy wooden door closing behind her with a soft thud. The room smells faintly of ink and smoke. He sits at his desk, papers spread neatly before him, pen moving as though nothing in the world has been disturbed.

She stands there for a moment, fingers twisting together.

“…Will she not eat anything?” Hae-in asks at last, her voice careful, almost fragile.

Taehyung doesn’t look up.

“You sound very worried about her,” he replies flatly, continuing to write. Then, slowly, he lifts his gaze. “Don’t forget who is in charge here, Hae-in.”

The words land heavy.

She swallows. “I’m not forgetting,” she says, stepping closer. “I just-” Her voice trembles despite herself. “If I wasn’t enough… why did you have to marry her?”

That makes him pause.

He leans back in his chair, studying her as though she were an inconvenience rather than a wife. “Enough?” he repeats coolly. “You did your part. You kept the house running. You smiled when needed. You stayed quiet.”

Each word cuts.

“But let’s not pretend you were exceptional at it.”

Her breath catches.

“I didn’t plan to marry Y/n,” he continues, tone detached, almost bored. “Things simply… happened. She pushed. Provoked. Forced my hand.” A faint smirk touches his lips. “You know how I dislike being challenged.”

Hae-in’s nails dig into her palm. “And what about me?” she asks softly. “What am I supposed to be now?”

He stands, walking past her slowly, deliberately invading her space. “Don’t worry,” he says, voice low. “You’ll still be my favorite wife.”

The words sound sweet on the surface but the mockery beneath them is unmistakable.

“The good one,” he adds, almost lazily. “The obedient one.”

Her face tightens. She hates the way it sounds. Hates that a part of her expected nothing else.

She turns her gaze away.

What could she expect, really?

He has always been like this, cruel in silk words, gentle only when it benefits him and she, despite everything, remains standing in his shadow.

------

You wake to a sharp knock no, not a knock, a command against the door, loud enough to tear you from the thin sleep you had clung to.

“Get up.”

Your body aches as you sit up, hair loose, eyes burning. The maid stands stiffly at the doorway, eyes lowered. She doesn’t meet your gaze.

“Master orders you to prepare his breakfast.”

You stare at her, disbelief turning quickly into anger. “That isn’t my duty,” you say hoarsely. “That is Lady Seo Hae-in’s work.”

Before the maid can reply, another voice cuts through the room cold, amused.

“So you do know how this house works.”

Taehyung stands at the threshold, already dressed, hands folded behind his back as if this were some morning inspection. Hae-in follows a step behind him, her face pale, her hands clasped tightly.

“She has already prepared it,” Hae-in says quickly, almost defensively. “There’s no need-"

“You can’t just lie there and do nothing,” Taehyung interrupts, eyes fixed on you. “Not under my roof.”

You swing your legs off the bed, standing despite the weakness in your knees. “I will not be treated like a servant,” you say, voice shaking but firm.

His lips curve not a smile, but something far crueler.

“Oh, but you will.”

He gestures to the maid. “Take her to the kitchen.”

You don’t move.

The next moment, his shadow is before you. “You wished to challenge me, didn’t you?” he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear. “This is the consequence.”

You’re made to stand at the hearth, hands trembling as you grind spices, scrub vessels, knead dough your fingers are too sore to press. The kitchen staff watch in silence, eyes filled with pity they dare not show openly.

“Faster,” he says when you falter. “You’re well educated, aren’t you?” he adds mockingly. “Shame none of it helps you here.”

Each word is deliberate. Each task heavier than the last.

When your wrists ache and your back burns, he isn’t satisfied. He sends you to clean the floors, then the courtyard, then back again never letting you rest long enough to breathe.

“This,” he says calmly, as you kneel, cloth soaked and hands raw, “is what happens when a woman forgets her place.”

You bite your lip until you taste blood, refusing to cry in front of him.

Across the room, Hae-in watches, helpless, guilt etched into her features. She opens her mouth as if to speak, then closes it again.

-------

You are on your knees again.

The marble floor is cold beneath your palms as you wipe the dust from his shoes, the polish staining your fingers black. Papers lie scattered near his desk, official documents, royal records, things you once would have handled with pride, not humiliation.

“Pick those up,” he says without looking at you.

You stop. Your hands curl into fists.

“I’m not doing this anymore.” Your voice is hoarse, but it doesn’t waver. “I’ve had enough.”

The silence that follows is dangerous.

Slow footsteps approach. You feel him before you see him, his presence heavy, suffocating. The next second, pain shoots through your arm as he twists it behind you, forcing you up.

“You never learn,” he says quietly, right near your ear.

Your breath stutters as he pulls you closer, not gently, not kindly. His grip is iron, his control absolute. You hate how close he is. You hate that your body reacts with fear before anger.

“What are you doing?” you demand, panic and fury tangling in your chest.

His voice drops, cold and deliberate. “Reminding you of reality.”

You struggle, turning your face away, but he’s faster, one hand slams against the wall beside your head, the other pins your wrists above you. The stone is unforgiving against your back.

“Let go of me, Kim Taehyung,” you spit.

A low chuckle leaves him. “Funny how you still think you get to command me.”

His eyes bore into yours, no desire there, only dominance and punishment.

“Learn to expect things,” he says. “Brat.”

He releases you suddenly.

You almost stumble forward, catching yourself against the wall, chest heaving. Your wrists burn where he held you.

He straightens his coat like nothing happened.

“Clean my desk,” he orders coldly. “And don’t make me repeat myself.” Then he walks out of the room. --------

You had stopped counting the days. Morning bled into evening, evening into night, all of it blurring into the same dull ache in your bones. Taehyung made sure you were always tired if not in body, then in spirit.

"Faster." His voice cut through the hall as you scrubbed the marble floor on your knees. Your fingers burned, skin raw from soap and water, but he didn't care. He never did.

"You were educated, weren't you?" he continued, not even looking at you. "Funny how all that learning led you here."

You clenched your jaw.

Sometimes he made you clean. Sometimes he made you carry his files from room to room like a servant. Sometimes he ordered you to stand beside him in silence while he worked, just so he could remind you of your place without a single word.

And sometimes, those were the worst he came too close.

Too close for no reason.

You would feel his presence before you saw him. The shift in air. The way the room seemed to shrink. He never touched you openly not enough to leave proof but he leaned in, crowded your space, spoke low enough that only you could hear.

"You always look like you're about to break," he murmured once, standing behind you as you sorted his papers. "Yet you don't. That's disappointing." You froze, every muscle rigid, your breath shallow. You hated how aware you became of him then, how your body reacted before your mind could stop it. Not desire. Never that. Fear. Instinct.

You stepped away.

He noticed.

A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Careful," he said calmly. "Running away makes you look guilty." Guilty of what? You wanted to scream it at his face. Existing? Breathing? Being a woman who refused to bow?

By evening, your patience snapped.

He had deliberately spilled ink across his desk and called you in just to watch you clean it. When you straightened, back aching, eyes burning, he laughed softly. "Is this how you imagined your life?" he asked. "Writing cases? Fighting men like me?"

You met his gaze then. "I imagined a life where men like you didn't exist," you said.

The room went still.

In two steps, he was in front of you. You didn't move, even when he leaned down, even when his shadow swallowed yours. Your heart hammered, but you refused to step back this time.

"You don't learn," he said quietly. Not angry. Worse amused. "Every word you speak makes me want to remind you why silence suits you better."

Your hands curled into fists. "I'm not your property," you said, voice shaking but unbroken. "You don't own my thoughts. Or my body."

For a moment, just one something dark flickered behind his eyes. Surprise, perhaps. Or irritation that you still hadn't shattered the way he expected.

He straightened. "Fed up already?" he asked. "Good. That means you still have something left to lose."

He turned away as if you were nothing, as if he hadn't just tested the edges of your fear like a blade against skin.

"You'll finish your work," he added over his shoulder. "And remember this, every time you look at me with hatred in your eyes, you're only proving how alive you still are."

The door closed behind him.

You stood there, shaking, surrounded by silence and the weight of his presence long after he was gone and for the first time since this nightmare began, one thought burned louder than fear:

I cannot live like this.

--------

Seo Hae-in watched you from across the kitchen, her hands moving slowly as she chopped vegetables, the sound of the blade dull against the wood. The hearth crackled softly, filling the space with warmth that felt undeserved in a house like this. When Taehyung was not around, the house breathed differently.

You were allowed to breathe differently.

She stood beside you today, sleeves rolled just enough to avoid the flame, quietly guiding you when you fumbled with the heavy utensils. Sometimes she helped you. Sometimes she apologized soft, hesitant apologies spoken as if they might shatter if said too loudly.

"I'm sorry," she would murmur, eyes lowered. "He... he has always been like this." But today, your restraint snapped.

"He's a cruel bastard," you said bitterly, stirring the pot with more force than needed. "And I won't let him get away with what he's done. I'll ruin him, slowly, if I have to." The words hung heavy in the air.

Seo Hae-in didn't stop you. She didn't scold you. She didn't warn you. She only listened. Her silence was louder than any reply. Because she knew.

She knew what Taehyung Kim was capable of when challenged. She had lived under his shadow for years, learning when to speak, when to lower her eyes, when to disappear into the walls of the house he ruled. She knew how dangerous it was for a woman to threaten a man like him, especially one who wore power like armor.

Yet even as fear tightened around her chest, another emotion cut deeper.

Hurt.

Not the sharp kind that screamed but the quiet, rotting kind that stayed.

He had married you without warning. Without explanation. Without even the decency of a conversation. She had found out the same way the world did through whispers, through servants, through the cold finality of his decisions. She had believed, foolishly, that she mattered. That after all her obedience, her patience, her silence he might care.

But he hadn't married you because he loved you and that was not what broke her. What broke her was this. He noticed you. He spoke to you. He watched you. He hovered close, invaded your space, let his anger burn hot and focused on you.

While she remained here.

Cooking his meals. Keeping his house in order. Trying endlessly to be the perfect wife he never wanted.

You, who fought him. You, who challenged him. You, who hated him openly and still you occupied his mind.

The realization sickened her.

She despised herself for it, for the way her heart twisted with jealousy she never asked for, for longing she had no right to feel. She hated that some small, broken part of her still waited for his approval, his attention, his care. A care he would never give freely.

She glanced at you, your rigid posture, the fire in your eyes, the exhaustion you tried to hide. "You shouldn't provoke him," she said finally, voice quiet, almost fragile. "Men like him... they don't lose."

You scoffed softly. "Everyone loses," you replied. "They just don't expect women to be the reason."

Seo Hae-in's fingers tightened around the knife. For a fleeting moment, she wondered not with hope, but with something darker, whether your defiance might succeed where her obedience had failed and that thought terrified her. Because if you broke him.

What would be left of her?

-------

The house had taught you how to listen. Which corridors echoed. Which doors stayed unlocked longer than they should. Which servants spoke without thinking and more importantly, who feared whom.

Min Beomseok.

Taehyung's loyal shadow. His assistant from dawn till dusk. A man who followed orders without questioning them, because questioning Taehyung Kim had never ended well for anyone. You found him in the outer office, head bent over ledgers, ink staining his fingers.

"Assistant Min," you said softly. He stiffened the moment he saw you. Everyone did. Being Taehyung's new wife came with a strange authority unspoken, dangerous, untested.

"Yes... Lady Kim?" he replied, bowing slightly.

You kept your tone calm. Almost bored. "My husband asked for the Seoryeong land papers," you said. "The ones registered under the Hwang family."

Beomseok frowned. "Those lands are under high authority-"

"I know," you interrupted smoothly. "That's why he wants them reassigned. The royal council approved it. The land will be distributed to the local farmers."

Beomseok hesitated. You leaned closer, lowering your voice.

"He was in a foul mood this morning," you added. "He said if this wasn't done before the next council meet, he'd personally hold you responsible." That did it. Fear outweighed logic every time.

"I... I understand," Beomseok said quickly. "I'll get the documents signed immediately."

You nodded once. "Good. Don't delay." You walked away without looking back, heart pounding not with fear, but with something sharper.

Control.

The chaos began two days later. Taehyung stood in his office, coat still on, gloves barely removed, staring at the report laid out on his desk. His jaw clenched. The Seoryeong land, prime property once owned by the Hwang lineage had been officially transferred. Not to another elite family. Not to the state treasury.

But to common farmers. Legal. Signed. Approved. His fingers curled slowly against the wood.

"Who authorized this?" he asked, voice dangerously quiet. Min Beomseok stood frozen across from him, face pale, sweat beading at his temple.

"Y-You did, sir," Beomseok stammered. "You- you ordered it. Lady Kim said-"

Taehyung's eyes lifted. Slowly. "What did you just say?"

Beomseok swallowed hard. "L-Lady Kim informed me it was your instruction. She said the royal household had already agreed-" The room went silent. Dead silent.

Taehyung laughed. Once. Low. Hollow. Nothing warm about it. "So," he said calmly, "my wife now issues orders in my name?"

Beomseok dropped to his knees.

"I swear I wouldn't have acted without certainty-" Taehyung crossed the room in two strides. He grabbed Beomseok by the collar and hauled him up, slamming him against the wall.

"You acted," Taehyung hissed, eyes dark with fury, "because you were afraid of me." His grip tightened. "And you should be." He released him abruptly, stepping back as if Beomseok disgusted him.

"Get out."

Beomseok didn't hesitate. He fled the room like a man escaping execution. Taehyung stood alone then, breathing slowly, deliberately. You had played him. Not openly. Not recklessly. You used his name. His fear. His authority and worst of all, you had touched something he valued more than reputation.

Power.

The land deal would take time to reverse. Questions would be asked. Noble families would whisper. The poor would praise him unwillingly, unknowingly.

------

You were sitting on the edge of the bed, book open but unread, your mind far from the printed words. The house was unusually quiet, too quiet.

Then, the door opened.

You looked up just in time to see Taehyung step inside.

The lock clicked.

Your fingers tightened around the book as you rose to your feet, instinctively putting distance between you and the bed. He shut the door with deliberate calm, as if sealing a coffin, then removed his coat and tossed it aside carelessly.

The air shifted. Heavy. Suffocating.

“Why are you here?” you asked, though your heart already knew the answer.

You knew he would come. Men like him never let humiliation pass unanswered.

He walked closer, slow and unhurried, eyes dark, unreadable.

“You very well know why I’m here,” he said.

Before you could step back, his hand cupped your face no, gripped it. His fingers dug into your cheeks, forcing your head up.

“You have no idea,” he continued quietly, “what you just did.”

“Let go of me,” you said sharply, shoving his hand away. Hatred burned openly in your eyes now. You no longer bothered to hide it.

“Whatever I did,” you said, voice shaking but firm, “I did what was right.”

For a split second, something dangerous flickered across his face.

Then his hand shot into your hair.

You gasped as he yanked your head back, pain shooting down your scalp as he forced you to look at him.

“You don’t get to decide what’s right,” he snapped. “Not in my house. Not under my name.”

“Let go of me, bastard,” you hissed, nails digging into his wrist.

His lips curled into something ugly.

“Women like you,” he said coldly, “need to be taught. You talk too much. You think too much. You forget your place.”

You laughed.

It surprised both of you.

A short, bitter laugh that tasted like blood and fury.

“You think hurting me will fix your broken pride?” you spat. “You think I’ll bend just because you scare everyone else?”

He tightened his grip.

“You will learn,” he said. “One way or another.”

Something in you snapped then not fear, not hesitation, but restraint.

Before he could react, you leaned forward and spit directly in his face.

The room froze.

The sound was soft. Insulting. Irreversible.

His hand dropped from your hair.

Slowly.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and looked straight at him.

“I will never bend for your games,” you said, voice steady despite the tremor in your body. “Not now. Not ever.”

Silence swallowed the room.

Taehyung stood utterly still, eyes locked on yours, chest rising slowly. Whatever rage he felt didn’t explode, it sank deep, dangerous and controlled.

He wiped his face with his thumb, staring at the moisture there as if he couldn’t believe it.

Then he smiled.

Not warmly. Not amused.

“You just signed your own sentence,” he said softly. “And you still don’t understand.”

You had crossed a line.

Just then.

Taehyung’s grip tightened around your wrist as he suddenly crushed his lips against yours not a kiss, but a claiming. His teeth dragged over your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, the metallic tang sharp between you. You shoved against his chest, but he didn’t budge, his body caging you against the mattress as he loomed over you.

“Fight me all you want,” he growled, breath ragged with fury. “You don’t get to walk away after what you did.”

Every ragged breath you took only seemed to fuel him, his touch equal parts punishment and possession, a collision of resentment and something far more dangerous.

You shove against Taehyung’s chest with all your strength, your palm cracking across his cheek in a sharp slap. The second your fingers connect, your vision blurs,tears spilling over before you can stop them.

He freezes.

For a heartbeat, all you hear is the ragged sound of his breathing. Then his grip loosens, his fingers slipping away from your wrists like you’ve burned him. His expression flickers anger, regret, something unreadable before he pulls back entirely.

“Tch.” He turns away, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck this.”

The bed dips as he stands, leaving you there, your pulse roaring in your ears. The door slams shut behind him, and only then do you let yourself crumple, the sheets cold where his body had been.

------

Hae-in saw everything.

She saw how Taehyung no longer raised his voice at you, not because he was kinder, but because indifference cut deeper. He spoke to you only when he needed to command, never when you spoke. His cold shoulder was deliberate, practiced, meant to remind you how small he could make someone feel without lifting a hand.

Yet his attention never truly left you. That was the cruelty of it.

He ordered you to cook one morning. “You’ll prepare breakfast,” he said flatly, not even looking at you.

You froze. “I don’t know how-”

“I didn’t ask what you know.” Hae-in watched from the doorway, hands tightening around her sleeves.

She remembered the last time you had cooked, how the oil had splashed, how you had cried out, how your hand blistered red and trembling. She remembered how Taehyung had taken one look at the meal and swept it into the bin without tasting it. “Useless,” he had said then.

And later, he had quietly ordered a maid to tend to your burns, as if mercy given in secret erased cruelty done in daylight.

Now, watching you stand helpless in the kitchen again, Hae-in felt something twist painfully in her chest.

He was cruel to you.

But he noticed you.

That night, Taehyung sat by the window of his study, cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling lazily into the dim light. Hae-in stood behind him, gathering courage she had been swallowing for years.

“Wasn’t I enough?” she asked softly. He didn’t turn.

“I tried,” she continued, voice wavering despite her effort to stay composed. “I did everything you asked. I learned your routines. Your likes. I stayed silent when you wanted silence. I endured when you were harsh. I still try, every day, to be a good wife.”

He inhaled slowly, exhaled smoke.

“And yet,” she whispered, “you never look at me the way you look at her. Why?”

Silence answered first. Then he finally turned his head slightly, eyes cold, assessing not sympathetic.

“If you were truly a good wife,” he said calmly, “you wouldn’t have interfered.”

Her breath hitched.

“I’m not blind, Hae-in,” he continued. “I know what happens in this house. I know who helps her. Who softens things. Who thinks kindness will change anything.” Her hands trembled.

“You will stop helping her,” he said, voice firm, final. “From now on, you will be strict. You will teach her how to behave. How to be obedient. How to remember she is a wife in my house.”

He took another drag from his cigarette.

“And you,” he added, almost casually, “will remember your place.” The words settled like ash.

Hae-in lowered her gaze, shame and bitterness flooding her chest. She had spent years trying to be perfect quiet, patient, loyal. And still, it was never enough.

As she turned to leave, she realized something with aching clarity: He didn’t love either of you. But he enjoyed watching women break themselves trying to earn what he would never give.

-------

You noticed it after the first day.

Then the second.

Then the third.

Hae-in no longer stood beside you in the mornings. She no longer quietly corrected your mistakes or slipped extra food onto your plate when Taehyung wasn’t looking. When he ordered you to scrub floors, wash linens, prepare tea, she watched from a distance hands folded, eyes lowered.

Silent. Obedient. Just like he wanted. You didn’t ask her why.

Somehow, you already knew.

The house felt colder without her quiet help. Tasks that once took hours now took days. Your hands cracked from soap and water, your shoulders ached from carrying heavy trays, yet no one stepped in.

Not even her.

Taehyung noticed.

That was the worst part.

He would pass through the hall, pause just long enough to observe you struggling, then leave without a word, satisfied.

One afternoon, you gathered enough courage to prepare to leave the house. Your chest ached with longing; you hadn’t seen your parents in weeks. You dressed carefully, hands shaking slightly as you tied the ribbons of your sleeves.

Hae-in stood near the doorway.

“I’m going out,” you said quietly. She didn’t move.

“You’ll need permission,” she replied.

You frowned. “What?”

She finally looked at you then, her face stiff, unreadable.

“You must ask Taehyung,” she said. “He is the man of this house. He needs to know where we go.”

The words felt wrong coming from her.

She used to slip you out through side doors. Used to tell the guards you were ill. Used to protect you in the only ways she could.

“And since when?” you asked, voice tight.

She hesitated, just for a second. Then.

“That is how it should be,” she said firmly.

Something snapped.

“I don’t need his permission to breathe,” you said sharply. “He doesn’t own my feet, my voice, or my life.”

Hae-in’s jaw tightened. “You shouldn’t speak like that.”

“You sound just like him,” you shot back.

Her eyes flickered hurt, guilt, fear but she didn’t stop you as you stepped past her.

“I can go wherever I want,” you said, turning back once. “He is no one to stop me.”

And you walked out.

-------

You stepped back into the house just as dusk settled outside.

The doors closed behind you with a dull thud.

He was already there.

Taehyung sat on the couch, coat discarded, posture relaxed, as if he had been waiting. He usually returned late, well past sunset, but tonight he was home early.

Watching.

The sight of him made your stomach tighten, but you refused to show it. You walked past him as if his presence meant nothing, your chin lifted, your steps steady.

“Where were you?” he asked.

His voice was calm. Too calm.

You stopped.

Before you could answer, you noticed Hae-in approaching him quietly, a porcelain cup of tea balanced in her hands. She placed it beside him with practiced care, then turned to you.

“Tell him you went to meet your parents,” she said softly.

The words struck you harder than his glare.

You finally understood.

This wasn’t her choice. It was survival.

She didn’t meet your eyes as she spoke only stood there, rigid, obedient, performing the role he demanded of her.

“Yes,” you said flatly, looking straight at Taehyung. “I did. I went to meet my parents. I have my own free will.”

The room shifted.

Taehyung leaned back slightly, fingers curling around the teacup.

“And you thought,” he said slowly, “you could walk out of my house without permission?”

“This is not a prison,” you shot back. “I don’t need permission to visit my parents.”

He laughed.

A low, humorless sound.

“You’re married to me,” he said. “Everything in this house exists under my control—including you.”

Hae-in flinched beside him.

“If you’re so eager to live as you please,” he continued, eyes sharp, “why don’t you just stay outside?”

He tilted his head, watching you closely.

“Oh, that’s right,” he added smoothly. “Society would call you shameless. A woman who failed as a wife. A disgrace.”

Your fists clenched.

“She will not step out again,” he said, voice firm, final. “And she will not be given food until I say so.”

The words landed like a verdict.

“You can’t do this to me,” you shouted, stepping forward. “You can’t lock me in, starve me, control my every move!”

He didn’t even look shaken.

Instead, he rose slowly from the couch, towering, composed.

“I already am,” he said quietly.

Then he turned away.

Hae-in stood frozen, guilt and helplessness written across her face, unable to speak, unable to help.

Taehyung walked toward the corridor without another glance.

“Take her upstairs,” he ordered calmly. “And remember disobedience has consequences.”

The house swallowed his footsteps.

You stood there, breath uneven, chest tight, realizing with brutal clarity:

This wasn’t just punishment.

It was a warning.

------

At first, you fought.

You screamed at him that he couldn’t starve you, that he had no right to decide whether you ate or slept or breathed freely. You told him a man who needed to break a woman to feel powerful was nothing but a coward.

Taehyung listened.

And smiled.

“If you don’t want to starve,” he said calmly, “then work.”

The house became your cage.

From dawn until night, he kept you moving, cleaning rooms no one used, scrubbing floors already spotless, carrying heavy trays up and down the stairs until your arms trembled. When you refused, when your body finally gave in and you sat down, dizzy and weak.

That was when he punished you.

Not with shouting. Not with rage.

He ordered the doors opened and you were pushed outside.

Barefoot. At night.

The cold stone bit into your skin as the gates closed behind you. You stood there, wrapped in nothing but thin fabric, listening to the sounds of the house warm, alive while you were left outside like something unwanted.

Hae-in watched from the balcony.

Her hands shook as she gripped the railing, guilt hollowing her eyes. She wanted to speak. To stop it. But she didn’t.

She couldn’t.

Taehyung stood beside her, cigarette glowing faintly in the dark.

“Let her learn,” he said.

Night after night, it continued.

Slowly, something inside you began to crack.

You stopped arguing. You stopped pleading. When he ordered, you moved. When he mocked, you stayed silent.

He started giving you food again,not enough to nourish you, only enough to keep you standing. Thin soups. Dry bread. Measured portions, like rations given to something that only needed to survive.

And he watched the change.

Your face grew hollow. Your eyes dulled. Your shoulders slumped, as if the weight of the house itself rested on them.

One evening, as you stood near the mirror, he came to a stop behind you.

He studied your reflection with open satisfaction.

“You were beautiful once,” he said lazily. “Do you remember that?”

You didn’t respond.

“You had fire,” he continued, exhaling smoke. “You thought you were strong.”

He leaned closer.

“Now look at you. You look like a corpse that still hasn’t realized it’s dead.”

Still, you said nothing.

That silence pleased him more than your screams ever had.

He began to enjoy it, the way you lowered your eyes when he entered a room, the way you waited for instructions instead of defying him. The way your hands moved automatically when he told you to clean, to serve, to stand aside.

“You see?” he said one night, voice calm, almost philosophical. “This is how it always ends.”

He circled you slowly.

“Women fight at first. They cry, they scream, they dream of freedom.” Then he stopped in front of you.

“But in the end, they give up,” he said softly. “Because that’s what you’re made for. To serve. To bend.”

You stood there, unmoving. No anger. No tears. No resistance.

And that was when he smiled, not cruelly, not loudly.

But with quiet victory.

------

The house was unusually quiet.

Too quiet.

You were wiping the dining table when the sound reached you boots. Heavy. Measured. Not the hurried steps of servants, not Taehyung’s deliberate stride.

Authority.

Before anyone could react, the front doors were pushed open.

Men in uniform stepped inside, royal police, their coats dark, insignia gleaming under the chandelier. The air shifted instantly, thick with something unfamiliar in this house.

Judgment.

Taehyung emerged from the study, irritation already written on his face.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

The officer at the front didn’t flinch. “Kim Taehyung,” he said coldly, “you are under arrest for betraying the Crown.”

The words echoed.

For a moment, Taehyung actually laughe sharp, disbelieving. “You must be mistaken.”

The officer held up a file. “Illegal acquisition of royal lands under false authority. Forged seals. Unreported profits. Black-market dealings with foreign traders. We have records, witnesses, and signed documents.”

Taehyung’s smile faded.

“This is false,” he snapped. “Someone is setting me up.”

“We thought you’d say that,” the officer replied. “That’s why this arrest comes directly by royal order.”

That was when it finally hit him. His jaw clenched.

His gaze shifted slowly, deliberately until it landed on you.

You stood there, silent.

Tired. Hollow-eyed. Faint scars visible against your skin, your body carrying the quiet evidence of everything he had done.

And yet

You were smiling. Not wide. Not triumphant.

Just enough.

Taehyung’s breath hitched. “You,” he said quietly.

The officer followed his line of sight. “Your wife has also filed a formal complaint,” he added. “Abuse. Illegal confinement. Deprivation of food.”

Taehyung turned sharply. “She’s lying.”

The officer stepped closer to you. His eyes softened, just briefly.

“We can see otherwise.”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

Your body told the story for you how thin you’d become, how lifeless you looked, how even standing seemed to cost you effort.

Proof.

Taehyung swallowed.

For the first time, something close to panic flickered in his eyes.

“You think this changes anything?” he hissed, stepping toward you before the guards blocked him. “You think you’ve won?”

You met his gaze fully now.

“I never bent,” you said quietly. “I just waited.”

The words landed like a blade. He should have known. He did know.

You were never the kind of woman who truly gave up.

The guards grabbed his arms.

“Kim Taehyung,” the officer said firmly, “you will come with us.”

Taehyung struggled once before stilling. His eyes never left you as they dragged him toward the door.

This was not how it was supposed to end.

Not with you standing free. Not with him exposed. Not with the house watching him fall.

As the doors closed behind him, the silence returned.

But this time. It wasn’t suffocating.It was peaceful.

------

The iron bars were cold.

Taehyung learned that very quickly.

No matter how many names he invoked, no matter how many favors he tried to collect, the truth remained unchanged, he was powerless. The royals did not bend. The law did not hesitate.

And the public?

They devoured his fall.

The man once spoken of with fear and reverence was now whispered about with disgust. Headlines called him a traitor. A tyrant. A disgrace. But the one thing they repeated the most, almost with disbelief.

Defeated by a woman.

That was what hurt him the most.

Not the chains. Not the cell. But knowing that the woman he tried to starve, break, and erase was the very reason he sat there now.

You were far away from him.

Safe.

At your parents’ home.

The walls were familiar, the air softer, yet your chest still felt heavy. Healing did not come just because the danger was gone.

Your father stood in the doorway, older than you remembered. Smaller. Guilt had a way of shrinking men.

“I heard everything,” he said quietly.

You didn’t look at him.

“I ruined your life,” his voice cracked. “I gave you to a man I knew nothing about… because I was afraid. Afraid of society. Afraid of shame.”

Silence filled the room.

“I saw my daughter breaking,” he continued, tears finally spilling, “and I still did nothing.”

He fell to his knees.

“I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” he whispered. “But I beg you forgive me.”

You turned to face him.

The tears you shed weren’t loud. They didn’t shake your body the way they once did.

They were calm.

Tired.

You stepped forward and lifted him up. “I forgive you,” you said.

Not because he deserved it but because you deserved peace.

Your father sobbed into your shoulder, the weight of years crashing down on him.

And you stood there, steady.

You had survived a man who believed women were meant to kneel. A man who thought cruelty was power and obedience was love.

He never let go of his ego.

But he lost anyway.

You didn’t scream your victory. You didn’t celebrate it. You simply lived and that was enough.

------

Months had passed.

Months of hearings, whispers, paperwork stained with judgment and suspicion. Freedom was never handed to women easily, not even when they bled for it. You were questioned, doubted, dissected. Your pain was weighed like evidence, your scars studied like rumors.

But today.

The court doors stood open and the verdict was final.

You were no longer Kim Taehyung’s wife.

The moment the announcement was made, the room fell into a strange silence. Not relief. Not joy. Just stillness. As if the world itself needed a second to understand that the chain around your neck had finally snapped.

Then you felt it.

His gaze.

You turned.

Taehyung stood there, thinner, rougher, the arrogance dulled but not gone. Prison had taken his power, not his pride. His eyes burned fierce, hateful, wounded in the most dangerous way.

You looked at him calmly and smiled.

“Tch,” you scoffed softly, eyes dragging over him with deliberate cruelty. “It looks like they don’t serve you enough in there.”

You tilted your head, mimicking his old tone. “You look tired,” you continued. “Almost like a corpse.”

The words landed.

Once, those words had shattered you.

Now they shattered him.

His jaw tightened. He took a step forward, lips parting to spit something venomou something meant to hurt, to reclaim control.

But iron fingers closed around his arm.

“Enough,” the guard snapped, pulling him back.

Taehyung struggled for half a second before stopping. His eyes locked onto yours one last time, burning with the realization he hated most.

He no longer had access to you.

You smirked and walked away.

Outside the courtroom, the air felt lighter. Not warm. Not joyful. But breathable.

That’s when you saw her.

Seo Hae-in stood near the steps, hands clasped tightly, eyes lowered. She looked smaller somehow, like someone who had lived years inside another person’s shadow.

She didn’t meet your gaze at first.

“I’m sorry,” she said finally, voice trembling. “For everything.”

You studied her quietly.

Then you spoke not cruelly, not gently. Just honestly.

“Why don’t you leave him?” you asked. “He doesn’t deserve you. He doesn’t deserve anything.”

Her breath hitched.

“I’ve been with him for years,” she whispered. “Yearning for something he never gave. I don’t have the courage to let go.” She swallowed. “I still see him as my husband… even though he never treated me like his wife.”

You felt it then. Not anger. Not resentment.

Pity.

Not because she stayed but because she believed suffering was love.

You didn’t argue. You didn’t push.

“It’s your life,” you said quietly. “Your choice.” And you meant it.

You turned away, stepping down the stairs, the sun brushing your skin like a promise.

Behind you were ashes of power, cruelty, and a marriage built on control.

Ahead of you was something unfamiliar.

Freedom.

For the first time, your life belonged to you and this time. You would choose yourself.

he always did this—words first, effort never. big realizations that arrived wayyyyy too late and left early. “i miss you” typed from the comfort of wherever he happened to be, while you sat here counting how many times you’d forgiven him already.

seven times, maybe?

you pour yourself a glass of water and lean against the counter, eyes fixed on the door. it’s quiet. too quiet for someone who claims they can’t live without her.

if he wants me, he knows where i am.

The knock comes fifteen minutes later.

not confident, nor was it desperate. just enough to say i’m here now—does that count?

you don’t answer right away. let him sit between you, the door and all the things he didn’t do sooner.

When she opens it, he’s holding nothing. No flowers. No phone. Just his hands in his pockets and an apology already forming on his lips.

“don’t,” you say, “you’re here. that’s good. but tell me why it took you this long to just show up?” 

your jaw tightens “i’m not even asking for a lot, i’m just asking for you to show up for fucks sake!” you spat bitterly

“if you want to stay, jungkook, you don’t get to explain why you weren’t there.”

you hold his gaze.

“you show up. you put the effort in. and if you can’t do that—”

you step back, hands moving wildly, gesturing towards the door.

“get the fuck out.”

the ultimatum settles between you, heavy and unmoving.

he doesn’t answer, he doesn’t move. when he finally does, it’s only a single nod—hesitant, unsure. the silence afterward says more than he ever could. 

he reaches into the pocket of his dark denim jeans pulling out his phone for a second there, you think hes going to ruin this again, you think he’s either going to check his messages or answer a call. but, instead he leaves it on your dusty coffee table. face down on the table. 

you don’t comment. silence fills the space between you, dense with tension, leaving you to wonder if he really deserves an eighth chance. 

“sit.” you say, not maintaining eye contact. no arguing. no sigh. just lowers himself onto the edge of the couch like he’s afraid even that might be too much. You stay where you are, back turned, counting the seconds it takes before he speaks.

he doesn’t.

one minute passes. then two. the silence stretches thin, then tight, like a wire pulled too far. you rinse your glass even though it’s already clean. adjust the flowers even though they’re wilting anyway.

he stays still. that’s new. you hate that your chest reacts before your brain does. “this doesn’t fix everything,” you say finally, quieter now. not kinder. just tired. he nods once. slow. like he understands this isn’t a victory.

“i know.” that’s the first thing he’s said that doesn’t sound like a plea. you glance at the phone on the table. Still face down. Still untouched. You don’t tell him to pick it up. you sit across from him instead.

“so,” you start, voice steadier than you feel, “next month. on the eleventh. my brother’s getting married.” You finally look at him then. “i need a date.” the word hangs heavier than i love you ever did. He straightens slightly, like the gravity of it just hit him. family. witnesses. no hiding behind apologies afterward. “i’m giving you one more chance, jungkook,” you continue, slower now, deliberate. “one.”

you swallow. “if you fail to show up, we’re done. Whatever the fuck this is—” you gesture vaguely between you, 4 months of almosts and excuses compressed into the motion, “—it’s over.” you pause for a dramatic effect. no tears tho. just you setting your terms.

he doesn’t answer right away. and for once, you don’t rush to fill the silence for him. or to come up with excuses for him for why he didn't show up. he nods. once. twice “i’ll be there.” You don’t soften. “that’s not a promise,” you say. “that’s an expectation.” his jaw tightens. “then expect me.”

you lean back, arms crossing over your chest. “good,” you say. “because if i have to look at that empty chair—” You don’t finish the sentence. You don’t need to. He glances at the door. then at the phone he left behind. still face down. He stays seated.

you stay there, watching him, noticing the slight slump in his shoulders, the way his hands rest, still, on his knees. for once, he’s not reaching for excuses. not for you, not for himself. you pick up your glass of water again, swirling it idly, careful not to let him see how pulse races. you’re not softening. not yet, you’ve made that mistake one-too-many times. “don’t think this fixes everything,” you say finally, quieter this time, just above a murmur. “i don’t forget. and nor do i forgive because it’s the easy way out.” he doesn’t answer, just nods again, slower this time. the nod carries weight. accountability. maybe even respect.

you glance at the wilted roses, curling inward on your chic marble counter. “you see those?” you ask, voice sharper. “they didn’t last. neither did your last seven chances. don’t make eight a repeat.” he swallows. tight jaw, eyes fixed on the floor for a fraction of a second before finally meeting yours. “i get it,” he says. not a promise. not a plea. just understanding. you settle back into the plushness of your armchair, keeping your gaze deliberate, heavy. “then stay. prove it. or don’t bother coming next month at all.” 

the next few weeks are a grind. small things, careful gestures, and constant observation. he cooks for you, does the dishes without being asked, folds the laundry, wipes the counters. all of it quiet, deliberate, no fanfare. you notice everything. every movement, every glance, every little act of effort. it should make your chest ease, but it doesn’t. it twists tighter instead. because it’s not enough. it’s never enough—not yet.

then comes the call. you hear it before you see it, the soft laugh, the casual tone, the easy familiarity in his voice. another girl. it’s a friend, he says later. work stuff, he insists. but your stomach twists anyway. the apartment, which had felt like a small island of controlled tension, suddenly feels too small, too heavy. you don’t move. you just lean against the counter, arms crossed, jaw tight, waiting to see how he’ll handle it. he notices. he watches you. his expression is calm, almost unreadable, but you can see it in the way he flexes his hands, the way his jaw tightens, the slight pause before he speaks.

“it’s nothing,” he says. voice low, measured. steady. no pleading. no excuses. “just a friend.”

you don’t say anything. you turn away, pretending not to notice the ache in your chest, pretending that your thoughts aren’t spiraling. he doesn’t push. doesn’t argue. he just leaves it there. and it stings more than any fight ever could. because he’s quiet, and calm, and present—and you hate that you notice it, hate that it matters at all.

that night, the apartment smells of rain and wet asphalt, the streetlights casting streaks across the floor. he makes tea for both of you, sets it down silently on the table. you stare at it, at him, at the way he doesn’t try to charm or fix you. the thought that he could be doing the same for someone else, the memory of that laugh, sits on your chest like a weight. you sip the tea, hands trembling, and keep your eyes forward. you don’t speak. he doesn’t. the silence is a battlefield.

the next day, you leave clothes on the floor, dishes in the sink, a stack of unread mail. you’re testing him, again. he notices. silently, efficiently, he handles everything. no comment. no judgment. no question. the way he moves through the apartment, respecting your space, following your rules—it should soothe you. instead, it twists the knife. your chest tightens. jealousy, frustration, and longing swirl together in a bitter mix you can’t untangle. you want to scold him. you want to run. you want to collapse into him. and you hate all of it.

he doesn’t talk about the other girl again. not really. he doesn’t apologize either. he just exists. quietly, carefully, showing up in ways that matter without words. every small act is a reminder: he’s trying. proving. staying. but you’re not forgiving. not yet. the wall you’ve built isn’t gone. it’s cracking in places, yes, but the cracks are sharp, jagged. stepping too close could cut. and maybe that’s the point. maybe that’s the test you’ve imposed, and he’s still here, navigating it without faltering.

and so the weeks pass. little victories, little failures. he notices the small things. he listens when you vent. he doesn’t interrupt or try to fix. he leaves notes that you don’t respond to. he’s quiet when he should be, present when he should be, patient when every fiber of your body is screaming at him to prove himself in grand gestures. and all the while, you’re fighting yourself, fighting the pull you feel toward him even as you remind yourself he’s the one who left you dangling before.

every time you catch him staring when he thinks you’re not looking, you look away. you hate that it affects you. you hate that the apartment, the quiet, the gestures, even the faint smell of his cologne lingering in the air, all of it matters. you don’t let yourself smile. you don’t let yourself soften. not fully. you just wait, watch, and test, counting days, counting mistakes, counting every small thing that might prove—if only to yourself—that he’s worth the risk again.

2 more days passed with him quietly proving himself, small gestures stacking up like bricks you’re not ready to lean on. the apartment smells faintly of rain one evening, and you’re pacing, restless, flipping through papers you don’t need to read. he’s on the couch, silent as always, watching you. he doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t comment, just observes. your chest tightens because you hate that it matters that he’s there, calm, patient, unmoved by the storm inside you.

then he speaks, slow, measured, and it makes your blood freeze.

“jealous, baby?” he says, voice low, just enough to reach you, carrying that infuriating calm. “do you want to be my only?”

you freeze. part of you wants to scowl, part of you wants to collapse, and part of you wants to ask exactly what the hell he means. he doesn’t answer your look. instead, he tilts his head slightly, eyes dark, unreadable, like he’s playing some quiet game only he knows the rules to. he lets the silence hang between you, letting your pulse race, letting the question settle in your chest like it’s both a dare and a promise.

you don’t respond. you can’t. and he doesn’t push. he leans back, fingers lightly tapping against the armrest, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth—but it doesn’t reach his eyes. there’s something in the way he watches you, careful and deliberate, that makes it impossible to look away. it’s almost maddening.

“think about it,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “the rest of the world doesn’t get this version of me. you do. you’re the only one who knows what it feels like, who gets it. the rest…” he lets the thought hang, unfinished, mysterious, like he’s daring you to chase it, to ask for more, to fall into something you can’t control.

your chest hammers, and all the walls you’ve built quiver. anger. desire. frustration. longing. all of it crashing in one pulse. you hate it. you hate him. you hate that it works. and yet, you’re here, crashing your lips onto his before your brain can catch up. it’s not soft. it’s not gentle. it’s all teeth and desperation, all the words you never said pressed into one reckless motion.

he stills for half a second, surprised, like he hadn’t actually expected you to do it. like he’d been testing the ground and didn’t think it would crack this fast. then his hand comes up—not grabbing, not pulling you closer—just resting against your wrist, grounding, careful. that alone almost makes you pull back. almost.

you break the kiss first, breath uneven, forehead pressed briefly to his chest before you step back like you’ve burned yourself. your hands are shaking. you curl them into fists at your sides.

“don’t,” you say, voice low, warning. not to him. to yourself.

his eyes are dark now, unreadable, all the teasing gone, replaced with something quieter. heavier. “i wasn’t trying to win,” he says, just as softly. “i was asking.”

that makes it worse.

you laugh once, sharp and humorless, shaking your head. “you don’t get to ask things like that,” you tell him. “not after everything.”

he nods, slow. accepting. no argument. no defense. “then tell me what i do get,” he says. “because i’m still here.”

the silence that follows is thick, charged, uncomfortable. the kind that forces you to feel everything at once. your pulse hasn’t slowed. your lips still tingle. you hate that part of you wants to lean back in. you hate that part of you already did.

you step back another inch, reclaiming space. control. “this doesn’t change anything,” you say.

he meets your eyes. steady. “i know.”

and somehow, that’s the most dangerous part of all.

you step back, still breathing unevenly, and for a moment the apartment feels impossibly large. the space between you stretches and contracts in your mind, every inch heavy with words neither of you will say. you want to hate him. you want to tell him to leave, to go back to whatever life he thinks he has outside these walls. instead, you’re frozen, noticing the faint rise and fall of his chest, the way his dark hair falls slightly across his forehead, the quiet intensity of his gaze.

he doesn’t move closer, doesn’t speak, doesn’t try to fill the silence. he just stays there, letting you exist, letting you process, letting you own the moment you created. it makes your pulse spike again, the anger twisting into frustration, the frustration twisting into something else entirely—something you’re not ready to name.

you grab the mug you left on the counter, fingers tight around the ceramic, needing something tangible. you take a sip of the cold coffee, taste bitter and acrid, and it mirrors the ache twisting through your chest. you glance at him, and he’s still watching, patient, unreadable. there’s no mockery, no teasing, just the quiet reminder that he’s still here. that he hasn’t moved. that he doesn’t need to. and it drives you insane.

“you’re ridiculous,” you mutter, more to yourself than him. the words taste hollow. he smiles faintly—small, knowing, teasing, but restrained—and it makes the ache in your chest tighten. “am i?” he asks softly, not accusing, not challenging. just asking, and the simplicity of it makes the tension coil tighter, like a spring ready to snap.

you look away, pretending to sort through papers on the counter, pretending the storm of thoughts in your head doesn’t revolve entirely around him. your stomach twists at the thought of the other girl, at the memory of that laugh, at the way he’s capable of being so calm and patient, so infuriatingly present while you’re unraveling. every glance he steals, every subtle movement, every quiet gesture—he’s threading himself into the edges of your day without permission.

he doesn’t break the silence for a long minute, then he leans back slightly on the couch, elbows resting on knees, hands loosely clasped. “you’re thinking about it,” he says, not as an accusation. not as a tease. as a statement. and you want to snap at him, to deny it, to shove him away with your words, with your fists, with everything. but you can’t. because he’s right. and that makes it worse. it makes your chest ache with something you’re not ready to name.

you finally look at him, voice low, tight: “maybe i am. maybe i hate it. maybe i hate you.”

his smirk doesn’t fade. it’s slow, almost imperceptible, and mysterious, like he knows something you don’t. “maybe you love it too,” he says, soft, dangerous, unrelenting. “maybe that’s why you’re still standing here, instead of running.”

and just like that, the walls you’ve been building for weeks tremble again. you hate him. you hate yourself. you hate how much you can’t stop noticing him, can’t stop wanting him, even as every piece of you is screaming that he’s the reason you hurt in the first place.

you don’t turn around. you don’t trust yourself too.

“if this is a mistake,” he says quietly, “stop me now.”

your fingers curl against the counter. your chest aches with want. you shake your head once.

when you do finally turn to face him, something dark flickers in his eyes need. his restraint snaps, and suddenly he’s there, hands firm on your hips– most definitely leaving bruises as he pulls you into a kiss that steals the air from your lungs. 

you could feel his fingers stimulating the erogenous spot behind your ears causing your arms to erupt in goosebumps, and a rush of heat to pool between your legs. "don't wanna fuck anyone that isn't you," he murmers into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent  "i know you're still mad at me, but i don't wanna fuck anyone else." he continues, "only wanna fuck you. y’know that right? no one else feels like you do."

jungkook messily yanked at your shirt taking it off leaving you in your black lace bra, the cool of the air hitting your nipples causing them to harden and him to attack them with harsh sucks, licks and bites muttering whatever he could, “fuck, you’re so perfect.” or “can’t wait to ruin you with my cock.” he would groan out 

his kisses trail all over your body, boobs, stomach, neck, fuck! there's not an inch of skin he leaves untouched, causing strangled, desperate moans to leave your plump lips 

“fuck– stop teasing.” you exhale with a sigh, he begrudgingly obliges, carrying your body to your plush, soft bed full of decorative pillows and multiple decorative throw blankets, dropping you down harshly, stripping your pants off of your legs harshly– eyes glancing over your covered core visibly groaning at the sight of the glistening wet spot on your panties.

he inches his face closer to your clothed core, ripping your panties off. a string of wetness following making him growl at the sight. “holy fuck, your so fucking soaked love. hmm? all f’me?” he grunts out. fingers dipping to slide up and down between your folds, eyes on your face watching your every reaction, he stops and then smirks. 

he uses the fingers that weren’t toying with your slippery cunt to squeeze at your chest. twisting and massaging your nipples making your breath shudder. the fingers toying at your folds slide down, dipping his fingers into your entrance seeping with arousal. your head falls back into the pillows as you moan out begging for him to go harder. “you’re so silent now huh? cat got your tongue?” he murmurs dipping his head into your neck continuing to fuck his fingers into you at a inhumane pace, desperately chasing your high “fuck!” you scream out, eyes brimming with tears, a familiar coil building in your stomach. just as you're about to topple over the edge, he pulls his fingers out bringing them to your lips causing you to whine out protesting, “gonna make you cum on my cock, love.” 

“open.” he growls, as you part your swollen lips for him, you whimper, all pathetic and needy as your tongue rests out flat for him to do as he pleases, which is pushing his slick covered fingers in your mouth watching how your tongue swirls over his digits coating them with saliva. he pulls them out with a pop before scrambling to rid himself of his pants, his dick standing red and angry leaking with pre-cum at the tip, and undoubtedly hard. the sight of him was intoxicating, even worse? he was drinking you in like fine fuckin’ wine. 

“are you just gonna stand there and look at me? or are you gonna fuck me.” you croak out, voice dry from moaning his name just mere moments before, feeling a sudden surge of confidence you say, “your all talk, no game–” unable to finish your sentence you yelp as he spreads your legs pulling you forward, harshly pinning your hands above your head slipping in. giving you no time to adjust to his girthy length. 

“think you're forgetting who's in charge here, princess.” he growls low and deep, moaning at the way your gummy walls clenched around his length, “look at me when im fucking you.” he says, bringing his fingers to stimulate your clit, rubbing harsh fast circles on your sensetive bundle of nerves. “fuck off.” you snarl up at him.

suddenly he flips the position, causing a moan to escape from your lips. now you're on top of him, riding his cock, screaming his name, desperately chasing your high. “fucking hell your so fuckin’ perfect, made for riding cock huh?” he says coaxing your orgasm out of you, it hits you like a truck, blinding white, seeing stars. 

you whimper, feeling overstimulated, tears streaming down your face, “i’m s’close baby, where’d you want it?” he slurs out, pace quickening, his high quickly approaching. “fuck, wan’ it inside” you sob out, moans getting louder– you were probably gonna get a noise complaint tomorrow, but you could care less. 

just as his orgasm approaches, painting your walls white, his body collapses on top of yours, and you pull him in for a hug, his skin was glistening with sweat, his cock was covered in your slick. his shoulders look like they’ve been attacked, skin flushed and marked in angry red half-moons. probably going to scar, you think to yourself. 

“that was… so good,” he murmurs, more to the ceiling than to you, voice rough, almost disbelieving.

you don’t answer right away. you just nod once, slow and measured, because anything more would feel like giving something away. your chest is still tight, pulse uneven, and you focus on the rise and fall of his back instead, on the evidence, on the silence, on how intimacy doesn’t fix anything, but it does leave marks. 

“still doesn’t fix anything tho, remember that.” you murmur, before drifting to sleep.

morning comes thin and grey, light slipping through the curtains like it doesn’t want to be here either. you wake up before him, already tense, already aware of the wrongness of daylight. everything feels louder now — the stillness, the air, the fact that he’s there beside you, breathing like nothing fractured last night. you stare at the ceiling for a moment, jaw tight, replaying nothing on purpose. when you finally sit up, you don’t look at him. you just swing your legs off the bed and leave, because staying still feels like a mistake.

the kitchen is quiet when you get there. too quiet. you lean against the counter with your arms crossed, waiting for the kettle to boil, watching your reflection in the dark window. you look unimpressed. guarded. good. footsteps sound behind you and you don’t turn around. “you’re up early,” he says softly, like volume alone might keep this from being uncomfortable. “couldn’t sleep,” you reply, flat, then add after a beat, “weird.” you hear the pause behind you. the wince you don’t see still feels satisfying.

he moves around the kitchen carefully, like he’s afraid of breaking something that’s already cracked. cupboards open slowly. a pan is set down too gently. the smell of eggs fills the space, domestic in a way that almost irritates you. “i thought i’d make breakfast,” he says, tentative. you glance at the stove and hum. “brave.” it earns a small, nervous huff of a laugh that doesn’t quite land. he plates the food and slides it toward you like an offering. you sit, not out of gratitude, but curiosity. it tastes fine. of course it does. he’s always been good at what comes after.

“wow,” you say mildly. “if only this energy existed earlier.” he stills, eyes dropping to the counter. “i’m trying,” he murmurs. you sip your coffee. it’s lukewarm. fitting. “you always are,” you say. “eventually.” the silence that follows is thick, uncomfortable, earned. then his phone rings, sharp and intrusive. you don’t look at it. you don’t need to. he hesitates before answering, again, and that pause says more than the call ever could.

“i need to take this,” he says. “shocking,” you reply without looking up. he steps away, voice lowering, posture shifting into someone you recognize too well - focused, needed elsewhere. you focus on the table instead, on a faint scratch in the wood, on keeping your jaw from tightening. when he comes back, he doesn’t sit. “i have to go in,” he says. “just for a bit. i’ll be back by the evening.” you finally look at him. “define evening.” he exhales. “you’re already mad.” you tilt your head. “no. i’m just preparing.” that lands. you see it in the way his shoulders tense.

he leaves shortly after, promising to text. “don’t strain yourself,” you say. the door closes and the apartment exhales with you. the hours crawl. you don’t spiral— you think. 

by the time night settles in, you’re calm in that dangerous way, the kind that comes from deciding instead of hoping. when the door opens at nine, he starts apologizing immediately. you let him finish.

“you said evening,” you say evenly. “work got complicated,” he replies. “it always does.” he rubs his face, frustrated. “this isn’t fair.” you straighten. “neither is pretending i don’t notice patterns.” his jaw tightens. “this is about her, isn’t it?” you meet his eyes, steady and unflinching. “everything is about honesty,” you say. “she just happens to be where yours keeps thinning.”

the silence snaps before it can settle. he exhales hard and drags a hand through his hair, pacing once like the room is closing in on him. “i’m fucking trying,” he says, voice rough now, stripped of whatever restraint he’d been holding onto. “do you think this is easy for me? i’m juggling work, expectations, everything coming at me at once, and somehow it’s never enough.”

you let out a short laugh, sharp and humorless, the kind that surprises even you. “don’t,” you say, cutting in before he can build momentum. “don’t start talking like you’re the only one carrying something. you don’t get points for being overwhelmed if i’m the one who keeps getting pushed to the side.” your arms cross over your chest, nails pressing into your skin. “you don’t juggle me. you slot me in when you have time left over.”

his head snaps up. “that’s not what i’m doing.”

“then explain why i’m always waiting,” you fire back, voice rising despite yourself. “waiting for you to show up, waiting for you to text, waiting for you to decide i matter enough today. you swear you’ll be here, and then you’re not. you say things are nothing, and then you go vague. and somehow i’m supposed to just accept it because you eventually walk through the door?”

he swears under his breath, frustration spilling over. “i didn’t cheat on you.”

the room goes still.

you look at him slowly. “i didn’t say you did.”

the words hang between you, ugly and exposed, heavier than anything either of you yelled.

“but you thought it,” he says, quieter now, anger edged with something wounded. “you fucking thought it.”

“because you won’t be straight with me,” you shoot back immediately. “because every time i ask a simple question, you dodge it or minimize it. because you make me feel insane for noticing patterns that are right in front of me.” your voice steadies as you speak, and that scares him more than shouting ever could. “i don’t want your reassurance. i want clarity.”

“she’s a coworker,” he says, louder again, like volume might make it stick. “that’s it. nothing else. i swear.” then, after a beat, softer, “i don’t want anyone else.”

you hold his gaze, searching for the cracks. “then act like it,” you say. “don’t make me fight you just to understand where i stand. don’t make honesty feel like its something i have to earn.”

he stops moving. not abruptly, not like he’s forcing himself to calm down, just… stills, like he’s run out of places to pace to. his shoulders sag slightly, the tension bleeding out of them in a way that looks more like exhaustion than surrender. when he speaks again, it’s steadier, lower, like he’s finally stopped trying to defend himself.

“i handled this wrong,” he says. not rushed. not dramatic. “i kept telling myself i could make it up later. that if i showed up eventually, it would cancel out all the times i didn’t.” you don’t respond. you don’t interrupt. you just watch him, waiting to see if he keeps going. he does. “but that’s not how it works,” he adds. “and i know that now.” there’s no grand declaration in it. no plea. it doesn’t fix anything — but it doesn’t dodge it either. and that’s what makes it land.

you exhale slowly, some of the tightness in your chest loosening despite yourself. not relief. not forgiveness. just the quiet recognition that he finally said something that didn’t feel like an excuse wrapped in better wording.

“i don’t need speeches,” you say after a moment, your voice quieter now, less biting. “i need follow-through.” he nods immediately. “i know.” the room feels different now. still heavy, still fragile, but no longer sharp enough to cut. the anger hasn’t vanished; it’s just stopped screaming. you lean back against the counter, arms uncrossing without realizing it, letting the tension ease fraction by fraction.

“i don’t want to fight like this all the time,” you admit, finally letting a hint of vulnerability slip past the sarcasm. “i don’t want to feel like i’m always bracing for disappointment.” he steps closer, careful, slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted. “i don’t want to be the reason you feel like that,” he says, and you look up at him, really look at him, scanning for cracks, for any sign that he’s still just words instead of someone who actually gets it. he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t smirk. he just stands there, aware, present, letting the quiet stretch between you without trying to fix it.

“i’m still angry,” you say, voice low, almost teasing, though there’s a tremor of sincerity under it. “and i’m not pretending this fixed everything.” he nods slowly, a ghost of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “i wouldn’t believe you if you did,” he replies, and for some reason the absurdity of it makes you exhale a quiet, sharp laugh. the tension softens, just a little, like air slipping through a cracked door.

a beat passes. then another. you push off the counter and step closer, close enough that you can feel his warmth but not touching, letting the moment sit heavy and deliberate. “don’t make me regret staying,” you murmur. his answer is immediate, confident, steady: “i won’t.” you study him for a long second, looking for cracks again. they’re still there. nothing about him is suddenly perfect. but he’s here, present. and for now, that’s enough.

you reach out first, fingers brushing lightly against the front of his shirt, grounding yourself in the moment as much as grounding him. he freezes, waiting, letting you decide how close this gets. you lean in, and the kiss is soft, slow, careful, tentative but full of something neither of you can admit out loud yet. it isn’t desperate or consuming; it’s gentle, grounding, like punctuation after a sentence that’s been running on too long. he doesn’t deepen it, doesn’t rush it. just stays there, steady, letting the quiet stretch between you.

when you finally pull back, your forehead rests lightly against his. “this doesn’t mean we’re fine,” you whisper. he exhales softly, a small breath that’s more relief than anything else. “i know,” he says. then, after a pause, “but i’m here.”

you grin faintly, soft but mischievous, and blurt it before your brain catches up: “i love you.” the words hang in the room, heavy and sudden, and for a split second he blinks, caught off guard. “really?” he asks, voice half-amused, half-disbelieving. you nod, smirking just a little, shaking your head at the absurdity of the moment. “yes, really,” you reply. he lets out a short laugh, exasperated but warm, shaking his head like he’s trying to process that after all this chaos, all the fights, all the almosts, you still managed to say the thing that matters most. and he doesn’t move away. he just leans in again, gently, letting the weight of the night settle in.

the wedding feels gentler than you expected. not quiet— just warm, like the kind of warmth that doesn’t announce itself but settles in anyway. the air hums softly with conversation, laughter kept low and respectful, like everyone here understands that this is something fragile and worth handling carefully. fairy lights are strung across the ceiling in loose arcs, glowing gold against the darkening evening, reflecting off glassware and polished wood until everything looks a little unreal.

you pause just inside the entrance.

he’s beside you, close enough that you feel the heat of him through the fabric of your clothes. not touching yet. just there. it steadies you more than you’d like to admit. for a second, you consider stepping forward alone — old instinct, old habit — but instead his pinky hooks around yours. it’s tentative, almost shy, like he’s offering rather than taking. you glance down, surprised despite yourself, then back up at him. he’s pretending very hard to be focused on the room. his hand doesn’t let go. you let your fingers curl around his.

your brother spots you almost immediately.

his face lights up in a way that makes your chest ache, and he pulls you into a hug that’s a little too tight, like he’s grounding himself. “you made it,” he says, voice thick with emotion and nerves and joy. you tell him you wouldn’t miss it, meaning more than just today. when he pulls back, his gaze flicks to the man beside you, curious but open. introductions are easy — too easy. he’s polite, warm without being overbearing, answering questions without oversharing. you watch him from the corner of your eye, waiting for the moment he checks his phone or drifts or finds an excuse to disappear.

he doesn’t.

when the ceremony begins, the room settles. chairs scrape softly as people stand, the murmur of voices dissolving into a hush. the music swells — not dramatic, just enough — and when the doors open, your brother’s expression changes. he tries to stay composed, but his eyes soften, then shine, and when his partner steps into view, he laughs quietly like he can’t believe this is real. your throat tightens. you blink, steadying yourself.

you feel him glance at you.

when you look back, he’s already watching — not the aisle, not the crowd. you. his expression is unreadable, but there’s no distance in it. no distraction. just presence. it shouldn’t matter this much. but it does.

the vows are simple. honest. no grand promises, just choice spoken out loud. i choose you. i keep choosing you. the words land somewhere deep in your chest, pressing against parts of you you’ve kept guarded for months. you wonder what it would feel like to say them without flinching.

the reception loosens everything.

the lights dim slightly, the music grows warmer, glasses are refilled. you drift between tables, pulled into conversations with relatives who comment on how happy your brother looks. he stays close without hovering, fitting himself into your orbit like it’s natural. when someone asks how you know each other, there’s a split second where your mouth opens and nothing comes out. you feel his attention shift immediately — he doesn’t answer for you. doesn’t rush you.

“we’re together,” you say finally.

the words feel heavier than you expected. solid. grounding. he smiles, not surprised, just quietly pleased, and nods like it’s obvious. during the speeches, he leans in with dry commentary that makes you huff quiet laughs you try to hide. when your brother thanks you specifically, voice wavering, your eyes sting. he notices. passes you a napkin without comment.

after dessert, after the first dance, after the clatter of plates being cleared, you slip outside.

not because you’re overwhelmed — just because you need a moment that isn’t shared. the night air is cool, carrying the distant thrum of music through the open doors behind you. you lean against the railing, breathing.

he joins you a minute later.

not immediately. like he’s learned when to give you space. “you disappear like this,” he says gently. you shrug, saying you like to think. “dangerous,” he replies, earning a small smile. you stand there for a while, shoulder to shoulder. the quiet feels earned.

then he admits he was nervous.

about today. about messing it up. about you. you turn toward him, telling him it mattered that he showed up, that he stayed present. he nods, says he wants consistency. wants real. wants you. the words settle between you, heavy but steady. you tell him you’re not doing maybes anymore. you’re either in or you’re not.

he doesn’t hesitate.

he’s in. something in you finally loosens, a breath you didn’t realize you were holding leaving your lungs.

“okay,” you say. “then you’re my boyfriend.”

his eyebrows lift, joking about the lack of ceremony, and you remind him he just attended one. he laughs softly and reaches for your hand like it’s settled now. like he belongs there. you look at him — really look at him — and the words come without panic.

“i love you.”

he freezes. blinks. “really?”

you groan, accusing him of ruining the moment. he laughs again, squeezing your hand as he says he loves you too — just didn’t expect to hear it like that. “at a wedding,” you tease. “very on theme.”

he kisses you softly.

unhurried.

when you pull back, the music swells inside again. you tug his hand and tell him they’re cutting the cake. he follows without question.

and for the first time, you don’t wonder if he’ll stay.

You hadn’t really known what to expect. 

In dramas, after a confession, things were usually a little awkward, shy, sweet. But the day after Jackson confessed to you, he nearly bit your hand off when you tried to steal one of his dumplings. Granted, you bit him first, but it was his job to be chivalrous, not yours. 

“Um, maybe eat your own before you try to steal mine?”

“I’m literally just a girl, Jackson.”

A few weeks after said confession, things were still mostly the same, as you were awoken by someone pinching your cheek. Bleary eyed, you squinted, looking up at a very hot, very annoyed face. 

“Where the hell is my academy sweatshirt? I’m gonna be late for my shift,” he huffed, giving you another pinch. Jackson worked part time at an MMA academy, teaching a class of young children. Unfortunately, that meant three days out of the week, he had to wake up at 7 in the morning to be ready by 8. And if he was up, so were you. 

“I dunno,” you whined groggily, rolling over. “I didn’t wear it. Promise.”

“Liar,” he accuses. 

“Mmn. ‘m not lying, check my laundry.”

You hear shuffling, the sound of your hamper being opened (filled with clean clothes, because dirty clothes go on the bathroom floor of course), and quickly tug the blanket over your head as Jackson calls your bluff. 

“At least it’s clean,” you attempt to plead your case, but the covers are yanked off. You yelp as Jackson flips you onto your back and begins to tickle you. 

“Didn’t wear it, huh? Seriously, of all my clothes?” he snarls, fingers digging into your sides. You can’t speak; you instead make animalistic noises of possession as you attempt to free yourself. You wrap your legs around his waist and shove at his chest, shouting apologies in between fits of laughter. 

At last, the tickling ends, and you all but collapse against the sheets, sprawled out like half a starfish. 

“I’m going to start charging you for the things you steal,” Jackson says, breathless himself from the efforts of torture. Only then are you made aware that his hands are on your thighs. You don’t think he’s doing it on purpose, until you do, when he squeezes them beneath his palms and brushes his thumbs under your pajama shorts. 

“Hey,” you warn, wriggling beneath him. He laughs and leans over you. 

“What?”

“You know what. Get off of me.”

He sighs, letting his head drop down as though weary. 

When he looks at you again, his eyes have gone all soft, and it makes you feel warm and tingly inside. You swallow and force yourself to look away. You weren’t completely immune to his charms and didn’t want to risk it, answering the question he hadn’t asked. 

“Nope.”

That was the deal. 

Kissing was alright—as long as it wasn’t too long or too deep. Touching was fine too, just avoid any erogenous zones. Truthfully, you weren’t sure why you’d placed such heavy restrictions on your…relationship? Whatever this was. Probably because at the end of the day, you were still terrified of losing him. Of crossing a bridge that crumbles behind you, never being able to return to where you were. 

Right now, the two of you could still be around your friends, could still shamelessly flirt and insist it isn’t flirting. When you’d shown up to dinner with the guys, your hand clasped in Jackson’s to test the waters, no one said a word. Youngjae crinkled his nose and said it was cringe…and that’s it. That was the only reaction. The only people surprised about this development were the two of you, apparently, mostly you. And, you hadn’t realized how horny you were for one another. 

When you’d stare at him after a shower, when he had the audacity to drink juice from the carton wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, you noticed that…you’ve always stared. That wasn’t new. It’s just that you were now aware of it, and also very aware of how it felt to see his throat working as he swallows, beads of water dripping down his chest and following the dip of his abs like a treasure map for your tongue—

But it went both ways, fortunately, as Jackson’s playful way of grabbing your waist when you were busily bent over no longer felt fun, but rather, made you want to push against him, feel his hands sliding elsewhere, because god had they always been so big? Had his fingers always been so long?

Presently, Jackson rolls his eyes and kisses your cheek. You refuse to look at him still, so he tilts down, where his lips brush your throat; when your head snaps up to scold him, he takes the opportunity to catch your lips with his, sighing as though relieved. 

Kissing him feels so normal that it’s almost painful, like every second his lips are against yours, you ask yourself why you were so stupid, why you hadn’t noticed before, why you hadn’t understood that the feelings you’ve had for him were being confused for platonic when they were much, much closer to something akin to lo—

“Mmff…ou’re ‘unna ‘ee ate,” you mumble, though Jackson doesn’t stop kissing you. You giggle as your words are slurred by his mouth, which in turn makes him smile, which in turn makes you wrap your arms around his neck and consider begging him to let the kids down just this once. 

You know he wouldn’t hesitate. So that’s why you groan and push him away. You squirm from beneath him before he can snatch you up, fixing your pajamas as though you were preparing to walk the red carpet. When you look up at Jackson, he’s on his knees on your bed, hands gripping the covers and head tilted to the side. Oh. 

“Stop looking at me like that, puppy boy,” you mumble, rolling your eyes. You cross your arms, taking on the weight of the world’s strongest soldier as Jackson fucking Wang silently begs to bend you over the mattress

Jackson lets his legs slip over the side, feet planted on the floor as he tugs you toward him by the strings of your shorts. You whine in protest—losing a drawstring was so—

“I think you like it when I beg,” Jackson says, voice too low to be good for your health. You look at him in surprise, his expression hasn’t really changed, but why did he have to do this to you?

“I think you’re gonna be late,” you huff, feeling your cheeks redden. 

“I think you’re cute when you blush.”

“I think—”

“I think we’re gonna be good for each other.”

“It was my turn,” you pout. “I think you need a cold shower.”

Jackson mumbles something you don’t catch as he nuzzles his face against your stomach. His arms hang loosely around your hips, and you’re once again left with emotional whiplash as the man somehow goes from fuck me~ to hold me in the span of a few seconds. You swallow and rake your fingers through his hair (which he pulls at less nowadays, thanks to your nagging). 

“I want to,” you say quietly, nails scratching at his head. “But I’m scared. Like…we could probably bounce back from this, and from holding hands and even kissing. But I’m afraid that I’d never be able to, you know, not hurt around you the further we go if things turn out bad. We just don’t know what’ll happen if we commit. That’s scary.”

To your surprise, Jackson squeezes you tighter. He tilts his head back to look up at you, his chin resting just above your belly button. 

“What is it gonna take, pie?” he asks softly. Your brows furrow, though he continues. “What’s it gonna take for you to realize I’ve been yours this entire time?”

Your breath catches in your throat; you know he can feel it from the way your stomach tightens. He noses at the material of your top, planting a kiss there. Then the bastard opens his mouth again. You can taste his words.

“You own me, baby.”

You wake up confused and sweaty, fumbling around for your phone. You grab the device and groan—it’s not even five in the morning, and it’s a saturday. 

The dream woke you up. You and Jackson had an idea to conserve water, apparently, sharing a shower too small for one person let alone two. Your brain filled in the blanks for the missing information, unfortunately for you, though you had no doubt he was as beautiful in this reality, too.

It was almost impossible for you to go back to sleep after waking up usually, so you throw the covers off with much more attitude than necessary before quietly stepping out of your room. The light beneath Jackson’s door is off, and you tiptoe down the hall, but when you round the corner to the kitchen you gasp in surprise. 

Jackson raises a brow at you, taking a sip from the bottle of water in his hand. He’s wearing nothing but black boxers, showing off the lean muscles he works so hard on. So very hard. 

“You’re up?” he asks, and by his raspy tone it’s clear he woke up not long before you. You nod and shrug for no reason at all other than to distract from the fact that your eyes are eating him alive. He has the sexiest bedhead, and the thin chain he wears glints as it drapes over his collar bones.

“Thirsty,” you lie. You move past him to reach the fridge, but an arm hooks around your waist. You inhale sharply as you’re tugged against his chest, the warmth of him shooting tingles down your back. You swallow, and he holds the bottle in front of you. 

“Here,” he mumbles. He sounds so casual, like his actions hadn’t just made your soul briefly leave your physical form. You take the water from him and tilt your head back for a sip, not having realized how thirsty you were until you’ve finished half of it. 

You turn around, though he doesn’t release you, so you remain pressed to his bare chest. You have no idea why, but you lean forward and kiss him just below his collar bone, realizing too late how cruel you were being. In an attempt to make it chaste, you kiss the other side, right above his heart, though Jackson’s hand flies to your hair. He cups the back of your head and refuses to let you move. 

“Jackson,” you protest, but he whines. 

He fucking. Whines. 

“Please, pie. Just keep your lips on me. Please,” he breathes. You exhale a shaky breath and nod. 

“Okay,” you say quietly, and you swear he sighs with relief. You watch his face, tilting in again and pressing another kiss to the same spot as before. Jackson nods, his tongue slipping out to wet his lips. 

You kiss the center of his chest, lips dragging over his skin to his left pec. When you move a tad bit lower, this time where his heart beats, he hisses and tightens his grip in your hair. You gasp for all the right reasons, though he doesn’t know that.  

“Fuck, sorry,” he whispers as though the two of you are sneaking around rather than doing…whatever this was in the middle of your shared kitchen. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you giggle softly. “I didn’t know you were so sensitive.”

Jackson looks down at you, his expression morphing completely into…calmness? But it still puts you on edge. 

“What’d I say?” you ask with a frown. 

“I haven’t had sex in almost a year,” he admits. 

You blink. 

“You…what?” you breathe, shaking your head. “But, you’ve had tinder…you’ve gone on dates.”

Jackson pulls you close again, silently asking for more kisses. You realize he might’ve been right…you like when he begs. You kiss him as he asks, this time close to his nipple, and he shudders.

“I’m not gonna fuck a girl who wants more than I can give her,” he says. You mouth over his skin, tongue reaching the edge of his areola. You like his answer. 

“Why can’t you give her what she wants?” you ask, knowing what he’ll say but wanting to hear it all the same. Jackson knows this too, but he’s more than happy to give you what you want. 

“Because she—fuck—”

Your tongue lathes over his nipple and he grips the counter tight. 

“—’cause she’s not you,” he finishes. “None of them are. Can’t be anything for anyone except you. Wanna…wanna be everything to you.”

“You are…you are…” you mumble carelessly, barely kissing him, but rather rubbing your mouth on his chest. He seems more than okay with that, his head falling back, though he shakes it. 

“I’m not, baby. I’ve got so much to give you, gonna show you what it’s like to be loved right, fucked right, needed right. I need you, y/n. I-I fucking need you so bad. Always have.”

You were supposed to be turning him on, not getting choked up, but you pulled back and covered your face. Jackson was still a little breathless and out of it, but he grabbed at your wrists.

“Sorry, fuck, was that…was that bad? I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” you mumble, wiping helplessly at tears that slide down your cheeks. Jackson pulls you forward, crushing you to his chest. He wraps both arms around you so tight you can barely breathe. You love it. 

What else do you love?

You love that you can feel his cock pressing against the inside of your thigh, that you can feel how much he wants from you. You swallow your tears and reach between you, your palm finding the thick outline beneath his boxers and squeezing. 

Jackson’s reaction is visceral and downright sinful. He jumps, then buries his face into your hair. 

“Again, p-please,” he mumbles. You do it again. There’s a weird mix between sadness and horniness between you, but you keep going, sliding your hand up and down his clothed length. He’s definitely thick and a little longer than average, but not frighteningly so. 

Thick enough to make you choke, but not enough to bruise your cervix. Perfect. Somehow, you think you know exactly what it feels like to be fucked by him. 

“Jesus fuck—I don’t care if I get to fuck you, just please…let me taste you, baby,” Jackson grunts, hips lazily bucking against you. 

That…sounds alright with you. You take your hand off his cock and grab his wrist to pull him to his room, but he twists you around so that your back is to the counter. You open your mouth to ask what he’s doing, but the words die on your tongue when he drops to his knees. 

“J-Jackson, you don’t have t-to…”

“Shh, baby,” he mumbles, cupping the backs of your thighs. You feel dumb, forgetting how to speak. “Let me make you feel good. Wanna hear those pretty sounds you make when you play with yourself.”

Your cheeks flush pink, Jackson’s words hardly registering in your brain. He hooks his fingers into the elastic of your pajama shorts, leaning forward to kiss the front of your thigh before he begins tugging them down. 

“W-What do you mean when I pla—oh…”

Jackson doesn’t hesitate, going face first between your legs and groaning. The vibrations ring through your inner thighs and go straight to your clit, nearly sending you down. He hadn’t even touched you properly yet. 

“If you tell me you didn’t want me to hear you fucking yourself, I’m gonna call you a liar,” he whispers. His lips graze over the hair you keep trimmed—you could be a little self conscious about that at times, a couple past partners even commenting on it, but Jackson is worshipping your pussy without words and you’ve never felt so perfectly adequate. 

You think over what he said once you regain a little bit of consciousness. And fuck.

You were tired of this sort of hindsight ability you had now, the way you felt when you thought back to the times you were so obviously head over heels in love with him and had convinced yourself you were friends. 

Like fucking yourself with your favorite toy, back to the wall splitting your rooms. Moaning loud even though you didn’t do that when he wasn’t home.

“S-Sorry,” you whimper, because what the fuck else are you supposed to say? You feel warmth as Jackson breathes a laugh against your thighs, teeth grazing the sensitive skin near your labia. 

“It’s okay, baby. Just do it again for me, hm? While I’m in the same room at least?”

Did he have to be such a fucking brat? You thought “pie” and his attitude would disappear after all of this, but you were sorely mistaken. You opened your mouth to complain.

Jackson pushed your thighs open wider, settling between them and looking up at you from his knees. You squeaked, and the last thing you saw before his face disappeared was that smug grin underneath his pretty brown eyes. 

You learned two lessons very quickly. One: 

Jackson Wang ate pussy like his life depended on it. 

And two, you were immediately jealous of any woman who’d ever had him like this, on his knees between their legs. This should be illegal. 

His tongue slid between your tender pussy lips, expertly finding your clit and daring to flick at it beneath the hood. Your knees did buckle, but he hugged your thighs and kept you upright, taking the opportunity to squeeze and knead at your ass. You reached down and gripped his hair for purchase, tugging, eliciting a groan from him that felt better than any dick you’d ever had. You did it again, and this time he practically sang praises into you—he was literally fucking you with his moans. 

“Jesus fuck, Jackson?” you ask, unable to do much else other than feel and squeak out your needs. His fingers dug into the plushness of your thighs, though one hand slipped beneath your shirt. His thumb grazed over your nipple before gently pinching it, and you were ready to die. 

When he sucked the tender flesh of your clit into his mouth, you stumbled forward, nearly sending him back until he caught you by the waist. You whimper and tug at him to let you go until finally, he pulls away from your cunt, looking far too pleased with shiny lips. He licks them and you fall into his lap, shuddering as you cling to him. 

“That bad, huh? Should I keep my day job?” He teases you gently, one hand cupping the back of your head while the other hugs you tighter. You can still feel his cock straining against his boxers, nearly perfectly aligned as it presses against your ass. 

“S-Shut up, a-asshole,” you stammer out, gripping his shoulders tightly for comfort—or maybe dear life. Jackson chuckles in a way that makes you feel safe and annoyed—because how can he send you to fucking space and then try to convince you it’s all good and dandy with the same mouth?

“You okay baby?” he asks softly. When you nod, he pulls back enough to kiss your temple, though keeps his lips there. You swallow, having a feeling that he wasn’t done with you. Not even close.

“Was it good?” he asks.

“Very c-classy,” you manage to huff, but Jackson only laughs. 

“Mmm. Knew you’d taste good. Knew you’d love me on my knees,” he hums. You shiver, and he moves to your ear, nipping at your lobe. “Knew you’d look so pretty while I eat it.”

You let out a soft whine, your hips rolling into his. You’re spreading your sticky juices along his clothed cock, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he grabs your waist and bites his lower lip. 

“Are you done? Hm? Or can I take you to my room and finish you off?” Jackson asks, tilting his head to kiss below your ear. “Lay you down and hold you open until that pretty clit is nice and swollen…”

“F-Fuck,” you whine, digging your nails into his shoulders. “N-No.”

“M’kay, need me to run you a bath then? I bought some new bath bombs—”

“No I meant…” you breathe, letting your head drop to his shoulder. You were dizzy, but your thoughts had never been more clear. Not necessarily a decision out of desperation, just…it needed to happen. You needed it. 

“I-I don’t want you to eat me out, Jackson,” you say as you swallow. 

You lift your head, relieved to see there’s no frustration in his gaze, no disappointment. God, he’s really just here to make sure you’re happy, safe, comfortable. 

“I want…I want you to fuck me.”

“Why are we in your room?”

“My bed is bigger.”

“When’s the last time you washed your sheets?”

“I don’t know, pie. When’s the last time you washed my sheets?”

You crinkle your nose, but Jackson just rolls his eyes. He drags you onto the bed with him, grabbing a pillow and stuffing it in your face. You sniff, your eyes immediately narrowing. 

“Have you seriously been washing your bedding regularly now under the implication that we’d fuck soon?” you hiss, sitting up to glare at him. He was sprawled out, looking much too happy for your liking.

“Yes,” he says gleefully. You grab the pillow and make an attempt to suffocate him, but he doesn’t fight back, and that’s not very fun. 

Oh yeah! You’re also only wearing his a t-shirt, and he’s only wearing boxers, and his cock is very hard and you’d very much like to put it in your mouth now that you’ve recovered somewhat from his tongue.

“You’re such a boy,” you groan, throwing the pillow back to the headboard. Jackson nods, tugging at the hem of your shirt. 

“Yeah. Take this off and sit on my face please,” he hums, lying back as though preparing to be sacrificed to the thigh smothering gods. 

“How romantic,” you scoff. 

“Come sit on my face so I can make you cry the only way a man should make a woman cry, please~”

“Better.”

With the back and forth out of the way, you can’t bring yourself to smile, pulling your knees to your chest. Jackson sits up, reaching out to take one of your hands in his large one. 

“Hey, no expectations, remember? You wanna stop right now, we’ll stop and never do anything like this again. You want me to finish you off, that’s fine too,” he says, thumb brushing the back of your knuckles. You shake your head. 

“No. I think…I think we should. We need to, I mean, otherwise we’re gonna be in limbo forever. But…” you pause, feeling your eyes burn a little damn it. When you look up at him, his boyish charm is gone, replaced completely by a concerned man who almost looks in love with you. 

“Hm? What is it, pie?” he asks, coaxing you gently. Ugh—why did sex have to be so god damn complicated?

“Promise me,” you say, biting your lower lip as you gather your words. “Promise me if we hate it, if it’s bad, just…stay with me? Like, forever? Please don’t move out? I mean if you have to get married just try to find someone who’s nice enough to let me stay? I’ll do the laundry. We can be like a throuple except you both just have to feed me and nothing else.”

“I love you, y/n.”

“Nevermind, let’s just do it.”

Jackson laughed as you flopped onto your back, though he leaned over you and caught your chin in his hand. You avoided looking at him, but he tilted your head down and pressed his forehead to yours to prevent you from escaping his eyes.

“I know you’re allergic to that word—”

“I am not—”

“But I love you. I love y/n and I love pie and I love the girl who thinks ‘coinkydink’ is an appropriate alternative for ‘coincidence’—”

“It is but okay—”

Jackson rolls his eyes, cupping your cheek under the romantic guise of making you shut up by pressing his thumb to your lips. 

“Do you know why I want to fuck you?” he asks, his voice oddly gentle for such an erotic question. You blink, he lifts his thumb. 

“Um, ‘cause I’m hot?” you offer with a shrug. His thumb goes back to your lips. 

“Yes, but the truth? I want to make love to you but I assumed your reaction to that phrasing would be…”

Jackson lifts his thumb. 

“Cringe?” 

“Correct,” he smiles. “I’m gonna do what I can so the next man you meet has to climb to fucking heaven to reach the lowest bar for you. I’m nowhere near perfect, but I’ll be damned if you leave my bed able to call your best friend and complain that your inner thigh got more action than you did.”

You pout and push his hand away. 

“That was one time,” you mumble. “If sex with you sucks, who am I gonna call? Yugyeom?”

“I dare you to fucking try,” Jackson says, narrowing his eyes. You beam, attempting to boop his nose, but he leans forward and kisses you instead. “If you leave this bed and hate me after, I’ll move out before sunset. And if you want me to l-o-v-e you for the rest of your life, I’ll do that too. I told you, pie. I’m yours.”

You kiss him this time, turning into him and cupping his jaw. Why couldn’t he see that the more of this he showed you, the less you wanted to risk it all disappearing? 

You tilt your head to the side, nuzzling your face against his throat to plant kisses there. He inhales, leg sliding between yours as a hand strokes your hair. 

“Mm…what do you want, y/n?” he asks, groaning when you suck beneath his jaw. 

“Wanna suck you off,” you mumble against his skin, relishing in the heavy groan you feel from him. “Then I want you to fuck me.”

“I can do that,” Jackson nods, licking his lips. You release him and sit up, looking over his stretched out form. He was so fucking gorgeous, and you were in his bed.

You place a hand in the center of his chest, and Jackson sits up on his elbows, his thighs parting eagerly. You giggle, gently kneeing his side. 

“Patience,” you hum, dragging your hand down to his abs, letting your fingertips dip between the muscles. You remembered all those times you fantasized about drawing your tongue against them—realizing you can. So you throw a leg over his, sliding down until you’re hovering over his thighs, face level with his hips. 

One hand rests on the elastic of his boxers while the other palms his abs. You look up at him as you drag your finger through the lines, following the shape of his muscles. He’s tense, but still coherent, so your other hand slides down to palm him again. 

Jackson curses under his breath, eyes never leaving yours. So you lean down and flatten your tongue below his navel. He gasps as you lick down the thin trail of hair that disappears beneath his boxers, kissing the sensitive skin there before moving up again. Jackson whines, and you lift a brow. 

“You’re not being very patient,” you say, kissing his stomach before licking up to his chest. Jackson’s head falls back, one hand moving to your hair. 

“It’s been almost a year, pie,” he groans. “Want this…want you…”

You giggle softly. When you palm him again, curling your fingers around his constricted length, Jackson practically flies off the bed, grabbing your wrist. 

“Baby, I will let you suck my cock until the sun explodes, just…please not now, I’m so fucking close, wanna be inside you…” he breathes. You’re surprised to see his chest flushed and heaving, not having realized how worked up he was over just a few light touches. You swallow and nod.

He smiles in relief, pulling you in for a kiss before sitting up on his knees, gently guiding you back. It’s a little jarring, suddenly being underneath your best friend, but Jackson immediately gives you gentle kisses, whispering your name and promises to make you feel good. You believe him. 

You lie there awkwardly as he reaches over you to the bedside table, removing a foil packet. You feel your cheeks redden, which makes him chuckle, and you mumble a quiet shut up. When he holds the condom packet between his teeth and thumbs the waist of his boxers, you realize that you should probably be naked, too. So you cross your arms over the hem of the t-shirt, tugging it over your head and tossing it to the side. 

The condom drops and bounces off your thigh as Jackson’s lips part in shock.

“What?” you mumble shyly, bringing your arms to your chest. He clears his throat and fumbles for the condom, shaking his head. 

“Nothing. You’re gorgeous. Knew you were, just..." he sucks in air through his teeth.

You blush harder, resisting the urge to tell him to hurry. 

Jackson manages to slide his boxers down to his thighs. His cock, once freed, smacks his toned stomach and you grip the covers at your sides as you watch an enticing bead of precum slide down the shaft. It’s exactly as you’d imagined; a little bigger than average, thick, and so beautifully veiny. God it’d feel so good on your tongue, but later. The idea that, hopefully in the future you could suck his beautiful cock whenever you wanted to, made you happier than you’d ever admit to anyone.

You watch as he rolls the condom down his length, swallowing down your doubts as he drops to his forearms on either side of you. 

“You okay?” he asks, no humor, no teasing, just genuine concern. You nod and lick your lips. 

“Yeah, I’m alright,” you say with a shaky breath. Jackson smiles, leaning forward until your noses bump. The action makes you giggle until you realize he’s fitting your mouths together, and suddenly he’s kissing you. 

It’s gentle and soft, his lips sucking at your lower one but moving no further than that. Your arms move to loosely hang around his shoulders, where both of his slip beneath you. You feel the head of his cock brush over your clit and jump. Jackson chuckles. It happens again, but this time, the swollen head catches against the opening between your folds, and you can already feel the stretch, wriggling your hips as if to wedge him in. 

Jackson begins to push. 

The stretch is slow, heavy, delicious, both of you releasing sounds of relief with eyes rolling back into your skulls as though you’ve both spent four years pretending you don’t want this. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, he squeezes you tight beneath him as he sinks deeper and deeper. At last, his hips meet yours, and Jackson Wang, your best friend, is balls deep inside of you. You squeeze your eyes closed, overwhelmed by the sudden and intense sensations and emotions.

“Are you okay? Feels okay, baby?” he asks softly, clearly restraining himself. You nod, licking your lips. 

“Mhm. It’s good. So good,” you babble. Jackson chuckles, nodding as he kisses you again. It’s sweeter this time, moreso as he begins to slide out. The drag of his cock makes you shudder, and you clamp your thighs tight around his waist. 

“That’s it,” he hums, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “Lock me up inside you, baby. So fucking pretty.”

You purr in response, arching your back. Jackson takes this as a go ahead, pushing himself up to his palms as he begins to fuck you properly. 

You feel your mouth open in shock as he thrusts rhythmically, the switch between emptiness and fullness making your head spin. Every time his hips smack the backs of your thighs, another grunt escapes his mouth, and fuck if you couldn’t listen to that sound for the rest of your life. 

Jackson leans down and kisses you. This time, you make sure it’s not as sweet, sucking his tongue and letting him lick yours. You taste his groan as he bucks heavily, pausing to collect himself. Your legs hook around his waist, heel digging into his lower spine, making him moan. 

“F-Fuck baby, gonna make me come already,” he breathes, letting his head hang down. You smile, cupping his face and pulling him into you. 

“So sensitive,” you purr. Jackson huffs.

“Maybe I shouldn’t,” he hums, wincing at his own sharp thrust. “Maybe I should pull out and leave that gorgeous head to wonder what it’d be like.”

“You won’t,” you reply, calling his bluff. “If I begged you, I bet you’d go raw.”

Jackson surges forward, hands moving behind your knees as he folds you nearly in half. You choke on air and look up at him, wondering why the fuck you've forced yourself to wait for this.

“You don’t have to beg for shit. Don’t fucking tempt me, y/n.”

Your mouth opens at his tone, but he begins to fuck you harder, gripping your form against him as he gives you everything he has. Your whines turn into muffled cries as he tucks your face into his shoulder. 

“Shh…let’s not let the neighbors know I’m finally inside you baby…that’s it, quietly…take it for me, yeah?” he hums, and you whimper, digging your nails into his skin. Your legs bounce uselessly where he holds them in place, giving him room to be flush against your ass each time he bottoms out. 

“Can’t wait for you to let me lick this sweet little cunt until you cry,” he murmurs, leaning back to slip a hand between you. You jump when he immediately finds your clit, index and middle finger repeatedly alternating pressure. He’s a god damned expert, and you feel yourself clenching tight around the obstruction of his cock. 

“Fuck…is that all it takes? You’re squeezing me like a fucking vice, y/n," Jackson groans. “More, baby. That’s it…fuck. So fucking good.”

“J-Jackson,” you huff, squirming beneath the pressure of his weight. “Nng…f-feels so good…”

“Yeah, princess? Just like you've dreamed about?"

Fuck. He always knew, knew you too well, were you made of glass?

"Y-yeah," you whimper, choosing not to lie. "B-Better."

Jackson kisses you again, his hand slowing its movements to match his hips. 

“Show me,” he says roughly, obviously close himself. “I wanna feel you cum, baby. Want my cock shiny and sticky like my tongue was.”

“Mm..don’t stop, ‘m close,” you breathe. You tuck your hands into his hair, tugging at the strands, knowing what kind of response you’d experience. He groans, as expected, though pulls back and pushes your thighs apart. 

He looks down at your cunt swallowing his cock whole as he rubs at your hooded clit, cursing and biting his lip. Your cheeks flush despite everything, and when his eyes flicker to your face—you’re not sure what to call that expression if not love. 

You want him to cum first. You bring his hand away from your clit and up to your lips, kissing the wet pads of his fingers before slipping them into your mouth. Jackson lets out a high pitched noise that you can’t wait to tease him over later as he watches you suck them. 

He swallows and leans forwards, pulling your fingers away from your mouth to kiss you. You think it’s an accident, the intimacy, but the kiss is soft, so soft that he stops thrusting and you stop trying to make him cum, so soft that you’re suddenly crying and hugging him and apologizing for being a fucking idiot. 

“Hey, ‘s okay baby, I’m here,” he whispers, his own eyes wet. “Stop crying, y/n. I’m right here. I’m yours. I’ll still be yours tomorrow. Shh...”

“I’m so fucking sorry,” you breathe, burying your head against his throat despite the fact that his cock is kissing the opening of your cervix currently. “I was scared, Jackson, so fucking scared, I-I think I loved you so much that I scared myself into thinking I couldn’t.”

“Huh?” he asks, knowing damn well what you said according to the stupid grin on his face. You roll your eyes, using the back of your hand to wipe at your tears. 

“I said I love you, asshole,” you whisper, sniffling. “And ‘m not gonna say it again.”

“Okay,” he chuckles, pulling your hands down to wipe your tears himself. “Fine. I’ll just memorize the way you sound when you say it and play it over and over until we live in a nursing home together."

"You roll your eyes, smiling through the teariness. Only you would cry in the middle of sex, but Jackson seemed to love this, taking it as your not-so-silent confession. 

He eventually shifts again, making you shudder despite the fact that he was only getting comfortable. He prepares to ask—you already know—want me to stop? So you shake your head before he gets the words out. 

“I want it, you know, without,” you say instead, shyly looking up at him from your elbows. Jackson looks a little confused, and you sigh, gesturing around as if that’s helpful at all. “You know. Without.”

“I have no idea what you’re saying, pie—”

“I’m saying I want you to fuck me, and then I want you to tell me you love me so I can say it back without dying, and then I want to go to the pharmacy with you and get plan b even though I’m on birth control because we’d make cute babies but I wanna wait like 10 years probably. So, like, without? If you want?”

You finish your monologue, your cheeks burning hot. You flop to your back and cover your face, once again forgetting about the cock buried inside of you. Jackson doesn’t, of course.

“Are you asking me to hit it raw—”

“Must you be so unromantic—”

“Shut up and c’mere,” he mumbles. He leans down, pulling you up enough to kiss you. You feel him shuffling between you, embarrassed by the gasp that slips out when he pulls back. Jackson smirks. There’s a snap of rubber and he winces as he removes the condom, tossing it into his desk trash can. 

“Easy, baby. He’ll be back,” he chuckles. 

“I’m actually going to kill you,” you groan. But then he’s pushing into you again, and fuck if the look on his face doesn’t make you want to buy a first class ticket to hell. 

“Fucking…jesus…baby…” he gasps. You giggle, though he just pushes you back to hide the apparent blush on his cheeks. 

“That bad huh?” you mock him, feeling him bottom out, completely. He curses and dips his head to kiss you, but it’s messy and desperate and feeds the fire that’s been burning inside of you for too long. 

“So fucking…nng…so fucking pretty,” he says with a sharp snap of his hips. You gasp, clinging to his shoulders as he leans down. He kisses you again, hard, palms flattening on the bed on either side of your hips. He uses the leverage to fuck you harder, leaning over you until you’re pinned beneath him. 

“D-Didn’t know it’d turn you into an animal,” you giggle breathlessly, hand fisting his hair. He groans and tilts his head to the side. 

“You turn me into a fucking animal, baby,” Jackson grunts. “Makes me…makes me want to do stupid things, like fuck you without a condom and cum so deep the pill doesn’t do shit to stop it—”

“Jackson—”

“You said it first. Still gonna make you swallow the pill with my cum dripping down your thighs.”

You squeak and tug him down for a filthy kiss, tongues barely missing the mark as his thrusts become loose and sloppy. He’s fucking himself dumb, gripping the sheets and whining against your mouth like a dog. 

“G-Gotta make you cum. Gotta make it good for you,” he breathes, reaching between you. You pull his hand away, shaking your head. He begins to argue but you squeeze your thighs around his waist, making him shudder and stumble. He falls against you, cursing into your hair as he continues his thrusts. 

“Want you to cum first,” you whisper, hugging him tight. “Want you to fill me up like you said, so fucking deep—"

He groans, leaning on you and thrusting heavy as he snaps his hips forward. His speed remains the same, but you can hear the sound of his hips meeting your ass like he's trying to bury himself in you indefinitely.

"T-That's...fuck..." you whimper, nodding. "Good, that's good."

“Ah…ah…” Jackson whines, shaking his head. “F-Fuck, baby…gonna cum, is that…is that okay? Fucking…ah…c-can I cum?”

Oh. Oh.

You were going to explore this later, him asking permission to cum. But not now. 

“Please, Jax. Please cum for me, in me?” you beg softly. “Promise, I’ll take it so good."

“Fuck, I know you will, princess. Know you’ll take it all so good for me…so perfect, so fucking beautiful…all mine, baby…”

Jackson clings to you so tight you have trouble breathing, but you feel him shudder, hear him gasp, and you squeeze him back just as much. He releases a sob into your hair, his muscles tensing as he cums hard. You feel his cock pulsing, the warmth spreading inside of you, and realize with a start that you’re feeling his actual cum seeping into your womb. 

You rub his back for a few minutes while he recovers, until he finally sits up and hisses at the sensitivity of his softening cock still buried in you. When he tugs away, it’s your turn to gasp, shivering at the cool emptiness you feel. 

“Was that okay?” he asks quietly, hands pushing your thighs apart. You nod. 

“Yeah, ‘s good. What are you—shit.”

Jackson knelt between your legs, lips first kissing your clit before he sucks it into his mouth. You all but scream, trying to clamp your legs together, but his easy strength prevents that. 

“F…Jackson...fuck, w-what are you doing?” you whimper again, trying to push yourself up to look at him. He uses a hand on the soft of your belly, pushing you back down. He pops off of your clit, free hand taking over the strokes. 

“My babygirl didn’t cum. I’m gonna make sure she does,” he explains as though it’s the simplest thing in the world. 

“B-But you…your cum…”

“Mhm, keep reminding me,” he moans, tongue slipping beneath the hood of your clit while two long fingers prod at your sore hole. You wince, but he slowly eases them in, his own cum working as lube. Rather than move them, he holds them there, gently stroking inside of your walls while he laps freely between your labia. 

In a frighteningly short amount of time, you’re coming off the bed (literally) with a cry of surprise, mumbling his name over and over again as though he could save you from the crushing pleasure you felt. Your thighs clamped around his head, though he made no move to escape, apparently right where he wanted to be as it allowed him to continue sucking and licking the sensitive bundle of nerves until your legs trembled violently. 

It stole your breath, and you saw stars, mixed in a few moments later with a boyish grin and someone peppering your face with kisses. It was the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had, definitely if you were comparing him to other men. Well. There was no comparison. 

You could only imagine how it'd feel with his cock as deep as it was. Next time. You'd suck his cock, cum on it...maybe make him beg to do the same.

Jackson is patient enough to wait until you’ve mostly returned to your body before he smugly proclaims that he was right, the sex was great, and you owe him a backrub (don’t you usually have to make bets to win them in the first place?) but whatever, because you were fucked out and your boy was happy and probably planning your wedding. 

But once you attempted to sit up, wincing at the soreness of keeping your legs open, Jackson kissed you sweetly and urged you to lie down again. He left for a few minutes, returning with boxers (darn it) and a bottle of water, which he forced you to sip whilst he ran you a bath. 

You were helped down the hall, feeling like a frail old lady after you insisted you could do it—and had to catch yourself by the doorframe as you walked like a baby deer. You informed him it wasn’t polite to laugh at people you’ve nearly fucked to death, regretting your words immediately as a somehow cocky Jackson became even cockier. 

He guided you into the bath, telling you to relax while he ran to the pharmacy. Before he left though, he knelt beside the tub, fingers tapping at the lava-like water you were soaking in.

“Do you like the smell?” he asks, resting his chin on his fist. You nod, letting your fingers find his and trying to pull them beneath the water. He compromised by pulling yours out, kissing the back of your knuckles. “Good. It’s strawberry scented.”

“Fucking me doesn’t make my bath bombs free real estate,” you say pointedly.

“Fucking me doesn’t make my clothes free real estate.”

You open your mouth, then purse your lips. 

“Touche.”

“I have something to ask,” he sighs, resting his lips on your hand. “It’s really important.”

Oh god. What. 

“Yeah?” you ask, your voice shaky. Jackson grins. 

“Just…did you like my cream, pie?”

You stare at him for a few seconds, contemplating the last hour and four years of your life. “I want a divorce.”

“I love you.”

“How…how long have you thought of that joke?” you ask. You didn’t really want to know the answer.

“Um…about 20 seconds after I called you pie for the first time? Not with you of course.”

“Well why in the god damn hell not with me!?”

“I mean? Yes with you?”

“Creep.”

“I love you.”

“I still want a divorce.”

“I still love you.”

“Nng.”

“That means I love you in worm?”

“...Yeah.”

“Heh~”

“Hey Jackson?”

“Mm?”

“Your lil sperms might be kinda fast? So like? Maybe leave now? I do love you but I will not have your babies right now?”

“Oh. Yeah. Be right back. Try not to make a baby with those in the meantime, they’re not ripe yet, you know?”

"...Hurry."

Jungkook

His eyes scan the lab report one final time, the pages worn from hours of review. Fingers move with practiced precision, lifting each sample, examining it under the harsh lab light. He's exhausted, but meticulous. A single error could bring his boss's fury down like a hammer. This has to be flawless.

Jungkook could have chosen the easiest way in his professional career. He could have decided to work for his father’s company; the doors were all open for him, but Jungkook never chose the easiest way like his infamous brother, Joongi.

Managing people and businesses is definitely not for him. He’s too shy to be around people, and he’s not sure he’ll ever be good at giving orders and being respected. He largely prefers to stay hidden behind a lab and work on something that truly passions him. Studying samples makes him way happier than sitting in a cold office.

His father, Seojoon, always encouraged him to do whatever he wanted. It was absolutely fine for him if his oldest son didn’t follow in his footsteps. He already knew his second-born, Joongi, would be the one leading the family’s company. His two sons are complete opposites, and that’s why he absolutely loves them deeply.

Seojoon could count on his oldest friend, Sangmin, to help Jungkook on his scientific journey.  Kang Sangmin built from scratch a pharmaceutical company. He studied and worked hard before starting a company at 35. Today, his company is one of the biggest in South Korea. Seojoon and Sangmin were neighbors as kids, and their ambition turned them into the most influential men.  

Both of them chose different lives. While Seojoon decided to marry and have children, Sangmin preferred to remain single even though he had a son at eighteen. But Sangmin always considered Jungkook as a second son. He has always been by his side and guided him every step of the way.

Even though Jungkook had Sangmin, he decided not to work in his company. Again, choosing the easiest way has never been for him. So he’s working on a company focused on finding cures for rare diseases. And that passions him beyond comprehension.

“Doctor Jeon,” a woman says while entering the laboratory. “A woman is waiting for you at the reception.”  

Jungkook doesn’t even bother to look up at her, too scared he’ll lose track of where he is, but a smile appears on his face. He knows who’s waiting for him. You. His beloved girlfriend. The only person he truly adores. Well, he loves his family, but it’s a different kind of love. Loving you is easy. You truly look at him and see beyond his looks.

The scientist doesn’t consider himself handsome, no matter how many times you said it. He’s always tucked behind oversized glasses, his hair pushed back in a bun, but he always wears his awkwardness like a second lab coat. Bunny teeth and big, soft eyes. He looks more like a nervous intern than a brilliant scientist, but that’s exactly why you love him.

“Can you tell her that I just need to finish the report?” he replies.

The woman only nods before disappearing, leaving him alone once more. He’s the associate research scientist and takes his job very seriously. The big boss is always very harsh with him, but it’s because she knows how good he is. She pushes him to be better, and he doesn’t mind at all. He adores what he does.

Now, he rushes his final review to leave as fast as possible to go on the date you organized. You’re going to eat at that fancy restaurant that opened recently. Finding a table was hard, but for once in his life, Jungkook used the “I’m Seojoon’s son” card. He did it for you because you desperately wanted to try this new restaurant.

Beneath his white coat, he wears a classic outfit—a light blue shirt paired with dark blue trousers. He also has a coat matching his pants, but he’ll put it on once he’ll leave the lab. During lunch break, he perfectly tidied his hair, abandoning the usual messy bun for a neater look.

Unlike one might think, this isn’t an uncommon outfit for him. Actually, this is what he’s used to wearing. When he was younger, he was kind of forced to wear this type of outfit. And now, every Sunday, when he goes to his parents, he puts on his best outfit. Otherwise, at home, he prefers to wear larger clothes and only makes a small effort for work.

While checking the last samples, a tiny spider crawls across his hand. Since he’s very focused on the sample, he lets it be, but he wonders how on earth it got here. Erika, an American colleague temporarily assigned to the lab, has been studying spider species. Normally, they’re kept safely in their enclosure.

Jungkook doesn’t even know if the spider is venomous, but if he moves, he’ll risk compromising the sample. The second he places it down, the spider bites him.

“Shit,” he swears.

The man instantly takes the spider and places it back in the enclosure, then walks to the sink to clean the bite with water and soft soap. He’ll keep an eye on it in case it becomes weird, and mentally notes that he’ll need to apply a cold compress once at home. He gets back to work because he’s too eager to finish quickly.

As soon as everything is done, he sends the report to the department director, puts back the samples in that humongous fridge, and removes his white scientist coat to replace it with the dark blue one. As he puts his coat on, his eyes linger for a little while on the ring on his finger.

Ten months ago, on your first anniversary, you bought matching rings with your initials engraved on them. They don’t look like wedding rings, but they carry the same promise. A promise of eternal and unconditional love.

The man closes the lab before rushing to join you. He doesn’t want to make you wait any longer. In seconds, he’s inside an elevator, making his way to the ground floor. When he comes out and walks to the reception, he finds you sitting on a bench with your eyes looking at your polished nails. The brightest smile grows on his face when he sees you. You make him happy like nobody ever did.

You finally turn your head, and your eyes instantly meet his. Slowly, you stand up with your purse and jacket in your hands. Jungkook falls even more in love with you. You’re wearing that pale purple silk dress he offered you at the early stage of your relationship. He wanted to impress you and offer you whatever you wanted. Money was never an issue for him. He wanted to use it on you. He still does.  

“Woow,” he says when he’s standing in front of you. “You look like a fucking dream, pumpkin.”

The pumpkin nickname arrived when you confessed how much you like a good pumpkin soup. Your mom always prepares it in the winter, but now that you live with your boyfriend, you’re the one preparing it. However, your mother brings you some once in a while.

You tiptoe to kiss your boyfriend, and he gently wraps an arm around you. Being around you is his favorite place on earth. He always wonders how he got so lucky to find you, and he’ll forever be grateful that destiny placed you in his arms.

“And you always look so fine with that suit, nerdy,” you whisper on his lips.

Jungkook never liked being called ‘nerdy’; he always hated it, but you’re the only one he’ll ever let. It actually makes him happy to hear you call him by that nickname.

 “Ready to go to that fancy restaurant?” he asks while intertwining his fingers in yours.

“I’m so excited,” you giggle.

Your boyfriend can’t help but find you absolutely adorable. You both make your way out of the building, saying goodbye to the receptionist. Since the restaurant isn’t too far, you walk together in the streets. The closeness between your boyfriend’s workplace and the restaurant is the reason why you joined him. If it weren’t the case, he’d be the one waiting for you at the reception of the police station.

“How was your day, pumpkin?” he asks before placing a soft kiss on the back of your hand.

“Same as always,” you shrug. “We found a dead body and are now investigating the cause of death.”

Jungkook doesn’t understand how you can be doing this; you’re constantly meeting death and crazy killers. That simple thought sends shivers down his spine. Most of the time, he’s worried about you. Any crazy killer that you put behind bars has reasons to hate you and chase after you. He’s scared that one of them might do it.

“Not a traumatic dead body?” he asks with concern.

Sometimes, when you arrive home, you burst into tears. Some deaths are harder to deal with than others. On those days, your boyfriend makes sure to give you all the comfort you need.

“No,” you shake your head. “It was a simple shot to the heart.”

“Don’t know how you can call that ‘simple’,” he chuckles. “Nothing is simple with a dead person.”

You smile while his hand squeezes yours. For the rest of the walk, you explain to him how this death was simple, and the case might be closed very soon. The man found dead was hated by everybody, so one of those people might be responsible.

Jungkook also explains what he’s been up to for the day. He doesn’t go into much detail, as it’s confidential, and because you don’t know much about scientific stuff. Nonetheless, it warms his heart to share with you what he’s been doing.

Once you reach the restaurant, he walks in front of you, his fingers never letting go of yours. At the entrance, he informs the waitress under which name he booked a table. She guides you to a table near the window. A bright and big smile grows on your face when you notice the incredible view.

“You outdid yourself,” you tell your boyfriend as he pushes your chair.

“Couldn’t bring you here without getting the best seats,” he replies. “If I were going to pull the Seojoon’s son card, I needed to do it properly.”

“You’re not wrong,” you say, sitting down.

Your lover grew up going to prestigious restaurants. His parents would never settle for cheap ones because it was all about image. Jungkook never minded it. It was just a restaurant after all. But as he reached teenage years, he realized he was the only kid at school who never went to McDonald's or any of those fast food restaurants. He already felt like an outsider, but that made him feel even weirder compared to the others. His entire life, he was the nerdy guy nobody ever noticed or looked at. But he never cared about it. He had his friends, and that was enough.  

However, as years went by, he started to wonder if he would ever find a girl. He was nobody’s type, especially in the world he grew up in. Girls were only interested in looks and money. He had the money but not the looks. But sounds like money wasn’t enough.

And then, one day, he met the girl who brought some DNA samples. It was late, Jungkook’s company had agreed to assist the police with a case, and you showed up at his lab. It was your case. You were running after a serial killer. Since it was an emergency, the police needed the best lab.

Jungkook had only been working there for five months. You spent the entire night together. Him examining the samples and you, attentively watching him work. You’d ask him random questions because you were curious to find out more about him. He intrigued you. And by the end of it, you offered him breakfast to thank him. Yeah, it was already like 5 am when he finished.

It was the best night of your lives, and it was the beginning of something beautiful.

Jungkook fell madly in love with you. Just like you did with him.

You’ve been his first in all aspects of his romantic life, and even though that scared you at the beginning, you’ve been enjoying it a lot. Watching him discover everything with you is one of the biggest accomplishments of your life.     

“Next month, Sangmin is organizing a dinner at his place,” Jungkook begins. “He’d like to have us. Is it fine for you?”

It’s been a while since Jungkook last saw Sangmin. He’s been travelling a lot, gathering awards for his company’s accomplishments, and building a new branch in Kyoto. They’ve of course discussed a lot over the phone because Jungkook always feels the need to speak with him about scientific stuff.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” you tell him. “Also, next weekend, Jin is inviting us over to his place.”

Jin is your older brother, and Jungkook is quite close to him. They created a rather great bond, one you never expected to be formed because of Jin’s protective tendencies. But your boyfriend really adores being around him.

“No problem.”

Your brother is currently on his honeymoon with his wife, Hyorin. They got married three weeks ago, and they’ve been enjoying their little romantic escape. Even though Jungkook won’t admit it, he misses your brother. They hang out together quite often.

“He’s inviting the whole family,” you add.

Jungkook frowns. That’s weird.

“Why?” he asks.

“Don’t know, but it’s for sure something important.”

A couple of months into your relationship, Jungkook got to meet your entire family, composed of your parents and your two older brothers. Besides Jin, you have another brother, Taehyung, who’s only a year older than you. You’re very close to the two of them, and through you, Jungkook got two new brothers.

“My mom has already called me asking if I knew why,” you shake your head with a smile.

“She’s too curious,” he chuckles.

“She’s already thinking that they might announce an upcoming baby, but I strongly doubt it,” you confess. “Jin and Hyorin always said they wanted to take their time and enjoy their married life before having a baby. But you know my mom,” you smile.

Jungkook adores your mom. She welcomed him with open arms when you introduced him. He was so scared your parents might reject him, but it was actually the opposite.  

“She’s been patiently waiting for that grandchild,” he says while remembering the many conversations where she, without subtly, made you all understand that she wants to become a grandma.

Early in your relationship, you told your boyfriend that you and your brothers were adopted. Your parents had trouble conceiving, so instead of forcing and pushing their bodies to exhaustion, they decided to adopt. Jin was a year old when they brought him home, Taehyung was five months old, and you were just a month old. All three of you came from the same orphanage.

Your adoption was never a taboo subject, but Jungkook has always been very careful about how he approached the matter. He’s scared to hurt you.

 “The day one of us gets a baby, she’ll throw the biggest party ever seen,” you jokingly say.

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

When Jungkook looks at you, sometimes he wonders what you saw in him. To him, you’re the prettiest girl to ever walk the face of the earth, while he sees himself as an ugly and boring man. But he tries to brush those thoughts away because you’ve told him many times that he’s the most handsome man you’ve ever seen.

The rest of the dinner goes by quickly while you both talk about everything. Although you live together, it always feels like you constantly have so much to say. It’s like you haven’t seen each other in days, while in fact, it has only been a couple of hours.

Through it all, he felt normal, except for the itch in his hand. He kept scratching it without really noticing.

Once over, you walk back to Jungkook’s workplace because his car is parked in the underground garage. On the way home, you sing along to every song that plays out, always trying to see who can sing the loudest. Your boyfriend is kind of wild when it comes to singing.

At home, he opens the door and lets you in first. He follows right after you, closing it carefully. His hand slips into yours before gently pulling you to face him.

“You look so good in that dress,” he whispers.

His lips meet yours for a sweet and tender kiss; there’s no urgency or anything else in it. There’s only warmth. The tenderness in it makes your heart melt completely.

“Not as good as you,” you whisper against his mouth.

Your boyfriend leads you both to your shared bedroom, his touch hinting that he wants more than just kissing you. As soon as the door closes, he turns, and his lips crash on yours once again. Your hands cup his face while you kiss him passionately. He’ll never grow tired of kissing you. He’s definitely addicted to you in every possible way.

Jungkook reluctantly breaks the kiss to sit down on the edge of the bed with an unsteady breath. He also takes his glasses off, placing them on the nightstand. You quickly follow him, settling into his lap and straddling him. The way your dress rides up steals his breath all over again. Your now bare legs are pressed against him, and his hungry eyes roam up your body, drinking in the view with the most perverted smile growing on his face.  

“You look even better from this perspective, pumpkin,” he confesses, his voice low and thick with desire.

Surprisingly, he pulls his phone from his pants pocket before taking a picture.

“Seriously?” you say as you shake your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Just wanted to capture perfection,” he says.

You roll your eyes, but he notices the smile fighting its way through. That smile disarms him every time.

Once he has taken enough pictures of you, he throws his phone somewhere on the bed. His hands find their way to the sides of your waist, running up and down. He absolutely savors the way your body responds. You shiver under his touch, and the reaction sends a deep pulse straight through him.

“God,” he thinks, “how did I ever get this lucky?”

Your lips crash into his again, stealing what little composure he has left. Then, in an attempt to tease him, you slowly grind your hips against his. Heat instantly blooms low in his abdomen. A low and deep groan leaves his mouth before he can stop it, a sound that you gladly swallow.

He tries to keep his breathing steady, but it’s useless. Every roll of your hips pulls him deeper into the haze, his focus narrowing to the friction between you, your warmth, your weight, the way you know exactly what you’re doing. His hands grip your waist, trying to ground himself, but his control is slipping fast.

Then you whisper against his lips, in a very teasing tone: “I guess someone’s getting turned on.”

He lets out a breathless laugh, but the sound dies in his throat as your hips move again. He can’t hide the growing tension in his body, and the ache building beneath his pants. His heart’s pounding faster. The more you move, the more he loses himself in the moment.

Jungkook opens his eyes, staring at you with lust shining in his eyes. The effect you have on him is incredible; you have him on his knees. Speaking of knees, you get off his lap to drop down on your knees.

He instantly understands what you’re about to do, and he spreads his legs for you. Seeing you between his legs makes him grow harder. It’s such a turn-on position, especially since he knows that in a matter of seconds, your mouth will be wrapped around him. Too eager to feel you, he strips himself of his pants and underwear.

“Someone seems in a hurry,” you chuckle.

“Can’t wait to feel your mouth,” he admits.

You roll your eyes with the biggest smile on your face. He can’t help but find you even more attractive. Whenever you’re both about to go wild, he always finds you more attractive than usual.

“You’re lucky that it’s what I’m about to give you,” you say, while he throws his pants and underwear somewhere in the bedroom.

Right after, you spit on his cock before your hands touch his length. Immediately, a guttural moan escapes his soft lips. His eyes are glued on you while he runs a hand through his dark hair. Fuck, it already feels fantastic. 

Seconds later, you shove his cock down your throat, which makes him growl deeply. His eyes rolling back to his head. The feeling of your mouth wrapped around him is like heaven to him. He could die right now.

Honestly, he’s so lost in pleasure that he can’t tell when you started to suck him. All he knows is that he’s a moaning mess. His legs are shaking like crazy as he gets closer to orgasm. It’s obvious he won’t last long with the way you’re sucking him off.

Jungkook avoids looking down at you because he knows damn well that the second he lays his eyes on you he’ll come. With shaking hands, he grabs your hair to guide you but never once does he shoves your face deeper into his cock. The last thing he wants is to hurt you, although he’s completely lost in pleasure.  

“Fuck, pumpkin,” he growls. “You’re doing so well,” he praises you.  

His cock twitches inside your mouth as he gets closer to the edge. He feels you hollowing your cheeks, pushing him closer to his orgasm.

“Can I come inside?” he asks when he feels himself very close to orgasm. 

Even though you’ve been together for almost two years, he always asks for your consent when it comes to sex. In this case, he’d never want to finish in your mouth unless you truly desire it. The idea of doing anything without your full consent makes his stomach turn. Respecting your boundaries matters more to him than anything else.

His cum explodes inside your mouth while deep groans leave his lips. He delicately grinds his hips, pushing his hot seed deeper into your mouth. Your boyfriend feels your eyes on him while you take all he has to give.

When you remove your mouth from his length, he falls back onto the bed, his eyes looking up at the ceiling. How on earth can you only get better at pleasuring him? He’s sure that one day he’ll die.

“You’ll kill me one day, pumpkin,” his gaze shifts to meet yours.

“It’s not the purpose, nerdy,” you smile at him.

His lips crash against yours to fervently kiss you. His tongue doesn’t waste a second to meet yours, and he can taste himself. A little moan escapes his mouth, one that you instantly swallow.

However, you quickly break the kiss as you’re both horny as fuck and want nothing more than have sex. You rapidly undress before lying on the bed. Jungkook spreads your legs and nestles himself in between them. His favorite place on earth.  

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers.

He then proceeds to kiss your inner thigh, and his soft lips on your skin send shivers down your spine. 

“Jungkook,” your hand flies down to grab his hair. 

His tongue swipes at your folds, his mouth wrapping perfectly around you. Moans of delight escape your lips, his favorite melody. His round nose rubs against your clit, and he does it on purpose because he knows it’s something you like.  

“You always taste so good, pumpkin,” he mumbles against your core. 

Your thighs squeeze his head, your fingers push harder on his hair, and your back arches off the bed while he delicately licks your folds. Feeling you falling apart makes him groan against you. He’ll never grow tired of it.

His tongue burrows into you, lapping at your wetness. There is nothing better than having your juices running down his throat. You heavily sigh with pleasure when he tilts his head up a little higher to lap deeper into you. When he pulls at your folds with his teeth, your back arches off the bed, your legs squeezing around his head harder, his name rolling off your tongue over and over again. 

As he licks and bites your folds, you scream louder and louder, your orgasm threatening to explode at any moment. Since you started dating, he’s been learning like a good boy how to please you, and he’s proud of how he can make you come with his mouth only.

Two years ago, he wasn’t able to do anything to give pleasure to a woman. And now, he’s an expert in eating out and making love to you. He has memorized every single detail of your steamy sessions so he can get better each time. Pleasuring you is deeply important to him.

It’s a matter of seconds before you’re completely overwhelmed by your orgasm. Jungkook never stops until you’re squirting, his face now covered in your juices. He glances up at you again, his lips shining with your arousal that he blissfully licks with his tongue. 

“You look so damn hot with my arousal all over your face,” you confess with a smirk.

Before doing anything else, he strips himself of all the remaining clothes to be fully naked. He can get quite sweaty while sharing an intimate moment with you, and having clothes on him doesn’t help at all. You take advantage of the moment to also get fully naked.  

He crawls over your body, his fingers brushing along your stomach and up to your breasts. The man leans down to kiss the space between them, your back arching at the feeling of his lips on your skin. His round nose brushes against your chest while his mouth ghosts over your breasts. His warm breath stings against your sensitive skin, teasing you. 

His hands hold your breasts tightly, and his thumbs flick over your nipples. Little moans leave your mouth. His lips kiss from the valley of your breasts up to your throat, his tongue licking all the way up.

Pulling his head back, his eyes get lost in yours before he presses his lips on yours, kissing you passionately and fervently. He’s impossibly hard, precum leaking from the head of his dick, and he wastes no time in pushing himself into you.

His cock slides in you quite easily, and you cry out as he buries himself deep into you. He knows that he’s impossibly big, that’s the first thing you told him when you saw him naked for the first time. Honestly, his chest swelled with pride that time. However, he’s also fully aware that it also stretches you a lot when he buries himself in you, and that it can be painful sometimes.   

Jungkook pulls his hips out before slamming back into you so harshly, and he swears he felt your whole body shudder. The second he’s fully buried inside you, he stops his moves, watching down at where your bodies meet. 

Slowly, he resumes thrusting back into you. The man hovering over you ensures to fill you up to the brim at a very slow pace. Your moans get louder as he rails the shit out of you.

“Faster,” you tell him.  

A smirk appears on his face before he thrusts into you at a faster pace, which has you clenching so tightly around him. The room is quickly filled with the sound of his hips slapping against yours, as well as both your moans and heavy breathing.

The two of you get completely lost in your euphoria. You squeeze your walls around him, making him groan loudly, and he quickens and deepens his pace. The intensity with which he’s pounding into you makes you moan with delight.

“Oh, Jungkook,” you mewl before you bite at his lower lip, tugging at it hard. 

His eyes are locked with yours, and right now, as he looks at you, it’s like the world around him has vanished completely. Jungkook caresses your face with a smile on his face.

“You’re so wonderful,” he says before pressing a sloppy kiss on your lips.

His pace gets relentless. The bed under you is creaking while your breasts are bouncing at the rhythm of his pace. One of his hands snails up from your waist to grab at one of your breasts, squeezing at your soft flesh before he pinches your nipples. The feeling is overwhelming you both at this stage. 

The man above you leaves wet kisses along your jawline, your neck, and your shoulder. On the other hand, your nails scratch his back, leaving red marks all over him.

“Jungkook, I’m gonna,” you whimper. “I’m gonna cum...”

Your walls are clenching extremely hard around him, your legs are shaking, and your moans are pretty much out of control. He knows now that you’re close. His hips move faster, desperate to make you come undone under him. 

“Come for me, pumpkin,” he whispers in the shell of your ear. “Make a mess all over my cock.”

The orgasm completely explodes. Your eyes close as your face contorts with pleasure, and you cry out his name over and over again. Jungkook watches with marvel the way you come under him and he enjoys the way your pussy creams his cock. 

Jungkook’s dick throbs inside you but he continues to wreck you until he’s coming inside you. He’s fully aware that he isn’t going to last much longer than you do because damn, pleasure is overwhelming him so much.  

“Fuck, I’m going to come,” he growls in your ear. “Can I come inside?” 

You nod, and instantly, he lets go of any control he has over his orgasm, releasing his hot semen inside you. His body is completely tense while he sloppily thrusts two last times to push his cum deep inside you.   

Then, he slowly collapses against your chest, his lips pressing a soft kiss against your neck as he nuzzles himself against you. Your arms wrap around him as the two of you come down from your intense orgasms. The room falls completely silent except for the sound of your heavy breathing.

“We should go take a shower,” he finally breaks the silence. “I smell like sex.”

“Don’t want to break it to you, but we just had sex,” you giggle.

“Really?” he pretends to be surprised. “I thought we were driving a spaceship.”

You shake your head while you laugh. The brightest smile grows on his face as he watches you laugh at his silly jokes. His entire life, he wondered how his mom could laugh at the stupid jokes his dad made, but now he understands. It’s love. And he also now understands how his dad feels whenever his mom laughs.  

“Well,” he gets closer, his arms wrapping around you, “maybe we could drive the spaceship once more. I’ll even let you drive this time.”

“Is this how you’re inviting me to ride you?” you raise an eyebrow.

“Absolutely,” he answers without hesitation.

And just like that, you go for round two.    

Jungkook

Jungkook slowly opens his eyes, blinking against the soft morning light. For the first time in years, he feels rested. Not just “not tired” but really rested. His head is clear, and his mind is light. He feels like he has slept for a month straight when in fact, he knows he barely slept six hours. It’s like someone pressed a reset button on his body. And God, it feels good.

He breathes in deeply, savoring the clarity until something odd cuts through the calm.

You’re in the kitchen, preparing breakfast, and he can perfectly hear you. The pouring of coffee in mugs, the water running, the way you put butter on the toast. He hears absolutely everything. It sounds like you’re standing right beside him, while those two rooms are far away from each other. His brows furrow.

“Since when can I hear that?” he mumbles to himself.

He sits up quickly, way too quickly. His body stretches like elastic, every muscle feeling sore as if he’s been hitting the gym all night long. Heat pulses across his back, his arms, and even down to his fingertips. He groans while rubbing his neck.   

“What the hell did I do last night?” he whispers.

For sure, all the sex you had last night isn’t responsible for this soreness. This was a soft night because you didn’t go for many rounds. There have been nights when there were at least three rounds, and even like that, he never felt sore. So, this isn’t related at all to sex. This is something else.

By pure reflex, his eyes look down, and they instantly widen. His chest looks different. It looks leaner and tighter. His shirt clings where it usually sags. There’s definition where there wasn’t before, like faint ridges of abs, and the beginnings of something sculpted. He stares, jaw slack.

This is more than weird. How did his body change that much overnight?

“For fuck’s sake,” he groans as he tries to stand, but his feet don’t move.

They are actually glued to the hardwood floor. He yanks harder, and panic starts building up inside him. A soft cracking noise, like something unsticking, echoes under his foot before he finally sets free.

“What’s going on?” he breathes, heart pounding.

His hands shake slightly as he steadies himself. The room looks the same, but everything feels off. Colors seem more saturated, sounds sharper, and air thicker.

This isn’t normal. This is impossible. It all feels like a dream. But the soreness is real. The sounds are real. The growing fear in his chest is real. This isn’t a dream.

He walks to the bedroom mirror as he wants to check himself out. He wants to see with his own eyes how much he has changed, but it seems like it’s easier said than done. Jungkook struggles to walk to the mirror since his feet seem to cling to the floor.  

“For fuck’s sake,” he swears. “How am I going to make it to work?”

Somehow, he manages to reach the mirror and gets absolutely stunned when he sees his reflection. The body he sees isn’t the same body he’s used to waking up in.

His chest looks firmer, defined in a way that no amount of gym sessions ever managed before. His biceps stretch the sleeves of his shirt slightly. Slowly, he lifts the sleeve of his tattooed arm to take a proper look. The sight takes his breath away. It looks a lot better now.

As he runs a hand through his hair, he notices the way his fingers move faster. Every little motion feels efficient, more controlled.

But even though this is all surprising, he only feels good. Like really good. It’s like his entire nervous system has been rewired. It’s more aware, more reactive. Even the air against his skin feels sharper somehow. 

Too caught in his discovery, he doesn’t hear you coming.

“Honey?” you say, and he instantly looks at you.

At this precise moment, he realizes that he’s seeing you perfectly like he has never seen before. His vision has always been terrible. As far as he can remember, he's always needed glasses, but now, it seems that he doesn’t.

“Yes?” he replies.

You squint your eyes, and Jungkook wonders if you’re noticing the changes.  

“Are you okay?” you tilt your head. “You seem weird.”

He definitely feels weird. Something’s off, and he can’t tell why.

“I guess I’m getting sick,” he tries to justify. “I don’t feel well.”

For a moment, you just stare at him, not saying a word. He’s getting worried, and his heart starts beating crazily.

“I prepared breakfast,” you finally break the silence. “I have to go. A new body was found.”

Jungkook nods while you step forward, pressing a goodbye kiss on his lips. He clings to the moment longer than usual, the warmth of your lips grounding him.

“Have a nice day, pumpkin,” he says, managing a smile as you disappear out the door.

The moment you’re gone, everything crashes back in. He can hear his own heartbeat, the wind brushing against the windowpane, and your footsteps as you leave the apartment. His fingers twitch, and he stares at his hands.

As he does so, an event from yesterday pops out. The spider. His eyes dart to the spot where he was bitten, but there’s nothing. No redness. No mark. It’s like it never happened. He pokes at the skin, but there’s nothing unusual. Well, at least not visibly.

He looks around the room. Every object is in sharp focus. He can count the fibers in the carpet. He sees even better now without glasses than with them.

“What the hell is happening to me?” he whispers.

He tries to move to the kitchen, but again his foot sticks. It clings to the floor, pulling with a strange suction when he lifts it. Instead of panicking again, he tries to calm himself down. As he does so, he realizes that it’s actually helping, and his feet don’t stick that much anymore.

This is without any doubt going to be a hell of a day!

You

“This doesn’t look good,” your colleague, Hyunwoo, says as you’re both looking at the dead body.

“It definitely isn’t,” you reply.

The victim is completely unidentifiable. The killer, or whoever did this, burned the victim’s car, and you’re now left with a burned body. This will take ages before you even find out who the victim is, and then, you’ll have to figure out what happened. This is going to be a long day. There’s no doubt about it.

“I’m already exhausted before we even start working,” Hyunwoo sighs.

“Me too,” you mumble.

There’s not much that you can do right now. You need to leave the forensic take pictures of the crime scene. Afterwards, you’ll be able to start looking for something around the car or inside it.

“How was your date with Jungkook?” Hyunwoo asks with a smile.

“It went well,” you smile as you remember last night’s events. “It’s a very fancy restaurant, and I’m glad we managed to go.”

Hyunwoo perfectly knows who your boyfriend is, and he’s also very much aware of how you managed to get in. He’s sometimes jealous that you found a wealthy guy. He wishes he could find one too.

It’s no secret that Hyunwoo is into guys; he doesn’t hide it. However, his parents still want to believe that maybe one day he’ll decide to settle with a woman. You’re pretty sure that this day might never come.

“That’s the perks of dating Seojoon’s son,” he says before chuckling a bit.

It’s clear that dating Jungkook opens quite some doors thanks to his father. Your boyfriend doesn’t take very much advantage of it, which isn’t the case with his brother, but that’s something you truly adore in Jungkook.

His father’s name literally gives him the world, but he doesn’t use it. He prefers to create his own path. However, it’s also related to his shyness. The man prefers to hide behind the shadows. He hates being under the spotlight. He leaves that to his little brother.

“Eeh,” you hit his arm. “He barely uses it.”

“He doesn’t need to,” he instantly replies. “He’s identical to his dad.”

That is absolutely true; he’s the spitting image of his father. It’s honestly so disturbing, but you can tell that when it comes to the outside world, it’s uncomfortable for your boyfriend. He adores his dad, but he doesn’t like that resemblance because everybody looks at him.

To most, it’s fascinating, but for Jungkook, it’s suffocating.

He adores his father, no question. But walking through life wearing Seojoon’s face comes with an unspoken burden. In public, he feels the eyes. The recognition. The expectations. People don’t just see him. They see the legacy, the name, the empire. And he hates that.

It strips him of something personal, something his own. He’s quiet about it, of course—he always is—but you can feel the weight pressing on him. Most of the time, it just breaks your heart because Jungkook is so much more than the son of Seojoon.

“I know,” you admit.

Jungkook hides a lot behind his glasses; you’ve noticed it. The glasses are what make him different from his father.

“Sometimes he wishes he wasn’t,” you add.

You’ve stopped counting the times when you held Jungkook in your arms while he was crying. People make too many comments without thinking about the consequences of their words. And Jungkook has very low self-esteem, and sometimes words hurt more than they should.

“Well, I wouldn’t mind having a powerful dad and looking like him,” Hyunwoo teases.

You roll your eyes.

“Trust me,” you reply, “it sometimes can be a curse.”

Well, you’ve only gotten to see it through Jungkook. It isn’t a curse for you. You don’t look like your father or your biological father. You’re actually a miny version of your biological mother, just like Jungkook is his father’s.

When you became a police officer, the first thing you did was find your biological parents. Not because you wanted to meet them or anything like that. But you wanted to see what they look like and what kind of person they are now. You have very loving parents, and you never felt the need to look for your birth parents.

Your birth mother was very young when she had you. She was only sixteen, and she had a shitty boyfriend. Following what you found out, he wasn’t really interested in becoming a father. So she decided to give you up for adoption. You know that she has been looking out for you, but you’ve never said anything.

Your birth mother got married years later and now has three kids, ages nine to two. She seems to be happy. At least, when you get to see her from far away, she seems to be a happy woman. And she has beautiful children. You’re sure that she wouldn’t be the woman she is if she ever kept you. Maybe you’d both be miserable.

But you’ll never know because she chose to give you a better life. And you’ll forever be grateful for that.

 “How can you know that?” he raises an eyebrow.

“You’d know it if you’d have a boyfriend crying in your arms because someone used him.”

Jungkook is the love of your life. You knew it the second you saw him for the first time, and you did everything you could to have him. It wasn’t particularly easy to convince this man that you were into him because of his lack of experience. But you slowly both fell in love with each other. He’s the best thing that has ever happened to you.

“Detective y/l/n,” one of the forensics comes to you. “We’re finished with the pictures.”

“Thanks,” you offer a small smile.

Your eyes now move to your partner.

“Now let’s work and stop talking about my amazing boyfriend.”

Jungkook

Jungkook hasn’t been feeling himself for the entire morning. His hands and feet cling to everything. If he takes a sample to examine it, it’ll stick to his hand. If he tries to stand up and walk, it’s mission impossible even if he takes deep breaths. It’s starting to be frustrating.

His glasses have been more than discarded. He doesn’t see a damn thing with them, which is more than weird. His colleagues have asked him why he doesn’t wear them anymore, and he invented the shitty excuse that he has decided to use contact lenses. If anybody knows him well enough, they’ll know that he would never do that.

He has also noticed that his new sculpted body is very strong. He has already destroyed half of the lab material because he’s unable to measure his strength. Luckily, he’s always been clumsy, and he can hide behind that excuse, but it’s not the truth.

But the most surprising thing is the webs coming from his wrists. He doesn’t know how it happened or how it works, but there are webs everywhere in his lab. He has spent the past ten minutes cleaning them. He’s sure that he looks like an absolute idiot today, but everything has changed.

He isn’t the same.

He feels it deep inside himself. It’s like his DNA was fully rewritten. He’s not human anymore. There’s something more in his blood, which makes him like he is right now.

“Jungkook?” his colleague Erika frowns. “What are you doing?”

Jungkook turns red, caught cleaning the webs in the lab.  

“There was some dirt, and it was making me nervous, so I’ve been cleaning.”

Erika just nods, half convinced.

“I’ve heard you were looking for me,” she says.

“Yep,” he nods while inviting her to come closer. “I’m curious about the type of spiders you’ve been studying here.”

She raises an eyebrow, slightly surprised by his interest, but steps closer anyway.

“Most people avoid them.”

“I’m not most people,” Jungkook replies with a small, almost forced smile.

His hand instinctively brushes the spot where he was bitten, still uncertain if it really happened or if he dreamt it. Erika nods, then leans against the edge of the lab table.

“They’re part of an experimental species—genetically altered arachnids. Originally from South America, but we’ve been enhancing them.”

“Enhancing how?” he asks, trying not to sound too eager.

She pauses, eyeing him carefully.

“Their venom glands have been modified. In short, they can choose whether or not to inject venom when they bite.”

Jungkook frowns with surprise. This definitely sounds intriguing. He was never interested in what Erika and her team were working on, but now that he was bitten by one of them, he needs to know what they’d been doing to those spiders.  

“They can choose?”

“They react based on neurological and hormonal stimuli. Think of it like instinct with a switch. In theory, if they don’t feel threatened or provoked, they don’t deliver venom. It’s a protective adaptation we were testing.”

“And what happens if they do inject it?” He swallows hard.

Her expression darkens slightly.

“Well, we haven’t fully tested it on humans. But preliminary results suggest the venom rewrites certain genetic codes temporarily. We still haven’t figured it out, but we hope this could help with aggressive diseases.”

Since Jungkook works in a pharmaceutical company specializing in rare diseases. Their purpose is to find a treatment or cure for diseases that are still very unknown to humans. They try to find a cure for what seems uncurable.

“We’re not yet confident to test it on humans. We think their venom might be too strong and might kill.”

His eyes widen, and he suddenly coughs a lot. Is he about to die? It certainly doesn’t feel like it. Outside of the sticky hands and feet, he feels great.

“We still need to study their venom more, which has many good properties for many diseases.” 

 Jungkook nods, half interested in her words.

“Why are you asking?” she narrows her eyes.

“Just curiosity,” he replies. “I was working near them yesterday, and it intrigued me.”  

“Well, I was just about to go back to the lab. If you want, you can come and I can share with you what we’ve been doing.”

“Yeah,” he agrees.

They both head to the lab, and he tries to act normal, even though he still feels that odd stickiness in his feet. But unlike before, they don’t cling to the floor. It’s as if his body suddenly decides to behave.

When they reach the lab where he was working the day before, something shifts in him. His gaze is immediately drawn to the spider enclosure. He tries to ignore it, but the pull is undeniable, magnetic, almost primal.

There’s no rational explanation, yet it feels as if something inside him responds to them. His heart beats faster. His skin tingles. It’s not fear or revulsion, it’s need. As if a part of him recognizes them. Like they share something now. Blood, maybe. Or something deeper.

His feet move before his thoughts catch up, guiding him toward the glass tank without hesitation. His body wants to be close to them. He can feel it in his bones, in his nerves. He actually feels it in a place beyond reason.

Jungkook swallows hard. He’s not sure if this is curiosity or instinct. Erika speaks, but he barely listens to her. His eyes are constantly drawn to the spiders, and he can barely focus.  

“Can I touch them?” he asks.

“Please wear gl…” before Erika can even finish her sentence, Jungkook is already opening the enclosure.

To their surprise, the spiders walk on Jungkook’s hand like it’s totally normal. They don’t avoid his hand. They walk straight to it like they know he’s one of them.

“That’s new,” Erika frowns. “They are usually very avoidant. Nobody can touch them.”

“They seem to like me,” Jungkook teases.

His eyes are glued on his hand with the tiny spiders. They simply walk like it’s the most normal and natural thing in the world.

“Let’s hope that they don’t bite you,” she says.

Well, Jungkook is definitely not going to tell her about yesterday’s event. She’ll for sure start studying him, and he doesn’t want that. He’s not some kind of experience. He prefers that she focus on finding a cure for diseases. What he’s experiencing now is not going to help. At least, that’s what he believes.

None of the spiders bite him, which genuinely surprises him. Maybe the previous bite changed something in him, marked him in a way they recognize. It’s possible they sense it. He doesn’t know for sure, but the lack of aggression unsettles him almost as much as if they had.

“Well, maybe I’ll leave them alone now,” he says as he tries to remove his hands.

The spiders walk back to their enclosure as if they understand that he’s leaving them. This is all so surprising.

“You’re the first that they haven’t bitten,” Erika admits. “Usually, they bite but without venom.”

Jungkook doesn’t know why, but he feels relieved to hear her say that. However, in some sense, he hoped that somebody else was also going through what he was feeling. It seems like he’s one of a kind.

“Glad they didn’t,” he smiles at her while closing the enclosure. “I don’t want to become some lab rat,” he giggles.

Well, he’s for sure going to run some tests on himself. He needs to understand what’s going on, so he’ll be his own lab rat.

“You’re lucky,” she chuckles.

The rest of the day goes by very quickly. Jungkook took some blood to examine it, and most probably, he’ll ask Sangmin if he can use his private and personal lab. He doesn’t want to start investigating his new nature in his workplace because someone might find out and do God knows what.

Once he’s home, you’re already there, watching Ginny and Georgia, your new favorite show. Instinctively, he walks to you, lowering his head to kiss you.

“Hi, pumpkin,” he whispers on your lips.

“Hi, handsome,” you reply.

“No nerdy today?” he smiles as he falls next to you on the couch.

His head rests on your lap while your hands find their way to his hair to play with it. He absolutely adores feeling you play with strands of his hair. It’s his comforting moment after work.

“Not when you’re not wearing your glasses,” you brush his hair back to take a proper look at his cute face.

“They were hurting my nose,” he lies. “I think I have to change them.”

You fall for his lie, apparently, and he’s relieved about it. He’s not sure he could have handled explaining that something is off with him. He’s not even sure you’ll believe him. But above anything, he doesn’t want to worry you with all of this. He needs to first figure out what is going on, and then he’ll tell you everything.   

“Do you want me to massage that cute nose?” you offer.

“If my pumpkin proposes, I can’t refuse,” he offers you the biggest smile ever.

You massage his perfect nose, and his eyes get lost on his face. He’s so lucky to have you in his life. You’ve given him a purpose in life. He’s always so excited to go home, even though he adores his lab a lot. You’re the first and only person he loves more than his job.

Suddenly, there’s a faint knock at the door. You both freeze, glancing at each other, before rising to answer. Jungkook pulls the door open, and the world seems to tilt before collapsing under his feet.

Sangmin stands there, barely hunched, pale, trembling. His face is hollowed out, lips barely moving. Instinctively, you run inside to grab your phone and call emergency services.

“Jung…” he whispers, the name barely a breath.

Jungkook stumbles forward instinctively, his arms wrapping around the man who had once seemed unshakable. He feels how light he is. Fragile. A shell. Sangmin collapses into his chest, and Jungkook holds him as if trying to stop the inevitable.

“Sangmin?” Jungkook breathes, panic flaring in his voice. “What—what happened?” he stutters due to the panic taking over his body.

But Sangmin doesn’t answer. His head lolls. His eyes—the brilliant, determined eyes that once inspired Jungkook to become a scientist—are fading fast. Blank. His skin is cold. Jungkook’s own hands start to shake.

“No, no, no,” he mutters, voice cracking. “Stay with me—please—stay with me.”

His chest aches. His heartbeat is wild, like it’s trying to burst out of his ribs. This can’t be real. It can’t be happening. His mentor, the man who believed in him, who treated him like a son, is dying right here, in his arms, and Jungkook can’t do a damn thing to stop it.

Behind him, he hears you talking with a paramedic, but you’re almost screaming at the person to do as fast as possible. You’re telling the person that you’re a detective and they need to hurry. 

“Someone…” Sangmin chokes, blood staining the corner of his mouth, “is trying to kill me…”

Jungkook is sobbing now, silent and desperate, his tears falling onto Sangmin’s skin.

“Don’t talk. We’re getting help—just hold on—”

Jungkook quickly looks back at you, and he sees how angry you are. He’s never seen you like this, but he can only understand you. You want help to reach your apartment as fast as possible because you don’t want to be the one investigating Sangmin’s death.  

Sangmin is slipping. His breath is shallow. His fingers twitch weakly against Jungkook’s shirt. His heart is breaking as he sees him slowly drifting. Jungkook still holds him as tightly as possible.

“Tell yn…” he gasps, eyes flickering, “to find who… did this.”

“Yes, yes,” Jungkook frantically nods. “She’ll do it.”

A smile grows on Sangmin’s livid face.

“I…” he tries to formulate one last sentence, “love you, son.”

And then — nothing.

The weight in Jungkook’s arms suddenly feels unbearable. And as he sinks to the floor, cradling the lifeless body of the man who meant everything to him, something in him breaks.

“Sangmin,” he tries to call him, knowing perfectly he won’t answer. “Sangmin…”

The desperation in Jungkook’s voice is unlike anything you’ve ever heard. Your body instantly freezes, your breath catching. When Jungkook sinks to the floor with Sangmin, he breaks down in tears, calling him in such a heartbreaking way. Anyone passing by would understand that something tragic has just happened by the way he’s saying his mentor’s name.

Jungkook suddenly feels your body kneeling behind him, wrapping your arms around his trembling frame. You’re holding him as tightly as possible, your face resting against his back. Amidst this pain, feeling you comforts him in a way he can’t even explain. It’s like you’re holding a candle in the middle of a cave and guiding him.

Ironically, he’s holding in his arms the man he idolizes, and the woman he worships is holding him.

This day couldn’t have gone worse. He can’t say what the most tragic event of the day is. The spider effect or Sangmin’s death.

When the paramedics arrive, it’s already too late. As they examine Sangmin, you never let go of Jungkook. You maintain your body pressed against his, shielding him. When they finally lift Sangmin from his arms, the last of Jungkook’s strength crumbles. Tears fall from his face, his hands finding yours to grip them like he’s afraid he might disappear without your touch.

“I’m here,” you whisper before pressing a gentle kiss on his back. “I’ll discover who did this.”

Jungkook knows that this promise carries a heavy meaning. Tracking down murderers is your job. It’s like a second nature to you, but he knows that this time, it is different. You’re not investigating the death of a stranger. You’re going to find who killed a person who shared Jungkook’s heart with you.

This time, it’s personal.

And he knows without a doubt that nothing and nobody will be able to stop you. You’ll find the truth, and make sure justice is done.