전 𝔍ungoo rkive’s ͏⭑

He stops when he sees you, his eyes dropping to the running water before turning to your face. Even through the blur of your unshed tears, you can see the faint shift in his expression. The corners of his eyes twitch, a shadow of concern passing over his features before his face settles back into that careful, guarded mask.

"Are you okay?" he asks, voice low with a raspy rumble, rough around the edges from a long day of singing. "Yeah," you choke out, quickly leaning down to splash cold water onto your face before you reach for a towel, wiping your skin roughly to hide the fact that your cheeks are flushed from crying.

"Just... a little headache. The light in the kitchen was bothering me."

Jung kook doesn't move from the doorway yet, he leans his forearm against the jamb as he continues watching you with a heavy, unreadable gaze. He used to be able to read you like an open book.

Used to know the exact difference between a cry of frustration and a cry of sadness. Tonight, he just looks confused, like he's trying to decipher a language he hasn't spoken in years.

"Your eyes are really red," he says softly. He takes one step into the bathroom, his hand lifting slightly as if to reach for your face, but he catches himself.

His fingers curl into a loose fist, dropping back to his side. The hesitation is louder than any words he could say. "Did you throw up? I thought I heard..."

"No," you lie, your voice trembling. "I'm just tired, Jung kook. Really tired." He swallows, his throat bobbing. He looks down at his own slippers, then back at you, a profound, exhausting sadness pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"Okay," he murmurs. "There's some medicine in the kitchen cabinet if you need it. I'm... I'm going to go finish up in the studio. Don't wait up for me." He mumbles before turning to walk away. He doesn't close the door behind him, but leaves you standing alone in the bright, clinical light of the bathroom, the echo of his footsteps fading down the hall.

The next morning arrives in shades of gray. A soft, persistent Seoul rain is tapping against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the living room, casting a dim, melancholic light over the apartment. By the time you wake up, Jung kook's side of the bed is already cold. It's a Friday, which means he has an early production meeting at the label.

There is no note on the nightstand. No text on your phone. Just an empty glass in the sink and the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the hallway.

You spend the morning in a daze, only managing to keep down a piece of buttered toast, something you always had whilst feeling unwell. Your hands rest protectively over your stomach, the reality of the situation is settling into your bones like ice, adding up the weeks in your head, you are five weeks along, maybe six.

A tiny, miraculous life is beginning to form inside you, completely oblivious to the fact that the home it's being born into is structurally compromised.

At 11:00 AM, you can't take the confinement of the apartment anymore. You put on a long trench coat before pulling a cap low over your eyes, and call a taxi to a small, private OBGYN clinic on the outskirts of Hanman-dong, a place known for its discretion with high-profile clients.

The waiting room is a sort of torture, you sit in a plush leather chair, your eyes burning as you watch the other couples. A young husband, dressed in a sharp business suit, is sitting close to his wife, his hand resting gently on her swollen stomach while they whisper and laugh over something on his phone.

Across from them, another man is carefully opening a bottle of water for his pregnant partner, his eyes full of a fierce, protective devotion. You look down at your own lap. Your fingers are bare-you stopped wearing your diamond wedding band a month ago because it felt too heavy, replacing it with just the simple silver band that matched his.

When the nurse finally calls your name, you walk into the examination room alone. The doctor is a kind, middle-aged woman with gentle hands. She doesn't ask why your husband isn't there, though she recognizes your name on the chart. She applies the cold gel to your abdomen, the monitor humming to life in the darkened room.

"There," the doctor whispers, pointing to the screen.

You look up through a sudden blur of hot tears. On the black-and-white monitor, there is a tiny, flickering pixel. A heartbeat. A rhythmic, rapid little flutter that sounds like a galloping horse through the machine's speakers.

"The placement looks perfect," the doctor says, her voice a comforting balm. "The heartbeat is strong.

Around six weeks. You're doing great, Mom." The word Mom hits you like a physical blow. You nod, a choked-back sob caught in your throat, unable to look away from that tiny, beautiful spark of life.

You ask for a printout of the sonogram. She hands it to you-a small, glossy black square-and you fold it carefully, slipping it into the inner pocket of your coat, right against your chest.

When you get back to the apartment, the rain has stopped, leaving the city trapped in a humid, oppressive fog. You spend the afternoon cleaning, scrubbing the kitchen counters until your knuckles are raw, desperate for something to control.

At 7:00 PM, the front door lock clicks. Jung kook walks in looking completely spent. His hair is pushed back with a black headband, his black leather jacket fogged from the mist outside. He drops his keys into the bowl, and for the first time in months, he looks directly at you as he walks into the kitchen.

"Hey," he says quietly. "Hey," you reply, keeping your hands hidden behind the kitchen island. "Are you hungry? I actually made dinner. Genuine dinner."

You try to joke. He pauses, looking at the small table you've set for two. You spent two hours making doeniang jiggę and a spread of small side dishes-the comfort food his mother used to make him when he was a trainee.

The rich, savory aroma fills the kitchen, Jung kook's expression softens, a flicker of profound guilt washing over his face. He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous habit he's had since he was fifteen. "Y/ N... you didn't have to do that."

“I wanted to," you say, your voice steadier than you feel. "We need to eat, Jungkook. Together. Just for one night." He looks at you for a long moment, his dark eyes searching your face. There is a deep, exhaustion-born vulnerability in him tonight that makes him look younger, less like the global pop star and more like the boy you fell in love with five years ago.

"Okay," he says softly. "Let me just wash my hands." The dinner is an exercise in heartbreaking formality.

Jung kook eats quietly, praising the food with polite, careful words. "The broth is really good." and "The radish is perfectly cooked." Every compliment feels like a knife turning in your ribs. You don't want a food critic, you want your husband.

You watch him chew, watching the way the light catches the silver ring on his finger-the ring that matches yours. "Jung kook," you say softly, setting your chopsticks down. He stops, his eyes lifting to yours. "Yeah?" He voices.

"Look at me."

He blinks, a sudden, defensive tension tightening his jaw. He sets his spoon down, his hands resting on either side of his bowl. He doesn't look away, but his gaze is incredibly heavy, full of a quiet, dreadful anticipation. "I'm looking at you, Y/N."

"Where did you go?" your voice is barely a whisper, but it cuts through the quiet room like a blade.

Jung kook doesn't flinch. He just sighs, a long, deflating sound that seems to empty the air from his lungs. He leans back in his chair, his eyes dropping to the wooden grain of the table. "I'm right here. I've just been working so hard on this upcoming release, the stress is-"

"Don't lie to me," you interrupt, your voice cracking.

"Please. Don't use the company or the album as an excuse anymore. You've had comebacks before, Jung kook. You've done stadium tours where you didn't sleep for days, and you still looked at me like you loved me. You still held my hand. You still came home to me."

A heavy, suffocating silence falls over the kitchen, the steam from the stew between you slowly dissipates into the cool air.

Jung kook closes his eyes.

When he opens them, the polite mask is completely gone, replaced by a raw, bleeding honesty that makes your breath catch in your throat. He looks so incredibly tired—not physically, but emotionally bankrupt. "What do you want me to say, Y/N?" he asks, his voice dropping into a flat, agonizingly quiet register.

"I want the truth," you weep, the first tear spilling over your cheek. "I want you to tell me why you treat me like a stranger. I want you to tell me why you shrink away when I touch you."

Jung kook looks at his hands, his fingers tracing the edge of the table. He stays silent for so long that you think he's going to get up and walk away. But then, he lets out a shuddering, broken breath.

"Because I feel like a liar every time I touch you," he confesses softly. The words hang in the air, lethal and absolute. "What?" you choke out.

Jung kook finally looks up, and his eyes are bright with unshed, frustrated tears. He looks miserable.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice trembling. "I'm so sorry, Y/N. I've been trying." He pauses before continuing.

"For the last six months, I swear to God, I've been trying so hard to find it again. I stay up at night staring at you while you're sleeping, forcing myself to remember how I used to feel, praying that when I wake up in the morning, it'll be back."

He hits his fist weakly against his own thigh, a gesture of pure, helpless frustration. "But it's not there," he chokes out, a single tear escaping his eye and tracing down his cheek. "I look at you, and I know you're perfect. I know you're the best thing that ever happened to me. You haven't done a single thing wrong. But I feel... nothing. I'm just numb. And the harder I try to force myself to feel it, the emptier I get."

"I hate myself for it," he whispers, his voice cracking completely as he covers his face with both hands, his broad shoulders shaking. "I hate myself so much because you deserve someone who worships you.

And I'm just... I'm just hollow."

Your world doesn't crash down with a bang. It ends with the quiet, agonizing sound of his muffled sobs.

You sit there, completely frozen, your heart shattering into a thousand jagged pieces.

He has just simply, tragically, run out of love for you.

He has chosen his words with a devastating, mature wisdom—he isn't blaming you, he isn't making excuses. He is just admitting his own emotional death.

"So..." you start, your voice sounding like dry paper.

"What are we doing, Jung kook? Why are we still here?" Jung kook lowers his hands, his face pale and stained with tears. He looks at you with a profound, aching pity that hurts worse than hatred.

"I don't know. I didn't want to hurt you. I thought... I thought if I stayed quiet, if I just kept working, it would pass. But it's not passing. It's only getting worse. I think... I think maybe we need some space. I can move into the luxury suite the company keeps near the studio for a few weeks. We can... figure things out."

He's letting go. He's putting his coat on, stepping across the threshold, and preparing to leave you behind. Your hand automatically moves to your coat pocket, where the small, glossy sonogram photo is sitting against your chest.

Your mind is a whirlwind of conflicting, terrifying thoughts. Don't tell him, a voice screams inside you.

Don't trap a man who just told you he feels empty.

Don't make him stay out of guilt.

But then you think of the tiny, galloping heartbeat on the monitor. You think of the three years of promises, the gold foundation you built together.

You owe him the truth, no matter how much it ruins the both of you. Slowly, your fingers slide into the inner pocket of your coat.

"Jung kook," you say, your voice entirely devoid of tears now, replaced by a strange, hollow calm. He stops, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, looking at you with that dreadful anticipation.

"Yeah?"

You pull your hand out of your pocket. Your fingers are shaking so badly the paper makes a loud, crinkling sound in the quiet kitchen. You reach across the table, sliding the small, black-and-white sonogram photo across the wood, past the bowl of soup, until it stops right in front of his hands.

Jung kook looks down at the paper before frowning slightly as he leans forward to look at the grainy, circular image. His eyes trace the medical text at the top-your name, the date from this morning, the stamp of the clinic. Then, his gaze drops to the center of the image, where the tiny, white pixel is circled in red.

The silence in the room stretches, turning thick and heavy as lead.

You watch his face. You watch the exact second his brain connects the dots. The color completely drains from his cheeks, leaving him a ghostly, stark white. His mouth parts slightly, his chest freezing mid-breath. He looks like a man who has just been struck by lightning, his entire system locking up as the reality of the situation crashes into him.

"Y/N..." he whispers. His voice doesn't even sound like his own anymore. It's completely breathless, terrified, and utterly shattered. He looks up from the paper, his dark eyes wide and trembling as they fix onto yours. "What... what is this?"

'I went to the doctor this morning," you say softly, a fresh tear sliding down your nose. "The heartbeat is strong, Jung kook. It's six weeks."

Jung kook just stares at you, his hands hovering over the table, completely paralyzed, as the ghost of the family he wanted meets the reality of the marriage he was trying to leave behind.

to be continued…

40+ comments for part three (omg thanks for the support! love u all!!!!!!!)

The digital lock on the front door beeps-a sharp, chime that always cracks the air at night. You don't move from the kitchen island, just keeping your eyes fixed on the small chipped spot on the marble counter as you wait.

You hear the heavy thud of his gym bag hitting the entryway floor, the rustle of his oversized jacket being pulled off, with the sound of sliding his slippers against the hardwood.

Currently, it's 1:40 AM. Jung-kook rounds the corner into the kitchen, hair is messy and still a little wet from the quick shower he must have taken at rehearsals. He looks up, catching you sitting there in the dim light of the stove hood, and pauses.

For a split second, his shoulders tense a fraction before they drop back into that familiar, heavy slump. "Oh," he says softly, with no smile. "You're still up."

"Yeah," you say, your voice sounding small, even to your own ears. "I was just... reading." You add. Jung kook nods, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He doesn't come over to the island but stays by the refrigerator, keeping the wide expanse of the kitchen floor between you like a physical barrier.

"You shouldn't wait up. I told you the practice was going to run late tonight." He mutters without a thought. "I know. I just wanted to make sure you got home okay." Your eyes flutter. "I'm fine," he murmurs, reaching into the fridge and pulling out a bottle of water before cracking it open.

He drinks it while looking at the cabinets above the sink, his eyes deliberately tracking anything that isn't you. "I'm probably just going to head straight to the studio room. I have some mixes to check before tomorrow."

But there was a time, eighteen months ago, when you would have stood up and walked over to slide your arms around his waist. You would have pressed your face into his back, complained about how much you missed him, and he would have dropped the water bottle to turn around and pull you against his chest, laughing that quiet, breathy laugh of his.

He used to sit on the floor between your knees while you watched TV, letting you untangle the knots in his hair, occasionally reaching up to pull your hand down to his lips just to kiss your knuckles as he whispered a small, "I'm never letting you go."

His face buried in your lap, voice thick with love, "If I ever get stupid and lose my mind, just remind me of tonight, okay? Remind me how much I love you." You remember that promise like a physical ache, the want to go knock on his studio door right now and scream it at him, "You're losing your mind. You're forgetting me."

But the shift didn't happen because he got stupid, but because he just stopped trying. The second year brought the stadium tour, the endless flights, the crushing exhaustion. At first, you blamed the distance on his schedule. You told yourself that anyone would be quiet and detached if they were dancing until their joints bled.

Then the tour ended and he came home, and the quiet stayed. And when he started saying "thank you" too much, it became the worst part. When you made his breakfast, he'd say, "Thank you, I appreciate it," with this heartbreaking, formal courtesy.

You didn't want his appreciation, you wanted him to lean over the counter to steal a fry from your plate, and kiss the side of your neck while his hands gripped your hips.

Instead, you got a roommate who was incredibly polite, clean, and completely unreachable. But your thoughts are cut off with a sudden, sharp wave of nausea hits you, so violent that you actually gasp, clutching the edge of the kitchen counter.

You press the palm of your hand against your sternum, breathing through your nose until the room stops spinning. It's been happening all week, very morning, the smell of the coffee maker makes your throat close up. You've been dragging yourself through the days like your body is made of lead whilst your breasts aching under the fabric of your pajama shirt.

At first, you thought your body was just physically breaking down from the grief of a dying marriage, your mom always told you that heartbreak is a physical thing, that it messes with your physical health too.

But then you remembered the calendar, the skipped periods... And then you remembered six weeks ago, it was the only night you'd touched each other in months. Jung kook had come home late from a company dinner, smelling heavily of whiskey and charcoal smoke.

He hadn't said a word when he walked into the bedroom, he had just stood at the foot of the bed, staring at you in the dark with this look of profound, agonizing guilt in his eyes.

When he climbed into bed, he didn't look at you, he just pulled you into his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his fingers digging into your waist so hard it left faint red marks the next morning.

The lovemaking was almost desperate, but there was no warmth in it. He held you like a man trying to remember a language he used to speak fluently, pulling a low, ragged groan from his throat that sounded more like a sob than pleasure.

When it was over, he immediately rolled to his side of the mattress, leaving you cold in the dark.

Slowly, you stand up from the barstool. Your legs feel hollow as you walk down the hallway, bare feet making no sound on the floor. You pass the studio door—you can hear the muffled thumping of a bassline through the wood—and slip into the master bathroom, shutting the door behind you.

The plastic stick is sitting on a white paper towel next to the sink. You took it ten minutes ago as soon

after as you then fled the room because you couldn't stand the sight of watching and waiting. Your heart is pounding so hard against your ribs that it actually hurts.

You step up to the counter, closing your eyes for a count of three before inhaling the scent of your own hand soap, and then you look down. Two dark, solid pink lines.

And the air in the bathroom goes completely still, the thumping bass from down the hall seems to vanish as you just stare at the two lines, your brain refusing to process the image, refusing to understand what this means. A baby with his dark, round eyes, a baby with his distinctive nose.

The baby you used to whisper about when you were newlyweds, building a future out of late-night promises in your old apartment.

A heavy, broken sob rips out of your chest before you can stop it. You slam both hands over your mouth, your shoulders shaking violently as the tears finally spill over, hot and blinding, dripping down your wrists. You sink to your knees right there on the cold bathroom tile, pressing your forehead against the side of the bathtub.

How do you tell a man who is already halfway out the door that he's a father? How do you hand a baby to someone who can barely bring himself to look at your face?

Through the thick wood of the bathroom door, you hear it. The studio door down the hall opens. The heavy, slow thud of Jung kook's slippers begins to move down the corridor, heading straight toward the bedroom.

Black boots hit the pavement first, heavy and deliberate, followed by long legs wrapped in faded denim and a leather jacket worn soft at the edges from years of road and trouble. He smells like gasoline, cold air, and something dangerously addictive.

Your biker boyfriend is the kind of man people move out of the way for without realizing they’ve done it. Broad shoulders, rough hands, a jaw shadowed with stubble, and eyes that always look like he knows more than he says.

There’s a scar near his brow he never explains, tattoos slipping beneath his sleeves like secrets half-hidden. He doesn’t smile often—but when he does, it’s crooked, lazy, and enough to make your pulse trip over itself.

He’s quiet in public, watching everything, speaking only when it matters. But with you? He’s different. Softer in ways nobody else gets to see. A hand resting on the small of your back.

His thumb brushing your knuckles under the table. The rare murmur of “You good?” in that gravel-deep voice after noticing you went quiet for half a second. He rides too fast, fights too hard, and loves like it could ruin him, and everyone else knows him as trouble on two wheels.

But you know him as the man who tucks your legs over his lap when you’re tired, kisses your forehead when he thinks you’re asleep, and would burn the whole damn world down if it meant keeping you safe.

As he walks closer, you catch a whiff of leather, sweat, and a faint hint of grease. The air around him still holds the scent of the night sky, where he'd just been leaning against his bike, smoking a cigarette.

He doesn't say anything for a moment, just looks at you with those black eyes, the small silver ring in his eyebrow glinting in the streetlight. His gaze is intense, but there's a softness in it that only you get to see. Your heart flutters in response.

Finally, a slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. It's a smirk that says he knows he affects you. He crosses the distance between you in long strides, the gravel beneath his boots crunching slightly.

When he's close enough to touch you, he stops, hooking a finger into the waistband of your jeans and tugging you firmly against him. He leans down, lips near your ear. You almost gasp before letting out a giggle, “hello to you too, handsome.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, that smirk still playing on his lips. His free hand comes up to brush a stray strand of hair behind your ear—rough fingers surprisingly gentle against your skin. "Handsome, huh?" he murmurs in that low voice of his, tilting his head slightly as if considering the word. "Guess I'm feelin' extra pretty tonight."

There's a teasing lilt in his tone now—the kind that means trouble for someone else later but sweetness for you. He leans back in just enough to press a slow kiss below your earlobe before muttering, "You keep talkin' like that and we ain't makin' it home till sunrise."

You’re wearing a leather jacket—his leather jacket that you stole—with a black tank-top beneath it and pear of black jeans along black boots, your hair hangs loose on your shoulders, “you really think I care about going home right now?”

Oh, and he knows you're wearing that jacket, and the sight of you in it, mixed with that little tank top, has him shifting his hips a fraction closer. His gaze roams over you, slowly, a smirk tugging a little wider.

He lets out a soft scoff that borders on a laugh. "Course you don't, you always want to cause trouble." One eyebrow quirks almost accusingly. His other hand slips beneath the jacket, sliding along the slope of your hip. "That why you stole my jacket?"

“Maybe” you tilt your head, eyeing him. He smirks, that hand on your hip squeezing lightly, drawing your body even closer to his. He's got you pinned there against the side of his bike, the warmth of him pressing in around you.

"Maybe, huh?" he murmurs, tone dropping an octave. His gaze roams your face, lingering on your lips for a breath.

Then, without warning, he dips his head to brush his lips over that sensitive spot at the crook of your neck. That smirk against your skin now definitely borders on teasing. Your voice vibrates in his neck, your arms around his large form, “Not gonna take me for a drive tonight?”

He lets out a low, appreciative hum, his hand on your hip shifting to grasp the back of your thigh, long fingers slipping beneath the fabric of your jeans for a moment just to feel the warmth of your skin. "You're awfully eager for that ride," he murmurs in that low voice of his, his breath tickling your ear. "You gonna be a good girl for me tonight?"

The words are as much a challenge as a promise. He knows exactly what effect his possessive hold on your body is having on you. “That ride can mean many things.” You smirk.

A rough, startled laugh escapes him—deep and rich—before he nips at your earlobe in retaliation. "Oh, you really? wanna play that game with me?"

His grip tightens just enough to make his point as the other hand drags up your spine beneath the stolen jacket. The bike’s seat digs into your back when he crowds closer, voice dropping to a growl,

"Careful what you wish for."

You giggle at his undoing. His jaw clenches for half a second before he exhales hard through his nose, the grip on your thigh turning borderline punishing. "Giggle all you want," he mutters against your throat, teeth grazing where your pulse jumps. "Still got keys to my bike and zero patience left."

“Okay, okay, but seriously… I want a ride, on the bike and you—but first the bike. Let’s go somewhere?”

If any more blood suddenly rushed south, there would be serious consequences. His grip on you is almost fierce for a moment, that gruff composure he was trying to keep slipping. When he finally replies, the words are a little strained, betraying how much just hearing you put it that way affected him.

"...Alright," he growls. "But I'm choosing the place." He moves away just enough to let you climb on behind him, the bike purring between you, waiting. “Sure.” You smile, you always get your way with him anyways.

He waits until you're settled behind him, your hands around his waist, before revving the engine once more. The bike lurches forward with that familiar surge of power as he navigates the road with an effortless, practiced grace.

It's an entirely different kind of rush, being tucked against his back as the world whips by at blurring speeds, the wind catching your hair and clothes. Every bump in the road sends a jolt through both of you, the heat between your bodies undeniable.

And yet, despite the adrenaline, he's completely in control. Soon, the bike slows, pulling off a gravel road and onto a familiar dirt path. The dense trees close in around you, creating an intimate sort of seclusion.

He parks near a wide clearing, cutting the engine. It's dark here, save for the occasional slice of moonlight cutting through the leaves and the sound of distant nocturnal birds along with the crickets.

When he turns to look back at you, that earlier restraint is slowly fading into something darker, more intense. He says nothing, just waits for you to get off the bike first.

You climb off the bike, the soil beneath your boots soft and slightly damp. The cool night air wraps around you, carrying the scent of wildflowers and pine.

When you look back at him, he's watching you, those dark eyes roaming over you in the moonlight. Despite the earlier playfulness, his expression is serious now, the usual teasing glint replaced with something more primal.

He gets off the bike, the gravel beneath his boots echoing in the quiet. "Come here." His jaw tenses, the muscle flickering under stubble as he drags a rough hand down his face.

"Fuck—" The word is more breath than sound, but the way his fingers curl into your hip betrays how close to snapping he is. For a second, he just stares at you, eyes black and hungry in the dark, before growling, "You got no idea what that does to me." Then suddenly you're lifted clean off your feet, hauled against him as if weightless.

“Jeon, we’re in public you fucker.” A sharp, incredulous laugh bursts out of him—his name in your voice like a match to gasoline.

"Public?" he repeats, voice dropping to something dangerous as he adjusts his grip on you. "Sweetheart, the only thing 'public' about this is the damn sky." He walks you both backward until your spine meets rough bark, then leans in close enough for you to feel his heartbeat where it hammers against yours. "And right now? I don't give a single fuck who sees."

“Mhm…” That tone, like you're testing him, like you know exactly where his patience ends. His grip on your thigh tightens hard enough to bruise as he leans in, lips grazing the shell of your ear. "Mhm?" he mocks lowly. "That all I get? After stealing my jacket and asking for a ride?"

Jung Kook’s teeth drag over the spot below your jaw that always makes you shiver before muttering, "Or do I gotta remind you how this works out here?" He leans back just enough for his eyes to meet yours, the moonlight illuminating the hard gleam within. His chest is rising and falling a little faster now, betraying how much he's restraining himself.

"I asked you a question, baby," he murmurs, that rough touch now skimming up your side to grip your chin, tilting your head just enough to expose more of your throat. "You gonna ignore me now that you got what you wanted?" You giggle before wrapping your arms around him, teasing him with a peck.

God damn it, that giggle is his undoing, the sound driving straight to his marrow. He lets out a growl, half protest, half arousal, that hand on your chin shifting to your hip instead. Your kiss against his lips is light—too light for his taste and far too brief for his liking. He's got a point to prove. With one swift move, he spins you both so your back's against the tree, pinning you in place.

His face is still maddeningly close to yours as his gaze roams over your face, that dark hunger visible in the shadows. He's pressed flush against you now, one leg hooked between yours as if to keep you from escaping.

"Don't go playing games with me, sweetheart," he mutters, voice dropping to that rough, rumbling register that never fails to make your pulse skip. "You know damn well this isn't what I got you out here for."

“Then take me right here and right now.” You mutter into his skin. Jung Kook’s breath hitches, just once before his control shatters. A rough sound tears from his throat as he hauls you up against the tree, one hand fisting in your hair to tilt your head back.

"Fuck," he growls, lips crashing into yours with zero restraint now, teeth and tongue claiming what's been teased for too damn long. His other hand is already working at the button of those black jeans like a man possessed. "Right here," he agrees darkly between kisses that taste like sin and smoke, "exactly where I want you."

He kisses you like he can't get enough as deep and possessive, a silent demand that you give as good as you get. It's a fierce, impatient battle of teeth and tongue that makes the world spin beneath you. His fingers, calloused and still cold from the ride-slide under the hem of your t-shirt like a brand as he hooks your legs around his waist, hitching you up higher against the tree.

That little gasp you let out when he rolls his hips into yours only fuels the inferno inside him. Every sound you make, every move you make, only feeds into the fierce, possessive need driving his actions. He kisses down your neck, teeth sinking into the sensitive skin of your shoulder, as his lips murmur against your ear, "All you had to do was say please, sweetheart."

“Please.” You whine and you for knowing exactly what to say when you speak like that desperate, pleading edge in your voice that makes his blood turn to flame. It's all it takes for the last of his restraint to snap completely. His fingers dig into your thigh in response.

"Oh you're asking for it," he growls, voice a ragged rasp against your skin as he bites down again. "Say it. Louder."

“Please, baby.” You tease, without a warning, he hikes you up higher against the tree, pressing your bodies so close there's not an inch of space between you. His knee jerks up between your legs, grinding into you in a way that has you letting out another gasp, "Like that, sweetheart?" he husks against your throat. "Yeah. Just like that."

Your gasp turns into a moan when he nips at a particularly sensitive spot on your neck, his words vibrating against your skin in a way that sends heat pooling straight through you.

His hands are everywhere, rough and impatient as they slide under your shirt, roaming the expanse of your back, your chest, leaving trails of fire in their wake. He has no intention of letting you touch the ground again any time soon.

His hips keep rolling into yours in a slow, teasing rhythm that has your heart slamming against your ribcage. He's lost in the feel of you, in the taste, the scent, the way you cry out when he presses just right. Eventually, he leans back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes a storm of raw desire that makes your breath catch. He's barely recognizable like this, all rough edges and dark hunger, yet he has never been sexier.

“Fuck me.” You gasp. In one brutal motion, he yanks your jeans down just enough and lifts you back against the tree, his free hand already working open his belt buckle with rough impatience. "You want it?" His voice is gravel and fire as he palms himself through denim once hard before shoving fabric out of the way entirely. "Then take it." You don’t have to tell him twice.

His groan is pure filth as you sink onto him, the stretch burning in the best way possible—his grip on your hips near bruising as he holds you there for a second, letting you feel every inch. His jaw clenches so tight it’s a miracle his teeth don’t crack under the pressure of holding back even one thrust right then and there.

"Fuck," he rasps against your throat when he finally moves, slow rolls of his hips that make stars burst behind your eyelids with each drag deeper inside than before, "this is what my good girl needed?"

“Omg, Jung Kook…” You cry out and the second he feels you clench around him, his self-control evaporates. A ragged "Fuck,” is torn from his throat as he slams up into you to the hilt, one hand flying to your hair and yanking just hard enough to arch your back against the tree.

His other arm bands like steel across your waist, keeping you impaled on him as he starts a punishing rhythm that has no business being this rough in public—no business making either of you feel this good so fast.

"You wanna come?" He bites out between thrusts that leave no room for thought beyond sensation "Then fucking earn it."

He's a man possessed with one thing on his mind. He's always been protective, possessive, intense, but like this he's almost feral. He growls when you clutch at his back, nails digging into his shoulders and leaving marks that burn in the best way.

He uses his strength against you, holding you up like you weigh nothing as he forces sounds out of you that would make lesser men fall to their knees.

Your body ripples beneath him, shivers crawl down your back as his voice vibrates in your chest, a moN rips from his chest as he watches you unravel beneath him, your body tightening around his, your back arching like a bowstring.

"That's it," he snarls, slamming into you harder with each desperate roll of your hips against his. His free hand snakes between you to press two rough fingers right where you need them most, circling in time with the brutal snap of his pelvis against yours. "You wanna come on my c*ck? Then fucking take it."

His eyes darken at your command, his body responding like a well-trained dog. He growls and pulls you further into the room, kicking the door shut behind you with enough force to make it rattle in its frame.

The second the lock slides into place he pounces, lips crushed against yours in a hungry, brutal kiss. Teeth bite down on your bottom lip, a sharp sting that makes your skin sing. "Yeah? Gonna make a mess all over me, angel?"

He doesn't even wait for an answer, his grip tightens on your hips, lifting you with almost feral ease. A low noise rumbles deep in his throat as he pins you against the wall with no effort at all, just raw strength and sheer desire. The hard, solid muscle of him pressed against every inch of you makes your head spin.

You moan at each time he speaks. His lips ghost across your collarbone in a trail of hot, lingering kisses, each one leaving goosebumps in its wake.

"That feel good?" he murmurs against your skin, his voice rough and gravelly. His mouth wanders to the sensitive spot below your ear, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine. Each nip against the delicate skin there is a silent claim, a reminder of who you belong to, both of you on edge.

The second he hears his name, his real name, not the teasing nicknames you usually use—his entire body locks up. A ragged, punched-out groan tears from his throat as he spills into you, hips jerking erratically.

His forehead drops against your shoulder hard enough to bruise; teeth sinking into flesh just above your collarbone in a sharp mark of ownership. "Fuck," he rasps against sweat-slick skin when the aftershocks finally ease, "fuck, baby." The rough edge of awe in that gravel-deep voice says everything, you wrecked him.

When the world finally stops spinning and your head somewhat clears, you find yourself still pinned against the wall. He's still gripping your hips, breathing ragged and uneven as he slowly lifts his head to look at you.

Those dark eyes are still molten, his face flushed with exertion and a fierce hunger that hasn't faded a bit. "You good, angel?" he murmurs, one hand coming up to brush a strand of hair out of your face—a tender gesture that belies the possessive grip still pinning you in place.

“Yeah, of course.” You mutter out of breath. A rough, strained laugh leaves him at the confidence in your voice. It's sexy, that cocky attitude you get after he's had you this wrecked—and he knows. it, if the way his lips curve up in a slow, crooked smirk is any clue. "Yeah? Think you'd be able to walk right now if I let you down?" He asks in a voice that's pure temptation, one eyebrow quirked in challenge.

“Only if you ride me home.”